by Wes Markin
Despite the excess blusher, Yorke could see her grow pale. This newsflash had disturbed her. She took a mouthful of her mulled wine. ‘Do you really think he’s alive, Detective?’
‘I never said I thought he was alive,’ Yorke said. ‘I just always hold out hope.’
‘Well, if he drove into a rural area, and never drove out of it, what conclusions can we draw from that?’
‘Like anything, Mrs Brislane, ANPR is not infallible. He could have been missed coming out of the area.’
‘Yes, but wouldn’t he have been picked up sooner or later somewhere else?’
Yorke nodded. ‘Probably.’
‘And yet you still remain positive?’
Yorke looked down and pretended to make notes. He wasn’t at all positive about Brislane; in fact, he felt fairly certain he’d come a cropper. But he wasn’t about to share this.
‘Stranger things have happened, Mrs Brislane. Now, please, think again. Have you ever been to Harewood House? Or, do you know if your husband has ever been there? It’s an Eighteenth-Century stately home.’ He glanced around at her impressive décor again. ‘With incredible interior design, priceless art, landscaped gardens, that kind of thing.’ Should be right up your street, shouldn’t it?
‘Never been. Never heard of it. Sorry Detective.’
‘Can I just ask you about Dr Moss?’ Gardner said.
Helen snapped her head left to look at Gardner. ‘Yes.’
‘You told the interviewing officer that you were with him from 3.00pm the day that your husband disappeared.’
‘I was.’
‘For marriage counselling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it standard practice for someone to see a marriage counsellor without their other half?’
‘I don’t know … I’d never done it before, and I may never have to do it again. Dr Moss liked to have individual sessions with us – that’s all I know.’
She was getting snappy. Yorke tried to ease Gardner down with a stare. He didn’t remember her being this aggressive in interrogation when they worked together; however, cases like these, which were extremely personal, could have this kind of impact.
‘You said before that you were very much in love,’ Gardner continued. ‘Why did you have to see a marriage counsellor?’
Yorke inwardly groaned. His stare clearly hadn’t worked.
‘We were happy. Very. We just thought we could be even happier.’
Strange answer. But, fair enough.
Yorke continued the interview for quite some time. He remained persistent, but polite; his trademark style. Composure had taken him to the truth more times that he could remember. He took detailed notes. In the past, whenever his investigation had come to a dead end, he read back through his notes. It was the perfect safety net. 99% of the time the answer was buried in there somewhere.
There was one question he still wanted to ask. He’d saved it until last, so as to glean as much information as he could before potentially sending her flying off the handle. It was an important question and often spoke volumes in a case such as this. ‘Did you or your husband ever have an affair, Mrs Brislane?’
Yorke noticed her turning pale again.
‘No ... he would never do that.’
‘Thanks, I just wanted to clear that up.’
‘We loved each other.’
‘No one is questioning that.’
‘It seems like you are.’ She pointed at Gardner without actually looking at her. ‘She certainly did when asking me about marriage counselling.’
She clearly hadn’t been subjected to difficult questioning last time.
‘Have you met anyone else?’ Gardner said. ‘You know … since?’
Helen turned and glared at Gardner. ‘Since what? You’ve just told me he might still be alive. So, are you asking me if I’m currently being unfaithful?’
Yorke didn’t like Helen’s tone with Gardner. ‘Could you answer the question please, Mrs Brislane?’
‘There’s no one else’ Helen swept back her fringe. ‘I miss my husband very much.’
‘I’m sorry for the situation you’re in,’ Yorke said.
‘Thank you, Detective.’
Yorke brought the interview to a close.
Yorke was already convinced that Helen knew a lot more than she was letting on, but what he saw sitting by the front door as he put his shoes back on, sent his suspicion into overdrive.
As they were walking to the car, Gardner said, ‘Well, maybe she didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Jesus, you are rusty.’
‘What do you mean?’
