by David Mark
“Mr. Caneva, I’m informed that you and your family eventually moved into the gamekeeper’s cottage at your facility and that Sebastien Hoyer-Wood lived with you almost as part of the family.”
The accusation hangs in the air.
Caneva looks puzzled. Then he protests.
“That is simply not true, Sergeant. Yes, we had access to that lodge when I stayed in East Yorkshire for any significant time. Yes, I brought my family on occasion. And yes, after a time, I felt that Seb was well enough to begin a course of psychotherapy with myself, and we opted to conduct some of those sessions at my private residence . . .”
“But he was sent to a secure mental facility, Mr. Caneva. That was the point. You can understand why some people may have issue with the idea of him spending so much time in a nice house with an old friend—”
Caneva raises a hand. He bristles. Scowls. His flash of temper has added some life to his movements, and for the first time, McAvoy can imagine this man in a sharp suit and designer glasses, sitting in a posh London psychiatrist’s office.
“I had known him for twenty years!” barks Caneva. “I knew best! The sessions were tremendously important, and a safe, friendly atmosphere was crucial to that. People should leave it to the experts. People shouldn’t judge . . .”
Now McAvoy pulls out his notebook. He flicks back a page and shows Caneva the date he has underlined twice.
“What happened that night?”
Caneva waves his hand again. Looks down at the floor. “Without checking my diary, I couldn’t honestly—”
McAvoy reaches across and puts a hand on Caneva’s shoulder. He forces the older man to meet his eyes. “You know the date I’m referring to, Doctor.”
Caneva rubs his hand over his head. He takes off his glasses and holds them in his lap. McAvoy takes them from him and cleans them with the cuff of his shirt. Wordlessly, he passes them back. Caneva nods his thanks. Purses his lips.
“It was just bad luck,” he says at length. “Seb was at the old gamekeeper’s lodge with us. Our place. Tilia Cottage. We had been meeting once a week for several months. His therapy was going well. It was clear, at that stage, he had no memory of the incident in Bridlington or the alleged incidents before that. We were talking about his childhood. His relationship with his father. His dead mother. He had no siblings and grew up in a very remote property. It was really quite surprising he was so gregarious by the time he came to university. It was obvious there was a lot of sadness in him. A lot of pain.”
“Anger?”
“There is anger in all of us. I am sure you know better than anybody that people are capable of things that come as a surprise to them.”
McAvoy gives an accepting nod. Wonders whether Caneva Googled him after he ended the phone call to arrange this interview. Whether the man has a computer or how he spends his time . . .
“And the night in question?”
Caneva sighs. “One of the other patients made a run for it. I don’t remember their name. They had a taste for arson, I remember that.”
“And Hoyer-Wood was at your home?”
“I received a call from the chief nurse. He told me what was happening. Told us to stay inside.”
“And then?”
Caneva breathes deeply. In the fireplace, a log cracks and the ash settles. A pinecone, half-aflame, falls from the pinnacle of the fire to land in the grate. It burns, brightly and alone, then winks out.
Caneva lets his gaze drift to the ceiling then back to the fire. He closes his eyes.
“The house was set ablaze. We don’t know why. The patient just wanted to see the smoke and the flames, I think. Just wanted to see some firemen.”
McAvoy sucks at his cheek.
“And Hoyer-Wood? Your family?”
“We got out. Seb was moving a little better. The nurses were able to talk the escaped patient into coming back inside. The fire was put out. Unfortunately it had already burned through a supporting wall so it was declared structurally unsound, and the property has since fallen into ruin and disrepair.”
McAvoy stares at him. Waits for more.
“Mr. Caneva, it would seem that since that date, your life has taken something of a turn. Might I ask what happened?”
Caneva rubs his palm across his forehead. “I had overextended the practice financially. We couldn’t afford to run the facility and nobody wanted to buy it. At the same time, my marriage was in difficulty. Things were hard at home. My wife’s own mental health began to take a turn for the worse. It was a difficult time.”
