After she had shown her police ID, the post office manager explained that all of Dr Pochard’s letters had been redirected to Deepwell Hospital, care of Dr Barker. It struck Herron as strange that she had not been informed of the arrangement. Perhaps Morton had set it up, and forgotten to tell her. But why allow Deepwell access to Pochard’s post, some of which might have been confidential?
‘Who authorised this?’ she asked.
‘The detective in charge of the investigation.’
‘Detective Inspector Harry Morton?’
‘I don’t think that was his name.’
‘Did he have long hair and a beard?’
‘No. Quite the opposite. He was bald and clean-shaven.’
‘Was his name Detective Chief Inspector Bates?’
‘That was more like it.’
‘I’d like to see any post that has not already been delivered.’
The manager went into the sorting office and soon returned with a bundle of letters. She told him she would deliver the post to Deepwell personally. He hesitated, but seeing the determined look in her face, he handed over the letters. Among the sheaf were circulars from pharmacological companies and a subscription notice to a psychotherapy journal. There was one envelope with Pochard’s address handwritten on the front, and postmarked from Switzerland. She waited until she was sitting in her car before she opened it. She knew immediately who had sent it – Professor Eric Reichmann.
DEAR JANE,
I am sorry to hear of the setbacks you have had in your supervision and therapy with our esteemed colleague Robert. I fear that I should have arranged to come over and visit you sooner, but I have been so busy lately. Every day there is a new demand to treat a patient or supervise a new therapist. Just this week, I have been dealing with lawyers who are demanding that I discuss a patient’s notes and details of his disturbing dreams as though they were nothing more than a teenager’s secret diary. They do not understand that confidentiality is our watchword and the basis of our profession, which brings me to this troubling request of yours to investigate Dr Llewyn’s role at Deepwell.
I am disappointed to hear that his mistakes have shaken you enough to reflect on where the society as a whole is going. The failures on Ward G should not affect your faith in our holistic methods of treatment, although I do concede they will have serious consequences for your professional relationship with Robert.
Sometimes, we therapists listen more to ourselves and our egotistical needs than to the patient. You have every right to expect him to listen to your concerns and consider them carefully rather than accuse you of back-stabbing.
None of us is above criticism, especially from such an experienced practitioner as yourself. I thoroughly understand your desire to end his supervision of your practice and patients, and to stop undergoing therapy as his patient.
You asked me if anyone has registered a complaint against Llewyn in the past, and in particular if any documentation suggesting a conspiracy at Deepwell to protect his name exists. Unfortunately, I cannot supply the answer to these requests in writing. Rest assured, you are not the only one to have looked critically at the foundation’s role at Deepwell. Scepticism has infected the group before, with several members withdrawing their membership.
However, I urge you not to talk to anyone else about your misgivings until I have investigated them thoroughly. The consequences might be disastrous for the society as a whole. Even assuming that you are correct in all your fears there are bound to be contrary arguments presented by Llewyn and his colleagues. Nothing is ever as clear as it first seems, not in the world of forensic psychiatry, and it would be better if tempers were allowed to cool. You won’t be walking away from a fight. You’ll be saving your ammunition for another day.
The treatment of Billy Chisholm might appear to be the low point of Deepwell’s history, but with careful thought and analysis, and in your wise care, his case may yet turn out to be the high point of your professional career, and give you the recognition you have craved for so long.
So I ask you to suspend your lonely pursuit of the truth. Withdraw your cavalry from the charge, at least until I can visit you in person, and in the meantime, go back to what you have always been, a loyal and gifted member of our foundation, who always has the best interests of her patients at heart. Ask yourself, will your patients be best served by dragging this alleged scandal into the light, or are you in danger of exposing their vulnerabilities to society in general, as well as dragging down the honourable reputations of therapists who believed they were advancing their profession in the most difficult of circumstances?
Yours sincerely,
ERIC.
P.S. I trust you will keep the trays you have recovered from Ward G under lock and key! Or at least away from prying eyes.
The first question that struck her was what were the trays Reichmann had mentioned at the end of the letter? And why had Pochard taken them from Ward G? Were they evidence of some sort of malpractice? Also, it seemed to Herron that Reichmann had as good as admitted that Pochard’s misgivings had been shared by other therapists. She sensed the professor’s desperation to keep a lid on the problems at Deepwell, and a dread in making the visit to Scotland and in dealing conclusively with Pochard’s complaints. Had there been a measure of relief in Reichmann’s cheery arrival at the police station? Was he at heart a coward, or was he also involved in the conspiracy to protect Deepwell’s reputation at all costs?
She picked up the phone and dialled Reichmann’s number. Perhaps it was time to goad the professor into holding a proper investigation, she thought. However, when she rang him, his mobile kept cutting out.
‘Where are you?’ she shouted in an effort to make herself heard.
‘In a glen overlooking Loch Lomond. Far away from consulting rooms…’ He sounded almost giddy with joy. She heard a few indistinct words about walks and barriers and a wide-open sky, and then his voice became clear again. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘Yes. Something has come up.’
