The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  She could see how Llewyn at the height of his career had cast a long shadow over the careers of many professionals and their patients, influencing their decisions and controlling their lives from the home territory of his therapy room.

  ‘I have a question for you,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to answer it right now.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘What happened while you were in there?’

  ‘I remember very little, and that’s the truth. I was on strong medication to wean me off alcohol.’

  ‘Were you ever a patient of Dr Pochard’s?’

  ‘No.’ He lay slightly slumped in his bed. She sensed that he would not be able to take any more questions about Deepwell.

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ he said.

  He looked relieved when she nodded and said nothing. He shut his eyes in exhaustion, and shifted in the bed. She reached over and gently drew up the blanket to cover his chest, almost touching his bruised skin.

  He opened his eyes suddenly. ‘Tell me, who else was in the forest?’

  She had seen no one else, she explained.

  He grew agitated. ‘Someone took my knife. I need to get back to the forest.’ There was desperation in his voice, but his eyes glinted with determination. Here he was, recovering from a near drowning, reduced to a weakened state in a hospital bed, still trying to be a detective, following some impulsive hunch.

  ‘A search party are combing the forest right now,’ she said, trying to reassure him.

  ‘Where’s Bates?’

  ‘He had to hurry back to the scene. Did you see who attacked you?’

  ‘No.’ He groaned as if in pain. ‘I’m OK,’ he said, but his breath had weakened. ‘The thing is, there were others in the forest.’

  ‘Who? Reichmann or Barker?’

  A frozen look came over his face. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I saw others watching.’ He scanned the ward. ‘Just point me to the bloody exit, Carla.’

  ‘What’s up? Why are you so anxious to leave?’

  He turned away from her. He was damming up again. However, beyond his usual reticence, one thing was abundantly clear. Morton was scared. He kept looking at the gap between the curtains as if expecting Chisholm to pounce at any moment. He glanced at her with a dark look in his eyes, and for a moment she thought his silence was going to swoop down and seize her like an ice-cold bird of prey. The only sound between them was the air conditioning and the hum of the monitors. His eyes roamed around the cubicle and then fixed upon the wall.

  She needed to think more clearly, troubled by the feeling she had glimpsed certain clues but had not fully understood them. The scene at the log cabin with Llewyn wearing Morton’s coat had felt so well planned that it suggested a sequel, an invitation to go deeper into the forest. The monotonous tones of the air conditioning began to soothe her tired mind. Slowly, the forest disappeared from her thoughts, like something that no longer concerned her. Then, someone put a hand on her shoulder. She had fallen asleep. She looked up and saw that it was Bates.

  ‘Where’s Morton?’ he asked with more than a trace of anxiety in his voice.

  The detective had disappeared from his bed. They checked the toilets and the waiting room, but there was no sign of him. None of the harried-looking nurses had seen him leave. Somehow, he had slipped away. Bates told her not to worry, that Morton could look after himself.

  ‘I came to tell you that we found Chisholm,’ he said. ‘We followed his tracks to the loch edge and found his body covered in blood with Morton’s knife in his hand. He’d used it to slit his throat and had already bled out.’

  But Chisholm’s death had never been part of his fantasy or hinted at in any of the confessions. Was it because the murderer had no longer been in control? Then she remembered Bates’s comment about Chisholm having to die. Could Llewyn have made Chisholm take Morton’s knife knowing that he would use it on himself? With a twinge of fear, she thought about Reichmann again. She rang his mobile number once more, and this time when he did not pick up, she left a message for him. Her clear instruction was that he should present himself at Peebles police station for questioning in the morning, or else a warrant for his arrest would be issued.

  36

  News reporters and cameras blocked off the open area in front of Peebles police station, but there was no sign of Reichmann the following morning. A temporary barricade had been set up with security guards in force, and Herron had to show her ID to get through. It struck her that the station itself seemed under threat, like Deepwell Hospital. She had already grabbed some newspapers and once safely inside she perused the front pages, which were filled with news of the dramatic events in the forest overlooking Loch Lomond. One photographer had managed to get to the loch shore not long after Chisholm was found, capturing the moment when a detective with long hair and a thick beard had crouched over the former patient’s body as if searching for something. Although the detective’s face was hidden, Herron could tell it was Morton. He must have left his hospital bed and gone straight back to the forest. What had he been looking for? Perhaps he had bent down to listen to the dead man’s mouth, hoping for a final confession from his departing spirit. Herron would have liked to have heard what Chisholm might say from beyond the grave.

  Herron slipped out to the back car park and rang Morton’s number. To her relief, he answered almost immediately.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Better than I was, but not yet fit to listen to Bates shouting orders.’

  Were you ever? thought Herron. ‘The boss has been trying to reach you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen his messages.’

  ‘Where did you go to last night?’

  ‘Back to the forest,’ he said, but would not explain any further.

  ‘Am I right in thinking you’re following an important lead?’

