Black Heart

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Hmm, inheritance I believe, at least I think that’s what she said. Actually, I’ve brought along the file. It contains her photo ID and the name of the solicitors she used for the sale. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you fi…’

  I almost snatch the file from her, which causes her to look at me in momentary alarm.

  She just said photo ID.

  Davis, who has already started rifling through drawers and cupboards, clocks my urgency and comes over. I spread the papers out over the white leather couch, deeds and letterheaded paper, searches and land-registry administration and… there’s a photocopy of a passport, yes… I pick it up and look at it and then I go dizzy.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ‘Well she was up her own arse wasn’t she? Our clientele…’ Davis mimics Lana Jones’ clipped voice as she pulls out of the underground car park with a screech. ‘Can’t stand estate agents, all the bloody same, right up themselves.’ She takes a double glance at me. ‘You okay, Boss? You looked a bit unwell back there, a bit pale.’

  I manage a nod. My throat is tight like a vice. My heart is in overdrive, banging against my chest cavity, breathing is becoming a problem.

  ‘Well, up her arse or not, thanks to her we know what the bitch looks like now,’ Davis says, elated, ‘and now we’ll have her.’

  I literally can’t speak, not even a rasp. My brain feels as if it’s been lobotomised and won’t connect to my mouth. I think I’m going into shock. The picture, the passport picture… the girl – the woman – in the picture, it wasn’t Danni-Jo, at least not as I know her. It was Florence. Florence Williams. The woman I recently spent the night with. The woman whose forehead I kissed, whose intimate scent still hangs heavy in my nostrils.

  Florence is Goldilocks. And this unexpected revelation has floored me to the point that I’ve mentally flatlined; a similar feeling to when Bob Jenkins told me Rachel was dead. This seriously compromises my position. In fact it compromises the whole fucking case. A court scene plays itself out in my mind, her barristers, Rebecca Harper’s briefs, taking me apart on the stand. ‘You wanted to have sex with her didn’t you DI Riley, and when she turned you down you set about instigating a campaign of hate against her…’

  I tell myself not to panic, panic solves nothing, but my guts are frantically unravelling like old rope. This is a nightmare, an unreal and diabolical coincidence that I’m struggling to process. And the questions that keep putting their heads above the parapet are why and how?

  Our ‘relationship’ plays back like grainy CCTV footage in my mind. The first ‘date’ in the pub when I’d forgotten I was supposed to be meeting Touchy… The night at the sushi restaurant, the flash of her underwear, her hand as she guided mine up her thigh, her soft wetness… The walk in Hyde Park afterwards, listening to the birds singing as we stumbled along slightly intoxicated, Florence running on ahead… the dress and biker boots that she was wearing, and the flower I picked and gave to her. It doesn’t seem real. None of it.

  Did she know who I was?

  Is this some kind of sick and twisted game?

  Has she been playing me all along?

  But the thing that’s eating me up most is that I didn’t sense anything. No alarm bells, no red flags, no niggly feelings that something was amiss. No tug on that infamous intuition of mine that I rely so heavily upon. And I feel embarrassed; she’s duped me completely, pulled the wool over my eyes in spectacular fashion. I think about that night again, at the hotel, her naked skin against mine, and how close I had come to making love to her.

  I say ‘Thank God’ aloud as I signal to Davis to pull over, and then promptly throw up out of the car door.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Greene Parks gives me the shits. It’s the kind of place that looks as if it could be welcoming on the outside, with its jaunty Victorian charm and smooth stone façade, hanging baskets full of petunias and a bright red door. But it’s the metaphorical equivalent of covering up piss with perfume. And here it seems, the top notes of eau de urine have won out.

  A nurse greets me and Davis with an affable smile that belies the nightmarish sadness I’m sure she experiences on a daily basis. I find it odd, really, because despite my job I’ve never got used to seeing, and hearing of, the atrocities human beings encounter and cause one another. They can still shock me. However, Nurse Arlington, as she introduces herself as, appears to have become desensitised to her surroundings.

