The room grew quiet. Morton stared at a remote corner of the room.
‘What do you suggest we do about Deepwell, then?’ asked Shaw, breaking the awkward silence.
‘I want you to drop your investigation into the holistic foundation and the professional rivalries that may or may not have existed between staff. There’s no point making a fuss, not now when it’s clear the murderer is Chisholm.’
Morton spoke up again. ‘When were you speaking to Dr Barker?’
‘Yesterday morning.’ Bates’s cheeks coloured in anger. ‘Why should that matter?’
‘Sergeant Herron was meant to meet him yesterday, but he cancelled at the last minute. Now it seems he met you instead.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘How many of your investigations as SIO relied on expert testimony from Barker and his colleagues at Deepwell?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with anything.’
‘Why are you so quick to interfere on Barker’s behalf and criticise the direction we are taking? Deepwell is not on trial here, but that doesn’t mean individual members of its staff and their practice are above suspicion.’
It was clear to Herron that Bates was hiding something, and Morton was the only one in the room willing to expose it. He knew and understood. In his silent and watchful way, he could be dangerous.
‘There’s something else I have to ask you,’ said Morton.
Bates was brisk and ignored the question but Morton interrupted again.
‘I need to know why you arranged for Pochard’s post to be sent to Deepwell. Why did you not tell anyone else about this?’
Bates grunted in surprise. ‘Dr Pochard’s work included some sensitive and urgent cases linked to Deepwell. Letting her colleagues look after her post was the professional thing to do.’
‘I would say it was inappropriate, at best. Not least because you didn’t inform anyone else. There should be no secrets within an investigation.’
‘Nor should anyone intimidate a highly respected psychiatrist,’ said Bates.
‘I don’t think anyone has intimidated Dr Barker,’ said Morton. ‘I would say it’s the other way round. The entire set-up at Deepwell seems to be based upon controlling vulnerable patients and protecting the institution’s reputation at all costs. Besides, Sergeant Herron and I have always treated Barker with respect and stuck to his requests.’
‘I don’t mean Herron and you personally. I mean what you’re inadvertently doing. Deepwell relies on council funding. It looks after patients who would otherwise be causing havoc on the streets, or languishing in jail. OK, it may have mismanaged Chisholm’s treatment, but we can’t allow its reputation to slide down the pipes because of one mistake.’
‘I agree,’ said Morton, ‘but I also think everyone involved in this investigation should be communicating back to the team what they are doing and who exactly they are talking to. Including you, sir.’
‘I must say it’s rich being lectured by you of all people on the importance of communication.’ Bates had risen to his feet. His body language and tone were not overtly menacing but Herron felt the tension roll across the room like a dangerous wave. Bates remained standing, staring at Morton, his face reddening.
By contrast, Morton leaned back in his seat, relaxed yet alert. Before, he had behaved as though he was barely listening to Bates, sitting deep inside himself, his eyes hidden behind his tangled hair, staring out from the depths of his lair.
‘My reticence is no excuse for a chief inspector to behave in this way,’ said Morton.
‘I won’t have a subordinate attack me like this in front of the rest of the team,’ growled Bates. ‘That’s the strange thing about you, Morton. You behave as if you never made a mistake. You feel no responsibility whenever an investigation turns into a monumental mess.’
‘Are you referring to this case or cases in the past? Cases where you were the SIO?’
‘Listen, Morton, you were a good detective once, but now you’re a total fucking flop. You’ve lost your nerve and imagination. I never understood why you weren’t demoted after they found you drunk at that housebreaking.’ His eyes shifted about the room. ‘And now you’re taking the entire team down with you. Look at the state of you all. There’s Shaw. Ever since his wife left him, he’s been falling apart in front of everyone. And I see that Constable Rodgers managed to come in on time today, the first time in months, and he even managed to shave off that straggly beard he’s been nurturing. Something extraordinary must have happened to him last night.’ He paused. There was no sound in the room apart from the rasp of Bates’s heavy breathing. ‘You think I don’t notice these things.’
Nobody said anything. It was as if the air had been sucked from them. In the vacuum, Bates’s voice grew louder and more dominant.
‘And what about our new graduate recruit? What have you got to say for yourself?’
Herron looked up and saw to her alarm that Bates was staring at her.
‘Top of the class at Edinburgh, isn’t that right, Herron?’
‘I wasn’t the top exactly, sir.’ She tried to appear confident but her voice sounded hollow.
‘Whatever – the college said you were an academic wonder girl. They thought the sun shone out of your arse. Are you going to let your career follow the same course as your colleagues?’
‘Which course is that, sir?’ asked Morton.
‘Straight down the fucking drain.’ The DCI thumped his hand on the desk for emphasis. ‘I come into this office every morning and see my officers sitting around with cups of coffee and tea, whinging about staff cuts and long hours, and every conceivable and inconceivable obstacle in your working lives. It’s not a question of lack of insight or brains. It’s just that you don’t want to see the bloody obvious. And when a case like this comes along, you’d rather investigate the institution and invent explanations and excuses for what happened, rather than hunt down the wretched individual who is clearly to blame.’