  ‘Everything is still unclear, but right now the last place I want to be is in a hospital bed. I’ve waited years for a big case like this, and I don’t want anyone at the station thinking I’m injured, or unable to see the investigation through. Tell the rest of the team that I’m busy tracking down the other members of Llewyn’s holistic society.’

  He might be unwell, but he was the same old Morton. Secretive and contrary.

  ‘Any sign of Reichmann or Llewyn?’ he asked.

  ‘None. Bates has agreed to issue a warrant for their arrests. Right now he has the entire police team searching for them.’

  Morton was silent.

  She updated him on what the forensics had found in the forest and in Llewyn’s log cabin. Most significant was a diary they found inside a field guide to Scottish birds. It expressed the hope that future generations of psychotherapists would base their work on what Llewyn had learned on Ward G. Chisholm and McCrea were just two of the countless patients he had dosed with high levels of benzodiazepines and subjected to extensive therapy, convinced they were suppressing memories of abuse and horrible crimes. However, they were his star patients, fed increasing amounts of tranquillisers. ‘Bates says that the contents of the diary explain why Llewyn organised the murders,’ she told him. ‘Not everything that has happened at Deepwell, but enough for a court of law to comprehend.’

  ‘What about Barker and the other staff at Deepwell?’

  ‘They’re distancing themselves from Llewyn and Sinden’s research. All of the therapeutic programmes have been wound down. They’re erecting a concrete wall between themselves and Llewyn’s doomed reputation.’

  No response from Morton.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked. ‘The doctors said they wanted to keep you under observation. You suffered a severe concussion.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ However, she could hear the strain in his voice.

  She wondered what exactly he had seen in the forest, his claim there were other people there. It reminded her of another detail from McCrea’s pseudo confession. His claim that there
were more figures spying on him, checking under the stones in the cairn.

  ‘Perhaps you should really be in hospital,’ she said. ‘It would be the safest place.’

  ‘No. I’ve something important to do. By the way, say thank you to your mother-in-law for saving my life.’

  ‘She followed us because she thought we were slipping off to have an affair.’

  Morton grunted. ‘She must fancy herself as a private investigator.’ He paused. ‘I want you to take the rest of the day off, Carla.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s an order.’

  ‘But the investigation is nearly over.’

  ‘I just want you to lie low. And make sure I can reach you on this phone.’

  ‘But you’re the one who should be lying low, not me. You’re the one who needs help.’

  ‘This is important, Carla. You have to listen to me.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you not telling me?’

  ‘I can’t say anything more at the moment.’ He spoke in a low voice as if concealing the conversation from listening ears. ‘I might be completely wrong in what I saw last night but I have to check it out. God knows, the whole thing might have been an apparition. If that’s the case, it’s better no one else knows about it, not even you.’

  ‘Surely I can be of some help? There must be something I can do.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just make sure I can reach you later.’

  This wasn’t right. What if Morton was imagining things, what if his behaviour was caused by concussion and he was inventing his own suspects and plots? She must stop him. Even his voice sounded strained and odd. Then she heard some sounds in the background with Morton, a hoarse voice asking him for something.

  ‘Wait. Who’s that with you?’

  The hoarse voice spoke again. It sounded vaguely familiar. Was it Dr Llewyn?

  ‘Sorry, Carla, I have to go.’ Morton sounded tense.

  ‘Don’t hang up,’ she said sharply. ‘You have to tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘But if you know the whereabouts of Reichmann or Llewyn you have to tell me.’

  ‘I just asked you had there been any sign of them.’

  ‘You’re not telling me the truth.’

  ‘You don’t understand what is going on, Carla. The grave danger that you’re in. I want you to drop the investigation and go home right now.’

  She had never heard him give an order in that manner. Usually, he made them as suggestions, helpful ways to guide her along the right path.

  ‘If you think I’m in danger you have to tell me what has alarmed you.’

  ‘Go home, now, Carla.’

  ‘I see. So that’s the way it is. I have to do what you want, and you ignore everyone else.’ She wondered who it was he was trying to save her from. Perhaps he might need her help later on as part of his plan.

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything. That’s my point. I’ll call you when things are clearer.’

  The line went dead. Carla stared at her phone. What the hell was going on with him? Didn’t he feel, as she did, that they were a team, bonded together by their near-death experience, vindicated by their suspicions about the staff at Deepwell when others doubted and criticised them? What was he up to, fleeing the hospital and staying away from everyone? And the person with the hoarse voice, could it really be Dr Llewyn? She deserved to be told what exactly he was doing, to be informed of his plans, not ordered to take the day off. She dialled Morton’s number, but the line went to voicemail.

  She clenched her jaw and returned to the incident room. Morton was clearly demented. Why should she obey his orders and put up with his stubborn moods any longer? There was no way she was going home, not now, with Bates trying to take over the investigation, running around and giving orders to everyone with a triumphant smile on his face. The DCI was the worst type of boss possible, eager to pinpoint and blame subordinates when investigations stalled, and quick to steal the praise when things went well. Once this case was over, she would put in for a transfer, she thought. Anything to get away from these dysfunctional male detectives.

