The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  A loch appeared on one side of the road, the water bright in spite of the rain, and then they were back in the murk of the overshadowing forest, which stretched from hill to hill, connecting with other plantations of pine and sprawling across the border uplands. Perhaps Morton’s company was the escape she had unconsciously needed, she thought to herself, a mother of two young children, who four years ago had been happily teaching in a primary school in Glasgow, ensconced in newly married life. While she had not envisaged staying there for the rest of the life, she had not planned on changing schools any time soon, let alone leaving her profession entirely and moving to the countryside. But something had happened after the birth of Alice, and from one day to the next, she had resigned her teaching post and enrolled on the fast-track detective training course at the police college in Edinburgh. She had been so busy with her new career and the children that she had not had time to reflect on this before. How did I end up with a sullen inspector in his forties for company instead of a class of hyperactive nine-year-olds? Why have things turned out for me like this?

  Her unanswered questions hung between them as they arrived at Deepwell Hospital, an imposing building of rain-darkened granite that looked as though it had settled for the same moody stillness as Morton and the surrounding forest. They drove into a courtyard where a sign directed visitors to a small car park.

  When they reached the entrance, Morton held the door open for her. At the front desk, they asked for Dr Robert Llewyn but the receptionist said he no longer worked there. The two detectives looked at each other blankly. Morton was about to ring back to headquarters and check the contact details, when a short, thickset man wearing a white coat came walking up behind them and introduced himself as Dr Liam Barker.

  ‘I’m the director of the hospital,’ he told them. ‘Dr Llewyn was here as a locum, covering while I was on leave.’

  He led them through two sets of security doors and into a courtyard garden.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what happened during my absence,’ explained Barker. ‘But let me assure you, this so-called confession is a sign of Alistair’s illness returning. A flare-up of old symptoms and nothing more. We’ve given him sedatives and antipsychotics. He needs to rest and avoid any excitement.’

  A team of gardeners stiffened in mid-movement and watched the detectives, their weeding tools suspended above the black earth. Only their eyes moved. The sight of Herron and Morton walking past seemed to halt their normal reality amid the hybrid roses and herb containers. Herron concluded they must be patients rather than professional gardeners, men and women only partially in touch with the real world. One of them, a woman, caught Herron’s attention. She had bulging eyes and hair so sparse she was bald in places. She lowered her head slightly, and grinning, pointed two fingers at her protruding eyes, as if urging Herron to take a look in there. Her arms showed thin scars, glowing pink and sullen in the sun.

  Herron dragged her attention back to Barker. ‘What prompted the confession?’

  ‘He was undergoing a new treatment plan. Unfortunately, it seems to have awoken his dormant fantasies.’

  An alarm sounded somewhere as they stepped into another part of the building and down a long corridor.

  ‘What kind of treatment plan?’

  ‘We were reducing his medication and encouraging him to take part in group therapies. The hope was to return Alistair to the community. I’ve explained to him the unfortunate legal consequences of his claims, and understandably he is very agitated.’

  A door buzzed open for them and Morton commented on the amount of security.

  ‘We take every precaution when it comes to the patients. Ours is the only facility in this part of Scotland prepared to handle the most dangerous patients.’

  ‘You have murderers and sex attackers here?’ asked Morton.

  Barker nodded. ‘While they’re here, they get treatment to help them understand what might have made them disengage from the normal rules of society. We believe that with the right psychological tools we can eradicate violent crime from society.’

  Morton surreptitiously rolled his eyes at Herron, and then he asked if there was anything to suggest that McCrea might in fact be telling the truth.

  ‘I’ve already interrogated him. He gave evasive answers to my direct questions. He told me that he is now unsure of having attacked anyone. He said he had come to the conclusion that Dr Pochard was his victim only because she wasn’t in hospital yesterday.’

  ‘What about Dr Pochard?’ said Herron. ‘Has anyone checked on her?’

  ‘She’s on annual leave this week, and not answering her mobile phone.’

  ‘So you don’t know for sure if she’s OK?’ asked Herron.

  Barker sighed. ‘Jane rarely answers her phone when she’s off duty.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  He frowned and hesitated but then he told her Pochard’s address.

  ‘I’ll go and check it out this afternoon,’ said Herron.

  ‘You’re being very thorough,’ said Barker. ‘But I doubt you’ll find much sign of her. She’s somewhere deep in the Trossachs right now, if I’m not mistaken.’ He explained that Pochard had arranged a walking holiday up north with Professor Eric Reichmann, who was flying over from Switzerland to join her. Reichmann was the founder of the European holistic society to which Pochard and most of her colleagues at Deepwell belonged.

  They had reached an oak door at the end of a long corridor. A brass plate in the middle of the door read, ‘Director of Staff, Dr Liam Barker’.

  Herron asked, ‘Aren’t you worried that something might have happened to Dr Pochard if she’s not answering her phone?’

  Barker turned to look at her, his hand stiffening on the door handle. ‘If something has, then it has nothing to do with any of my patients. None of them left the hospital over the weekend.’