By now, the DCI’s voice was half-strangled by his anger, which seemed beyond his control. ‘I have a bad feeling about this case. It’s going to turn into a wreck that will pull us all down.’ He glared at his staff. ‘Here I am, trapped on a sinking ship with a crew of failures. Not the usual run-of-the-mill failures you meet in the police force, mind you. You lot are far beyond the fucking pale.’
Morton seemed impervious to Bates’s outburst. He rose from his seat and pushed it neatly under his desk. Then he flicked his thick hair back from his face and walked out of the room. It was not the usual absent look that Herron saw there. Instead, he appeared cheerful, his gaze level, pleasantly upbeat. His eyes caught hers and for a second she saw the steely glint of his determination. She realised that no matter how withdrawn and reticent he might appear to her personally, in front of an audience he possessed the charisma of an actor about to step into the spotlight.
Bates stood up and leaned upon the desk as if to regain his balance. He put away his notepad and slowly returned to the cranky authority of a man obsessed with paperwork and procedure.
‘I want you all to think about what I’ve said, and write a report outlining your plan of action, including any obstacles that are preventing you from finding Chisholm, and special requests for assistance. I’ll do my best to make sure you get the resources you need.’
He glanced at the officers one more time before leaving. ‘And if any of you don’t feel up to following my orders, put that on record, too. I haven’t ruled out bringing in a fresh set of detectives to take over this case.’
After he left, Herron wondered how much of his outburst had been planned and how much had been due to his loss of temper. Morton had hinted at the truth. There was a lot more to Deepwell than any of them knew, and all the paperwork that Bates was requesting seemed to be more than an adjunct to the investigation. It felt like a smokescreen, a security measure.
The team dispersed and Herron walked out in search of Morton, but there was no sign of him and his
car was gone from the car park. Instead, she found Rodgers hunched over a cigarette and looking exhausted. He straightened up on seeing her approach. She wondered if he was brooding upon the DCI’s humiliating words.
However, his voice sounded strong and sure of itself. He even flashed a grin. ‘Forget about what that bastard said in there,’ he told her. ‘Bates really means the opposite. He desperately needs us to be failures and losers. The last thing he wants is a crew of successful detectives biting at his heels, exposing his failures and weaknesses as a police chief.’
She had never heard him speak of the DCI with so much amused detachment.
‘He’s obsessed by the insecurity of his role and everything he does and says is geared to alleviating that insecurity,’ added Rodgers. ‘That shouting match was just his weekly therapy session.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean, his therapy session?’
‘It’s just an expression.’
She felt annoyed at Rodgers’ light-hearted interpretation of Bates’s behaviour, and the way he was treating such a bullying tirade. It made her question why he and his colleagues tolerated such bad behaviour in the first place.
‘I don’t mean to play down what happened in there,’ said Rodgers. ‘He said some hurtful things. He’s made a career out of telling his officers what failures they are.’
‘Not just hurtful. He’s interfering in the investigation, undermining our leads. Surely that’s more demoralising than any personal insults?’
It was impossible to tell from Rodgers’ detached expression if he was troubled by Bates’s attempt to barge in on the investigation. He seemed the embodiment of inaction, and the blankness of his expression depressed her further. Where was Morton? she wondered. He had swept out of the station, full of his moody and secret presence, leaving her with this bunch of failures, blind and faltering in his wake.
She thought of the pine trees encroaching upon Pochard’s home, the entire forest rippling with a sense of dark and unlimited knowing, and Morton striding beneath them.
30
Past her terrace house, where her mother-in-law would undoubtedly be making one of her legendary stews; through the park, oblivious to the young children and their mothers in the late afternoon sun; along Malvern Street and back to the house where she had taken Alice to the four year old’s party. All the while, Herron was busy formulating questions in her head. When the door opened, she was disappointed to see that it was not Derek Cavanagh, but his wife.
She directed Herron to the back garden where her husband was tending to his hives and nestboxes. The beams of sunlight were thick with bees and motes of dust, and a figure with a black mask and white gown was stalking through bushes of yellow roses. A venomous cloud hung over his head. She waved and shouted a greeting. He removed his protective headgear and gloves, and recognised her immediately.
‘Ah, Carla, investigating the mystery of the missing red shoe, I presume?’
She apologised for interrupting him, and the delay in collecting the shoe.
‘Before I get you the shoe, I want to introduce you to my new patients,’ he said with a good-natured smile. ‘When I left psychotherapy I had a lot of free time on my hands. And then I discovered the wonderful world of bees, the perfect insects to surround oneself with. They spend their lives afloat on a sea of colour and scents.’ He pointed to the swarm and named the types of bees and the flowers from which they were collecting nectar.
He beckoned her closer, waving at an opened hive as though he were the host of a party with thousands of buzzing guests. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ He was looking straight at her, his eyes glinting in the sunlight, and his wedding ring flashing on his right hand.
Massed together in the hive, the bees looked bigger, more colourful and deadly than any she had seen before. Cavanagh puffed smoke over the hive and the bees blundered away from him. She thought that beekeeping must be a kind of sport for men like Cavanagh, a game of man versus dangerous insect life.
‘There’s something else I have to ask you,’ she said.
‘Fire away.’
