by Val McDermid
And so it had begun. After that first session, Tony knew he’d found someone who could help him live with himself and his work, his achievements and his mistakes. Luckily for him, Jacob Gold had also discovered someone worth breaking his own rules for.
Tony had always conceived of the role of supervisor as analogous to that of the priest in confessional. As he understood it, the theory of Catholic confession was that you went when you had sins to confess; that the priest helped you to see the error of your ways; that you underwent a penance to remind you of the way, the truth and the light; that you departed, ostensibly to sin no more; and that whatever you brought into the box stayed between you and the priest. And presumably, God. Though He never seemed to intrude much on the practical proceedings of the Church.
Tony made an appointment with Dr Gold once or twice a year, when some aspect of his clinical practice was troubling him, when he felt he wasn’t dealing well with some element of his professional life, or, more rarely, when his personal life was throwing him conundrums he couldn’t readily solve. A fifty-minute hour under Jacob’s gentle probing usually suggested a solution to whatever he’d brought to the session. At the very least, it brought Tony a degree of clarity. The equivalent of Catholic penance was the process of digging away at the roots of the issue during their session. And of course, he would leave with the firm intention of making the changes that would resolve his difficulty.
And often he would fail.
But that was part of the process too.
Tony knew he should have talked sooner to Jacob after the debacle with Jacko Vance. He was conscious that he’d been avoiding it. Jacob, who wore his supervision lightly, had clearly been well aware of the media coverage and had left a message of support. Which, in the terms of their relationship, had been the equivalent of shouting, ‘Oi, get your arse down here, pronto.’
But he was here now, and that was what mattered. Today, he’d chosen the armchair rather than the chaise longue. Jacob sat across from him, long legs crossed, an elegant notebook open on his lap, Mont Blanc pen lying in the crack between the thick cream pages. ‘How are you?’ It was the question that always began their sessions. Unless Jacob had been living on a desert island with no access to the electronic media, he had to have a pretty good idea, given the coverage of the recent events in his life.
‘Well, let me see.’ Tony steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘BMP decided they no longer need my services, my new home was burned to the ground, people died because I wasn’t good enough at my job and Carol walked out of my life because she needs someone to blame for her brother’s murder and in her head, I’m that someone. By the same argument, another colleague would have grounds for blaming me for the fact that she’s been blinded and disfigured for life from acid burns, but she’s forgiven me and I’m not sure, but that almost feels worse. I’m living on a boat with my books in storage, but on the positive side, one of my former police colleagues came round last night looking for my insights. Apart from that, Mrs Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?’ His tone was light but he knew that wouldn’t fool Jacob. Hell, it wouldn’t fool a block of wood.
‘And which item in this catalogue of disaster is the one that costs you most peace of mind, would you say?’
The trick with these sessions, Tony had found, was to try to answer without pausing for thought. His discomfort generally came from thinking too much. Trying something different was one of the reasons for supervision. So he replied at once. ‘Carol. I failed her. And she’s out of my life. I don’t even know where she’s living. What she’s doing to get through the days. And I miss her. Every single day, I miss her.’
‘What makes you think you failed her?’
‘I’m supposed to be able to work out what’s going on inside the heads of people with aberrant minds. But on this case, I was thinking in straight lines. It’s as if I forgot I was dealing with someone whose defining characteristic was wrong-footing everyone around him. I didn’t explore the possibilities properly. I had half my mind on other things and I didn’t drill down deep enough. And people died. Among them Carol’s brother and his partner.’ Tony hung his head, the sense of failure as vivid as it had been at the time. ‘If I’d been rigorous, they would have been warned. And the chances are, they’d be alive today.’
‘You know this is magical thinking, don’t you? You’re claiming control over circumstances you can’t control.’
‘Don’t, Jacob. Don’t try and get me to let myself off the hook. I know I didn’t do my job well enough. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m looking for a way to move forward from the consequences.’
