The Dead Beat

by Doug Johnstone

  Martha waved at V to get off the desk.

  ‘We’re getting off the point,’ she said. ‘My dad has a brother. I need to find him.’

  Straight onto Google with ‘Johnny Lamb’. Nothing obvious. Tried ‘John Lamb’. Lots of sportsmen, musicians, a few American politicians. She checked the first version of the name in the Standard’s database. Again, nothing to shout about. Then the second version. Some junior footballer had loads of mentions in match reports. She switched the timeline from newest to oldest.

  Top of the list was an Evening Standard court report dated September 1992. She clicked. Just a short paragraph, about the same length as the piece reporting Ian’s death two weeks ago.

  A young Edinburgh man was sectioned under the Mental Health Act yesterday and sent to Carstairs Secure Psychiatric Hospital for indefinite supervision. John Lamb, 22, was arrested on September 12th after a violent incident on North Bridge. Although North Bridge remained open throughout the incident, Market Street was blocked for several hours afterwards, and Mr Lamb was taken to hospital, along with one other unnamed person. At the hearing, Judge Evans said he believed Mr Lamb continued to be a danger both to himself and others, and he will be held in care until such time as he is no longer considered to be a danger to the public at large.

  33

  ‘Holy shit.’

  V raised her eyebrows. ‘What now?’

  Martha turned her screen for V to read the article.

  V squinted at it and frowned. ‘Might not be the same Johnny Lamb.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Martha said. ‘We both know what “an incident on North Bridge” means. Suicide bid. Same place Ian did it twenty years later. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  V rubbed her elbow and shrugged. ‘So chase it up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re the one wants to be the hotshot reporter, go investigate.’

  ‘What do you know about Carstairs?’ Martha said.

  ‘Not much. It’s a loony bin.’

  Martha spotted Billy returning to his desk.

  ‘Billy, what do you know about Carstairs psychiatric hospital?’

  Billy came over and Martha got him up to speed.

  ‘You think Johnny is still there?’ Billy said.

  ‘It’s somewhere to start,’ Martha said.

  Billy pointed at the phone. ‘So ask them.’

  Martha Googled Carstairs. The website was all NHS branding and corporate speak. It was just called the State Hospital now, no mention of mental illness. Martha scanned the site for a few minutes, but whoever had written it had taken a course in flannel, everything was couched in vague language, impossible to glean anything. She eventually found a contact number and picked up the phone. Had a faint shudder at the touch of the handset to her ear, remembering Gordon’s voice.

  She dialled.

  A Glasgow accent, middle-aged, female. ‘Hello, the State Hospital, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out if someone is still a patient there.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t give out that information over the phone.’

  ‘He was admitted twenty years ago, but I’ve only just found out about it.’

  ‘Like I said, we have patient confidentiality to consider.’

  Martha rubbed her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I’m a relative. He’s my uncle.’

  ‘If you have the name and number of someone on the patient’s clinical team, and if the patient has approved it, I can let you speak to them.’

  The woman sounded like she got this all day. She was a rock.

  ‘Well, obviously I don’t have that information,’ Martha said, ‘or I wouldn’t be wasting my time talking to you.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t help you.’

  She didn’t sound sorry.

  ‘His name’s John or Johnny Lamb. Can you just look him up?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,’ the woman said. ‘It is illegal for me to divulge that information over the phone.’

  ‘OK, can you suggest how I might find out if someone is a patient there?’

  ‘Under the Freedom of Information Act, anyone who requests non-personal information held by the State Hospital, subject to certain conditions and exemptions, is entitled to receive it.’

  ‘Well I’m requesting it now,’ Martha said. ‘So fucking tell me.’

  ‘All requests must be made in writing. By law, we must respond to requests within twenty working days, but we can ask for more details in order to identify the information requested.’

  She was obviously reciting from memory.

  ‘Twenty days? In writing?’ Martha clawed at her face. Her blood felt overheated.

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s the best we can do,’ the woman said.

  ‘OK, thanks for nothing.’ Martha hung up.

  She shook her head at Billy and V. ‘Freedom of information, we can apply in writing, find out in a month.’

  ‘Or we could go there and see what we can find out,’ Billy said.

  34

  Half a dozen horses flicked their tails at a trough or chewed on the long grass. Behind them was a twenty-foot fence topped with tight spools of razor wire. Behind the razor wire, the prison hospital.

  Martha was driving Cal’s Mini, Billy in the passenger seat. They’d left the office and hoofed it down to The Basement. Cal was reluctant when she told him why they wanted his car, but he gave in, she would only get a taxi for two hundred quid otherwise. He told Billy to watch out for her. Gave him a look.

  Halfway to Carstairs she got a call from Cal. She switched her phone off without answering, knew he would just be nagging her.

  Billy spent the journey down the A702 on his phone, reading out bits of blurb from the Carstairs website, surfing around trying to find out anything about Johnny Lamb. He called someone he knew at the sheriff court, but the records of the John Lamb case were archived, so the guy couldn’t get them easily without a written application.