‘You trained as a psychotherapist. You had a consulting room in your home. Why did you change and take up lecturing at the university?’
‘I seem to recall you asking me that question before.’
‘I’m more interested in your answer now.’
‘My reasons aren’t that interesting. Professionally, I don’t practise any more, but in my heart I still do.’
‘I presume you’re familiar with the investigation into Dr Pochard’s murder. She worked at Deepwell.’
She watched him carefully, wondering if he would reveal his membership of the foundation. His face grew deadly serious. ‘I knew Dr Pochard and I’ve been following the news stories. You’ve launched a manhunt for an ex-patient of hers.’ He replaced the lid on the hive. ‘A psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane doesn’t need a scandal like that.’
‘I’m trying to find out more about the Scottish branch of the Holistic Foundation, and their treatment of patients including the main suspect in the investigation. But they’re not exactly cooperating with me. As a former therapist, I thought you might know something about them.’
‘They’re nothing but a bunch of ideological idiots,’ said Cavanagh with a contemptuous shake of his head.
‘You know them?’
‘Know them? I belonged to that accursed group for several years.’ He visibly struggled with his feelings for a moment. ‘I could see it was an accident waiting to happen. Some of the people running it should have been locked up with their patients.’
Herron suppressed a smile. At last, a suitably indiscreet psychotherapist, she had thought she would never find one.
‘In my opinion, its director, Dr Llewyn, was a fantasist and a deeply flawed individual. A man with dangerous longings and ambitions.’
‘What do you mean by dangerous?’
‘His therapy room was a battleground. An arena of intellectual warfare. He tried to change the minds of any of his acolytes or patients who did not agree with his theories. He nagged me for years, telling me I had most likely been abused as a child or a witness to some horrible domestic crime.’
‘And had you?’
Cavanagh half-sighed, half-groaned. ‘If I had I would have surely remembered it. Besides I had been undergoing therapy for years, and this had never come up before. But Llewyn kept saying things like, “You will have been exposed to some abuse and that is why we must not stop until we have recovered it.” I tried to end the therapy several times, but he was determined to pursue this analysis of his.’
‘What did he have to base it upon?’
‘Nothing more than a recurring dream I keep having. Of me in my bedroom as a child listening to a creaking sound from the bottom drawer of a chest. When the noise gets so loud that I can’t bear it, I jump out of bed and open the drawer, and then a huge gorilla leaps out.’ Cavanagh laughed. ‘I kept telling Llewyn that I grew up in a loving if not overtly tactile family, but he didn’t believe me. He was like a dog with a big juicy bone.’
‘So you left the society?’
‘I saw the way the other therapists swarmed around him, and it made me uncomfortable. They were dependent and needy, and they placed Llewyn upon a pedestal. They were like children desperate to do anything to please their father. At times, I suspected they might be dreaming up stories and presenting their patients in a certain light to satisfy his theories.’ Cavanagh’s face grew red. ‘After I left, I learned that Llewyn was trying to destroy my career, saying I was a failure as a psychotherapist and risked harming my patients.’
‘And the other members of the group stuck with Llewyn?’
‘Yes. I hear he has retired recently. Apparently, he’s working on a book about his life’s work, his successes at Deepwell, trying to safeguard his legacy to the psychotherapeutic world.’
‘Who were the other members of the group? Do you remember anyone who might have wanted to keep
their identity a secret?’
‘They were mostly staff at Deepwell. I’ve tried to put that part of my life behind me and I don’t think of them very often. Any time I get bored of teaching and looking after my bees I think of Deepwell and the holistic society, and immediately I feel better about my decision to leave.’
She told Cavanagh about McCrea and Chisholm’s confessions, and warned him that he would have to keep the details confidential until the investigation had concluded. She was keen to hear his expert opinion on the behaviour of the patients on Ward G.
Cavanagh turned back to his bees and appeared to have ignored her request. ‘I wasn’t joking earlier when I said the bees were my new patients. Thanks to them, I believe I’ve advanced the professional study of memory. Do you want to hear my findings?’
‘If it’s relevant to what happened on Ward G, I’m all ears.’
Cavanagh allowed the bees to crawl over the backs of his hands, and encouraged Herron to do the same. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t sting you. This particular type of bee is known officially as Bombus terrestris.’ There was a hint of pride in his voice. ‘It has an enhanced memory for the colours and patterns of specific flowers. Also, it has an unusual capacity to remember multiple things at once. In short, it’s the Einstein of the bee world.’ He held the bees aloft with a look of reverence. ‘However, it’s surprisingly easy to trick Bombus terrestris and implant false memories in its exceptional bee memory.’ His eyes brightened as he explained how in one corner of the garden he had two different types of flower, both containing delicious nectar. One with red and white rings and the other with bright yellow petals. He had presented the bees to the flowers, and then, a few days later, took them to another garden where they were given a choice of three flowers, one with red and white rings, one with yellow petals, and a new flower, one with a combination of yellow and red rings. Surprisingly, many of the bees displayed a preference for the new yellow and red flower, even though they had never encountered it before. They had created a false merged memory, one strong enough to supplant their actual memories and control their behaviour.
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