Page 30 of Vengeance is Mine

Clare Delaney stood up from behind the oversized desk that seemed bigger than my entire flat. ‘Ms Shepherd, I’m Clare Delaney, pleased to meet you. Have a seat.’

She held out her hand which I didn’t notice at first because I was so distracted by the grandeur of the room. When we eventually did shake hands, I wasn’t totally shocked by the powerful grip. I sat nervously on the leather chair and tried to look like I belonged in a room like this. It wasn’t working. To quote Victoria Wood, I felt like a sausage roll in a bag of Twiglets.

‘Angelina tells me you have information regarding Dominic Griffiths,’ Clare began.

‘Angelina?’

‘My receptionist.’

‘Oh.’ It made sense she had a name as pretentious as Angelina. I wondered if it was a real name or one she’d made up to sound like she came from a privileged background.

Clare Delaney was a tall and broad woman. She wore her dark red hair like a huge mane cascading down around her shoulders. Her make-up was severe, as was her power suit and killer heels. Her accent, although loud and authoritative, was obviously fake. She seemed to be trying to hide her Geordie roots.

‘That’s right.’ I licked my lips and swallowed hard a couple of times. Nerves were getting the better of me. I’d really need to work hard on my confidence, if I was going to survive in this industry. ‘I recently discovered that Dominic Griffiths is my father.’

Clare’s eyes seemed to light up. ‘Really?’ she asked, leaning forwards on the desk, interlocking her fingers. ‘Tell me more.’

The fact she was genuinely intrigued, or maybe just loved a bit of gossip, made me smile, and I relaxed. I leaned back in the firm leather chair and told the story of my mum having a year-long relationship with Dominic and falling pregnant on their last night together.

‘That’s quite a story. So, why have you come to see me?’

‘I want to know who my father is. I’m getting very conflicting images of him. The press paints him as the embodiment of evil, yet my mum tells me he was a considerate, caring and romantic young man. The two pictures don’t match.’

‘Very true. They don’t. I first met your father… let’s see, when was it?’ she mused. ‘It was probably about five or six years ago. Have you heard of a drug called Fenadine?’

‘No.’ I didn’t mind lying to a solicitor. Besides, she should be used to it.

‘No. You’re too young to know about it. Fenadine was an anti-depressant drug used in the Eighties and Nineties. It was removed from the market in 2002. Dominic was taking this drug at the time Stephanie White was killed. At first, Fenadine was seen as a wonder-drug. It was used on children in America who had difficulty concentrating and modifying their behaviour. These days we’d say they had ADHD. It was successful too. Clinical trials continued, and the drug was used to treat adults with depression and anxiety. Unfortunately, there was a snowball effect.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, one person who is going through a brief depressive episode goes to the doctor and is given a low dose of Fenadine for a couple of weeks. The patient recovers, no longer needs the medication, and the doctor presumes it is the medication that was successful in the patient’s recovery. Another patient may have required longer on Fenadine before they noticed any difference, or maybe a higher dosage. But it was successful for this patient in just a short time, and suddenly Fenadine is the go-to drug whenever a patient presents with symptoms of depression.’

‘But every patient is different. You can’t measure depression, can you?’ I asked.

Clare smiled, impressed with my ability to keep up with the narrative. ‘No, you can’t. Like you said, everyone is different. Every brain is different, and each brain reacts differently to every type of drug. Not to mention other immeasurable factors going on in people’s lives.’

‘So, Dominic was taking this Fenadine, and he had a reaction to it?’

Clare opened her laptop, and with long, slender fingers, nails painted bright red, she hammered on the keyboard. ‘Dominic started on a low dose, just ten milligrams per day. After two weeks, there was no change, so the GP increased the dose to twenty milligrams. There was a marked improvement, so he remained on that dose for three months. By then, his body had become used to the drug, and an increase in the medication was needed. By the time he met Stephanie White, he was taking one hundred and fifty milligrams of Fenadine every day.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Exactly.’

‘You said Dominic was depressive and suffered from mood changes, what did that involve?’

‘Are you sure you want to hear all this? It might be upsetting.’

‘No more upsetting than finding out the father you never knew you had is a murderer.’

Clare shrugged and continued. ‘Dominic was very withdrawn. He wouldn’t mix with children of his own age, and he would either be very disruptive in class, or he would spend the whole day sitting in the corner of the room not talking, not interacting with anyone. I suppose, if tested, Dominic would have been classed as autistic, or a variation of autism. He seems to have been ignored and fed medication as if doping him up was the answer. At first, Fenadine helped to balance his behaviour. As the dose was increased, instances of his erratic behaviour became more severe.’

‘Severe? How?’

‘At the age of eight, Dominic slapped a girl in the head, so hard she permanently lost the hearing in her right ear,’ Clare said, almost nonchalantly.

‘My God.’ I gasped.

---