  What was it about the old days, when everything had to be done in writing? Martha couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to put pen to paper to write an actual letter. Stone Age stuff.

  She pulled over to the side of the road to get a better view of the place. Anonymous low buildings, yellow and grey, built from the sixties onwards, with some new building work off in a corner of the grounds, cranes and diggers shifting earth.

  The plan was that they didn’t really have a plan. According to the website, you were supposed to fill out an online form to apply for a visit. That would be passed on to the clinical team, who would consider it, discuss it with the patient if appropriate, then get back to you in writing. In writing, Jesus, this place was keeping the pen and paper business going single-handed. Then you were meant to get an authorised pass with your picture on it.

  But there were ways round, that’s what Billy said, there were ways round anything.

  Martha pulled the Mini away from the verge and headed towards the visitors’ car park. The horses didn’t raise their heads.

  No problems getting a parking space, no sign of security yet either. Large NHS-branded signs: ALL VISITORS PLEASE GO TO RECEPTION.

  They got out and looked at each other over the roof of the Mini, the sun glinting off the surface between them. Martha laid her hand on the car roof. The spring sunshine wasn’t enough to warm the metal under her fingers.

  ‘You think he’ll still be here?’ she said. ‘After all this time?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Billy said. ‘Maybe he died.’

  ‘Gordon’s obit said he was a survivor.’

  ‘A survivor?’

  ‘As in “Ian Lamb is survived by”.’

  Martha thought for a moment then pointed at reception. ‘You’d better do the talking. It could be the same woman from the phone, she might recognise my voice.’

  Billy shrugged. ‘OK.’

  They went in. Another bland waiting room, beige furniture, cheap wooden reception desk. Martha knew fro
m looking that it was the same woman she’d spoken to. Hard face, weathered beyond her years, spiky brown hair, clumpy body under blouse and skirt. Name tag said ‘Brenda’.

  Billy started talking to her. Martha hung back, pretending to examine a leaflet on ‘Living with Schizophrenia’, listening in to the pair of them. Billy was getting nowhere. She wanted to run over and grab the woman by her blouse and scream in her face. Billy was never going to get in this way, all the sweet-talking in the world wasn’t going to win Brenda over.

  Martha took a deep breath and put the leaflet down, then walked out the front door without looking back.

  She walked to the nearest fence. Gazed up at the razor wire. Imagined what it must feel like to be on the other side of that.

  A guy in a hoodie with a Rangers tattoo on his neck stood outside the front door, smoking a roll-up.

  She walked away from his gaze and round the corner. Tried a fire exit. Locked. Walked on further, just a thin strip of grass and a worn, muddy path. The path meant that people came this way, so she followed it.

  Round a second corner the path ended at another exit, this time with an electronic keypad and lock fitted. Three women in tabards were standing outside, sucking on cigarettes. They were all middle-aged with bad dye jobs, blonde, henna and some crazy purple. Heavy lines on their faces, years of hard graft and nicotine. She kept walking towards them and they glanced up at her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Martha said.

  ‘Aye, doll?’ said the one with henna streaks.

  Martha put on her little-girl voice, innocent eyes. ‘I think I’ve got a wee bit lost. I’m supposed to be visiting someone.’

  The woman took another drag, then pointed behind Martha. ‘Reception’s round that way, don’t know how you missed it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Martha said. ‘Sorry, I don’t normally lose my bearings, I’m a bit all over the place.’

  She went to turn, then stopped. ‘I’m visiting my uncle, maybe you’ve met him? Johnny Lamb.’

  Henna smiled at the other two, who gave her a knowing look back. ‘Oh aye, we all know Johnny Lamb. Took turns cleaning his ward. Never forget a handsome face like his. You’re Johnny’s niece?’

  Martha nodded.

  ‘Fucking idiots,’ Henna said.

  ‘What?’ Martha’s heart hammered away at her ribs.

  ‘Johnny got transferred, did they not tell you?’

  Martha shook her head.

  ‘Didnae look old enough to have a pretty grown-up niece, mind you. Have you visited him before? I huvnae seen you about.’

  ‘No, I just moved back to Scotland after years away.’

  ‘Don’t think he ever mentioned a niece.’ Henna was scratching her chest, remembering. ‘Just a brother.’

  ‘That’ll be my dad, Ian.’

  ‘Ian, aye, that’s right.’ Henna turned to the others. ‘The brother came to visit a few times recently, didn’t he?’

  The blonde one nodded.

  Martha’s throat was dry. ‘How recently?’

  ‘Up until Johnny got transferred,’ Blondie said. ‘Around Christmas time.’

  ‘Where was he transferred to?’

  Blondie narrowed her eyes. ‘Surely your dad would’ve told you?’

  Martha put on a sorry face. She was really hamming it up. ‘We don’t get on, me and my dad, haven’t spoken in two years.’

  The three women looked as if they understood bad fathers all too well.

  ‘My old man was a bastard, too,’ Henna said. ‘But take it from me, you’ll want to make it up between yeh afore it’s too late. My da’s deid now.’

  ‘Do you know where Johnny was transferred to?’