  Never become hardened Danny, Rach used to say, don’t let the job rob you of that soft sod I know you are inside.

  But although Greene Parks looks like it could be a hotel from the outside, there’s no room for ambiguity inside. It’s a hospital; a mental hospital, an asylum. There is an expanse of grey that seems to take over your pupils and all your peripheral vision, people walking around in white suits like astronauts. The atmosphere is punctuated by shrill noises and cries, the sounds of anguish and despair. It’s the kind of place that would soon make sane people mad. Yeah, it’s basically One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest. That was Nicholson’s defining moment wasn’t it? He even outshone his performance in The Shining in that film, and he’s pretty fucking brilliant in The Shining. Shit, who was the lead actress who played his wife in it? I can see her, I know her name… fuck… all toothy and awkward, played the terrorised victim brilliantly.

  Nurse Arlington strikes me as a hard bitch beneath the smile, robotic, almost sub-human. Or perhaps she’s just found a way to cope working in a place like this, a place for mentally disturbed children and young adults. Sadness literally drips off the ugly, faded floral curtains that somehow seem incongruous, a failed attempt at brightening up hell. I have to wonder what Arlington’s calling is? I’m pretty sure Lidl pay better.

  ‘Doctor Magnesson is expecting you’, she says in an accent I can’t place. Eastern European maybe? Doesn’t really matter, but it sounds as hard as she looks and I think about how the little hat and dress she’s wearing have always represented comfort, comedy, even sexuality in our culture, yet probably mean something very different to the lost souls that exist like ghosts among these grey walls.

  Davis looks as pissed off and uncomfortable as me, which reaffirms that she’s completely sound of mind. We’re led down the cold, grey corridor. The doors to the cells are on the left, and faces appear at them as we walk down it to a soundtrack of banging doors and the clatter and rattle of keys. The air is punctuated by the occasional shout and cry. A young girl, a teenager, fifteen tops I’d guess, with greasy black hair and a grey tracksuit that seems to blend into the walls waves at us, and I smile and wave back.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. New people. New faces. They always react like this,’ Arlington says, like they’re dogs in kennels. I sense she feels contempt for the poor wretches she looks after and I dislike her for it. Smiles seems scarce here. The young mentally ill and criminally insane. How does that happen? I think of her, of Florence, of Rebecca Harper, and wonder how you can be so fucked up at nine years old that you end up here? Am I naïve? Probably. But children aren’t born evil, are they? Neglect, abandonment, abuse… It’s rare that you don’t see at least one of these as prefixes to the deterioration of a child’s mental well-being. Statistics prove that many people who are victims of abuse go on to become abusers themselves. I don’t think it’s right; I don’t think it’s an excuse. But I do think it explains a lot.

  ‘Doctor Magnesson is very busy, I’m sure you’ll understand, but she has agreed to fit you in. Your colleague explained the urgency.’

  I think Nurse Arlington is expecting a thank you so I deliberately withhold it. I’ve not really taken to her. I’m struggling to hold it together as it is.

  ‘This is her office,’ she stops abruptly and knocks on the grey door. I half expect her to say, ‘the doctor will see you now,’ but she turns abruptly on her spongy heels without so much as a goodbye and as she does it comes to me… Shelley Duvall.

  Chapter Fifty

  Elizabeth Magnesson, in stark cont
rast to Nurse Arlington, has a kind, open face as round as the moon and almost as pale. Somewhere, I would say, in her mid-fifties; her hair is an unruly mass of wobbling black curls peppered with grey and she wears glasses perched at the end of her thin nose. She is oddly attractive in a quirky, bohemian sort of way and I imagine she was probably quite striking in her prime.

  Her office is stark; unadorned grey walls and a desk with two mismatching chairs opposite. There’s a cabinet, a wastepaper basket and a low wooden table in the middle of the room. The potted palm plant in the corner is an attempt to make it appear marginally less uninviting, but the accent is heavily on marginal. It’s grim, the interior equivalent of despair. ‘You’re here to talk to me about Becca, yes, Becca Harper?’ Her accent is faint but detectable. My money’s on Scandinavian.

