The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  ‘Deepwell is an institution. It exists as a separate state from the rest of society. There’s always something an outsider is not supposed to see.’

  ‘It’s just a vague feeling I get,’ she said.

  ‘Complex investigations depend on vague feelings. Often the breakthrough comes out of hunches and vague suspicions, the sense of discomfort we get when we enter a room or meet someone for the first time. In this way, our feelings grope their way forwards, invisible to our thinking, little by little, until one day the solution falls into our lap.’

  She was surprised by how suddenly Morton was able to cast his defences aside, and attune himself to her thoughts and feelings. His face, usually so world-weary and hardened, was warm and sincere, the change even encompassing his eyes, which were now piercing and alive.

  ‘A lot has changed since I became a detective,’ he said. ‘The field of forensics and technology has transformed murder investigations. However, my emotional response to a crime scene has never changed. When I approach one, I feel like an intruder, or a fraud. The question it asks me is, “Who the hell do you think you are, tramping in here with your big detective shoes?” A police officer has to earn the right to be there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s something that comes with experience. Nowadays we have the field of forensic analysis, the whole scene mapped out for us by different gadgets. But if you can’t stand back and read the entire crime scene intuitively, then it will never open itself to you, and you’ll be unmasked as an amateur. A murder scene like the one we are confronting will pass judgement on every one of us, and the consequences for our careers could be serious.’

  She understood the implications of what he was saying. Like almost all of her generation, she had spent most of her life reading and studying, educated at least to university graduate level. But what if her training, her university degree, all the baggage of her education was only of benefit to a certain point, and beyond that, it became a hindrance? Somehow, the physical and emotional intoxication of pregnancy and then parenthood had altered the way her mind approached new challenges. More and more she found herself thinking and acting from the depths of her being. This was why she respected detectives like Morton, officers who had worked their way up through the ranks without a university degree. If he gave her some advice, it was something fresh and original, all his, and certainly new to her.

  ‘That scene in the forest,’ said Morton with a strange confidence in his voice and a glow of his eyes, ‘it looks into a different and more dangerous world than the one you and I belong to. The killer sees the world in a darker, barely human way. You have to earn the right to be invited into that world. Only then will you uncover its secrets.’

  ‘What if it never opens up to me? What if I never work out what happened to Dr Pochard?’

  He seemed to lose patience slightly, but it may just have been weariness. Their shift should have ended hours ago.

  ‘Then you will just have to admit failure, stop deceiving yourself, and accept your position. That you are an ordinary police officer with an ordinary life, destined to keep searching for meaning and fulfilment in the everyday world around you.’

  There was a hovering threat in Morton’s words that made her feel her age and lack of experience, a young woman intimidated by the mysteries of life and death.

  ‘When we visit the murder scene I want you imagine you are wading into deep water,’ he said. ‘Just let go your thoughts and relax into it.’

  She could see in the dim glow of his eyes the experience of witnessing countless crime scenes. It reminded her of how encumbered she was, how futile her attempts to balance her work and family. Morton did not give a damn about his own health or anyone else’s, and because of that, he could go further than she could. His commitment required an element of self-destruction. How else could he put so much of himself into his job?

  ‘What should I do in the meantime?’

  ‘Keep digging.’ His eyes returned to their hidden stillness, half-obscured by his hair. ‘You’re going to be fine. Don’t even think about making a breakthrough at this stage.’

  She thought she had found an opening with him, and in spite of his body language, she pressed on with more questions. ‘What do you think about Deepwell? Do you believe there’s a conspiracy there?’

  ‘When an institution has to defend its reputation there is always a conspiracy.’

  ‘Who’s behind it?’

  ‘At this level, for the conspiracy to succeed, practically everyone will have to be involved in it.’ Morton’s voice grew deeper and more serious, but his eyes remained hidden from view. ‘Places like Deepwell can become dangerous and unhealthy for patients and staff. Removed from society, at odds with public opinion, with too many professionals protecting their careers in too small an occupational space. Eventually, the careers of people like Barker and Sinden become entangled and the more they strain against each other, the tighter the knots become. They become a professional contradiction, more dependent and chained to the institution than the inmates themselves.’

  ‘How do we break the conspiracy?’

  ‘Each staff member will automatically cover up for the other, defending themselves collectively from any outside threat. What we need to do is convince one of them that their interests are best served by denouncing the others.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘By a mixture of cajolery and threats.’ He turned towards her. His eyes met hers, so dark and dangerous-looking, she almost started. ‘And if that doesn’t work we will have to set a trap.’

  19

  When Carla returned home that evening, she noticed a different car parked outside her house. She hesitated, wondering whose it could be. The silhouette of a woman appeared briefly at the living room window. Carla opened the front door cautiously and stood listening. She heard nothing. The hallway was in darkness but she did not switch on the light. Somehow, the atmosphere within the house had changed.

