The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  David moved his head on the pillow when she entered their bedroom. His dark hair stood out against the sweaty pallor of his face. She could sense his discomfort and awkwardness at being laid up in bed.

  ‘My morning’s been completely wasted,’ he complained. ‘Haven’t been able to do a single thing.’

  She tried to be as brief and efficient as possible, asking him questions, most of which he ignored or mumbled at in reply. Yes, he had given the children a dose of paracetamol and made sure they had enough water to drink. No, none of their temperatures had spiked. He said he did not like being ill and alone with the children. He looked at her and blinked as though her face shone with a piercing light.

  She got some soup from the fridge, heated it in the microwave and brought it up to him, and then she made the children some toast.

  ‘I’ll cook you a proper meal tonight,’ she promised him.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he replied. ‘You go back to work and enjoy yourself chasing bad people.’

  When she closed the front door behind her and hurried back to her car, she felt as though she were sealing off the hushed little chamber of her family life.

  17

  The door opened and a pale, sleepless-looking face greeted Herron. She recognised Dr Jeremy Sinden from the photographs in the forest. However, his arrogant expression had been replaced by the humiliated look of a doctor in disrepute. Herron introduced herself and he said, ‘You’d better come in. I’ve been waiting for someone like you to call.’

  He invited her into his kitchen. She could feel the wariness in his gaze. He behaved politely but was clearly nervous of the interview. She began by asking him about his therapeutic work on Ward G and the false confessions made by his patients.

  Sinden’s first line of defence was to refer to his clinical qualifications, the papers he had published on the effects of suppressed memories and the groundbreaking research work he had carried out at Deepwell. Before he arrived on Ward G, the hospital had no interest in curing its patients, he told her. It was focused on giving men like Chisholm and McCrea a secure and decent institutional life, and if they ever referred to disturbing memories or dreams, they were given powerful drugs and simply ignored.

  ‘However, I wanted to change all that,’ he said. ‘I wanted to reach out to these patients and release them from their memories and disturbing thoughts. I was convinced their mental illness had its roots in their pasts. At the very least, I wanted to make their lives more bearable.’

  ‘Tell me about Billy Chisholm.’

  According to Sinden, Chisholm had arrived at Deepwell about five years ago after being convicted of staging a bank robbery that was doomed to failure. Chisholm had gone along with it in order to end a bad relationship with a woman he had met in Aberdeen. He had no friends and his family had completely disowned him.

  ‘At the beginning, Dr Barker eagerly supported my therapeutic work,’ said Sinden. ‘I was flattered by his interest and decided to go deeper into the patients’ fantasies and dreams in order to extract their most painful memories. Everyone was enthusiastic about it. We all felt as though Ward G was on the brink of a new dawn. A more enlightened approach.’

  Herron showed him the photographs of the forest trail. ‘Is this what you mean by a more enlightened approach?’

  ‘Where did you find these?’

  ‘They were retrieved from a fire in Dr Pochard’s garden.’

  One of the pictures showed Sinden standing with a waterfall in the background, gazing at Alistair McCrea who was being helped along a path by two nurses. The sun had lit up Sinden’s face, and a flash of something proud and heroic shone in his eyes. He stared glumly at the picture. ‘I thought the patients on Ward G were going to represent the high point of my professional career,’ he explained, looking defiantly at Herron. She could see the shame in his eyes. He had risked his professional reputation, the respect of his colleagues and his job in order to prove his theories on traumatic memories, forcing his patients to hunt in the undergrowth of forests while he stood by, glassy-eyed with ambition and self-belief.

  ‘I tried to prove that, if not actual serial killers, these men possessed serial killer personalities, and subject to certain emotional triggers might be coerced into committing murder,’ he said. ‘To help them cope with the trauma of remembering these shocking events I had to increase their medication to very high levels. After they made their confessions, I recommended to Dr Barker that they should never be released. Instead, they needed even closer supervision on Ward G and an increase in their treatments. However, Barker discounted my research completely, and warned me that I should never try to publish my findings. He told me the hospital faced the dilemma of explaining my research methods and justifying them. He said that what had been a professional embarrassment for me would turn into a minor scandal for the hospital.’

  ‘What was Dr Pochard’s role in Chisholm’s treatment?’

  ‘She took over his case from me. She gradually weaned him off his antipsychotic medication and recommended his release back into the community. She accused me of mistreating my patients, and took over the care of the other patients on Ward G. She began reducing their medication, too. Then she lodged a complaint about my practice with the Borders council.’

  The events on Ward G no longer seemed so strange to Herron. Who could blame the patients for going along with Sinden’s theories and his unusual forms of therapy? Briefly, everyone had been happy on the ward, sharing the same delusion that Sinden’s therapy was working.