  Becca.

  ‘Yes. I’m DI Riley, Dan Riley, and this is DS Davis. We’re investigating the suspected murders of Nigel Baxter and Karen Walker and believe you may be able to assist us.’

  She nods officially at us. ‘I can certainly try, Detective Riley. Please, take a seat, both of you.’

  I politely decline. I’m concerned that if I sit down I may never get back up again.

  ‘She is in some kind of trouble I take it, Becca?’

  I clear my throat a little too loudly. I feel queasy, still reeling from shock I think. Florence is Danni-Jo and Danni-Jo is Rebecca and Rebecca is Goldilocks. And Goldilocks has savagely murdered two people. And I’ve been to bed with her. I’ve been intimate with a cold-blooded killer and the reality of this has only just started to trickle through the firewall I’ve attempted to erect in my head in a bid not to accept the truth. I remind myself that I’m here to do a job, my job, and that I need to hold it together now more than ever.

  ‘Some water, Detective?’ She says, perhaps sensing my turmoil. She pours a little into a paper cup from the jug on her desk and I accept it gratefully.

  ‘We need to speak to Rebecca Harper in conjunction with the murder of two people. Murders which were both made to look like suicide. We think she may be responsible for these murders, Dr Magnesson, and that she may be acting out some kind of fairy-tale fantasy, namely the story of the three bears… are you familiar with it?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course I am.’ She appears mildly affronted but if she’s surprised or shocked by this suggestion she certainly doesn’t show it.

  ‘We were hoping you could give us some information on Miss Harper. We believe she spent some time here at Greene Parks as a child, and that you were her therapist, is that correct?’

  ‘No. I was her doctor. Still am, officially. And as such, you’ll appreciate that I have an obligation towards my client, Detective – client confidentiality. But I am also aware that the law requires me to share information in the event of a situation such as this.’

  I’m relieved to hear it. ‘Lives are at stake here Dr Magnesson. We believe Rebecca Harper is very dangerous and that she may be on the lookout for, or may have already targeted, her third victim; a victim we strongly believe could be a child, a minor.’

  ‘Baby Bear you mean?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t seem surprised Doctor. Was this a fantasy she discussed with you, the story of the three bears?’

  Magnesson exhales as she removes her glasses and places them on the desk. ‘We discussed many, many things in the time she spent here during our sessions, you understand. I ended up knowing Becca quite well in the end, or perhaps not knowing her at all. I never knew which for sure. I’m saddened to hear of this situation, but surprised?’ She shakes her head, curls wobbling.

  ‘And why is that?’ I can feel the bile rising up through my stomach to my mouth again and will it back down.

  ‘Please,’ she says, ‘I really do think it is best if you sit down.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  ‘Rebecca Harper first came to Greene Parks over two decades ago, twenty-four years ago to be precise. She was nine or perhaps ten at the time she arrived here, I forget which, transferred from a young offender’s institute as it was clear that she was suffering with mental-health issues and needed specific care. She should never have been put into mainstream care to begin with in my opinion; she arrived in a terrible condition. She was assigned to me, my first ever case after qualifying as a psychiatrist actually, perhaps this is why I have such a…’ Dr Magnesson is searching for the right words. I suspect she is going to say ‘fondness’ though wisely she stops short of it.

  But I understand her feelings better than she knows.

  ‘To this day Detective, after twenty-four years at this hospital, of all the patients I have seen who have been under my care, Becca remains one of the most difficult, and frankly fascinating cases I have ever worked with.’

  ‘You say this like it’s some kind of accolade Doctor.’

  She smiles, wistfully. ‘Well, from a professional point of view, Becca was a rarity.’

  ‘Oh, and why is that?’ I sip the water and quickly place it on the desk. My hands are shaking.

  ‘She was a child psychopath, though many of my contemporaries prefer to give the condition other, more palatable labels, especially when it comes to minors, but this does not prevent it from being what it is. What she is – in my professional opinion, of course. But she scored extremely highly on the Levenson Scale, which was relatively new at the time.

