I urge you to continue to practise levels of processing as we have discussed previously. Your memories are your friend, not your enemy. They are the way to control your guilty feelings.
You must stay strong, Laurence. I am always just a mouse click away if you need me.
Kyle Irving APC, Bsc.
Approved online psychology counseling
Below was Paton’s original email Irving was replying to.
Kyle,
I’m really struggling to cope with this right now. I keep thinking about her and I can’t sleep at nights. I just keep seeing the look on her face as we walked across that ice. Every time I close my eyes she is looking back at me, asking me why. Wanting to know why I left her there, all cold and alone on that island.
I keep dreaming about the skater spinning, spinning, spinning, turning round and round in my head. Sometimes I think I can feel her pink gloves tickling my bare hands. I wake up and she’s gone again.
I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. I need your help. Please.
Laurence
Winter’s heart slammed into his chest and he realised his breathing was quick and hard. He felt his skin tingle the way it did when he had a camera in his hand and a broken body to photograph. The email might as well have been drenched in blood given the effect it had on him. He pulled the compact camera from where it nestled in his back pocket and photographed the screen in front of him, making sure he’d be able to show Rachel just what he’d found.
‘Okay, paydirt,’ Danny was saying behind him. ‘Get your photos taken, then let’s get out of here. The longer we stay, the greater the risk.’
‘No, hang on. There’s more.’
Tony’s eyes had fallen on another email subject line and his pulse quickened as the adrenalin shot round his body once again. It read simply ‘November 1993’ and it was dated just a couple of days before Paton fell to his death. Winter quickly clicked on it, anxious to see what was inside. His eyes darted from the header to the content, taking it all in at once, knowing that he’d hit the jackpot even if he didn’t know what to make of it.
It had been sent by someone with the email address [email protected] and the dynamite was in the message.
You seem to think I’m kidding so I will have to prove to you that I’m deadly serious. The choice is yours. Make it quick.
‘Oh, fucking great,’ Winter could hear Danny sighing behind him.
The email was unsigned beyond the anonymous ‘justice1993’ tag and it didn’t take a detective to work out what that represented. Rachel’s dad had been right all along, Winter was sure of it. It had been Paton who’d killed the girl in the lake. What else could this email mean? But who had sent it and how the hell did he or she know what Paton had done? And did Paton’s death mean he’d ignored the threat that was implicit in the email?
Winter photographed the email, then exited it to scroll further down the inbox, quickly seeing another email from the same sender, then another further down. He went to the one that was sent first, noting the date on it and realising it was sent on the Monday after he and Rachel had spent the weekend nosing around the Lake of Menteith. That was a coincidence too far for his liking. It seemed certain that Rachel’s intentions to stir things up had had an immediate effect after all.
He opened the first email and felt the rush again as he was hit by another bombshell. This one had been sent not just to Paton but to three other addresses. None of the other recipients was named as such and were only identified by e-addresses that seemed to be a mixture of nicknames and numbers.
[email protected];
[email protected]; [email protected]
November 1993. Lake of Menteith. I don’t imagine that any of you have forgotten it. But I bet you were hoping everyone else had. No such luck.
Justice
There was an attachment in the email and when Tony clicked on it, a .jpg opened immediately and his heart missed several beats as he saw it was a scanned copy of the advert that Rachel had placed in the Sunday papers.
Winter managed to find his camera in his hand and focused his attentions on taking a screen grab to ensure they had a note of all the email addresses. Behind him, Danny was swearing and growling under his breath.
Suddenly a noise that came through the wall made both men stop stock-still and they could hear their heart pounding. The initial noise – maybe a floorboard creaking, maybe someone on the move next door – was repeated. Neilson motioned to Winter to stand still. After what seemed like an age, they heard a toilet flush from the next house and they both began to breathe again. Neilson gestured at his watch, indicating that they should hurry and get the hell out of there. Winter shook his head and pointed at the computer screen.
He clicked into the sent folder but it was completely empty, as was the delete one. Paton was either a very organised man, keen to conserve his mailbox limit, or else he was pretty good at covering his tracks. Winter went back into the inbox, wondering how many other emails from the man calling himself Justice had been killed off, and opened the remaining email from Paton’s persecutor.
You must pay for what you have done. There are two ways for that to happen: money or cold justice.
Attached below was Paton’s reply to the original email.
Who is this? What the hell do you want? Leave me alone.
CHAPTER 19
Wednesday 5 December. 11.30 a.m.
Kyle Irving’s ‘office’ turned out to be a house on the south side, just off Shields Road. The leafy drive and the year-old Saab that sat on it suggested the man did rather well out of his pseudo counselling advice. Narey parked up next to Irving’s car and rang the doorbell.