  Sinden said he had clung on for months to the hope that his theories were correct, even though he began to realise his patients could not have committed the crimes they were confessing. He had held on to his job in spite of the growing criticism of his colleagues. He told Barker that he would not give up or resign his post, and would go on no matter how loud the accusations of malpractice and self-delusion.

  ‘I was used to professional rivalry, even hatred from my colleagues,’ he said. ‘Psychiatric institutions like Deepwell aren’t monoliths dominated by one particular form of therapy. There are different currents, varying approaches, opposing models of practice.’

  He frowned at the detective. She saw a flicker of his arrogance in his eyes, their dominating gaze, hinting that he had a secret power over sanity and madness, and knew the symptoms and causes of all mental disturbances, if not their cure. He began to breathe harshly, and she saw that he had the eyes of a bully.

  ‘I was misled by my theories, but none of my patients came to any harm. No one was hurt. But I had to endure the worst possible punishment, suspension from my work, and my colleagues feeling superior. These past few months have been the worst of my career.’

  A detective would be out on their ears if they tried anything Sinden had done, thought Herron. It was akin to planting false evidence, misleading witnesses, helping them fabricate a story, all to prove a hypothesis that would advance a career and achieve renown amid one’s peers. A detective would be sacked and sent to jail, rather than suspended, and no questions asked.

  ‘I realised that I’d gambled my entire reputation on a delusion,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d found a murderer on Ward G, a deeply disturbed individual who would prove my theories were correct. But the figure of a murderer was doubled and multiplied and suddenly I had no idea what I was dealing with. It was like finding myself surrounded by mirrors in which the fantasies of my patients kept appearing and disappearing, and the murderer was always out of reach.’

  Herron wondered who had arranged the mirrors: the patients or Sinden himself? Or was there another controlling intelligence hiding in the midst of the patients, waiting to transform the forest clearing into a murder scene?

  ‘By the way, Laura Dunnock has disappeared,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t turned up for work at Deepwell.’

  ‘Impossible. I saw her at a meeting the other night.’

  ‘What sort of meeting?’

  He gave her a wary look. ‘A meeting of our professiona
l society.’

  ‘The Holistic Foundation of Psychotherapists?’

  Sinden nodded.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about her?’

  ‘Nothing. She was her usual self. The only thing out of the ordinary was that she arrived late.’

  ‘How long have you been a member of the foundation?’

  ‘About six years.’

  ‘How did you join?’

  ‘I was invited.’

  ‘Who are the other members?’

  ‘I can’t talk about them.’ Sinden maintained his defeated grimace, but something defiant had appeared in his eyes.

  ‘Why? Has someone forbidden you to?’

  When Sinden remained silent, Herron considered threatening to bring him down to the police station and subjecting him to a harsher style of interrogation.

  ‘Is it true that membership of the society is a strict secret?’

  ‘No, but its membership is not a part of your investigation.’

  ‘Has anyone ever left the foundation or been expelled from it?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Surely there must have been someone who disagreed with the group or felt unhappy within it. Someone who didn’t feel as loyal as you do.’

  ‘Everyone is loyal to the society.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? Obviously, there are minor differences between the members, professional disagreements from time to time. It’s human nature.’

  ‘What do you think of the way Dr Pochard raised her concerns, bypassing Dr Barker?’

  ‘It’s not my place to comment… officially.’

  ‘But on a personal level, how did you react?’

  ‘I thought she had overstepped her mark. Her main criticism was aimed at Deepwell as an institution and the way it was being run. She believed I should never have been allowed to pursue my theories on Ward G. She said I had gone astray. That I had inspired and facilitated these delusions in my patients. That I had turned these grey shadows of men into murderers and psychopaths.’

  ‘Did Pochard have any enemies?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘But she had ruffled feathers?’

  ‘Yes. She claimed we had become members of a secret sect. She said the foundation was flawed because it believed in one approach and blocked out any outside influences or criticisms.’

  ‘And how did the foundation react?’

  ‘Barker gave her a strong rebuke for going behind his back and lodging a complaint with the council.’ A gloating tone of satisfaction crept into his voice. ‘He threatened her with disciplinary measures, even dismissal from the foundation, but she kept complaining away to the authorities, to anyone who would listen, in spite of the reprimand.’

  ‘And now she’s dead. Murdered.’

  ‘Yes, and Chisholm did it,’ he said with aggression. ‘My initial interpretations have turned out to be correct.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘What is there not to be sure about?’

  ‘A motive, for a start.’

  ‘You’re suggesting she was killed for rational reasons.’ He seemed upset by the illogic of her thinking. He shifted his weight in the seat and breathed harder.

  She thought there was something rehearsed about his reaction; it was all too contrived. The thin sour smell of his sweat wafted in the air. She could tell that he was annoyed, distracted even. She was reminded of her first impression, how wariness and desperation seeped from his eyes.

  ‘The fact there might be a perfectly rational motive for killing Dr Pochard has annoyed you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not annoyed,’ he replied, a little too loudly.