  His hand rested on the handle, waiting for Herron to speak again. She had sensed an inner resistance to answering her question completely honestly. When she said nothing further, Barker pushed open the door and led them into his office. He cleared his throat and straightened his back as he took his seat behind the desk.

  ‘McCrea has made claims in the past that he attacked young women,’ said Morton. ‘Rope and handcuffs were found in his car before he was admitted here.’

  ‘Which he never used. Instead he drove himself straight to the police station and confessed to the dangerous fantasies that were haunting him. He was guilt-ridden and frightened by the thought of what he might do. That doesn’t fit with the profile of a serial killer who has repressed his memories. Alistair does have a criminal record, but there is little evidence of violence against women in it.’

  Barker handed them a typed sheet summarising what McCrea had said during the group therapy. The detectives read it in turn.

  Herron spoke first. ‘So it is your professional opinion that Alistair McCrea’s claims are purely the result of his illness?’

  ‘You’ve read them yourself. What do you think?’

  She had to agree with him. McCrea’s descriptions were florid and disturbing, more like visions or nightmares than anything that might have any basis in reality. ‘I have to ask you to confirm your statement,’ she said. ‘It’s necessary for the paperwork.’

  Barker nodded impatiently.

  ‘Anything else that makes you doubt their authenticity?’ asked Morton.

  ‘No, but I’m certain I’m correct.’

  ‘About what?’

  He stared at the two detectives with deadpan eyes. ‘That Alistair is a deeply disturbed and lonely individual who will confess to anything to get attention.’

  ‘Has he confessed to anything similar in the past?’

  ‘He’s confessed to countless crimes during his time here, crimes he could not possibly have committed.’

  ‘What sort of crimes?’

  A shade of tension fell over Barker’s face. ‘Those are confidential matters and I really can’t say.’
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br />   ‘We’re police officers, investigating a confession to murder,’ said Morton. ‘Nothing is confidential in the circumstances.’

  Barker began talking about patient privacy and the code of conduct governing psychiatrists. He sounded clever and professional, but Morton cut him off.

  ‘I understand you are trying to uphold your policies on patient privacy, but your actions could be construed as obstruction,’ he warned. ‘I suggest you drop words like “confidentiality” and “privacy” when talking about what your patients may or may not have confessed to.’

  Barker sighed. ‘Alistair has written many confessions over the years. Confessions involving murdered women and hidden bodies that do not make sense and cannot be backed up by any concrete evidence. I will not try to summarise them for you. I would not know where to start. They’re all recorded in his case notes, of course.’

  ‘May we have a look at them?’ asked Herron. ‘We sent you through a written request first thing this morning.’

  Barker sighed again. It struck her that his sighs were like a clock, counting down the reserves of his patience. A while went by without any of them saying a word. Realising that the officers were determined to see the notes, Barker eventually sent his secretary to get the file.

  ‘In the past,’ said Barker, ‘the therapeutic side of our treatment programme was too focused on getting the patients to delve into their memories. Revealing stories of abuse or even confessing to abuse and violence could lead to a reward of sorts, greater attention from sympathetic psychologists and stronger medication. Unfortunately, Alistair fell into that trap.’

  ‘Why weren’t these previous confessions reported to the police?’ asked Herron.

  ‘There was no need to do that. His psychologists were quite sure he had fabricated them.’

  ‘If the claims weren’t properly investigated, how could his psychologists be sure?’

  ‘You’re police officers. With all respect, you don’t understand the nature of mental illness. Right now, Alistair is heavily sedated with benzodiazepines and incapable of distinguishing truth from fantasy. Your involvement here will only interfere with his therapy.’

  ‘We haven’t come to interfere with his therapy.’

  ‘But you’re the police; your very presence here is interference.’

  Herron heard the trace of venom in his response, the first hint of a rift between the world of law and order and that of psychiatry.

  The secretary returned with a file on McCrea’s background and history, and Barker passed it over to the two detectives. Herron quickly read the notes. Amid McCrea’s descriptions of his life as a petty thief and drug-taker, the serial break-ins and the shoplifting, there were hints of a darker, more violent world, murder plots concealed within conspiracies, women who had disappeared, their body parts hidden in forests, and mysterious visitors to the hospital who used torture on the patients. However, the accounts were entangled in garbled visions that kept returning to a forest trail, a body of calm water through the fir trees, and a pile of stones with a woman’s head buried within. There were other disturbing images in his notes, including one of a pit of water with two snakes threshing together that turned into the bodies of two police officers, one female and the other male, bound together by ropes. Herron flinched a little.

  Against Barker’s advice, the officers insisted on interviewing McCrea. Barker looked aggrieved by their determination. ‘You really think these fabrications merit a police investigation?’

  Herron smiled in an effort to ease his annoyance. ‘We can only decide that after we interview him.’

