Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass
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sweet. Stay put, and I’ll let you out.’
I went round and opened her door. She jumped on to the pavement and I took her hand. I had no idea which department we wanted and the entrance board didn’t seem to cover private parts. I approached the receptionist.
‘Jodie Brown,’ I said. ‘We’ve a forensic medical booked for twelve-thirty.’
She glanced at the appointment list. ‘Oh yes. We’re waiting for the police doctor. Take a seat over there. She shouldn’t be long.’
I steered Jodie to a small recess with four plastic chairs, and a box of well-used toys and books. A door led off, with a sign that read ‘Consulting Room One’, and a small metal plate marked ‘Vacant’. Jodie brought me a pop-up book of Cinderella. I had just opened it and begun to read, when a smartly dressed woman walked over. She was in her late fifties, with bright red lipstick and horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Cathy?’ she smiled. ‘I’m Linda Marshall, the police doctor. And you must be Jodie?’
She wasn’t what I was expecting at all, and from the look on Jodie’s face I gathered she wasn’t what she was expecting either. With her red plaid suit, sheer black stockings and high stilettos, she wouldn’t have looked out of place at a department store beauty counter.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ I answered for us both.
Jodie eyed her suspiciously. ‘Are you a doctor?’ she barked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘But children tell me I don’t look like one. Shall we go in?’
Jodie immediately dropped my hand and took hold of the doctor’s. I followed them into the consulting room. There, a young woman in a white medic’s coat was sitting behind a small desk, looking much more like the kind of doctor we had expected. She came round the desk and shook my hand.
‘Hello there, I’m Dr Pratchet,’ she said. ‘I’ll be carrying out the examination today, with the help of Dr Marshall here. Do sit down.’
I took the only available chair and looked around. A long reclining couch with leg rests dominated one side of the room. At its foot was a large spot lamp on an adjustable metal stem, which was switched off for the moment. I shuddered, aware of what was in store.
Dr Pratchet returned to her desk, and Linda Marshall perched on the edge of the couch. Jodie went straight for the toy box in the corner, which she upturned, spilling its contents across the floor. I shot her a warning glance.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions first,’ Dr Pratchet said. ‘You’re all right playing there for a few minutes, aren’t you, Jodie?’
Jodie grinned at me, holding out a toy she’d found. ‘Look, Cathy!’
‘Yes, it’s a jack-in-a-box, like the one at home. Put it back when you’ve finished, good girl.’
The doctor opened an A4 folder, and pulled out a bundle of papers. ‘Jodie’s eight and a half now? And she’s been with you since the third of April?’
I could tell that the doctor was well aware of the contents of Jodie’s file and knew exactly why we were there. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How is she generally? Eating? Sleeping? Behaviour?’
I gave her a brief summary of Jodie’s state: that she ate well but her nights and general behaviour were becoming increasingly difficult.
‘And does she understand why she’s here?’
‘I’ve explained she’s going to have a medical, and you will need to look at her private parts to make sure she’s OK.’
She nodded, and I assumed she approved of my explanation. ‘Apart from what Jodie’s said, have you noticed any other indicators? Soreness, a rash, discharge?’
Foster carers can’t afford to be squeamish. ‘No, but she does soil herself a lot. It’s not deliberate, as it used to be. It’s more that she doesn’t seem to quite make it to the toilet in time. Or if she does, she’s not very good at cleaning herself up. I’m often changing her and washing her so it wouldn’t necessarily be obvious.’
‘Quite,’ Linda Marshall agreed.
Dr Pratchet made a note and then looked up at Jodie. ‘OK, we’re going to start by measuring and weighing you, Jodie. Do you think you could jump on those scales?’
‘Jump’ was not the best choice of word, as Jodie took it literally. With a resounding leap, she threw herself on to the platform. The sprung metal plate clanged and shud dered.
‘Gently,’ I said redundantly.
Linda read out the results and Dr Pratchet noted them down. ‘Good girl. Now, can you climb on to this couch for me? It’s a bit high; do you need some help?’
Jodie, oblivious to what lay in wait and eager to demonstrate her agility, scrambled up. She sat with her chubby legs dangling over the edge, grinning at me proudly. I watched as Dr Pratchet opened her desk drawer and removed a stethoscope and a wooden spatula. Looping the stethoscope around her neck, she tucked the spatula into her coat pocket. I shuffled my chair back to allow her to pass. I could feel my anxiety level rising fast.
‘I’m going to have a look in your mouth first, Jodie,’ she said. ‘Say aaah.’
Jodie opened her mouth wide. Dr Pratchet placed the spatula on her tongue, and the two women peered in. I could guess what they were looking for. If Jodie had been forced into oral sex, there was a chance she might have contracted a sexually transmitted disease in her mouth, but I hadn’t seen any sores or white thrush spots when I’d helped brush her teeth.
‘Excellent,’ said Dr Pratchet. ‘Well done.’
Jodie closed her mouth, and grinned at me. I smiled back reassuringly.
‘Now, can I listen to your chest?’
Linda gently lifted up Jodie’s jumper, waiting for Jodie to give permission by raising her arms, and Dr Pratchet listened with her stethoscope. I felt reassured: they certainly knew how to put a child at ease. I relaxed a little.
‘Excellent,’ she said again. ‘You’re doing very well. Aren’t you a big girl?’
Jodie beamed, as though she’d just won a medal, but I was aware we were approaching the next stage of the medical, and I was praying for Jodie’s continued cooperation. The doctors wouldn’t force her to go through with it, but without this evidence there would be little chance of a prosecution.
‘Can you lie down on the couch for me?’ asked Linda, patting the bed.
Jodie flopped back in her cumbersome way and cackled loudly.
‘We need to have you further this end,’ said Linda, and eased her down, so that her legs hung over the edge. Dr Pratchet switched on the lamp.
‘Would you like to come and hold her hand?’ Linda asked, looking over at me.
I manoeuvred my chair so that I was sitting beside Jodie’s head, and held her hand. I was pleased to be doing something. Dr Pratchet passed Linda a blanket, and she covered Jodie’s body.
‘I’m going to slip off your trousers and pants,’ she said, and discreetly removed them under the blanket. ‘Good girl. Now let your legs go floppy, and I’ll put them in the right position.’
She raised Jodie’s knees. It was an ungainly, vulnerable position, but with the blanket covering her she at least retained some dignity.
Linda joined Dr Pratchet at the foot of the couch, and both women put on rubber gloves and began the examination. I stroked Jodie’s forehead and held her hand tight. Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her bottom lip.
‘Won’t be long,’ I said, ‘then we can go home.’