Bex Wynter Box Set

by Elleby Harper

  “I’ve been through the computer downloads from his computer. There’s nada there to indicate any pedophilic tendencies.”

  Although his voice held an edge sharp enough to slice titanium, Quinn kept his expression painstakingly bland while he answered her.

  “Kids Commando? I don’t know what that is.” Bex was careful to keep her own voice neutral.

  “It’s a club aimed at both boys and girls giving them an opportunity to take part in adventure-based activities and camps on weekends. Hannah and Imogen went along a few times, but it wasn’t their cup of tea,” Eli answered, pocketing his phone.

  “Harley’s particular group meets Saturday mornings and Wednesday nights,” Quinn said.

  “Okay, Quinn and Reuben, make a note to visit them tomorrow night to ask what the other leaders thought of Harley and Keith. Idris and I will head out to the hospital now and check on details of Harley’s hospitalization.”

  Despite Idris’s reassurances, she was determined to keep as much distance between the two men as she could.

  * * *

  They tracked Dr. Lochlan Hier, Harley’s attending physician, to Accident and Emergency Services at Barnet Hospital. Idris drove in, following a bright yellow and green striped ambulance. He pulled the BMW 3 series unmarked car into a no-standing bay, propping the police sign up at the back on the parcel shelf. They waited as staff in green scrubs helped unload a patient from the back of the ambulance, its siren still wailing, and wheel him inside.

  As they passed through the sliding glass doors a pungent bleach-covering-vomit odor, pale yellow walls and harried, stressed voices enveloped them.

  The nurse at the reception desk gave Idris a flirtatious once-over before turning away to tap into a computer. “You’re lucky. It looks like there hasn’t been a major incident so doctor should be with you in fifteen minutes or so.”

  They hung around on the edges of what felt almost like a war zone. Under the bright lights, trollies wheeled past them, bearing a bleeding, crying, moaning parade of adults and children.

  Gritting her teeth, Bex turned her back on the teeming commotion. She kept her attention glued to a range of posters on the wall urging the populace to have their flu vaccinations, quit smoking and warnings that health professionals deserved to be treated with respect so they could do their jobs. Even a year after her car crash, she was forced to fight down the nightmare images triggered by the smells and sounds of triage.

  “Detectives?”

  Bex whirled in relief to face a weary-looking man in green scrubs. He had a broad, sloping forehead underneath a green surgical cap. Dark half-moons were gouged under muddy-brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow dusted the gaunt cheeks.

  “Yes,” she and Idris said together.

  “You’re Dr. Hier?” Bex asked.

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “I understand you want to ask a few questions. Follow me. I’ll see if we can find a quiet spot. Sorry about all this.” He waved a hand to indicate the overflowing waiting room. “We’re dealing with winter norovirus vomiting and preparing for an epidemic of something charmingly dubbed ‘Aussie flu’. Winter pressures are tough in a hospital. Old people. Homeless people. The very young. They can get hit hard at this time of year. The good news is there’s been a slight dip in admissions this week, so I can spare you five minutes. Sorry, I’m lecturing. Of course your mob in blue know all about the pressures of accomplishing more with less, don’t you?”

  Bex managed a tight smile. Her smiles didn’t come easily. In fact over the past year they had hardly come at all. But someone engaged in saving people’s lives deserved that much appreciation.

  Hier ushered them into a room the size of a storage cupboard. It held a desk with a computer and two chairs. Idris and Bex lowered themselves into the plastic bucket seats.

  “Ask away.”

  “On February 24 last year Harley Carroll was admitted to Barnet Hospital. He stayed in for twenty-four hours and was then released. We need to know what he was admitted for. Your name was on the release form,” Bex laid out the facts.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember every case I deal with.” Hier typed for several minutes before sitting back in his chair. “Harley Blake Carroll, born 14 November 2000?” he queried.

  Bex nodded.

  “He was admitted with a slit wrist.”

  “A suicide attempt?” Idris asked.

  “He denied it was. Said he was just experimenting. Yet the cuts on his left wrist, performed by his right hand, were quite deep. There are two arteries in the wrist so if you cut properly it can be an effective, although extremely painful, suicide method. Harley didn’t cut deeply enough to sever the arteries. They don’t sit on the surface so you have to go pretty deep and most people don’t. Let’s see.”

  Bex watched Hier’s eyes scan the monitor.

  “There was venous bleeding from two short-axis lacerations, no arterial lesions. He was lucky there was no nerve damage. He was sutured and bandaged. Even though he denied suicide, I arranged for a psych evaluation the next day, which is why he was in for twenty-four hours. The evaluation came back that he was not a threat to himself and he was released. I did advise Mrs Carroll that some sort of psychiatric treatment might be wise in the circumstances. Kids don’t always want to talk to their parents, especially if the parents are the root of their problems. Even though he denied the cuts were intentional, self-harm is a pretty big scream for help.”

  Bex exchanged a telling glance with Idris.

  “Did you recommend anyone?” Bex asked.

  “No, I didn’t provide her with any names.”

