The Listeners

by Anthony J. Quinn

  She climbed into the passenger seat of Morton’s car and told him they would have to call at her home. She would only be a second, she promised, and, anyway, it was on their way out of Peebles. Morton drove, obedient as a chauffeur, his mouth shut tight, still reluctant to be drawn into conversation. Unable to think of anything further to say, she concentrated on the darkness of the road, and the task ahead.

  To her alarm, there was no sign of David at home, but Mrs Herron was busy in the kitchen.

  ‘What’s going on, Bernadette?’ she asked. ‘I rang and rang and no one answered.’

  ‘The phone didn’t ring here,’ said Mrs Herron as she tidied away the dishes, not looking directly at Carla.

  ‘I definitely rang this number. I don’t understand how you didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Like I said, the phone didn’t ring.’

  Carla went into the hall and checked the phone. It appeared to be working. She knew that her mother-in-law was lying, and had probably seen her number flash up on the screen and decided to ignore it. She walked back into the kitchen, her anger rising.

  ‘Where’s David?’

  ‘He went to the pub for a pint. He said he’d be back at ten.’

  It was ten thirty now but Carla let it pass. ‘I just wanted to speak to him and the children, that’s all. I have to go away until the early hours.’

  However, Mrs Herron did not appear to be listening. ‘It never rang,’ she repeated. Her small frame seemed stockier, to have grown in size, swollen by some hostile emotion towards Carla. Was it indignation at the life her daughter-in-law was leading, her freedom to come and go as she pleased, in spite of the children? Carla did not want to think of the negative judgements that had been made about her and brooded upon in her own home.

  To Carla’s dismay, Alice stepped down the stairs, looking sleepy and upset. ‘I want a hug, Mummy,’ she said.

  Carla rushed to embrace her, feeling her plans dangerously slip off track.

  ‘Did you have a good day at work, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Carla gave her another hug and took her into the kitchen. ‘Granny’s here to look after you now. We have her run off her feet.’ She looked up at Mrs Herron. ‘Will you tell David I’ll be home later, and that we’re close to solving the case?’

  ‘I’m not your secretary, hen,’ said Mrs Herron. ‘I don’t mind looking after the house and the children, but I draw the line at answering your calls and passing on your messages.’

  Carla realised that her mother-in-law had stopped calling her by her name, and had taken to regarding her with an insolent look. This evening, the phone had rung and Mrs Herron had blithely ignored it. Carla could tolerate bad manners but she could not bear anyone lying to her, especially in her own home. However, she and David needed Mrs Herron’s help, at least for as long as the investigation lasted. She fervently hoped that the case would end soon. She had paid too high a price for David to feel happy and content at home.

  The front door opened and David appeared in the hallway. He looked surprised to see Carla and his mother standing in the kitchen, confronting each other wordlessly, with Alice standing in between them.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s been a breakthrough in the investigation,’ said Carla. She thought of asking him why he hadn’t answered his phone, but she was running out of time. ‘I have to leave now.’ She saw herself in a glass panel. A woman with flushed cheeks and a guilty look in her eyes.

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘No, we need to check it out right now.’

  ‘At least you’re not going on your own,’ he said, glancing out through the front door at Morton’s car, its engine still running.

  Was it a note of reassurance or a veiled accusation she heard in his voice? Alice kept distracting her, pulling at the hem of her coat, demanding her attention.

  ‘You’d better get going then,’ said David. ‘You and your friend haven’t got all night. But then maybe you do.’

  She was aware of her mother-in-law watching her with close attention. She was searching for something in Carla’s face, some signal or clue. She realised that Mrs Herron had taken complete possession of the household, of David and the children, and the only territory beyond her control was Carla herself. She gave Mrs Herron a curt nod, and hugged Alice goodbye. She was careful to do and say the right thing. She mouthed some tender words into David’s ear. She grew self-conscious under the scrutiny of her mother-in-law. It was a relief when she finally slipped out through the door and ran to the car and Morton.

  As he drove off, Carla looked back and saw her mother-in-law standing beside David, calm, and protective, firmly installed in Carla’s sanctuary. Mrs Herron was a family person, rooted in domesticity, but did that make her a more complete or better human being? Carla wanted to be a complete person, a good person, even in one sphere of her life.

  Morton sped off, a mute statue at the driving wheel, and for the first time she relaxed in his silence, the sheltering bulk of it, glad of the chance to focus her mind and do her job properly. He guided the two of them into the night, away from the glare of towns and cities, towards the distant lapping of water, and the shadow of a murderer moving within the shadows of a forest.

  *

  The rain pelted down on the journey north to Loch Lomond. All Carla could see through the windscreen were the blazing lights of cars and the wipers swinging back and forth.

  Morton was the first to speak. ‘Relax. Don’t even think about making the breakthrough tonight.’

  However, she had not been thinking about the case at all. Far from it, she had been thinking of the humdrum world of children and interfering mothers-in-law.

  ‘You’ve got to stop thinking too much,’ said Morton. ‘Just let your thoughts float free.’

  If only he knew of the deep annoyance gnawing at her, she thought.

