The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I want what you want. A happy family life.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I want. All I want is for you to do your fair share of the housework.’

  Whatever it was she was working for day and night, it was not for arguments like these that were becoming alarmingly common. He probably had every right to be grumpy, but didn’t she deserve better than these petty outbursts of his temper? She said goodbye and made to leave.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he called after her. ‘Run off back to your detective friends.’

  10

  Now that Herron was one of the lead detectives in a murder investigation, she knew instinctively that she would have to prioritise the search for the murderer over her home life and family responsibilities.

  One cold meaningless forensic report about the forest clearing followed another, interspersed with short discussions with Morton that failed to draw any conclusions. None of the reports gave up what she most wanted to know. Was the decapitated head Dr Pochard’s? She forced herself to keep going. There was nothing else she could do. She felt as though they were hovering at the distant edge of the investigation, with everything far away and murky, and only the grisliness of the head speaking to them powerfully.

  In the meantime, Morton agreed to open a file on the disappearance of Dr Pochard. A preliminary investigation of her house, however, had thrown up no clues, no signs of life, nothing, apart from Pochard’s appointment diary and the car left in the garage. Herron’s attention had been snagged by the comment the psychotherapist wrote under her last appointment on the previous Friday. She had been due to see a patient referred to only as ‘S’. Underneath, Dr Pochard had written the cryptic line: I’m at my best when the forest turns its silence towards me.

  They managed to put together a brief profile of Pochard, based on interviews with her colleagues at Deepwell. She was unmarried and her only relative was a sister living in Edinburgh, whom her colleagues were trying to contact. After qualifying from medical school, she had specialised in psychiatry, and had held a position at Deepwell for most of her working life. She worked long hours and lived with regular habits. She had never been known to do anything out of the blue before.

  Bates interrupted the meeting in the vulgar, impatient way of a boss with not enough to do but worry about the weaknesses of his staff and how they might reflect badly on his reputation. He sat down in a chair opposite them, put his hands behind his head, and said, ‘Update. Please.’

  Morton stared at the wall, while Herron rifled through her notes.

  ‘Well, what progress have you made?’ demanded Bates.

  The hours since the discovery in the forest had passed too intensely for Herron for much besides puzzlement and frustration. Nor had she been expecting Bates to put her and Morton under the spotlight so soon. His usual level of involvement in important investigations was to roar and shout, and then run off to some mysterious meeting he could not get out of. An invisible uneasiness seemed to have seized Morton. The silence grew and Bates glared at them. Come on, get a grip, Herron told herself. She cleared her throat and leaned forward, holding her notebook firmly.

  ‘I’m sure it’s her,’ she said. ‘I mean, Dr Pochard.’

  ‘How have you come to that conclusion?’ said Bates.

  Now it was Morton’s turn to clear his throat. ‘All we know for certain at this stage is that it’s the head of a woman.’ His tone was reflective rather than dismissive of Herron’s certainty. ‘Forensics are working to establish how and when she died.’

  ‘Are you even sure this was a murder?’ asked Bates.

  ‘It’s possible she may have died due to natural causes, and someone may have removed her head after death.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bates, pointedly ignoring Herron.

  ‘We’re checking to make sure a corpse hasn’t gone missing from anywhere,’ said Morton. He summarised the unclear picture of what was emerging from the forest. ‘It’s plain that whoever left the box in the clearing made sure not to leave any clues lying round. We’re now fairly certain that the decapitation must have occurred somewhere else.’

  ‘What about Deepwell?’ asked Bates.

  Morton counselled against them drawing any hasty links to Deepwell. The only connection between the two was the words of a mentally ill patient locked away from society. However, he had to agree with Herron that even if the head did not belong to Pochard, the strange confession of McCrea and the secret atmosphere at Deepwell pointed to something murky going on.

  Herron was about to speak, but Morton gave her a warning look. She felt herself blush with annoyance.

  ‘Just remember this is a police station,’ said Bates. ‘Not some sort of madhouse like Deepwell. Stick to what we know for sure. First establish identification of the head and then progress from there.’ He rose from the seat. ‘I expect the two of you to have this sorted very soon. It shouldn’t be too bloody difficult to work out where the head came from and who it belongs to. After all, isn’t that how we recognise our fellow human beings, for Christ’s sake?’

  That was as far as they got on the first day of the investigation. Herron hoped that the mood of tension and frustration would lift the instant she arrived home.

  *

  David was standing in the hallway late that evening, glaring with disapproval at the clock on the wall. He seemed pent up with impatience.

  ‘Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?’ he asked. ‘Me looking after the children all day and now the evenings as well?’ He looked as though he were staring into a terrible future, one he would rather not contemplate. ‘I thought you’d be home ages ago.’

  At first, she did not react, hunkering down to greet Alice who had come running down the stairs in her pyjamas.

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure on the investigation team at the minute,’ she explained, walking into the kitchen. ‘Until we get a breakthrough we have to do a lot of work in a short space of time.’