He beeped his car. ‘Emma, there were more red flags than a communist parade in that house.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘In the car.’
Once they were in the car, and Yorke had raised his concerns with Gardner, she asked, ‘So now where?’
Yorke started the car. ‘To see a doctor.’
A walk through the quiet Leeds University Campus on Boxing Day was a pleasant experience for Alan. There was no one to trap him with a horrified stare.
The buildings were all closed, so he sat on a wall opposite the School of Psychology. He slipped off the backpack with his friend’s present inside it. He placed it on the wall beside him. He rolled his rounded shoulders and listened to his curved spine crack and reflected on that first night Eddie McLarney had come to his apartment …
‘Just wanted to say, I’m sorry. That’s it,’ Eddie said.
‘Okay,’ Alan said at the door, playing with the top buttons of his shirt. He’d already removed his bowtie, and so felt uneven without it.
‘Don’t make this fucking harder than it has to be, Mr Bowtie.’
Back to his default mode. Aggression, confrontational.
‘I wasn’t … it’s late so …’
‘You invite trouble, you know that. It’s mainly your fucking fault.’ Eddie paused and chewed his bottom lip. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes.’ Alan stepped to one side.
Alan knew he shouldn’t be inviting disorder into his house. He’d spent his life avoiding it. He’d end up chewing his nails. Except … tonight, for some reason, it was exciting him.
He thought about Dr Harris’ words that night in Headingley. ‘The way he looked at you, Alan. His hesitance over delivering the blow. The lingering stare. He bullied you for an entirely different reason. He bullied you because of what he fears about himself.’
Eddie passed Alan in the doorway, and they both turned to face each other. Alan closed the apartment door behind him with one hand.
‘I faced my fear by letting you inside,’ Alan said.
Eddie creased his brow. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You can face your fear too.’ Alan leaned in and kissed him.
Eddie pulled back. ‘Jesus! You are a faggot!’
He pushed Alan hard against the door. It winded him. It reminded him of the attack the other night. He felt the beginnings of an erection. ‘You can leave then.’
‘Yes. Get out of my fucking way.’
Alan leaned against the wall, still trying to get his breath back. Eddie stepped forward and his left hand closed on the door handle. With the back of his right hand, he slapped Alan across the face.
Alan’s closed his eyes. He felt his erection pressing against his trousers, smiled, and opened his eyes.
‘You really are a fucking freak, do you know that?’ Eddie said, opening the door. He left.
Now, these many months later outside the School of Psychology at Leeds University, Alan opened his eyes. He was smiling that same smile the night that he’d given Eddie a chance to face down his own fear. He’d opted out that time, but the second time, the very next evening in fact, well, that had been a whole different story …
‘Are you ready to face me?’ Alan said.
‘No,’ Eddie said.
They were lying on their sides, backs to one another.
Alan could feel his
big lover’s trembles through the mattress. He reached up and stroked his cheek, sore from the slap he received after tonight’s lingering kiss. He was also sore below. Eddie had been forceful and aggressive. Feeling him release his fear had been worth it. In this instance, pain and pleasure had come together harmoniously.
Alan turned over to face Eddie’s back. ‘No one is who they appear to be, you do know that, don’t you?’
No reply.
‘I’ve met someone. I’ve learned so much from him. He’s taught me that we are not legible texts to be read and deciphered.’
Still no reply.
‘Would you like to meet him?’
Eddie flipped over and grabbed Alan by the throat. ‘I should fucking kill you.’
Alan smiled.
Months later, and Eddie had still not accepted his invitation to meet Dr Harris. This didn’t bother him too much; after all, Alan cared very little about whether Eddie received any help for his fear. He was welcome to continue coming to terms with his sexuality in the only way he managed to do anything in his life, by bullying and aggression; and, in return, Alan was able to tease himself with these small bursts of arousal and pleasure.