  ‘Do you think that Chisholm is in control of what he is doing?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going through his mind. I’m not his therapist.’

  ‘But for a long time you were. You must have an idea of what he is thinking.’

  ‘If he’s stressed, I know there is only one escape route open to him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His fantasies. You’ve read his notes, I take it. I’m sure you understand the dangerous implications.’ His voice lowered slightly and he smiled. ‘Perhaps Chisholm will vindicate me in the end.’

  Herron decided to call the interview to an end for now. Sinden had given her enough to think about, mainly in relation to the holistic foundation, and she would get back to him soon enough. She sensed there was a lot more to the foundation than what he had told her, but she had to proceed cautiously. She didn’t want to scare its members off completely.

  ‘No more interviews with the police,’ he told her at his front door. ‘I never want to speak about these things again.’

  18

  In open defiance of the duty manual’s strict advice regarding the professional appearance of police officers, Harry Morton’s face was one consisting chiefly of hair, unkempt hair drifting in strands of grey and black across his features, hair clinging to the matt of his overgrown beard, and his bushy eyebrows, hair twirling around his mouth even when he spoke. A face that accumulated hair, hiding the sharpness and intelligence of his eyes.

  Herron had seen photographs of him as a young officer, and he looked much the same back then, tall and serious in a long coat, his straggling hair and beard framing a gaunt but handsome face with a wild look in his eyes. She had heard the stories that he was a recovering alcoholic, hence his addiction to roll-up cigarettes and coffee. Rumour had it that on one occasion he had been found drunk and fast asleep close to the scene of a housebreaking, but had denied any involvement in the crime.

  This evening, his curls were kinked against his rumpled shirt collar and his tie undone, making him resemble an untidy schoolboy. She had noticed an increasing air of disorder descend upon him since the investigation opened and wondered if he had taken to drinking alcohol again.

  Without thinking, she said, ‘Can’t you find someone to tidy you up?’ She had never considered his domestic situation before and when he grunted, she thought she might have overstepped the mark.

  He leaned towards her with his hair nuzzling his haggard cheeks. His thick beard made it look as though his lips were snarling. She had to stare deep into his face before she saw the twinkle in his eyes. ‘When we find the killer,’ he said, ‘I promise I’ll celebrate by visiting the barber.’

  Herron was beginning to realise that on a murder investigation team, she could be explicit with her colleagues. As daring or offensive as she liked. Their working relationships were not the sort in which trust was gained by slow degrees over months and years. A pregnant pause arose. She wondered if now was the perfect time to switch from discussing the investigation to asking about his personal life. Should she follow her natural instinct and go on? The moments ticked by and neither of them spoke. She was overcome with the worry she might say something foolish and annoy him. With his increasingly dishevelled appearance, Morton was behaving as though he had no life or future beyond the murder investigation – and so was she, it dawned upon her.

  The investigation team had spent the day chasing down leads to Billy Chisholm, interviewing staff at Deepwell and his estranged relatives for any clues as to the former patient’s whereabouts. A separate patrol had spent the day combing the forest around the murder scene without turning up any trace of him either. Later, Herron and Morton had talked to neighbours of Dunnock and examined her flat without getting any closer to solving the mystery of her disappearance. They had checked her answering machine and listened to her optician saying her new glasses were ready, then her mother had called to reschedule a meeting that weekend, and finally there was Dr Barker’s gruff voice urging Dunnock to pick up. His last call had been made on the evening Dunnock had her row with the male caller. They checked with her neighbours and lingered at her flat, Morton growing more reticent and worried, smoking his rolled-up cigarettes and staring pensively ahead.

  Now, back at the station, he slumped in his chair and ha
lf-closed his eyes while Herron recapitulated their findings so far, including her interview with Sinden in an effort to shine some clarity on the investigation. Morton had said very little, and she sighed. She read through her interview notes with McCrea, until she came to his description of the forest clearing. She searched for further clues as to what might be going through Chisholm’s mind, but found nothing. She sighed again, her frustration mounting. She wished that Morton would give her a little guidance or at least act as a sounding board for her ideas.

  Finally, Morton leaned forward and stared at her. ‘You’re a good detective, Carla. I think we make a good team.’

  ‘But you say almost nothing to me.’

  ‘It’s better to listen rather than talk,’ he said. ‘Most of the time it’s better to keep quiet and listen, especially in this job.’

  His comment about her detective work surprised her. She had thought he was going through the motions with her, doing his duty in having her, a junior detective, at his side, but shunning her with his silences, refusing to show any real interest in her as a person. In spite of their odd exchange of banter, she had felt a set of blockages existed between them as colleagues.

  ‘I’ve never felt that,’ she said.

  ‘OK, let’s talk then,’ said Morton. ‘Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘For a start, I always get an odd impression when I visit Deepwell.’

  ‘What sort of impression?’

  ‘That the building itself is hiding something.’