  She was about to ring Morton’s number again and leave an angry message when Shaw approached her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, sensing her tension. He glanced at her mobile phone but Morton’s name and number had disappeared from the screen. ‘A call came through for you early this morning. Derek Cavanagh wants to speak to you urgently. He said something about remembering one of the members of the holistic foundation.’

  *

  Herron called Cavanagh’s number, but there was no response so she drove as quickly as she could to his house. She was standing at his porch, trying to place another call to Morton, when Cavanagh’s wife answered the door, her face lacking its usual composure. ‘I need to speak to Derek,’ said Herron. ‘He rang the station early this morning.’

  ‘He left an hour ago. To meet a friend.’ Her voice was tense and low. There was a breathless quality to it Herron had not heard before.

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘He mentioned the park.’ Deborah Cavanagh heaved a deep sigh. ‘He was very agitated when he left. I haven’t seen him behave like that for years. He wouldn’t say who he was meeting.’

  The park lay half a mile away. She drove, keeping an eye out for the psychotherapist in case he was walking back home. The place seemed deserted but there were several cars parked at the entrance. She got out and ran along a gravel track and into the trees. She followed a path that sloped gently towards a small man-made lake, letting her instincts guide her. She had come here a lot when Alice was younger, spending hours feeding breadcrumbs to the ducks and throwing stones, watching them sink slowly to the bottom. She thought of ringing Morton again but decided against it. She stopped and listened, hoping to hear the sound of Cavanagh’s booming voice, but all she could hear was the wind. Here she was again, peering through trees, prying in the shadows. She set off down a path that ran like a slender thread along the edge of the lake. She stood and stared at the water, and then at the trees behind her, thinking of all the recesses in the park where Cavanagh may have met his friend. She heard a car door slam shut from the park entrance, and then the acceleration of someone leaving in a hurry. She hurried back through the forest and came to a small clearing.

  The sun came out, casting long shadows, and then she saw Cavanagh standing with his back to her. She called out his name, but he did not answer. There was a creaking noise from the branches above, and his body turned slowly. She moved towards him and then halted. His stiff posture seemed to suggest he was keeping a firm grip on himself, but that at any moment he might fall over like a dummy. She waited for him to say something, watching his body turn fully towards her, and then she felt faint, seeing his head drooping awkwardly, his eyes cast down, a rope coiled around his neck and tied to a branch overhead.

  For a moment, she hesitated, wanting to call Morton or run away, but then her training kicked in. She checked the body for vital signs. There were none, and then she phoned the emergency services. She kept guard at the scene until the ambulance arrived. When the paramedics took his body down, she saw his wedding finger glinting in the sunlight. She noticed that he was wearing it on his left hand, rather than on the right, as he had done at their first meeting at the birthday party. She checked the fingers of his other hand and saw the band of exposed skin where the ring usually sat. She stared at the dishevelled state of Cavanagh’s clothing, the scuffed earth around the bottom of the tree. Had there been a struggle before he died, some sort of final tussle in which the ring had slipped from his finger, and then been replaced, incorrectly, by the murderer? She warned the paramedics that the patch of ground around the tree was now a crime scene.

  Morton was correct, she realised. She was in grave danger.

  37

  At the police station, Herron brooded upon Cavanagh’s death. Who was the member of the foundation that he had w
anted to speak to her about? She checked with Shaw to see if he could remember anything else about Cavanagh’s message, but he had not taken the call. It had been relayed to him by one of the receptionists.

  She spotted Bates in the corridor. The chief inspector was in buoyant form, marching towards her without slowing down, as if she was invisible to him. At the last moment, he stopped and smiled. He told her he was convinced that the solution of the case was easily within reach, and that Llewyn would be soon caught.

  ‘What we need to do now is clear the mud that Llewyn has thrown our way,’ he said. He had organised a case meeting to take place later that day, so that they could prepare answers for a press conference scheduled for first thing in the morning. He had kept the reporters at bay long enough, and now was the time to enlist the public’s help in tracking down Llewyn, and anyone who might be assisting him, such as Reichmann.

  Herron said she was going back to the first murder scene by the waterfall.

  ‘Why?’ said Bates, frowning slightly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can do in the meantime.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘I just need time to think.’

  Bates’s phone rang and he broke off the conversation.

  *

  The odd gust of wind, the dreary flap of branches, and the shedding of dead needles were the only sounds in the forest. Creeping along the track to the clearing, Herron felt a sensation of secrecy and narrowness, her body and mind closing up. In the distance, she could hear the torrent of the waterfall as it charged down the hillside. It started to rain heavily. The trees turned to silhouettes and then vanished in the downpour. The thunder of the waterfall grew louder. It seemed to plummet through the forest, spreading towards her like a surging tide. She felt as small as a lost child, and thought of running back to her car for shelter.