The Listeners
Page 26
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was a trusted supplier of suspects. I had lots of unsolved crimes on my books. Thefts by housebreaking, assaults, sexual offences, and even the odd murder. You could say we helped each other out in our careers. I presented the details of the crimes to Llewyn and he used them in his memory recovery sessions with the patients at Deepwell. By and large, they confessed to the crimes and my success rate soared. Everyone was happy with the outcome. The patients stayed at Deepwell under Llewyn’s care where they could enjoy whatever medications they were addicted to, free of the fear they would be dumped back onto the streets. Llewyn, the old fool, thought they were all guilty. He knew we were operating along blurred boundaries but he believed that the end justified the means, and all the time he was enhancing his own reputation in the world of psychiatry.’
A smile played on Reichmann’s lips. ‘So you had to make a judgement as to what was in the ultimate interest of two institutions: Deepwell Hospital and the police force?’
‘Correct,’ said Bates. ‘I tried to persuade Pochard and Dunnock to drop their campaign against Deepwell but they could not be trusted. So I had to kill them.’ He glanced at Herron and Morton and seemed to grow impatient. ‘Now, if there is any way I can assist you in your plans to dispose of these failed detectives I am more than willing to do so.’
‘What plans?’
‘I mean the steps you have taken to deal with—’
Reichmann snorted. ‘Let me assure you, I have taken no steps at all.’
The puzzled look on the DCI’s face gave way to a cold blank expression. In the meantime, Morton had slipped his hands free and removed the gag from his mouth. He rose from his seat and fixed his gun on Bates. ‘It’s not your show any more, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m arresting you for the murders of Jane Pochard and Laura Dunnock.’
‘Don’t worry, Chief Inspector,’ said Reichmann. ‘You’re in fine company. The best minds on your force also suspected I was capable of killing to protect the reputation of the foundation. No doubt the press and the public would have fallen for it, too. Fortunately, Morton persuaded me to set up this little ruse to extract a confession from you. Think of it as a novel form of therapy.’
Bates stared at Reichmann, slack-jawed. He whose career had thrived on securing confessions had just been duped into giving up his secrets. ‘You mean…’
‘I mean, this was all a trap. Inspector Morton kindly agreed to arrange listening equipment to record every spoken word and transmit it to officers from neighbouring police forces who right now are making their way here from their nearby vantage point.’
A look of fear spread across Bates’s features, eating into his customary swagger like acid. With a considerable physical effort, he pulled himself together, steadying himself against the wall as though trying to adjust to the changed weight of forces within the room.
Reichmann resumed speaking. ‘Dr Llewyn is a failed psychotherapist but not a murderer; I knew that from the start. I played along with the idea that he posed a significant threat. However, in reality, Llewyn was like a blind old spider trapped at the heart of a web he had created but had lost control over, one that was being secretly manipulated by the murderer. I was reluctant to launch an official investigation into the foundation because I did not want to tear down the web. Otherwise, the murderer would have gone scuttling into the darkness for ever. I made my own enquiries and worked away quietly in the background. Every time I touched the web, the murderer did not reveal himself. I realised his sensitivity was far greater than my own, but that he was hiding somewhere close by.’ He turned to Bates with his gun. ‘So I had to trap some prey in order to trick you into revealing yourself.’
Herron tensed and waited, holding her breath. Reichmann had planned his trap with great precision, pulling Bates into his own web, and now it would drag him down in its fall. With two guns pointing at him, Bates had only one escape route, and that was out the door and into the forest, where police officers were waiting to arrest him.
‘The only failed detective in this room is you,’ said Morton, as he placed a set of handcuffs on Bates. ‘The root or source of madness is not always where you expect to find it. Billy Chisholm was a totally blameless and vulnerable individual who you cast as a scapegoat to preserve your reputation at all costs. You must have enjoyed the twisted logic of it all. A murderer eager to confess but completely innocent of the whole gruesome business and ignorant of the true motive for the murders.’
Bates said nothing. Perhaps it was because he had said too much already. His lips were grey and he stared at Morton with bulging eyes.