  A nurse hurtled into the room and he rose hurriedly. “I’m sorry, but I have patients to attend to. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, that’s fine. Thank you, Dr. Hier.”

  Bex waited for the door to close before her eyes sought Idris.

  “It seems likely that it wasn’t Andrea Carroll who was William Downer’s patient. Only there’s no record of Dr. William Downer being interviewed by the police.”

  “Barnet CID probably made the same assumption we did, that he was Andrea’s psychiatrist and didn’t follow up with either Downer or the hospital,” Idris responded.

  “Reuben called Downer’s office earlier and they wouldn’t confirm or deny Andrea was a patient. My guess is Dr. Downer will be more willing to talk if he knows I’m prepared to haul him into the station for questioning.”

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday 13 December

  The Mental Wellness Clinic was located on the third floor of a remodeled building on Fulham Road in Chelsea. Bex met Isla in the Clinic’s lobby, which was shared by psychologists, psychotherapists, psychiatrists and a professional classified as a wellness expert. Isla had been keeping tabs on the team’s progress with the case and had requested to be present at the interview. Bex’s protests to Dresden had been swept aside.

  “Dr. Downer’s not a suspect, Wynter. Ms. Standing is the accused’s legal representation. I see no reason to refuse her request.”

  “Thanks for letting me crash today’s interview,” Isla murmured.

  “It might be best if you just listen and take notes,” Bex responded with a curt nod, wanting Isla to feel she was there on sufferance.

  She passed through the frosted glass sliding doors and Isla followed.

  Inside the clinic, the walls were antiseptic white apart from a feature wall behind the reception desk which verged on bright fuschia pink. The well-padded chairs in the waiting room were of a similar color. The flooring was neutral vinyl. A strip of purplish carpet followed the curve of the reception desk, leading left towards the consulting rooms.

  Wearing a pink silk blouse that blended nicely with the décor, the receptionist smiled politely in their direction. She looked to be somewhere between thirty and a well preserved forty, with blonde-streaked hair knotted in a messy bun on top of her head. Bex noticed her thick eyelashes and wondered if they were fals
e.

  In an attempt to be discreet so as not to alarm the waiting patients, Bex leaned over the counter to say, “Bex Wynter. I phoned yesterday about seeing Dr. William Downer.”

  The receptionist’s eyes widened. Her thick lashes batted excitedly. She obviously recalled the conversation and looked to be agog to know the details of the police visit.

  “Take a seat. He’s almost finished with a client. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  While Isla lodged on one of the fuschia-colored chairs, Bex rested a shoulder against the wall. Comparing her combat-styled boots with their heavy soles to keep out the cold and her long puffy jacket with Isla’s stylish wool coat and shiny black leather boots made her feel like urban riff raff. It occurred to her that she’d never seen Isla less than perfectly groomed and wondered if she ever dialed her wardrobe down to anything considered casual.

  Isla kept her own counsel and Bex was content to leave the small talk alone.

  A few minutes later a lanky man emerged from the corridor and paused near the reception desk. He wore a sedate white shirt tucked into light tan pants and sliced in half by the thin, black line of his tie. He had a long face that accentuated sorrowful brown eyes. His hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, trailed over his collar in need of a trim. After a few quiet words with the receptionist he nodded in their direction and Bex pushed herself away from the wall.

  “Dr. Downer?”

  “Yes. Come through.”

  Bex and Isla followed him into a neat office. Soft cream walls, dim lighting and pale gray carpet greeted them. A white wood desk filled one corner but left the rest of the room available for a sofa made of squishy looking leather with an armchair facing the sofa. A small glass-topped table sat between the chairs with a box of tissues on it. There was a tiny window covered with a blind. The desk was littered with heavy textbooks and two piles of various colored folders. A battered filing cabinet stood beside the desk.

  For a moment the three of them stood in the center of the room. Bex produced her warrant card for good measure.

  “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Wynter and this is Ms. Isla Standing, barrister for Harley Carroll, a former client of yours.”

  William Downer shook hands with both of them, then gestured to the sofa for them to sit. He waited until they were seated before relaxing into the armchair.

  “As I said to you on the phone, Detective Wynter, I’m not sure I can be of much help to you. You must be aware of patient confidentiality.”

  “You do confirm that Harley Carroll was a patient of yours?” Bex pulled out her tablet to jot down notes.

  Downer didn’t consult any folders. He simply spoke as though he had memorized the facts before they turned up.

  “Yes, Harley’s mother brought him to see me for the first time on March 10 last year.”

  “I take it that was in response to Harley’s hospitalization a couple of weeks earlier?”

  “As I said, Detective, I can’t reveal any personal details.”

  “How often did you see Harley?”

  “Initially, I saw him weekly, but then we went to fortnightly sessions.”

  “Can you tell us anything about his state of mind? Anything that might have triggered his violence on the night of 31 October?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did the murder of Keith and Andrea Carroll surprise you, Dr. Downer?”

  He regarded her gravely.

  “Detective, nothing my patients do surprises me. The human mind is a complicated organ and the mental sciences is really only scratching the surface.”

  “I meant, in your sessions with him, did Harley give an indication of what he was planning?”