  She told him about the absence of any firm clues and the mood of confusion that had descended upon the investigation.

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t you think you’re going to solve it?’

  ‘I hope so. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Don’t you realise I can’t keep this up? Working from home, managing all the routines with the children, day in, day out, hanging on every evening, waiting for you to come walking through the door.’

  He was angry, but she did not know if his anger was meant for her or the children, or her career, or even life in general. His feelings tended to build up in a secret male place and often he got angry with everything at the same time, even the bland newsreader speaking on TV, or whatever programme they happened to be watching.

  ‘You were the one who encouraged me to join the police force,’ she said. ‘You believed in me. You said I’d make a great detective.’

  ‘I still believe in you.’

  ‘No you don’t. You’d rather I’d fail. You’d rather have me home on the dot of five thirty and let someone else on the team make the breakthrough.’

  ‘What if another big case comes up, or you get a promotion? You’ll just step into your new role without any qualms and bury your old life. While I’m still tied to the house and the children.’ He turned his back on her. ‘It’s like you’ve forgotten everything about our lives before the children came.’

  ‘Is that it? Do you miss the time we had together?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He began stacking plates into the dishwasher. His anger seemed to change into an equally strong feeling of sadness. ‘I have to hand it to you, Carla. The way things have worked out. You got what you wanted, the children and a career. While I’ve had three years of insomnia and near insanity being stuck at home every day.’

  ‘Our family life is about more than that.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve won the battle of the sexes. You’ve got your womanhood sorted. You got the career while I got the nappies and t
he projectile vomiting.’

  She saw the disappointment and envy in his face. ‘Don’t generalise this. This is about me and you, and the children. You’re a father now. Surely, that means something precious. It must give you a sense of achievement and pleasure?’

  ‘Just tell me when the two of us can go to the pub and have a nice lie-in the next morning.’

  Most evenings all she wanted to do was collapse in front of the TV with a large glass of wine, rather than go out. She could see that David was indoors too much, hovering around the children all day, witnessing all their moods and difficulties, seeing to all their needs. ‘What if you got a break from the children? Would that make things better?’

  ‘I’d prefer more of your company, but it would help.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to find a nursery that will take the two of them.’

  ‘Ben is only six months old. He’s too young for a nursery.’ David had strong feelings about institutionalised childcare of any sort.

  ‘Yes, he is too young. But if it gives you a few hours break during the day…’

  ‘You’re happy to send him to a nursery at his age?’

  ‘Not really. But I can’t drop the overtime right now. We’ve no choice.’

  ‘Well, I’m not happy. Ben is far too small. There must be another solution.’

  He fetched a bottle of wine from the rack. He uncorked the bottle and appeared keen to mollify her, as if he had recognised it was his fault for getting angry. He poured her a glass and then one for himself.

  ‘Don’t worry about failing to catch the killer,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll get him soon. Now drink up and relax. I’m going to come up with a better solution to the childminding. Just leave it with me.’

  11

  Next morning, Carla dashed up the stairs and turned off the tap she had left running. She stepped into the bedroom and grabbed her purse, trying not to look at David, who had come down with a virus overnight. However, he was already awake, sitting up in bed and staring at her with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Morning,’ she said.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. Alice has been asking about her missing red shoe. She won’t go outside without it.’

  Oh shit, she thought. It was still at the birthday party house. ‘You’ll have to pop over and get it yourself. I’ve no time to stop.’

  She had already prepared Alice and Ben’s breakfasts, and left out their clothes for the day. Then she had got dressed in the dark, trying to enjoy the early morning idyll of peace while everyone was still asleep.

  She slipped into Alice’s bedroom to say goodbye and to her alarm found that she had a temperature. Ben cried robustly when she checked on him, but thankfully he had not come down with anything. She nursed him back to sleep with a fresh bottle, thinking that it was becoming clearer by the day how much Ben took after his father, the same angry tone lurking in his voice, the same petulance hiding behind the surface. She had just settled him into the cot and closed her eyes briefly, preparing for the important day ahead, when her mobile rang.

  ‘Morton, here. Did I wake you?’

  ‘You’d have to ring much earlier to stand a chance of that.’

  ‘Forensics have finally identified the head in the box. The victim was Dr Jane Pochard.’

  She held her breath.

  ‘And the finger?’

  ‘They’re still working on that. I wanted to call you first thing. Dr Barker has been informed. He has agreed to help with the investigation in any way possible. He’s ready to speak to you this morning.’

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Her sister is helping us. The connections to Deepwell are troubling.’

  She asked about the man with the missing finger. Was there any more information about him?

  ‘Not yet. I’m organising the search for him right now, but I can go with you to Deepwell, if you like.’

  ‘No, I can take care of it myself.’

  ‘I suspected you’d say that. There’s a lot we still don’t know about what is going on at Deepwell, so be careful. McCrea’s confession might lead us in the wrong direction entirely. Don’t draw any conclusions too soon. There’s something about McCrea that doesn’t add up.’

  She wanted to say that nothing about that place added up, but he had ended the call.