“And your sessions with Hoyer-Wood?”
Caneva shrugs. “I’m afraid that despite my best intentions and our long-established friendship, I had to curtail our sessions and find him alternative accommodations. A panel of psychiatrists declared that he was no longer mentally unstable, but there was no appetite for reactivating the criminal case against him, and due to his physical difficulties he went to live at a private medical facility in the Lake District. We’re no longer in touch, despite my best efforts. I know he suffered a major stroke some years ago. He began to suffer epileptic fits as a result of the damage to his brain, and one caused a severe stroke that left him paralyzed.”
McAvoy has not taken his eyes off the side of Caneva’s head. “You went bankrupt?”
“I didn’t have to, thankfully. The business did, but I did not. I sold my home and moved to Chester. My son lived here, for a time. My daughter not too far away. She’s doing very well in her career. A nurse, did I say? I had hoped to build some bridges.”
“There were problems?”
Caneva looks away. “All children blame their parents, don’t they? And they had a lot to blame me for.”
McAvoy looks at him expectantly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Caneva, startled. “I thought you would have that in your file. My wife died, Sergeant. It must be more than ten years now. More.”
“I’m sorry,” says McAvoy, and means it. Then, gently: “How?”
Caneva closes his eyes. “She took her own life, Sergeant. Pills. Enough pills to kill herself a dozen times over. She did not want to go on.”
He knows that Caneva is holding back, but finds himself unable to bully this old, broken man. He wishes Pharaoh was here.
“Is that it, Sergeant?” asks Caneva, looking puzzled. “Is that any help? I don’t know anything about the incidents in Humberside. I didn’t know there still was a Humberside. I thought that all went with the boundary changes . . .”
McAvoy blinks, hard. “We just kept the name,” he mumbles. “Us and Radio Humberside. It’s East Yorkshire on one side and North and North East Lincolnshire on the other. Bit unwieldy fitting that on a badge.”
Caneva manages a tired smile. “So much pain,” he says sadly, then looks at his watch, as though expecting the sergeant to say his good-byes.
Instead, McAvoy gestures at the books on the table. “This is just for fun, is it? You must miss the analysis. The sessions.”
Caneva looks a little more animated, sitting forward on the sofa. “I like getting inside people. Understanding them. Helping them understand themselves. Poetry is perhaps the human brain at its most exposed and honest.”
“Do you ever revisit old patients? In your mind, I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” says Caneva, clearly thrilled to be talking about a subject he knows a lot about. “I used to tape-record my sessions and have them transcribed. Sometimes I will go through an entire transcript and something new will jump out at me . . .”
McAvoy swallows. “Did you tape-record your sessions with Hoyer-Wood?”
Caneva stops, aware that his mouth has run away with him. Then he gives a half laugh. “I can’t let you have them. It’s not about never practicing again. It’s about my own code of ethics. Besides, I don’t know if I could even find them . . .”
A
sudden vibration in McAvoy’s pocket alerts him to a text message. He opens his phone. Reads about the fate of Allan Godber. Beaten to death in a garage down the Avenues. A defibrillator machine found at the scene. Nothing left of his features, save gristle and bone.
Suddenly, McAvoy’s pity deserts him. His face becomes hard, his voice soft. Were Pharaoh to see him, she would not recognize him. Roisin would. She has seen him like this before. She was twelve, and bleeding, and the handsome constable with the ginger hair was smashing a wooden plank across the skull of a dying man . . .
“Mr. Caneva,” he says, his jaw locked. “Mr. Caneva, it would be a tremendous help to me if you were to send the transcripts to the address on my card. I am not going to threaten you or appeal to your better nature. I am merely going to say that the doctor-patient privilege only extends so far. Sebastien Hoyer-Wood is alive. I am on my way to see him this afternoon. I feel he will make it clear that he has no problems with you sharing the transcripts with me. I know you have not been honest with me and I know that you are hiding many things, and I may never find out what they are. But people are dying, and I feel that whatever sin you need to atone for could be atoned for now.”