  Shortly after one a.m., they reached Loch Lomond and the forest where Llewyn’s log cabin was situated. Morton braked sharply and swung the car onto a gravel track. The car rolled and bounced over the uneven surface. The lights of the shaking dashboard shone on Morton’s face, but all Herron could see were his straggly hair and beard, and a pair of hooded eyes. Morton leaned closer to the windscreen, cradling the steering wheel in his hands as he concentrated on the dim track through the trees. ‘We’ll soon be there,’ he said.

  From the depths of the forest, a light blinked and then disappeared. Morton braked and the car jolted to a halt. He rolled down the windscreen and they listened to the rain and the wind stirring the branches. Morton took the initiative, pushed the door open and ran to the back of the car with surprising nimbleness for a middle-aged man who usually shuffled into the office. He pulled on his waterproof gear and threw her a spare raincoat.

  As they hurried towards the source of the light, her thoughts really did seem to grow lighter, almost buoyant. She felt detached from her home life and stopped listening to the nagging voices in her ear. She could hear the countless drips of water percolating through the leaves, and Morton up ahead, encouraging her to keep following him, talking away in a consoling tone. Or was he speaking to someone else? Another person up ahead, a shadow, a presence, odd sighing sounds, a ghostly victim or the murderer himself?

  Her phone rang suddenly, and her hand trembled as she held it to her ear.

  ‘Shaw here,’ said the voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Loch Lomond.’ She was slightly out of breath. ‘Close to finding Llewyn’s log cabin.’

  ‘Is Morton with you?’

  ‘He’s ahead of me.’

  ‘You might want to hold back.’ She heard the worry in his voice and froze. ‘I interviewed the staff at Deepwell about Monteath, like you said, and I found out…’ His voice grew faint, broke up and then steadied again. ‘… Pochard’s secretary went trawling through her work diaries. She was searching for an imaginary detective but she found a real one. A voluntary patient at Deepwell nine years ago.’ />
  ‘Who?’

  ‘Harry Morton. Apparently his treatment at Deepwell ended in 2009. Several weeks before the first mention of Inspector Monteath in any of the patient notes.’

  When she digested the revelation, it somehow made sense. ‘Everything must be interlinked,’ she said in the calmest voice she could muster. ‘Morton, Monteath, the confessions of the patients and Pochard’s murder.’

  ‘Either he’s the missing thread, or it’s just a coincidence,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Do you think he knows more than he’s letting on?’ asked Herron, hunching over the phone as if it might be broadcasting Morton’s secret to the entire forest.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Nor have I,’ said Herron, ‘but I’m on his heels.’

  ‘What should I do now?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Your sense of timing is impeccable. I want you to get help and come here as soon as possible.’ Her voice was firm and clear. ‘We’re at the south side of the loch.’ She gave him the directions and told him to hurry.

  ‘Perhaps you should find somewhere safe and wait until we get there.’

  ‘No, I’m too close to the truth.’

  She switched off the phone. Strange, she thought, how everything was falling into place just when she was at her most vulnerable. As if someone were skilfully pulling the strings in the darkness.

  33

  She put away her phone and listened hard but there was nothing to be heard above the distant lapping of the loch. The rain stopped. She stared at the black opening in the trees through which Morton had disappeared. The feathery pine branches that had engulfed him stirred in the breeze but were completely noiseless, their darkness tumbling towards her.

  She stepped cautiously along the track, the trees walling her in, until she came to a small clearing and could make out the outline of the log cabin. It looked exactly like the one in the photographs. She positioned herself behind a pine tree and watched the cabin for several minutes. Then she drew closer. There was enough light from the moon and stars to guide her towards her destination. She walked as quietly as she could, wondering where the hell Morton was. The blinds were tightly drawn on the windows but there appeared to be no light emanating from within. The night gave nothing away. It was as if the cabin was hibernating and had somehow enfolded Morton in its darkness.

  Even the surrounding trees appeared to be in a deep, motionless sleep. She found a little storehouse next to the cabin, freshly painted and locked. She reached out to touch one of the cabin’s windows and felt a slight warmth. Somebody had been heating the place. She pressed her ear against the glass and listened, but heard nothing. She withdrew into the shadows again, and wondered what she should do next. Shout for Morton or start banging on the cabin door? She had not planned to lose her colleague so abruptly. The safest thing would be to go back to the car and wait for reinforcements, but she hesitated. She was annoyed at her indecision. Perhaps Morton was standing somewhere amid the trees, deep in thought. She whispered his name, her voice sounding timid.

  She tried to tune in to the landscape as though it were a crime scene. She spotted a collection of stones shaped like a cairn at the far edge of the clearing. She drew closer. One of the rocks had a greyer pallor than the others. A rock with mangled hair and roots of blood spreading over the other stones. She gasped, feeling sweat burst onto her forehead, her eyes sliding over the sickening sight. A disembodied head lay nestled on the pile of stones, its eyes closed, its face frowning, as though it were listening to something deep within the stones. But the head was far beyond listening, far beyond the reach of words. In the nearby bracken, she found the rest of the body, slumped in defeat, as though it had dragged itself through the undergrowth in order to keep up with the head but failed.