He told her he would walk back up to the road where the mobile reception might be better, and then the signal cut out.
Half an hour later, he called to say he had found a little teashop. ‘I’m doing a walking tour around the loch,’ he explained. ‘The views here are so peaceful and dramatic. I’ve been staring at the loch for ages and it does nothing, absolutely nothing but lie there full of its own mystery.’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes it feels more disturbing than sitting with a patient who is in deep psychosis.’
‘So a psychotherapist keeps listening, even on holiday.’
‘Always. What have you found?’
‘Your letter in reply to Dr Pochard’s request for help.’
Reichmann paused. ‘Where did you find it?’
It was clear from the shift in his voice that the letter was important. She suspected that Reichmann had been desperately looking for it on the morning of his arrival in Scotland.
‘At the sorting office. It was about to be sent to Deepwell Hospital but I intercepted it. What information were you bringing Dr Pochard? What was it you could not write in the letter?’
‘I’m not able to give you those details.’
‘Then that makes you worse than Dr Barker. He values the reputation of his hospital above his patients, but you’re an academic putting his theories above all else. Dr Pochard turned to you for guidance and support but what did she get? Why are you over here now?’
‘To pay my respects to Jane. And hunt out members of the foundation not following the orthodox models.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘Very little.’
‘How can that be? Dr Sinden’s experimentation was untested and dangerous. Patients got worse and more dependent on drugs, not better.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Ward G. I find it so tedious and depressing. Psychotherapy is not a blunt instrument to treat incurable inmates on a psychiatric ward. It is a subjective approach based o
n intellectual dialogue and empathy. It belongs to the arts not the sciences. Dr Sinden’s attempts to reach an understanding of his patients’ psychoses were commendable, if naive. Their false memories felt completely real once they were formed and established. The foundation will take no action against him.’
‘I am determined to get to the bottom of what was going on at Deepwell,’ she replied, ‘whatever the vested interests of the foundation. I expect your cooperation with my inquiries, and if this is not forthcoming I will have to use my powers as a police officer to compel your assistance.’
‘You don’t have to threaten me. I’m in a very difficult position here, and you have to understand that. All you can focus on is a dead body and a missing woman. I have to consider the future of a foundation that aims to alleviate the mental suffering of thousands of patients.’
‘Sinden told me that Dr Llewyn was his supervisor. What is your opinion of Llewyn?’
‘He is a gifted therapist.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He is absolutely focused and concentrates with his entire being on what his patients tell him. He sees and understands them in new ways.’
‘Does everyone in the foundation think so positively of him?’
‘Of course he has had his critics from time to time, but the current members support him.’
‘And what about his patients and those of Sinden’s? As his supervisor, Llewyn would have been responsible for patients like Chisholm and McCrea.’
‘I am sure they respect him, too. I have heard countless stories of patients recovering because of his interventions.’
‘But Dr Pochard did not agree.’
‘Evidently not.’
‘What form did his interventions take?’
‘He uncovered painful memories that he believed lay at the heart of the patients’ mental illnesses.’
‘How?’
‘Through dreams, free associations, listening to the patients’ fantasies and delusions, and encouraging them to let their minds wander.’
‘Did the process involve the use of high doses of tranquillisers and psychoactive drugs?’
‘There is little point discussing Llewyn’s methods with someone untrained in psychiatry. To the untrained eye, his use of medication during therapy sessions might seem hard to comprehend.’
‘Do you think that Sinden and Llewyn might have unintentionally turned the patients on Ward G into drug addicts?’
‘No comment.’
‘Who do you think killed Dr Pochard?’
‘Isn’t it clear that Chisholm is the murderer? He had been harbouring this dreadful fantasy for years, even sharing it with his fellow patients. He managed to hide his psychosis and persuade Pochard to release him back into the community. These are the facts, or are they too simplistic for you?’
‘What if Pochard was murdered to protect the reputation of Llewyn and his colleagues? What if Chisholm were somehow manipulated by someone with secrets to hide?’
‘Nonsense. Why would you think such a thing?’
But his words faltered and Herron sensed his voice slipping into a void of doubt, as unfathomable as the loch he was staring out onto.
‘OK,’ said Reichmann. ‘For argument’s sake, I’ll pretend there is a possibility that what you are saying might be true. Tell me, how did you draw such a conclusion?’ His voice had recovered its benevolent authority. ‘Where did you get this wild idea? What clues have you gathered? Tell me everything you know so that I can decide if your conclusion is rational or not.’
‘You didn’t tell me that Llewyn was still Pochard’s supervisor.’
‘I thought you only needed the name of Sinden’s supervisor.’
Suddenly she had a disturbing idea. If she had not been on the phone to Reichmann, she would have shouted it down the corridors of the police station. However, it would be a professional disaster if she were mistaken. To prove that her hypothesis was not badly wrong, she needed Reichmann to give the right answers to two questions.