  ‘The Levenson Scale?’

  ‘Yes, the psychopathy test invented by Michel Levenson. It’s a series of yes or no questions. This of course is not to be confused with the Leveson Inquiry, which is quite a different thing altogether.’ She smiles, seemingly self-satisfied with such a topical political joke.

  ‘Rebecca Davis was incarcerated here because she killed her mother, is that correct?’ Davis asks.

  ‘Yes. Supposedly. Although the inquest recorded the death as accidental. There was no evidence, just a confession from Becca.’

  ‘Do you believe she was responsible?’

  ‘It does not matter what I believe really, Detective Riley. Importantly she believed she was responsible, though it is just as likely that her mother took her own life.’

  ‘If that was the case then why on earth would Rebecca claim to have killed her own mother? Have herself incarcerated as a result?’

  Dr Magnesson pauses and meets my eyes directly. ‘I should explain a little more about the case. It’s complex, really not as straightforward as you may think – and not very pleasant.’

  ‘I think nothing, Dr Magnesson, that’s why I’m here, so that you can tell me. Why would a child confess to murdering their own mother if this was not true?’

  She exhales again. ‘All of us possess psychopathic traits, Detective Riley, in the right measure they can be highly beneficial to navigating through life and achieving success, no doubt in your line of work too.’ She gently raises an eyebrow. ‘Becca was textbook really, completely lacking in empathy, charming and persuasive, extremely likeable in fact. However, she was a highly manipulative fantasist, grandiose, fearless, completely unfazed by her own destructive behavior and the effect it had on others. It is probable that she killed her mother, but also equally as probable that she enjoyed the attention she received for saying that she had. Her story would change to suit her; in one version she would cast herself as the victim, in another she was the unrepentant perpetrator.’

  ‘You said Rebecca was just nine years old when she arrived here. That’s so young,’ Davis says, unable to hide the sadness in her voice, ‘do you think she was born a psychopath?’

  Dr Magnesson opens her hands. ‘Ahh, the great debate. Some experts believe this is possible, yes, others, no, and many more are undecided. It is not an exact science.’

  ‘So where do you fit in Doctor?’

  Magnesson ponders the question carefully. ‘Each case is individual but with Becca, her brain patterns were different, the structures of her prefrontal cortex,’ she points above her eyes, running her finger horizontally above them, ‘this part here is responsible for
your emotions, rage, anger, happiness, joy, pain, the ability to feel empathy, love, sexual pleasure, fear; it regulates them all, releases chemicals in response… This part of Becca’s brain, after tests, showed impaired responses and unusual patterns. I remember once she took part in an experiment where we showed her various images, monitoring her responses and blink reflexes. The images ranged from the very cute and cuddly, kittens and babies, fields full of flowers, beautiful scenery and the like, to dismembered bodies, the charred remains of children who’d perished in fires, grizzly murder scenes, quite sickening stuff, not least for a child to see. The results were striking. Becca’s reflexes and responses were almost identical to all of the images she’d been shown – meaning that she could distinguish no emotional difference between seeing a headless corpse and a cute puppy; she was neither moved nor repulsed, unfazed by both. It was unusual to see this in someone so young.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question, Doctor.’

  ‘The difference between a psychopath becoming the CEO of a successful company and going on to become a cold-blooded murderer I think is a fairly straightforward one…’

  ‘It is? How?’

  ‘Trauma,’ she says, ‘abuse. The psychopathic killers I have encountered throughout my career have all suffered abuse or early childhood trauma of some sort without exception. So to answer your question, yes and no. In my opinion I believe Becca was born with distinguishable differences in her prefrontal cortex and brain patterns, so perhaps genetics played a part, but it was the abuse and trauma she suffered as a young child that triggered these characteristics and turned her into what she was and is.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A psychopath, Detective, like I’ve said.’

  I don’t want to get into the nature or nurture debate with Dr Magnesson; I suspect she has twenty-four more years of experience to draw upon than me.