  It was a heavy footstep she heard in the kitchen, making its way to the bathroom by the back door. The door closed and the bolt clicked into place. Furtively, as though she were the intruder, Carla slipped into the kitchen and waited. The bolt clicked free and the door opened. The shadow of a small, overweight woman appeared, and then she stepped into view. Carla’s alarm was replaced by a sense of betrayal and faint disappointment. No feral woman had slipped into her house to steal her husband. The person standing before her was her mother-in-law, Bernadette Herron.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Carla.

  ‘Are you all right, hen?’ replied Mrs Herron.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I know it’s no business of mine,’ Mrs Herron began evasively. ‘But David rang me this morning. He had a raging temperature and said he couldn’t cope on his own. He’s fast asleep now and the children are all grand. They’ve had their medicine and their fevers are down.’ She had the air of a captain who had taken control of a drifting ship, and already plotted a new course, in spite of the uncertain weather conditions. ‘David asked me to stay a night or two. Until he’s back on his feet.’

  Mrs Herron had prepared a meal of lamb stew and set the table in the kitchen. She had even hunted out the condiment jars. In the early days of Carla’s relationship with David, love rivals her own age had been bad enough, but the love of this Glasgow mother for her only son had been Carla’s real terror. Communication of any kind with her had always been awkward and hard-won, and now she felt the woman’s emotional strength, the solid confidence of her body, a woman who never seemed to relax, even in her own terrace home, always at the centre of things, directing her own household and that of her daughters, who lived nearby.

  Carla stuck a spoon in the stew and began to assemble a portion for herself, ejecting some of the fattier pieces of meat. David had not mentioned this as his solution to their domestic problems. What right did he have to invite his mother into the heart of their home like this? The consequences for their domesti
c routine were serious. Much more than excluding her, the invitation had passed judgement upon her role as a mother and a wife, condemning her to life on a lower plane. It made her feel diminished in the place where she should feel most confident and relaxed. The hurt of that realisation hit her. However, there was only one way of dealing with the situation, and that was to stay afloat, to maintain some sense of dignity and accept it for what it was, a temporary arrangement that would ensure her children were not left alone with a sick husband or an inexperienced childminder. In the meantime, she would find fulfilment and meaning in her work.

  ‘Thank you, Bernadette,’ she said. ‘David and I really appreciate you coming down at such short notice. You’re a godsend.’

  Still standing, Carla tried some of the food, and her shoulders relaxed a little. Perhaps this was for the best, until the children got better, or the murder investigation concluded and she could take some time off work. She sat down to eat, and Mrs Herron went upstairs to check on the children.

  The confident way in which her mother-in-law strode from room to room and across the landing irked Carla again. Mrs Herron had taken control of the serious business of looking after sick children, needed by her son, trusted by him beyond doubt or scrutiny. Carla heard her read a story to Alice in her soft Glasgow accent, and then tuck her in. After eating, she went upstairs to check on Ben and they bumped into each other on the landing.

  ‘Good night, hen,’ said Mrs Herron. It disturbed Carla a little, the way the look of compassion had slipped suddenly from her mother-in-law’s face.

  David stirred when she crept into bed. She knew that if she woke him fully they would spend the night arguing and she did not have the energy for that. She remembered Morton’s saying about words being the very devil, and dragged herself to the edge of sleep with gritted teeth.

  *

  The next morning, Carla and Mrs Herron were up together. ‘Ring me if the children or David get worse, or you need anything,’ said Carla, writing her number down on a piece of paper and handing it to her mother-in-law.

  Without looking at it, the older woman let it flutter to the table. ‘Of course I will, dear,’ she said.

  Before leaving, Carla glanced into the kitchen and saw that the piece of paper was no longer on the table. She found it in the bin, dumped there with the breakfast scraps, and her face reddened in anger. She picked it up, brushed it down, and placed it back on the table.

  She drove off at speed. For months now, she had wanted to show her true face to the world as a police detective, rather than a harried mother-of-two and wife. Why then did she feel this wave of sorrow wash through her at the thought of her mother-in-law looking after her children? Perhaps she was not a true detective, after all. Morton was, with his shrewd silences and calm reasoning. But not her, with the tugging weight of her family and all her ordinary worries, her home life of nappies, toddler tantrums and a disgruntled husband. She drove into the car park of the police station, wondering what Morton had seen in her to believe she was capable of leading the murder investigation.

  20

  A visitor was waiting for Herron at the front desk, and when she went into the reception, she realised immediately who he must be. A tall, elderly man with shining eyes and a smile on his slightly twisted mouth, speaking to the receptionist in a soft German accent. A suitcase and a smaller carry bag stood beside him. It was Professor Eric Reichmann.

  ‘I didn’t mean to turn up without warning,’ he explained. ‘But my flight got in earlier than expected.’

  Herron had never met a professor of psychotherapy before, but she thought Reichmann looked too relaxed to be the founder of a therapy school, and the guardian of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung’s ideas on psychodynamic thought processes and behaviour. In the interview room, he opened up immediately, and began describing his relationship with Dr Pochard. As well as being a dear friend of hers, Reichmann was the director of the International Holistic Foundation and had helped the Scottish therapists set up their own society.