  Sinister and deranged, she thought. Again, she felt that the location and the way the body had been left were part of the killer’s motive. An outburst of madness that was somehow part of a meticulous plan. She saw a framework in operation. The lines of trees, the glinting body of water, the head and body abandoned at a loose cairn, a tableau of murder, and paths everywhere, wriggling through the undergrowth. A stage based on the pseudo-confessions of the patients from Ward G, the same stage that had been photographed numerous times by the psychotherapists at Deepwell. This wasn’t a murder conducted on the spur of the moment, she thought, as she retreated slowly from the clearing, making sure that as little as possible was disturbed for the forensics.

  She heard a twig snap behind her and gave a start. She turned round and saw a figure standing at the fringe of trees with his back to her. She recognised Morton’s long raincoat, but for some reason he was ignoring her, his hands plunged in his pockets as though he did not give a damn for her or the investigation. She switched on her flashlight and shone it upon him, but he hunched down his head.

  ‘It’s me,’ shouted Herron. Why won’t he speak? Why was he being so secretive? She started talking to him hesitantly, approaching him with caution, imagining that he had turned into Inspector Monteath. His silence was as unflinching as ever. She felt her anxiety return. Something told her that the moment of greatest danger was approaching. What else could Morton’s silence mean? Was it a warning signal against some unseen danger?

  The figure coughed deeply, painfully. However, it was not Morton’s cough, it was an old man’s racking wheeze. Nor was the face that turned towards her Morton’s. It was the face of a man she had seen only in photographs, gaping back at her, unmoved by her presence and the probing light of the torch. Finally, she had tracked down Dr Llewyn, but what was he doing wearing Morton’s raincoat?

  ‘Who are you?’ said Llewyn. ‘What do you want?’

  She introduced herself and asked him what he was doing.

  ‘I came here because Chisholm called me,’ said Llewyn. ‘He wanted to admit to what happened to these poor women.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ she asked. ‘What could justify killing them? What really happened on Ward G?’ The questions appeared to confuse the psychotherapist. ‘Did you make Chisholm follow your wishes?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes during therapy, I would direct him in subtle little ways. But only ever in the interests of the therapeutic process.’

  ‘And to kill these women?’

  ‘Billy always liked to impress. He was prone to satisfying other people’s wishes to gain their approval. He could make himself believe that he had been involved in events that he had dreamed up.’

  ‘Such as Pochard’s murder?’

  Llewyn sighed. ‘She was dragging my life’s work into the gutter,’ he said, his face sagging with contempt.

  ‘And you wanted to protect your reputation?’

  He frowned. He had not liked that question. ‘All this is like a bad dream, but somehow not as clear as a dream. Everything made sense in Chisholm’s fantasy forest.’ A look of sadness passed over his face. ‘I have to go now,’ he said.

  She heard the wind rush through the trees behind her, a sense of the air quickening, and the needles of the pine trees bristling. Llewyn’s gaze was fixed on a point behind her, and she wondered what he was staring at.

  ‘You have to stay here,’ she warned him.

  Llewyn stiffened and crouched in the darkness, and then a sudden blow to the back of her head made her stumble to the ground, her vision blurred. A part of her tried to save herself, searching for defences, wielding her torch, but her arms and legs had other notions. She could hear a man’s heavy breathing upon her. The next blow left her sprawled upon the ground. Before she slipped into unconsciousness, an image came to her. She saw the great dark dome of the forest settling over her, the tall trees poised upright and their prickling shadows invading her body, while far above in the night, a violent storm raged.

  34

  Carla awoke, sightless and powerless, plunged in darkness in a space which she sensed was small and enclosed, not knowing for sure, in spite of the heavy rustling movements beside her, whether she was alone or not. She could t
ell that she was lying on her side with her hands and feet tied, and that a gag had been placed across her mouth. Was her blindness due to the blow to her head? She was aware of a trickle of blood from her scalp, and a dull pain in her neck, but she was unable to take an inventory of her injuries. One part of her body felt much colder than the other, a coldness that was like sinking slowly into mud.

  She heard a gasp beside her, and the sound of a body struggling against ropes. She had a companion, close enough to hear the person’s laboured breathing, and a smell of deodorant mixed with smoker’s breath that she recognised as Morton’s. The discovery did not reassure her. It made her feel more like a doomed captive. During the entire investigation she had carried on blindly, struggling against hidden forces. Everything she and Morton had done to date felt like a rehearsal for this final struggle in the dark.

  She tried to communicate through the gag, but all that came out was a series of muffled grunts. By accident, she kicked Morton’s leg. She sensed his body grow quiet and alert. He grunted back at her. It sounded reassuring. For several moments, she listened to the measure of his breathing, the little rasps and sighs, the stale air their lungs exchanged, as though they were finally having a conversation, really talking together at last. However, she was glad that neither of them could express themselves in words because that would have betrayed the true extent of their fear. Before, she had always been anxious to understand what was on his mind, frustrated by his moroseness, his ability to turn away and sweep out of the room without saying a single thing, and now that he was just this heavy lurking presence in the darkness, so close she could smell his breath, the sense of his inner life was overwhelming.