McAvoy stands, placing his card on the coffee table. He towers over Caneva. Stares at the man until he looks away.
“Another man has died. The paramedic who saved Hoyer-Wood’s life. This is no longer a theory. I know something happened that night and it cost you everything.”
He leans forward, his face in Caneva’s, his breath upon his lips.
“Don’t let it cost you anything more.”
• • •
Helen Tremberg has almost managed to persuade herself that she is suffering from a genuine virus. She has all the symptoms. Sweats. Upset stomach. Sudden chills and uncontrollable shaking. She had felt almost unfairly treated when she phoned Shaz Archer this morning and said she was too ill to come in, only to hear her line manager give a snort of derisory laughter and tell her she was letting people down. It was only as she opened her mouth to defend herself that Helen remembered that her sickness is self-inflicted. Her mind, her heart, her conscience are what is making her sick. She had spent the weekend crying, drinking, unsure who to tell or what to do next. Her thoughts keep turning to McAvoy. She wants to call him. Wants to tell him what she has done. Wants to ask for help. But McAvoy looks disappointed in her when she admits to taking the last chocolate biscuit. What the hell would he look like if he knew what she had done? The detective in her wants to send the footage to the science unit and have their techies trace the origins of the e-mail. But her face is clearly in the shot. There is no denying that it is her in the film. It’s her, gasping and moaning and slurping at the cocaine on her lips. It is her pushing back against the handsome, tattooed man who never shows his face to the camera.
Helen has e-mailed him several times. She has asked him why. Asked him what he wants. Has called him every name she can think of. The e-mails have bounced back. The address she sent them to, and with which she shared such gorgeous flirtations these past weeks, no longer exists.
Here, now, Helen sits on her sofa, wrapped in a duvet, shivering as she drinks hot black-currant juice and stares at her phone. She has come up with a hundred different angles that could yet play out. Those in possession of the film could demand money. She has little, but has made up her mind to pay if that is what they want. They could demand information. She is willing to go only so far. Her fear is that they will simply keep her in their pocket. Her fear is she will become what she despises: a mole for the criminals she should be trying to catch.
Her phone rings.
Number withheld.
Helen’s hands tremble as she answers.
“Hello.”
“Detective Constable Tremberg. Good morning. I am sorry to hear you are not in the best of health. Could I perhaps suggest that you take a couple of ibuprofen and drink plenty of fluids? I am also led to believe chicken soup is good in these situations, but can neither confirm nor deny that from my own experiences. I have a very robust constitution.”
Helen says nothing. Just feels tears make tracks down her cheeks.
“Perhaps you are right,” comes the voice after a moment. “Perhaps we should not dillydally with pleasantries and chitchat. Perhaps we should come to the crux of the matter. And the matter is this: I have in my possession footage of your good self, performing acts that are most unbecoming for a police officer. I have no doubt you would not wish for this footage to be seen by your superior officers, or any members of the popular press, or for that matter simply e-mailed to every one of your colleagues. If it is any consolation, I do not wish to see that happen, either. You are not a very attractive woman and nobody really wants to open their e-mails to find footage of your large posterior bouncing up and down in front of them. So, perhaps we could spare ourselves any unpleasantness. Perhaps you could help my associates and I.”
Helen swallows. Manages a few words. “What do you want? Please, I don’t have much—”
“Detective Constable, we know precisely what you are worth, and financially, your meager savings are akin to the fluff in my pocket. No, I need one small favor from you, and then the footage in question will be destroyed.”
“What? What do you want?”
“At present, a young man of my acquaintance is unreasonably being held in custody. He is in Hull Royal Infirmary, having suffered some rather nasty injuries at the hands of the intriguing and entertaining Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray. I am optimistic that your ACC Everett will ensure that the charges against him are dropped. He is, after all, an accommodating man. However, there are those within the police force who will not roll over quite so easily, and to that end, it would be best if those who witnessed young Mr. Downey’s brief moment of embarrassment could be persuaded to alter their statements. There is a seamstress by the name of Melanie Langley who helped apprehend Mr. Downey. I would be most grateful if she could be persuaded to alter her version of events. I have, of course, got many other ways to accomplish this goal, but your intercession would be least messy.”