Whenever he sat for more than ten minutes, he became stiff as a plank. He stood up and stretched, groaning. He picked up the backpack, looked at his watch. It was almost time for the doctor.
And to give a present to a dog.
9
‘GOING TO SEE a doctor without waiting two weeks for an appointment,’ Gardner said, walking alongside Yorke towards the house, ‘been a long time since I did that.’
‘Perks of the job,’ Yorke said, ‘But don’t be asking him about your in-growing toenail.’
Gardner smiled. ‘He specialises in marriage … so, it might be wise for you to ask him for advice?’
She was kidding, of course, but the joke struck a nerve. He kept this hidden though and simply returned her grin.
Yorke knocked on Dr Moss’ door. A tall, dark man, wearing a Christmas jumper, opened the door.
The first thing Yorke did was look down at his shoes.
Before, on their way out of Helen’s house, Yorke had noticed three large items of footwear. A pair of Birkenstocks; a pair of Moccasin slippers; and a pair of brown Caterpillar boots. They must have been size 12s, if not bigger. Yorke had explored this with Gardner in the car. Robert Brislane had been quite a short man, and she didn’t remember him having particularly large feet. So, if these shoes didn’t belong to Brislane, who did they belong to?
Dr Moss had big feet.
Yorke could feel his heart rate rising.
After spending the morning with the well-presented Helen Brislane in her glamourous house, Yorke wasn’t surprised to find himself now being led into a pristine office, with sophisticated décor, by a doctor with groomed eyebrows, an expensive haircut and suit, and chiselled features.
Yorke would be asking Gardner later if they’d taken the wrong turn somewhere and ended up in Beverly Hills rather than Coventry.
As Yorke and Gardner took seats opposite Moss, the doctor opened up a tin of breath mints, popped one in his mouth, and then slid it across the table. ‘Would you like one?’
He expected Gardner to descend on them like a wild animal.
‘No thanks.’ It seemed like it was tic tacs or nothing.
Moss lifted a pile of unopened presents from his desk and placed them on the floor, so they could all see each other clearly. ‘Patients,’ he said. ‘They are always generous.’
‘You going to open them?’ Yorke said.
‘Later, with a brandy.’
Yorke nodded. ‘So, are we okay to ask a few questions about Robert now.’
Moss sighed. ‘For a moment out there on the doorstep, Detective, I thought you were going to tell me that you’d found him. It’s a shame … he’s a nice man. How can I help?’
‘I know you’ve already disclosed confidential patient information in interviews.’
‘Yes. It was uncomfortable and, fortunately, it’s rare that I must do this. But when someone has been missing for several days, and their life could be in danger, disclosure is in the patient’s immediate best interests. I’m just sad that you couldn’t use any of the information to locate him.’
‘Well, hopefully, we can dig up something today. Could you sum up what marital problems Helen and Robert were having?’
‘Typical ones to be honest. They were still very much in love, but there were communication issues that were having a negative effect on their relationship. They kept trapping themselves into something I call the “history jail cell”. Everyone’s perceptions of past events are different. For example, if you tell your spouse that they were impolite to your in-laws, and your spouse believes that they weren’t impolite, no amount of arguing is going to solve the problem. It will reach a stalemate because you both perceive the event in a different way. In that “history jail cell”, the argument rages until someone gives up. It’s exasperating and it saps relationships.’
Gardner and Yorke exchanged looks. Yorke wondered if she, like him, was considering herself guilty of the “history jail cell” too.
‘So, what jail cell were Helen and Robert trapped in?’ Gardner said.
‘One of the most common. Having children. He vehemently denies saying he would ever consider children; she seems to think he did. The situation couldn’t be resolved. She wanted children, he didn’t. There was no point in revisiting the promises that may, or may not, have been made. They just had to learn to live with that disagreement.’
‘So, in your professional opinion, do you think they’d have separated?’