  ‘Alistair is at home in this hospital,’ said Barker. ‘To him it is a secure place. He is safely medicated, surrounded by routine and order, much more than he could expect in the outside world. You are free to interview him. However, it must be on his terms. He has insisted that he will speak only to a female detective.’

  Herron wondered if the chief inspector had known about this demand from the very start. She looked at Morton and he nodded at her, so she agreed to McCrea’s request.

  ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Sergeant Herron,’ said Barker, leading her onto Ward G. ‘You will never be able to keep up with Alistair. Even when you’re interviewing him, his mind will be busy fabricating another fantasy besides the one he is telling you about, another crime that he never committed, because he has finally got the attention of a police detective.’

  5

  The first police interview with Alistair McCrea was conducted by Sergeant Herron in the music room on Ward G. A pale light, diluted through the blinds, shone on the soundproofed walls, and on the pale face of the patient, who was seated at an empty table in the centre with two male nurses sitting cross-armed behind him.

  Herron’s first impression was of a tall, fragile man, who would not survive long in a police interrogation room. At first, he did not seem to see her. His eyes scanned the room, as though it were already filled with people. She sat down at the table and leaned towards him, smiling warmly. His eyes met hers and then rolled down to her neckline before widening as though he had received a jolt of electricity. She felt it then, a tingle of fear, as his eyes took her in.

  She began by introducing herself and explaining that this was not a formal police interrogation.

  ‘But you are going to investigate?’ he asked. His voice was deep, but querulous, with a whine of self-pity in it.

  ‘Oh no, we can’t investigate unless you tell us a good deal more than what is in this confession of yours.’

  McCrea contorted in his chair. Was it surprise or disappointment she saw in his pale eyes? ‘Then you don’t believe me. No one will believe me, no matter how many times I say it.’

  ‘Persuade me that your story is true, Alistair. Tell me what happened to Dr Pochard. And the others? What were their names? What did you do with their bodies?’

  McCrea groaned, leaned forward, and then flung himself back into his chair. The male nurse who had been staring out the window turned his head sharply towards the patient.

  ‘The doctors say that your confession is a symptom of your illness.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he replied. ‘I’m telling you that it happened. I have proof. That’s why you should take me seriously.’

  ‘What proof?’

  ‘Dr Pochard is missing.’

  The nurses remained calm and untroubled, indifferent to McCrea’s protestations.

  ‘You see, I keep having hallucinations that it’s happening again. I see her head tipping backwards and falling out of my hands.’

  ‘What if the entire incident is an hallucination? Is that possible?’

  ‘I wish it were.’ He gave a cry of despair as though he were seeing the murder again, not as the perpetrator, but as a helpless witness, forced to endure a recurring glimpse of murder. She saw in his bloodshot gaze the certainty of his vision, that a woman had been killed and he was responsible for her death.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ he said. The eyelids retracted; his eyes were full on her, opaque and haunted, seeking an audience for his visions.

  ‘Then tell me how you got by hospital security?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ He seemed about to weep. ‘Will there be an investigation?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say. Others will decide if one is warranted.’

  ‘If you don’t investigate, I’ll have to do something about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I might go to the newspapers.’ His eyes gloated. ‘Yes, I think I will go to the press.’

  ‘You said in your confession that you can’t remember kiling your victims, but that you’ve dreamed about it.’

  ‘Yes, many, many times.’

  ‘Did you base your confession on your dreams?’

  ‘My dreams are all I have to base my memories upon.’

  ‘And you’re convinced that these events actually happened.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure if I was the murderer.�
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  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘That is the difficulty I have. As soon as I start trying to remember what happened everything is twisted and distorted by my illness.’

  Herron thought she understood what he was trying to say. ‘But how am I to unlock the truth and make you remember?’

  ‘By not asking questions like that. Because as soon as I try to put my memories into words they become unreal and I push them away. They get mixed up with my fantasies and hallucinations and then I can no longer believe in them as facts.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. I’m a detective. It’s my job to ask questions, not entertain suspicions about dreamed-up murders.’

  ‘Then my memories are guaranteed to drive you to distraction.’

  ‘Memories or dreams about memories.’

  McCrea hesitated. ‘My dreams are always rooted in memories.’

  ‘Then tell me what you remember. No more word games.’

  McCrea placed his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. ‘I remember burying their heads in a pile of stones.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There are trees all around, and a lot of water nearby. Or at least the sense of water.’

  ‘A forest by a loch?’

  He frowned. ‘I can’t think if you keep asking questions.’

  ‘I need the name of the place.’

  ‘What if I can’t tell you? Will you still investigate?’

  ‘Not to chase figments of your imagination. Not when there are real criminals running along the streets.’

  ‘I keep having the same dream. I’m chasing someone through a forest.’

  ‘Describe the forest to me. What kind of trees are there? Is there a road or a landmark nearby?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘When I look through the trees, the view keeps changing. Sometimes I see a caravan park my parents took me to near Callander, then I see a summer camp with lots of children. I think it’s in Cardrona Forest, outside Peebles.’