‘Until a few weeks ago, you were a fully signed up member of the holistic foundation,’ said Morton. ‘You had a perfectly good working relationship with the psychotherapists at Deepwell, until Dr Pochard decided to lift the lid on what was really going on. The threat to your reputation, the undoing of all those investigations you had taken the credit for, was more than you could cope with. None of the cases would have held up in court if brought in for a retrial. Pochard was your therapist and confidante. She saw you out of normal hours and kept no notes of your sessions because of your high rank in the police force. You tried to persuade her against bringing her complaints. You thought she would bow to your demands, but she refused and so you turned violent. That is most likely how it happened. Afterwards, you saw the opportunity to frame Chisholm and thus you began to re-enact the details of his confessions.’
Searchlights lit up the room and silhouettes floated across the walls. A police officer appeared, shining his torch in Bates’s face, and still he said nothing.
‘Alistair McCrea’s confession was unexpected. It threatened to derail your plans,’ continued Morton. ‘Perhaps this was when you decided you would have to incriminate Llewyn as well, and make it look as though Pochard’s supervisor was the killer. Then when Carla reported her suspicions about Derek Cavanagh’s suicide, I knew we had to act fast. Cavanagh must have remembered that you were a member of the foundation and believed it would have a bearing on your investigation. You found out that he had contacted the police station this morning, and made sure he wouldn’t reveal your secret.’
Every individual has a particular look of surprise when the moment of final defeat arrives, and Bates’s was something special, like that of a showman whose enormous circus tent was falling around him, his eyes white and jerking at every shadow in the room as Morton kept talking, so close he was almost whispering in his ear.
‘Last night, I happened to remember something that took place years ago when I was a voluntary patient at Deepwell. I was deep in therapy and heavily dosed with medication. You came swaggering towards me as if you owned the place. When I stepped aside, I gave you a nod of recognition and called you “sir”, but you barely glanced at me. You looked irritated and threw your shoulders forward, and kept marching down the corridor. Later, when I asked what you had been doing on the ward, one of the nurses smirked and said you were pulling off another conviction. She’d hinted that you’d cracked loads of cases on Ward G without a single shred of evidence. I’d completely forgotten the conversation until last night in the hospital, seeing you on the ward, staring right through me with those eyes that never smiled, the way you threw your weight around as if you would destroy anyone who stood in your path.’
More light filled the window, and the buzz of police radios intensified. A heavy calm descended as officers crowded into the room and led Bates away, his back upright, his neck stiff, bundling him out through the front door and into the fathomless silence of the forest.
Morton turned to Herron, his face suddenly grey and haggard, as if all the strength had drained from his body. ‘I’m sorry to have put you through that,’ he said, ‘but I had to hear the truth from Bates’s own lips.’
‘You could have told me your suspicions earlier. Back in the hospital. I thought we were a team, but you kept almost everything to yourself.’
Morton shook his head. ‘If I had t
old you the truth, Bates would have sensed something was up. He would have launched open warfare on us, and covered up his tracks completely.’
Herron recalled her first visit to Deepwell and its hushed corridors. It seemed like a dream or a distant memory merging with a dream. McCrea’s confession had seemed so mysterious and deranged, yet she had been drawn in completely. She had even believed in the existence of Inspector Monteath, not realising he had been another delusion manipulated by Bates to control the patients on Ward G, and also herself, urging her to find the body of Dunnock and the false clues he had planted at Llewyn’s log cabin. She was just like Sinden and Llewyn, only more lost. Would anyone, police detective or psychiatrist, be able to understand everything that had happened on Ward G?
‘I’ve missed important leads,’ she said. ‘Even when they were staring me in the face. I made mistakes.’
‘No, quite the opposite,’ said Morton. ‘You penetrated all the layers, the delusions, the lies, the enormous wall of resistance at Deepwell, straight through to the reality hiding beneath. Right from the start, you knew the murderer existed, and you hunted him as though your life depended on it.’
He looked her straight in the eye, and she returned his gaze. For the first time, she felt as though they were communicating on the same level. Then he turned away, signalling that was the end of their conversation, and there was nothing more to say.
40
The room was plunged in darkness and those gathered inside listened with hushed breath to the sounds of two people plotting on the other side of the door. There was no longer a need for silence, and a murmur went through the huddled figures. Someone gave the command. It was time to close the circle around the child now, the figures drawing together tightly. The door flew open, and a little girl squealed with excitement as the shape of a candle-lit birthday cake swung into view and everyone began singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
Bearing no hint of the stresses and strains she had been through, Carla laid the cake on the table and beckoned her daughter to blow out the candles. The other parents and children cheered, and David took some photographs. Alice laughed aloud, and said it was the best party and the best cake ever. Everyone watched her with a smile. Even David looked at ease, and seemed genuinely interested in chatting to the other parents.