  Bex watched a flicker of uncertainty shadow Downer’s eyes. He glanced away from her scrutiny.

  “He was a very reticent young man about his family life. It was difficult to get him to open up.”

  “So, you’re telling me you had no idea what he was planning?” she pushed.

  Downer’s eyebrows shot up. His voice held a note of irritation.

  “I’m telling you again, that Harley spoke to me in confidence, DI Wynter.”

  Bex shifted in her seat, restraining an urge to box him around the ears. Obviously she wasn’t going to get any further on that line of enquiry so she changed tack.

  “When was your last session with Harley?”

  “I saw Harley in my offices here for the last time on October 27, just before Halloween.”

  “Were you aware that Harley had been arrested for murder?”

  “Yes, Fiona, our receptionist, brought it to my attention when she saw it on the news.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward to the police?”

  Downer spread his hands out in front of him.

  “Confidentiality between a doctor and a patient is a fine balancing act. To be honest, I didn’t feel that disclosure was in the public interest. Most of my clients prefer to keep their visits private and confidential. If Harley wanted the police to know he had been seeing me he would have told them.”

  “What sort of therapy was Harley undergoing with you?” Isla asked.

  Bex frowned at the interruption, but she was interested to hear what he would say.

  “Are you familiar with psychotherapy, Ms. Standing?” There was a hint of condescension in his voice.

  “I understand you specialize in hypnotherapy,” she replied. “I wondered if you ever undertook any hypnosis with Harley?”

  “Hypnosis is a useful tool and I do employ it where I feel it will be beneficial with a patient. But, as I keep reminding both of you, my oath prevents me from revealing any details.”

  “You can’t reveal any details without the patient’s consent, but what if I get Harley’s consent?” Isla insisted.

  He blinked several times, as though her question had caught him off guard.

  “Then, of course, yes I can talk with you about his treatment.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared back at her. “But be careful what you ask for, Ms. Standing, because I don’t believe getting access to those session tapes is going to help your client’s defense.”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday 13 December

  When Quinn and Reuben attended the “command center” for the Kids Commando Club, the sun had already set and a chill breeze dropped the temperature even lower.

  “They’re taking bets it’s going to be a white Christmas,” Reuben said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Then it’s about time you got yourself a decent overcoat, mate,” Quinn bated him. “You’re a stupid git if you’re more frightened of looking unfashionable than freezing to death.”

  “I’m impervious to cold,” Reuben claimed. “My ancestors come from Rotherham so London weather can’t make me shiver.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, mate, it’s not a good look for a copper on the job.”

  Kids Commando met in a hall that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Gothic romance. Quinn decided it had been an old church from which the stained glass had long ago been replaced with cheaper, plain glass panes. The wooden floorboards were unpolished, indented and scratched from years of kids’ antics.

  Plastic chairs were placed in small circular groups. Two older teens in moss green shirts and long pants scurried around the hallway setting up safety equipment at the climbing wall which dominated one end of the large space. A faint moldy smell hung in the air.

  “Excuse me, lads, who’s in charge here?” Quinn called.

  “That’ll be Ron Fisher. He’s in a meeting with the group leaders to finalize tonight’s program.” The youth, sporting soft down on his upper lip, indicated a door to a room tucked around the corner that had probably started life as a vestry.

  “Reuben, why don’t you stay and chat with the helpers out here. I’ll see what the leaders have to say.”

  Quinn left Reuben to his own devices.

  Behind the paneled wooden doors, a man and three women were seated around a des
k strewn with papers. Quinn flashed his warrant card.

  “What’s this about, officer?” Ron Fisher’s pale eyebrows rose interrogatively. With his barrel chest puffed out and the thin strands of his hair fluffed over a balding pate, he reminded Quinn of a bantam rooster protecting his hens.

  Quinn buried the brief surge of humor to respond with appropriate gravitas. “Detective Inspector Standing. Are you the leader of this Kids Commando club?”

  Ron Fisher stood to face Quinn.

  “I am the club’s group leader, Ronald Fisher.”

  “I have a few questions for the club about one of your former members, Harley Carroll, and his father Keith.”

  One of the women gasped and Quinn noted that concerned looks crossed all four faces as they exchanged uneasy glances between themselves.

  “Yes, well that was a terrible incident.”

  “It was a terrible murder,” Quinn stressed the last word. He didn’t believe in sugar-coating crime.

  “I thought Harley confessed and the case went to trial? Didn’t it go to trial?” Ron appealed to the three ladies, who now shuffled their chairs closer together as though determined to make a barricade.

  The group exchanged more anxious looks and the women’s heads bobbed together. They reminded Quinn more than ever of a clucking brood of hens.

  “We’re conducting another investigation before the case gets retried. If you don’t mind, I need a few minutes to ask some questions.” Quinn debated whether to interview them singly, but decided the group dynamics might offer better results.

  “First of all, were you aware that Harley was hospitalized in March last year for a suicide attempt?”

  Again the titter of ruffled feathers rippled through the group. This time the exchanged looks contained a hint of excitement with the agitation.