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘His brother signed off on it,’ Blondie said, ‘at least that’s what Johnny said anyway, so it’ll be the nearest psychiatric hospital to where your da lives, probably.’

  ‘Royal Edinburgh, would that make sense?’

  ‘Could be,’ Henna said, throwing her fag butt into the grass. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a wasted journey. Idiots in this place dinnae know their arses from their elbows.’

  Martha put on a big smile. ‘Well, thanks for all your help anyway.’

  Henna shrugged. ‘No worries, doll.’

  Martha turned and walked away, trying to keep her stride steady on the muddy grass.

  *

  Billy was sitting on the bonnet of the Mini, scrolling on his phone. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  Martha unlocked the car. ‘Just for a mooch around. How did you get on at reception?’

  Billy shook his head as he got up. ‘Totally stonewalled.’

  ‘Lucky one of us got somewhere then.’ She couldn’t stop grinning.

  Billy looked at her. ‘What?’

  Martha waved behind her. ‘Got chatting to some cleaners on a fag break. They used to clean Johnny’s ward.’

  ‘Used to? So he’s dead?’

  ‘Still alive, but he’s been moved.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Royal Edinburgh, most likely. My dad signed the paperwork.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  Martha got into the car and Billy followed. Inside, Martha looked at him closely. ‘I know I’m new to this reporting thing, but this is all pretty suspect, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Martha turned the engine on and revved. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was just there, as well.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Royal. That’s where I got the ECT this morning. It’s the only psychiatric hospital in Edinburgh. Because Ian approved his release Johnny would’ve been sent there, at least that’s what my cleaning woman reckoned.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘We go to the Royal.’

  35

  They’d just hit the bypass when Billy got a call.

  He pressed Answer. ‘Hey, V, what’s up?’

  Martha was dealing with chaotic traffic, rush hour where the M9 fed into the ring road. Lane-switching all over the place. She glanced over and saw Billy frown.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Are we in trouble?’

  Billy held his hand up to her.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell her,’ he said down the phone, then hung up.

  He turned to her. ‘Your phone’s off.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Cal has been trying to call you for hours.’

  A taxi cut in front of them, making Martha swerve across the lanes. A Tesco lorry tooted at her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said to the mirror, then to Billy: ‘What does Cal want?’

  ‘Eventually he called the office, spoke to V.’

  ‘What is it, Billy? You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Don’t flip out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s your house.’

  Martha shuddered the car forward a few yards, easing into traffic. She frowned. ‘My house?’

  ‘It’s on fire.’

  36

  They saw the smoke from about a mile away.

  Then closer, the smell. Acrid, poisonous, choking, even with the car windows up.

  ‘Come on.’ Martha spoke to herself as she pushed her knuckles into her eye sockets.

  They were sitting at a red light at the Jewel, a few minutes away.

  She revved the engine. ‘Fucking Edinburgh traffic.’

  Billy touched the dashboard. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to take it easy,’ Martha said. ‘My home’s burning down.’

  Green light.

  She swerved to overtake a Volvo and Billy’s touch on the dashboard became heavier. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  They turned then turned again, Billy thrown about in the passenger seat, then they were in Hamilton Terrace. Round the final corner into Hamilton Drive and Martha slammed on the brakes. Couldn’t go any further, three fire engines blocking the road.

  All three
had hoses unreeled and were blasting water onto the house. Smoke was pummelling out the windows in a rush to escape, flames licking out like winking eyes. Part of the roof was already gone, collapsed from the heat. Flames and smoke danced out the holes. The windows were all gone, blown out or caved in. One fire engine had a guy up a ladder, spraying onto the roof, the second one was aiming at the upstairs, the final guy was blasting water in through the living-room window frame.

  The three guys working the hoses were in full heat-protection gear, arms and legs thick with padding, gas masks and helmets. Other firemen were busying themselves with checking the hoses, but a few were just standing around. Martha wondered what the hell they could be doing, surely they should at least make themselves look busy.

  A crowd had gathered. Martha recognised the old guy, Fergus, from number 19 with his dog, Betty. The dog was cowering behind his legs. She saw other neighbours, people she said hello to in the street, standing around transfixed by the blaze.

  She jumped out the car then didn’t know what to do. Run to the house? What for?

  She remembered sitting on the living-room floor this morning, the gas fire on, the blanket wrapped round her.

  Had she turned the fire off? What about the blanket?

  Where were Elaine and Cal?

  She wanted to run in the opposite direction, through the park, find a quiet spot amongst the bushes, curl up and sleep forever.

  She stared at the smoke, trying to figure it out. The thick billows of black tapered as they stretched into the sky, twisting into sinewy strands, infecting the air around them. The smell of charred wood and brick and melting plastic and scorched glass filled her nose. She put a hand out to steady herself, touched the roof of the Mini. Cal’s car.

  Where was Cal?

  She staggered towards the fire. She could sense Billy next to her, but she didn’t turn and acknowledge him, didn’t want to see the look on his face, or the reflection of the flames in his eyes.

  She felt the ferocious heat now, making the skin on her face flush. Her eyes stung and her mouth and throat were dry, sandy.