  ‘I was due to come over and join Jane on a walking holiday in the Trossachs,’ he explained. ‘We were both looking forward to it.’

  As well as giving the impression of complete honesty, he also seemed curious about what was going through Herron’s mind, leaning forward and watching her with his clever eyes as he spoke, striving to understand what wasn’t being expressed in her questions. Not because he had an ulterior motive, she sensed, but because this was his natural response to all human interaction: openness and curiosity.

  ‘What kind of therapist was Dr Pochard?’ asked Herron.

  ‘Beautifully balanced,’ he replied immediately. ‘Kind but firm. Practical and yet full of hope for her patients. Her powers of insight shone through her entire being.’

  ‘And as a person?’

  ‘She was a very private person. She never allowed anyone to get close to her.’

  ‘What about her family?’

  ‘She had a sister in Edinburgh, I believe. But she wasn’t in regular touch with any of her relatives. Her patients were her children, her own family. Better than most families because she got to choose its members. From what I understand her patients reciprocated.’ He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘Recently, however, Jane told me that the loneliness she felt in her personal life was enormous. She was entering a critical time in her life. She was about to end a relationship with a man who had meant a lot to her.’

  ‘Not a patient then?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  A thought shaped in her mind. Could this be the mysterious person marked ‘S’ in her diary? Laura Dunnock had had an argument with a man on the night she disappeared. Might there have been some sort of love triangle operating secretly between the two women? ‘Could the man have been a colleague at Deepwell?’ she asked.

  He smiled slightly. ‘Whatever her feelings towards her colleagues were, I cannot say for sure, but it definitely wasn’t love. She told me about the moves the staff at Deepwell were making against her after she lodged a serious complaint about what was happening on Ward G. They wanted her to resign from her post. She had several bruising meetings with Dr Barker. He accused her of trying to destroy the reputation of the hospital.’

  ‘How did she react?’

  ‘Dr Barker’s response came as a huge surprise to her. She had to endure being criticised in front of her colleagues. She told me she suddenly saw his schizoid side. You were either in or out with him. If you didn’t toe the line and accept his decisions then you were frozen out.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘She rang me on Thursday night.’

  Herron raised her eyebrows. ‘What about?’

  ‘She wanted to wish my wife and me a happy wedding anniversary. I was surprised. She’d never done that before. I realised immediately there must be some other reason she called.’

  ‘Why? Did she sound worried?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, it was a strange conversation.’ Reichmann frowned. ‘She wanted to say more, but not on the phone. I pressed her and she said it was something personal.’

  Reichmann seemed pained by Pochard’s mysterious manner and how it might have reflected upon him as an open and benevolent man, determined not to keep any secrets from the detective. ‘I tried to chat to her about general things, the weather in Scotland, our holiday plans, the latest papers on psychodynamics, but she wouldn’t be drawn.’

  ‘Dr Pochard had an appointment marked for eight o’clock on the Friday night before she died. If the patient turned up, he or she was probably the last person to see her alive.’

  ‘Who was the patient?’ asked Reichmann.

  ‘We don’t know. He or she was marked in her diary with an “S”. Did she ever discuss her patients with you?’

  ‘No. The seal of confidentiality forbids that. But she would have discussed them with her clinical supervisor.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  He flinched at the directne
ss of her question. ‘Most likely one of her colleagues at Deepwell. I know it used to be Dr Llewyn, but he’s retired now.’ He flashed an almost embarrassed smile. ‘You know that sometimes the supervisor is the puppet-master and the practising psychotherapist the mere puppet.’

  A thought struck her. ‘Who was Dr Sinden’s supervisor?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out as part of my inquiry.’

  ‘What inquiry?’

  Reichmann took a deep breath. ‘The foundation never discusses its internal operations, but I’m prepared to make an exception in this case, because you probably know too much already.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Dr Pochard made a formal complaint to me about the behaviour of one of the foundation’s members. The implication could not have been more serious. I had no option but to begin a full investigation with a commitment to handing my verdict over to the practice licensing authorities.’

  ‘And what was your verdict?’

  ‘The inquiry will be long and slow. By the time it concludes, the verdict will be irrelevant.’ The grim look on his face intensified.

  ‘What do you mean irrelevant?’

  ‘Irrelevant for Dr Sinden. He is suspended from Deepwell, the place to which he had committed his professional life. He has been ostracised and scapegoated by his colleagues who are wary of being contaminated by a professional pariah. The damage to his reputation is already permanent and severe.’

  ‘But what did you think about the way he treated the most disturbed patients on Ward G?’

  ‘It was a professional catastrophe. When a patient of his committed suicide he blamed his colleagues and accused them of not digging deep enough into the patient’s repressed memories. He accused Jane of personal weakness, of being neurotic and flawed. When Jane tried to lift the lid on his failed therapies, it started a war. By the time she contacted me, the situation had got completely out of control.’

  ‘Was the foundation sympathetic to Sinden’s approach, his belief that he could cure psychosis by digging up buried memories?’