She thought she saw a curtain twitch in her peripheral vision, somewhere on the first floor, and it took a while before she heard footsteps approach the door. It swung open to reveal a man in his early fifties with sandy brown hair and a pair of silver spectacles low on the bridge of his freckled nose. A heavy cardigan was buttoned tightly over an open-necked shirt and a pair of slippers peeped out beneath faded denims. The man looked at Narey with curiosity.
‘Mr Irving?’
‘Dr Irving. Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey of Strathclyde Police. May I come in?’
Irving’s eyes narrowed cautiously and Narey could see his brain working overtime.
‘May I ask what this is in connection with?’ His voice was the gravelly product of many cigarettes.
‘I’d rather explain inside, Dr Irving. It’s a delicate matter.’
The answer didn’t seem to appease Irving much but he pulled the door wide, reluctantly allowing her inside. Narey quickly stepped through the door and into a hallway that smelled vaguely damp underneath the pervasive odour of stale tobacco smoke. The hall was cluttered with books, bags and umbrellas and looked as if it could stand a lick of fresh paint.
Without glancing back, Irving turned right into a room, clearly expecting Narey to follow him. She’d already decided she didn’t like the man and any chances of her going easy on him were disappearing fast. He had led her into a room that seemed to double as a study and a sitting room. Two large bookshelves stood against one wall, the contents apparently split between large textbooks in one and paperback novels in the other. There was a television in one corner and a tired-looking sofa separated it from a dining table that supported a computer and printer. Despite there being radiators on two of the walls, the room was freezing.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Irving invited her, his tone more welcoming than before. A case of prudence being the mother of politeness, Narey assumed. The man had obviously thought better of his brusque approach.
Narey thanked him and eased herself into the lone armchair, feeling a spring groan inhospitably beneath her as she sat down. Irving’s furniture had seen better days. Interesting.
‘Dr Irving, I am here in connection with a client of yours. I believe . . .’
‘Let me stop you there,
Sergeant Narey,’ Irving interrupted. ‘You must realise I am unable to discuss my clients with you. It’s a clearly established matter of patient confidentiality that cannot be breached.’
Narey sighed internally.
‘I realise you won’t discuss the precise nature of your dialogue with your client but that doesn’t preclude you from confirming someone is a client.’
Irving looked at her stonily for a few seconds before giving a curt nod.
‘Okay.’
‘Thank you. The client in question is Laurence Paton.’
There was the merest flicker in Irving’s eyes and a tiny contraction of his temples. Narey got the distinct feeling the man had already made the decision not to register any emotion whatever name was presented to him – or perhaps to the name he was expecting. Irving was deliberating before having to give the simplest of answers.
‘Yes, I was helping Laurence.’
Narey nodded. However, she wanted much more.
‘It would be very helpful if you could tell me about the nature of the help you were providing Mr Paton.’
Irving bristled and a look of undisguised frustration hung heavily on his worn features.
‘Sergeant, I told you . . .’
‘And while I do understand the convention of client–patient confidentiality,’ she continued, ignoring his protest, ‘I also know that in this particular case there is cause to believe you had a duty to warn with regard to Mr Paton’s state of mind.’
Irving’s mouth abruptly opened and closed again and he looked both furious and troubled.
It was a bluff on her part but ‘duty to warn’ was the one thing Narey knew overrode the psychologist–client confidentiality contract, and there was enough in Paton’s email exchange to make it worth her playing that card.
‘Now really, Sergeant,’ Irving blustered. ‘If you are accusing me of falling below professional standards, then I must protest. I can assure you . . .’
Narey cut across him again.
‘Dr Irving, I have reason to believe you had a duty to warn that Laurence Paton represented a danger either to himself or to others. In such a circumstance, you must inform a third party or the authorities, am I correct?’
Irving stared back at her, again seemingly desperate to betray no emotion.
‘That is correct but what evidence do you have to suggest Laurence posed such a threat, Sergeant?’
‘Mr Paton is dead, Dr Irving.’
There it was again. The same waver in the man’s eyes, the same twitch at his forehead. Knowledge or shock or something else in disguise? It had been five days since Paton had died and it was quite possible, if their only contact had been by email, that Irving wouldn’t know what had happened to him.
‘That’s . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t know that.’
The man was flustered and Narey went for the throat.
‘Mr Paton’s death clearly gives substantial weight to our belief that you had reason to think he might harm himself. That is something we are obliged to take very seriously.’
Irving blinked at her.
‘But he . . . how did he die? And how on earth did you have access to any information that might have made you think that . . . I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge either of those things to you at the moment, Dr Irving,’ she lied.
Irving glared at her, his attempts to keep his emotions hidden from her proving an increasing struggle. Instead he settled for another lengthy pause.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘That’s a rather wide scope, Sergeant. Could you be more specific?’
‘Did you ever meet Mr Paton face to face?’
‘No. Never.’
‘So all your conversations were by email?’