Jacob picked up his pen and made a short note. Just a few words. ‘To move forward, you have to accept the truth of a situation. Not persist in myth-making. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘It’s not myth-making. It’s acknowledging failure.’
Jacob’s considering expression didn’t alter. ‘He was a clever man, your opponent?’
‘Yes. An exemplar of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. An arch-manipulator.’
‘So, a man perfectly capable of second-guessing whatever tactics you might have chosen to employ against him?’
Tony gripped the arms of his chair. ‘Maybe. You’re saying he would have found a way to circumvent whatever defences I’d constructed?’
‘He had the advantage. He was working in the shadows. In the interstices. It’s impossible to guard against someone like that if they are clever enough and determined enough. He was determined to have his revenge. Or so it seems to me. Does it seem so to you?’
It was an invitation to a shift of perspective. Tony wanted to grasp it, but that very desire made him suspicious. ‘I think I should have stopped him.’
‘You don’t think you might be taking responsibility for the actions of another?’
‘I know I didn’t kill Michael and Lucy. I know I have no direct responsibility for what happened. But I can’t escape the indirect responsibility. It’s what Carol believes too.’
‘If Carol didn’t hold you responsible, do you think you would feel this level of guilt? This is not the first time that victims have died in the course of an investigation you’ve been party to. I’ve sat in this room and listened to your grief on that score. But all I have heard from you in terms of responsibility is a wish that you could have done better or done differently. Not this scourging guilt.’
And this time, Tony had no instant reply. At last, he said, ‘Adler would have had a field day with this, right?’
‘How might he have characterised this, do you think? How would you characterise it if a patient presented with this shift in their belief system?’
‘I’d think it was hubris. I had a friend once. She knew me when I was a teenager. She was kind to me, but she thought I needed toughening up. She used to say, “You’re like a man with a big nose who thinks everybody’s talking about him. Well, they’re not, and the sooner you thicken that skin of yours, the happier you’ll be.”’
‘Was she right, do you think?’
Tony gave a rueful chuckle. ‘I don’t think I ever learned the lesson. I’ve always thought that was why I had such powerful empathy.’
Jacob nodded, so slight a movement that Tony wondered whether he’d imagined it. ‘And still you haven’t answered the question. If Carol didn’t hold you responsible, do you think you would feel this level of guilt?’
‘Probably not.’ The honesty was hard but there was no point in being here if he didn’t try.
‘And if this source of feeling bad about yourself was reduced or removed, do you think the other things that are causing you difficulties would be made easier?’
‘That’s one of those questions that provokes only one answer,’ Tony said, an edge of annoyance in his voice.
‘And that may well be why you need to ask it.’ Jacob sighed. He closed his notebook and put it on the floor next to him, pen aligned with the end. ‘Tony, I’ve been your supervisor for many years. I like to think I have f
ormed a good idea of how you function. I know you have made an accommodation with aspects of your personality that many people would find problematic. I also know you want to move forward in your practice and in your personal life. For a long time, Carol Jordan has been the centre of your emotional life. At times, she has appeared to be the only component of your emotional life. Would that be a fair assessment?’
Tony’s shoulders were tightening involuntarily. He had an uneasy sensation in his stomach. Jacob had never spoken to him in these terms. He’d probably never actually said so much in the whole of a session before. ‘I do have other friendships,’ he said, hearing his own defensiveness. And who were those other friends, when the chips were down? Paula? Alvin Ambrose? Cops who had been colleagues and had grown into more than that. But not the kind of friends most people had. Nobody he went to the football with. Nobody he was on a pub quiz team with. Nobody he’d kept up with from his student days. Nobody he went hillwalking with. Not even anybody he regularly gamed with online.
‘The only one you’ve been bringing into this room for years is Carol.’
‘You think it’s going nowhere, don’t you? You think it’s holding me back? Trapping me in the same place?’
Jacob breathed heavily and pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose in a rare moment of fidgeting. ‘It’s not what I think that matters. But we both know there is significance in you even asking those questions in those terms.’