For the first time in a week, Carla was able to tune in to what was going on at home. The preparations for the party were hassle-free – gone were the silent reproaches and simmering anger between her and David. They had bought decorations and devised party games, including a treasure hunt around the house, light-hearted and excited like children. Her mind was no longer distracted by work. It seemed that the world of pine forests had given her back her old life without her having lost or sacrificed anything.
She ran to and from the kitchen, seeing to the guests, serving drinks, preparing food and interacting with Ben as he sat at the table in a baby-chair, gurgling and banging a spoon. Everything around her was connected to her life as a mother and wife, nothing else. Perhaps limits were inevitable, she thought, part of life, just as there were freedoms to be found in even the most tightly confined roles. Contentment wasn’t characterised by pursuing one thing; it was shaped out of giving and taking, and allowing other people the space to be themselves. She was fortunate she had found the room to be herself and push herself forward in life.
David came into the kitchen and watched her closely, meditatively. He drew near and leaned towards her. ‘Is this the life you’ve been dreaming of?’ he asked. ‘A successful investigation under your belt, promotion beckoning…’ There was a new tone to his voice, a hint of admiration she had never detected before.
Finding it difficult to hold back a smile, she hid it by bending over Ben. The truth was the investigation had left her feeling vindicated, exalted even, but also exhausted. ‘Perhaps I’ve had too much of what I’ve been dreaming about,’ she murmured.
David began sliding slices of half-eaten birthday cake into the bin, and then he placed the rinsed plates in the dishwasher.
‘I’m going to book us a holiday,’ she said. ‘What about two weeks in Andalusia? We’ll hire a farmhouse in the mountains and do lots of hiking and swimming.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ He had finished loading the dishwasher and now he was placing the tab in its compartment. ‘You know something; you still haven’t told me why having children made you want to be a police officer.’
Why had it? Because having children had taught her to be braver and more truthful with herself, had made her stop making excuses to cover for her weaknesses, and prove she could do better with her talents. She was about to tell him this, but something about the stiffness in his facial expression made her stop. She felt a draught of cold air and caught the whiff of a smoker’s breath. She glanced at who he was staring at and saw Morton standing in the hallway. The detective did not take off his coat. He just stood there, hanging back from the door like one of those childhood friends you’re not supposed to play with.
‘I tried ringing but no one answered,’ said Morton.
‘What is it?’ she asked, feeling a familiar excitement take hold as she read in his eyes the dark details of a crime scene.
Morton beckoned her to follow him. David looked at her sideways, and said nothing as she stepped into the hallway. She took a quick glance into the sitting room where the birthday party was still in full swing. She hesitated, trying to establish whether anything had changed from the last party she and Alice had attended, but clearly nothing had. All the pieces had been put back together, the overexcited children, the harried parents chatting about schools and their work–life balances amid the waves of laughter and screams. Alice was even wearing her red princess shoes again. She wanted to bask in the merriment a moment longer, but she was the one who had changed.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked Morton. ‘I thought we’d closed the investigation.’
‘Yes, we have,’ he replied. ‘But this is a new murder case. The forensic team is there already, waiting for us.’
She put on her coat and told David she would be back, but not when. She felt a secret confidence well within her. A true detective was one who could close her eyes, and throw herself into a new investigation without once glancing back, letting things take her where they will.
Her last thought as she ran to the waiting car was to wonder what she would dream about later that night when she slipped into bed, her mind tired but racing with visions.
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ANTHONY QUINN was born in Northern Ireland’s County Tyrone and majored in English at Queen’s University, Belfast. After university, he worked a number of odd jobs – social worker, organic gardener, yoga teacher – before finding work as a journalist and author. His first novel, Disappeared, was published by Head of Zeus in 2014.
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p; First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Anthony J. Quinn, 2018
The moral right of Anthony J. Quinn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781786696069
ISBN (XTPB): 9781786696076
ISBN (E): 9781786696052
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