‘And occasionally by telephone.’
‘So I assume that you will have copies of the emails he sent to you for your records.’
Irving shook his head.
‘No. That would be quite unprofessional and would breach the Data Protection Act. I deleted each email once I’d responded to it. I believe Laurence did the same.’
Narey had a strong urge to slap Irving’s face but resisted it.
‘What was troubling Mr Paton?’
Irving made a great play of sighing and letting his head fall to his chest before replying. He was clearly going to be as difficult as possible and make it obvious he was acting under duress.
‘Laurence was suffering from depression as a result of antecedent conflict.’
It was Narey’s turn to sigh. Psychobabble, here we come, Narey thought.
‘The concept of antecedent conflict is that it is categorised as resulting from a trauma suffered in childhood,’ she argued. ‘Are you saying that was what happened in Mr Paton’s case?’
Irving’s eyes grew wide but he kept his mouth firmly closed.
‘Which university did you graduate from, Dr Irving?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Which university did you get your doctorate from?’
‘I don’t really see what that has to do with anything.’
‘I was just curious.’
‘Grantchester University.’
Narey feigned puzzlement.
‘I must admit I’m not familiar with that particular establishment, Dr Irving. Is that one of the colleges that got upgraded to university status?’
The man squirmed uncomfortably but held his chin high.
‘No. It’s actually an American university. It’s rather highly regarded.’
‘Really? That must have been quite an experience, studying in the US. Which city were you in?’
Irving shook his head in exasperation and Narey could see his anger growing.
‘I wasn’t actually there,’ he conceded irritably. ‘It was a correspondence-based curriculum but nevertheless . . .’
‘Ah, I see,’ she let her words linger in the air for effect. ‘As I was saying, are you telling me that Mr Paton’s problems stemmed from an incident in his childhood? Or was it perhaps something later in his life? Which was it, Mr Irving?’
The man bridled at the lack of title and Narey relished his indignant fury.
‘Doctor Irving,’ he corrected her, his attempts at hiding his emotions crashing on the rocks of his ego. ‘It’s Doctor Irving.’
‘My apologies, Doctor. Did you acquire that title from the same university as your degree?’
‘Sergeant, I . . .’
Narey didn’t want to hear his bleatings.
‘When did this supposedly traumatic incident take place?’
‘Later.’
‘In his twenties?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the Lake of Menteith?’
Irving’s eyes widened again. ‘Yes, I think so. Yes.’
‘Tell me what you know.’
Irving ran his hand anxiously through his thinning hair and his eyes scrunched closed.
‘Laurence suffered from chronic sleep deprivation as a manifestation of trying to avoid particular recurring dreams. This had a damaging consequence on his health and his ability to function properly within a work environment. Criticism from school management was increasing his issues with self-esteem and also provoking unmanageable levels of stress, as he feared losing his job. I was helping him deal with these concerns.’
‘What were the dreams?’
Irving looked into a corner of the ceiling as if seeking an escape route.
‘Laurence told me he would constantly dream about walking on water. This is typically a dream indicating the subject has complete control of his or her emotions yet this was clearly not the case with Laurence. He . . .’
‘Cut the bullshit, Doctor. We both know the water was frozen over.’
‘Yes. He said that in his dream he was walking on a frozen lake. There was a girl by his side and they walked together to an island. They were surrounded by other people at first, who gradually left until there was just
the two of them. He wouldn’t dream about what happened on the island but the next thing he knew he would be walking back on his own and every footstep he took the ice would melt completely behind him and he would always be only inches away from falling into the lake.’
Narey was aware of the hairs standing up on the back of her neck.
‘Was it your belief this dream was based on something that did actually occur?’
Irving’s eyes fell to the floor.
‘Did Paton ever tell you that he killed the girl on Inchmahome Island?’
‘No.’
Narey stared hard at the therapist, forcing him to return her gaze.
‘Did he ever tell you he didn’t kill the girl?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever ask either of those questions?’
‘No.’
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘Because that wasn’t my job. My brief wasn’t to investigate the legal or moral questions of what may or may not have happened but rather to deal with the psychological consequences.’
‘Yeah? Well, you should have fucking asked him anyway.’
Narey was still standing on the doorstep, her eyes boring into Irving’s, when the man slammed the door in her face. She was left with her nose inches from a white door that was in dire need of a paint job.
‘We’ll talk again, Mister Irving,’ she announced loudly, a grim but satisfied smile on her face. ‘You can count on it.’
CHAPTER 20
‘Irving is a fraud. A snake oil salesman with a pretend degree from a pretend online university and a doctorate you can bet he bought in hard cash. The man’s no more a therapist than I am.’
They were sitting round Rachel’s dining table again, their three-strong council of war reconvening after her meeting with Irving and Tony and Danny’s return from investigations of their own.
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