Tony’s expression was bleak, his eyes blank. ‘In so far as I’ve ever loved anyone, I love Carol.’ Even to say it was a wrench, like something twisting in his gut.
‘What would happen if you let that feeling go?’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t just let feelings go.’
‘You can allow time to release you from them. Grief and mourning are part of the process, but there is a process. When you clear out the attic, it’s amazing what you make room for.’ Jacob sighed again. ‘It’s not my job as a supervisor or as a therapist to tell you what to do. But I will say this: living with so much pain is neither healthy nor necessary. You need to look at your life and decide what really serves you. And what you should let go.’
‘You’ve helped me understand one thing today. If it had been anyone else’s brother, I would feel bad about it. But I wouldn’t be taking all the weight. I need to think about what that means for me.’
‘You don’t have to carry this alone. You can always bring it here. And as you reminded me, you have friends. You will find comfort.’ Abruptly, he stood up. ‘Would you wait a moment?’
Jacob left the room without a backward glance. Baffled, Tony stared at the closed door. Jacob had never walked out of a session before, no matter how challenging it had become. What was going on? Had his supervisor heard something outside the room that he’d missed? He fretted over what had happened, finding that easier than returning to his own problems.
And then Jacob was back, carrying a slim hardback book with an olive-green and cream jacket. He handed it to Tony. Rings on a Tree by Norman MacCaig. ‘I don’t know how you feel about poetry. But I find it helpful as a way of interrogating myself and my own process. There is a poem in this collection, “Truth for Comfort”. I think it would be a good place for you to start.’
‘You want me to cure myself with poetry?’ He couldn’t help his incredulity showing. Jacob, that rigorous psychologist, suggesting poetry was like Elinor Blessing suggesting crystal healing as a cancer treatment.
Jacob smiled, settled into his chair. ‘There is no cure for what ails us, Tony. But I think we can manage something better than palliative care, don’t you? And so, how is work?’
That was one of the things Tony liked about working with Jacob. He didn’t linger once the patient had understood his next step. ‘I’m on a part-time contract at Bradfield Moor again,’ he said. ‘They seem happy to have me back. And I like the work.’ He outlined the bare bones of his clinical practice, explaining his thinking in a couple of interesting cases.
‘And the profiling?’
‘Bradfield don’t want me any more. They say it’s about economy, but I think it might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t hit it off with their new Chief Constable. James Blake and I, we’re chalk and cheese.’ Before Jacob could say anything, Tony held up one finger. ‘Which I am not blaming myself for. It’s one of those things. I’m doing bits and pieces with other forces, but there really are cuts that are affecting outside experts like me. They see us as a luxury they can’t afford. And with them training up their own so-called experts…’ He puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out. ‘I miss the work. I like it and I’m good at it.’
‘You are.’ Jacob took off his glasses and polished them. It was weird to see him shifting around so much. ‘And I have been thinking about that too. A man who has found his calling should be able to practise it, wouldn’t you say?’
Tony grinned. ‘Some might say it’s better to have no call for someone with my particular skills.’
‘There is, I think, nobody with your expertise and experience in the field. It’s time you shared that, Tony.’
He held his hands up, defensive. ‘Oh no. No more teaching. I’m not doing dog-and-pony shows again.’
‘I’m not talking about the academic life. I’m talking about writing a book. Taking the reader through your custom and practice. Showing and telling how you profile, how you resolve cases. How you work with the police, how you make your arguments. There is nothing comparable out there, Tony. You could create a future generation of profilers in your image. If the police are going to train their own, don’t you think they should be informed by best practice?’
Tony shook his head, almost laughing. ‘I’m not a writer. That’s not my skill set.’
‘You’re a communicator, though. And publishers have editors to make your prose pretty. Don’t make a decision now. Go away and think about it. It may provide you with a double satisfaction. Working through those old cases might help you work through your other process. Cleansing, not wallowing.’ Jacob looked at his watch. ‘Our time is up.’ He stood up and pointed to the book of poetry. ‘Think about what we’ve talked about. Remember what they say about bridges. The hard thing is to know which ones to cross and which ones to burn. Make some changes, Tony.’