‘How often did Llewyn and Pochard meet for therapy?’
‘It depends on the intensity of the process. It might have been once a fortnight or once a week even.’
‘And who would have kept notes of the meetings?’
‘That would have been the responsibility of the therapist, Dr Llewyn.’
‘Not Dr Pochard?’
‘No.’
They were the replies she had been hoping to get. For the first time in the investigation, she thought there was a possibility of putting the murderer behind bars.
‘What were the trays you mentioned at the end of your letter?’
‘I have nothing more to say.’
‘You told Pochard to keep them in a safe place, away from prying eyes.’
‘You may think these items are important in your investigation, but nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘In a murder investigation like this, I can’t overlook a single detail. I want you to end your walking holiday and attend an interview at the police station tomorrow at eleven a.m. I need to know exactly what these trays were used for on Ward G.’
However, there was no reply from Reichmann. She realised the line had already cut out.
28
Deepwell Hospital, thought Herron as she walked up to the granite building escorted by the security guard, looked weary, as though it had been up all night, protecting its shadows.
She had booked another interview with Dr Barker and Alistair McCrea, and was hoping to get answers to the questions that had been raised by Reichmann’s letter. However, she could feel the heaviness return as soon as Barker’s secretary came out to meet her. She heard the uneasiness in the woman’s voice as she explained that the medical director had been called away on an urgent meeting and would not be able to see her this morning.
Herron asked when Barker would be free, and the secretary hesitated. A cold smile tightened around her mouth. ‘I think you should check with your chief inspector and arrange another time through him,’ she said.
Herron wondered why the secretary had mentioned the chief inspector but let it pass. She explained that she urgently needed to speak to McCrea. The secretary warned there would be a slight delay, but that one of the nurses from Ward G would be with her soon. The uneasiness did not leave the secretary’s voice nor did the expression on her face change.
The delay was longer than Herron expected. She was kept waiting for an hour in the corridor outside the music room. She walked up to the double doors leading to Ward G and stared through the window of reinforced glass. She allowed her senses to sweep through the building like a radar. A mood of mystery had settled over the ward, the moments of light and clarity growing more fleeting. She saw the blank, open-mouthed face of a patient watching her from a side room, the back of a nurse disappearing around a corner, a large white clock counting down the minutes, the bright tie of a doctor swishing behind a door, but the overwhelming impression was one of deepening shadow.
Eventually, a male nurse appeared and told her there had been an incident involving McCrea. Staff were busy trying to resolve the situation, he explained, and then he left her to her own devices again. A short time later, she heard McCrea’s ghostly tenor voice shouting from behind the locked doors. She could feel through the floor the steps of people running. When she looked through the windows, she saw two nurses hauling away McCrea, who had a bleeding nose. That was the moment she realised she was on the threshold of a world she knew nothing about and had no control over. She banged on the door and shouted, but no one appeared to hear her protests. She marched back down to reception and demanded to speak to Barker, or whoever was in charge. She wanted to register a complaint about the nurses’ treatment of McCrea.
The nurse in charge of the ward came out and told the detective that staff had placed McCrea in a secure room. He had started an altercation with another patient and had been removed from the ward for his own safety and that of his fellow patients.
‘I want to speak to the other patients on Ward G. Anyone who might have witnessed what happened to Alistair.’
The nurse raised her eyebrows and thrust her chin forwards, both hostile reflexes. ‘I can’t allow that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dr Barker’s orders. The patients on Ward G are undergoing intensive therapy right now, and it’s important not to disturb them.’
‘I only need to ask a few simple questions.’
The nurse pressed her lips together. ‘My instructions are that they must be protected from any unnecessary interrogations conducted by you or your colleagues. Unless you have evidence they have committed a crime.’
‘So Dr Barker is refusing me access to the ward?’
‘He is worried that your style of questioning will undermine the therapeutic relationships staff have built up over many years with the patients. We have a duty of care to these vulnerable men and women and we have to fulfil that duty. Surely you understand that?’ The way the nurse stared at Herron, her fixed expression, the tone she used in explaining the refusal, and the seriousness of her frown, were all professional techniques to deter her. ‘Now, if I can be of any other assistance, Sergeant Herron?’ The nurse smiled at her, but she did not mean it. Her polite offer was more a challenge than an invitation to help.
On her way out, Herron glanced at the photograph of the holistic foundation members hanging on the wall. The expressions of the psychotherapists seemed to watch her with a cold intent, as though their experiment was well under way and could no longer be stopped, their subjects isolated and shut away behind glass, beyond help from the outside world.
*
There was no sign of Morton back at the station, and Herron had to make do with a quick briefing with Shaw and Rodgers.
They had interviewed the other residents in Chisholm’s halfway house but none of them had been inclined to help the investigation or offer any valuable information. They had knocked on the door of the closest neighbouring house several times, but no one had answered, even though they suspected the owner, a man called Jack Murray, was hiding inside.
The Listeners Page 17