‘I like to remain upbeat. I want to help solve the issues. This was a large dilemma. It always is. One partner desperate for children, and the other desperate not to have them. But I’ve come out the other side with this issue successfully on many occasions.’
‘How?’ Gardner said. ‘Surely those feelings don’t go away?’
‘No, of course not, but if they learn to live with their different desires and need, and find some common ground, then it will succeed.’
‘But, I still don’t see how,’ Gardner said. ‘How do you sacrifice having children if you are desperate?’
‘People have done far more in the name of love before now.’ He smiled. ‘So, in answer to your question, this was the main reason they came to me, and I was confident that I could help.’
‘Thank you,’ Yorke said. ‘Do you often see patients alone?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s a safe space. You can often get to the root of problems when you take away the physical trigger of conflict which, I’m sorry to say, is often the spouse.’
‘Okay,’ Yorke said. ‘You provided an alibi to Helen Brislane on the day Robert disappeared, is that correct?’
‘Sorry,’ Moss raised an eyebrow. ‘An alibi? Has a criminal act taken place?’
‘It’s standard procedure, doctor, to establish the whereabouts of anyone connected to the missing person.’
‘Helen was with me. I told the officer back in February.’
Yorke looked down into his notepad. He pretended to be reading from it, and even tapped some unconnected notes to firm up the pretence. ‘Yes, we have that on record. But I did notice that the investigating officer never asked for paperwork.’
‘Paperwork?’
‘Your diary … your appointment sheet … I guess that would be with your receptionist?’
For the first time, the unflappable Moss looked uncomfortable. It was similar to how Helen Brislane had looked when she was asked about new relationships.
‘Yes … but I’ve changed receptionist since then. Surely my word is enough?’
‘Sorry, sir, not really,’ Gardner said. ‘We always ask for evidence.’
‘Well, the last officer didn’t.’
Yes, but they were incompetent, Yorke thought. ‘There shouldn’t be a problem, doctor. I assume you keep your appointments on a database. Could you not just ask yo
ur receptionist to send them over?’ Preferably, without you altering them.
‘It’s Boxing Day.’
‘Yes, I understand it’s inconvenient timing, but I’m sure you appreciate the importance of our request.’
Moss nodded.
For another fifteen minutes, Yorke continued to probe the “confidential” details surrounding the Brislanes’ marriage counselling. After deciding he was going to learn nothing new, Yorke thanked the doctor for his time, and both him and Gardner were back outside for a heavy burst of snowfall.
‘Anabelle will be pleased,’ Gardner said. ‘It’ll revive her snowman. It was looking rather emaciated earlier when I left.’
Yorke didn’t respond.
‘Let me guess … more red flags than a communist parade?’
He nodded. ‘Both of them are guilty of something. I’ll bet anything that those were his shoes sitting snugly in Helen’s rack.’
‘Sitting snugly in Helen’s rack? Did you really just say that?’ Gardner said. ‘So what now?’
‘I’m going to contact Madden to ruffle someone’s feathers about the level of incompetence in this investigation...’ Yorke looked at his watch. ‘… and I predict it will take less than an hour for one of Leeds’ finest to get back to me, cap in hand, willing to pick up the reins in this missing person investigation.’
‘Shit,’ Gardner said, ‘I was really starting to enjoy this.’
‘Ah, don’t worry, we’ll still be pulling the strings. They can just do the legwork.’
The snowfall was thicker, but Alan did not worry about the present in his backpack. He’d covered it in plastic before wrapping it, and even if the paper did get wet, the gift inside was in no danger.
He pulled up his hoodie and turned onto the doctor’s road. He always worried that someone may recognise him as a student going into his lecturer’s house. He wouldn’t want to get the doctor into trouble.
Even now, damp from the snow, and chilled by an icy breeze, Alan felt warmer merely being in the vicinity of the psychiatrist. That’s what this doctor offered. And he’d offered it ever since the moment he’d helped Alan to his feet that night in Headingley.