Tony gave a wry smile and scrambled to his feet. ‘Physician, heal thyself?’ But even as he spoke, he knew he was trying to make light of what might be the most difficult choice of his adult life. Was it really time to cut Carol Jordan out of his heart for good?
25
A quick pass through Nadia Wilkowa’s Facebook page had indentified the two friends in her memo-board photos as Ashley Marr and Anya Burba. Anya was a teaching assistant in a primary school in Todmorden, a twenty-minute drive from Bradfield. Ashley was closer, a receptionist in a GP-run health centre in Harriestown, a ten-minute walk from Nadia’s flat. Fielding decided Ashley would be their first target. The head receptionist wasn’t thrilled when they asked to interview her, but Fielding made it clear she wasn’t going to argue the toss. With a great deal of emphatic breathing, the receptionist showed them into a tiny room with four chairs and a table. ‘It looks more suited to a poker school than anything medical,’ Paula muttered as the woman left them alone so she could fetch Ashley.
‘Let’s hope Ms Marr doesn’t have a poker face,’ Fielding said. ‘Right then, McIntyre, let’s see what you’re made of. You lead off on the interview.’
Paula was gratified at Fielding’s confidence in her. But there was no opportunity for her to say so. Ashley Marr stuck her head round the door, looking more confused than worried. ‘Are you the police? Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’
There was no mistaking the woman in the photo. Ashley looked in her mid-twenties. She had a round, cheerful face framed with a mop of auburn hair. Her large green eyes were widely spaced and coupled with a neat little nose and a small mouth, they gave her the look of a happy kitten. Her black jeans and pink
jumper were both tight, as if she’d put on a few pounds since she’d bought them. Paula gave her a welcoming smile. Best to keep things relaxed and informal till they got the young woman settled, then hit her with the bad news. ‘Come in, Ashley. I’m Paula McIntyre and this is Alex Fielding. We’re police detectives here in Bradfield. Have a seat, please.’ Paula waved her to the chair furthest from the door and sat down at right angles to her.
Ashley perched on the edge of the chair. ‘I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything. What’s all this about? Do I need a lawyer? They always ask for a lawyer on the telly.’
Paula inwardly cursed the ubiquitous inaccuracies of TV drama. ‘You really don’t need a lawyer. It’s nothing you’ve done, Ashley. We need to talk to you about one of your friends.’ From her bag, she produced a copy of one of the photos from Nadia’s kitchen. She pointed to Nadia. ‘Do you recognise this person?’
Ashley looked scared. ‘It’s Nad. My mate, Nad. Nadia. What’s happened to her? Why are you here?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some very sad news, Ashley.’ Paula reached across the angle of the table and put a hand over hers. ‘Nadia’s dead.’
The colour drained from Ashley’s cheeks, making her pale freckles distinct as a rash. Her hands flew to the sides of her head and she looked stunned. ‘I don’t believe it. Not Nad. You must have made a mistake. It’s her mum that’s got cancer, not her.’
‘There’s no mistake, Ashley. I’m very sorry. I know this is a terrible time for you, but we really need your help.’
‘Can we get you a cup of tea or a drink of water?’ Fielding leaned forward and for a moment, Paula could see that she’d be the kind of mother you could rely on.
Ashley shook her head. ‘What happened? How can she be dead? She’s in Poland, she texted me only the other day, saying the weather was crap where she was and how she was looking forward to coming home.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘She never texted me on Monday, is that when she died?’ Paula felt Fielding’s quick glance at her. The squatters had returned on Tuesday morning to find Nadia’s body in their living room. It looked as if the killer saw no need to pretend Nadia was alive after he’d murdered her. He simply wanted to prevent anyone raising the alarm while she was still with him.