Helen holds her stomach, feeling a fresh wave of nausea. “I can’t, I don’t—”
“Please, Detective Constable, there is more. I am further led to believe that while Mr. Downey was incapacitated, an associate of Miss Langley took it upon herself to relieve him of a sum of money. This money is neither here nor there, but the presumptuousness, the lack of respect, are unacceptable in light of the ongoing expansion of our enterprise. I would like the name and address of this person. If it helps, I am led to believe she is very pretty, was carrying a child, and is somewhat Romany in her appearance and deportment.”
The nausea stops. The pain halts. Adrenaline flows through Helen’s body. She opens her mouth but is cut off before she can manage to speak.
“I am grateful for your assistance in this matter. I realize this is a lot to ask and it will be difficult for somebody with your sense of justice and morality. To this end we have deposited a large sum of money in your bank account. I would suggest, as you endure the sting of acting against your better judgment, that you remind yourself you are doing so to save lives. I would also encourage you to visit a general practitioner at your earliest convenience. Our mutual acquaintance is a carrier of any number of sexually transmitted infections—”
Helen drops the phone. It lands on the sofa without being switched off, and at the other end of the line the man to whom she was speaking hears her throwing up all over her living room floor.
THIRTEEN
4:40 p.m. Chamomile House, in the heart of the Lake District: just two miles south of where William Wordsworth doomed the humble daffodil to a lifetime of overexposure.
Some 160 miles north of Hull.
Aector McAvoy is leaning on the desk in a brightly lit reception area, talking to a pretty young woman about the traffic he has endured on the three-hour drive up fr
om Chester. He has passed through hail, rain, and blindingly bright sunlight. He would not be surprised to see snow start to fall.
Here, now, the weather is dry but decidedly gloomy. Beyond the glass, the clouds hang low; a damp hammock punctured by the tops of the trees that dot the woodland grounds of this expensive care home. It’s a welcoming place: all slate roof, chunky brickwork, and climbing ivy. It is home to twenty-two patients with varying degrees of dependency, all of whom pay handsomely to be able to enjoy the best possible facilities. This is a care home that smells of rhododendrons and roast dinners rather than boiled cabbage and bleach, and McAvoy, with his aching back and tired eyes, is considering checking himself in.
“I’m sure she won’t be long.”
McAvoy is running out of things to say to the receptionist. She is very attractive, and from his elevated vantage point he has inadvertently noticed both the tattoo on her chest and the lace of her bra. Neither of these discoveries have helped him make small talk, or calmed him down after a difficult and tiring journey, made longer by constantly having to pull over to take phone calls from the office. Ben Neilsen is doing a superb job, following McAvoy’s instructions and hunting down everything they have on the people who were patients at Caneva’s facility the night of the escape. He is also seeking whatever is available on Lewis Caneva’s family, and on a hunch, is doing a general search on the father of Sebastien Hoyer-Wood. McAvoy does not know what he expects to find but is certain the answers will be unearthed if they all just keep working hard and thinking positively. The thought of giving any kind of rousing speech to the troops terrifies him, but he fears that such a moment may yet be called for. Pharaoh has unofficially handed things over to him during her absence, and the two officers under his command are rising to the challenge of pleasing him.
He’s grateful they aren’t grumbling about being stuck in the office, giving themselves migraines in front of flickering computer screens; getting steadily unhealthier in sticky, flyblown rooms. After all, it is McAvoy who has taken on the job that none of the others want. He’s the one who has to sit down with a monster. It is a thought that scares him. He doesn’t feel up to it. He has got better at believing in himself, but there are still times when he wants to run back to the office and hide in a cupboard or filing cabinet while stronger personalities take charge.