  David was standing behind her, still dressed in his pyjamas.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, waving feebly. Alice was clutching his hand, her shoulders hunched. Carla could feel a family crisis looming.

  ‘I want you to stay at home,’ said Alice, grabbing her leg.

  Carla had no weapons to keep at bay the domestic responsibilities gathering in her wake other than sweeping promises and words of distraction. ‘Daddy’s here to take care of you,’ she said. ‘He’s going to get your party shoe back today.’

  ‘Will I have a big birthday party like Vicki?’

  Carla felt the hot flesh of her daughter’s fever-ridden face press against her body. Her determination faltered. She held her daughter’s slender arms, and said, ‘Of course, pet. You can have as big a birthday party as you like.’

  ‘Will you come to it?’

  ‘I promise you I’ll be there.’

  ‘Will there be lots of presents?’

  ‘A birthday party is meant to be a surprise. That way you enjoy it more.’

  ‘A surprise?’ Alice’s eyes widened.

  She squeezed Alice to her tightly and said, ‘Yes, a big surprise.’ Deftly, she passed her back to David, who looked at her coldly, as if to say that words and promises were no replacement for parenting.

  From the bedroom upstairs, Ben began wailing at a pitch that seared her ears. It was half past eight, and she had to leave.

  12

  Deepwell’s rain-stained granite building had grown secluded and sinister-looking, its windows squinting in the wet light, as Detective Herron drove up the approach avenue.

  She found that getting inside was more difficult this time round. Staff were no longer allowed to come and go as they pleased, the security man explained to her as he examined her ID, and only visitors with special permission were allowed to enter.

  The sound of footsteps receded before them as he led her down a long corridor to the medical director’s office. Was it the claustrophobic echo of their feet, or those of invisible staff reverberating in hidden corridors, noises trapped as though in a deepening tunnel? When she entered the room, Barker was conversing with two other men dressed in white hospital coats. The director offered her a seat without introducing his colleagues, one of whom gazed uneasily at Herron. Immediately, she felt at a disadvantage, that forces within the hospital had already discussed how to manage the disturbing news of Pochard’s death.

  The two men stepped out of the room without a further word. Gesturing towards his colleagues, Barker explained that staff at Deepwell were finding it difficult coping with the tragic news. ‘Jane was a very hard-working psychotherapist,’ he said. ‘This is the most terrible act imaginable. I can’t believe it.’ He added that the hospital would do its utmost to assist the police with their inquiries.

  Herron nodded. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because first, I need to establish if there is any way Alistair McCrea could have escaped from Ward G and returned without staff knowing last Friday night.’

  Barker cleared his throat. ‘Ward G is our high security unit. If there had been any breach we would have already informed you.’

  ‘What if you weren’t aware of the breach?’

  ‘There is no question of that. My staff have reviewed the CCTV footage. We have checked everything, all the door locks and security systems.’ Barker stared at her and bit his beard. ‘I gather it was you who found her. How was she killed?’

  ‘Brutally.’

  Barker kept looking at her, expecting more information.

  ‘You found her entire body, I take it?’ His gaze was probing.

  She understood his motive. He had fired off the question because he wanted hi
s worst fears either confirmed or denied.

  ‘She was found more or less how McCrea described. Only her head was there.’

  ‘How terrible—’ His voice broke off, and a part of him disappeared from the conversation, retreating into a corner, clinging to the hope that his hospital’s reputation might still emerge unscathed. His eyes grew hooded, and his voice fainter, as though it were trying to hide among the piles of patients’ notes and academic publications on his desk. ‘I’ve allotted you an hour with Alistair. In the meantime, I’ll instruct the secretary to get you any files you might want to see.’

  *

  When and where does a suspect lie? These were the two most crucial questions for a detective conducting an investigation. In the ordinary course of events, an officer could grope towards the truth. The hidden facts of the investigation existed as a clearly defined zone of knowledge, like a chessboard, a space of moves and counter-moves that was straightforward and strictly regulated. In the police training college, she had been taught the codes of practice for interviewing suspects and witnesses, special techniques to elicit the truth and assess whether or not the interviewee was lying, but all these methods were based on the assumption that the truth did exist, that there was a set of answers underlying the game of words between the interrogator and the interrogated, the struggle between verbal and non-verbal communication, the little blinks and shifting of the eyes, the tactics of secrecy and evasive answers. But what if there was no subjective truth to be discovered? In all her training, there had been no preparation for what lay waiting for Herron when the nurse unlocked the door and she entered the music room on Ward G.

  McCrea was perched at the edge of the seat, slanting away from her, his shoulders hunched, staring at the blank wall, as though trying to make himself invisible.

  ‘The police are here, Alistair,’ said the nurse.

  McCrea looked up at her with his pale face and white eyelashes, but he showed little sign of recognition. She felt as though, in his world, she was nothing more than a shadow, indistinguishable from the other shadows that came and went. He began to shuffle his feet uncomfortably when she greeted him and explained the purpose of her visit.