Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  ‘This gift, sir …?’

  ‘A sort of wooden toy.’

  ‘A dinosaur?’

  ‘Yes. I believe so.’

  That detail confirmed, Fry decided to try a different tack.

  ‘What about a man called Simon Nichols? Did you have any dealings with him, Mr Lowther?’

  ‘Nichols? No, the name means nothing to me. Who is he?’

  ‘Somebody else Miss Shepherd was in contact with.’

  Lowther screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘I always had the impression she had an associate of some kind. Perhaps more than one.’

  ‘Did she never mention any names? What about Simcho Nikolov?’

  ‘No, no. She was very careful, you know.’

  ‘Not careful enough, in the end.’

  He grimaced. ‘I think she must have lost touch during these last few months. It’s easy to lose contact with the real world when you cut yourself off like that. Poor Miss Shepherd.’

  ‘I don’t really understand why Brian and Lindsay were so desperate to adopt,’ said Fry.

  ‘As I said, Lindsay really, really wanted a girl. It was so important to her.’

  ‘But, still — they could have waited a bit longer, couldn’t they?’

  Lowther coughed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, as I said … there was a problem. About three years ago, Brian had mumps. When you get them as an adult, it’s a very serious condition. It can cause infertility.’

  ‘And that’s what happened to your son-in-law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you aware of any problems in your daughter’s marriage?’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Between Lindsay and Brian. Had they been having arguments recently?’

  ‘Most married couples do have disagreements,’ said Lowther stiffly. ‘As I said, we all went through a bad period during the adoption, which put a bit of pressure on everybody. Tensions spill over now and then. But recently …?’

  He looked at his wife, who seemed even more reluctant. ‘If they had problems, then it was a personal matter between themselves. Young women don’t tell their mothers everything these days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Lowther, where is your son-in-law?’

  Neither of them answered her, and she began to get angry.

  ‘And your granddaughter? She isn’t here today. So where is she? Where are Brian and Luanne?’

  The Lowthers looked at each other again.

  ‘We don’t know.’

  Fry’s mobile rang, and she saw from the display that the call was from Gavin Murfin.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  She stepped outside on to the terrace to take the call, while the Lowthers sat and watched her.

  ‘Diane, you’ll want to know this straightaway,’ said Murfin. ‘I persuaded someone in West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries into John Lowther’s spell there.’

  ‘Well done, Gavin.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t have time myself. So that’s another favour I’ll have to repay.’

  ‘Did they turn anything up?’

  ‘I got a call a few minutes ago. They say John Lowther was a psychiatric patient in Leeds for three months. That’s why he had to leave his job.’

  ‘Did you go to Matlock to speak to him?’

  ‘I’m at his apartment now. But John’s not home. And the neighbours say they haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ said Fry. ‘The Lowthers are really, really going to love me.’

  Moira Lowther was in her garden when Fry returned to the house. Perhaps she went out there to escape from the plants. When she heard what Fry wanted to talk about now, she sat down unsteadily in one of the chairs set out on the decking.

  ‘John is psychotic, not a psychopath,’ she said. ‘There’s a big difference.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  Her husband stepped out of the sliding doors from the conservatory, and stood next to his wife, his jaw stiff with emotion.

  ‘People don’t understand that they’re entirely different things,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘Psychosis isn’t characterized by a tendency to violence towards others. They’re a risk to themselves, but no one else. Psychotics aren’t manipulative either, the way psychopaths are. But how many people do you think register that difference? To them, it’s all the same.’

  Her husband leaned forward to put in his own comment. ‘But then, we’re talking about the sort of person who can’t distinguish a paedophile from a paediatrician. It’s sheer ignorance. Some people wallow in it.’

  Mrs Lowther looked up at Fry. ‘So our son is psychotic,’ she repeated. ‘Not a psychopath.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I do.’

  Moira Lowther looked at her differently then. Letting your own emotions come through was normally a sign of weakness in this job. But Fry realized it might actually help with the Lowthers. An unrelentingly professional approach wasn’t always the best thing, after all.

  ‘Tell me about it, then,’ she said.

  ‘We will, if you like,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But you should talk to his specialist. Dr Sinclair can explain it a lot better than we can. You might say that we’re too biased. Too emotionally involved.’

  Fry opened her mouth to comment, but changed her mind. That was another thing she didn’t like — people predicting exactly what she was going to say.

  30

  Fry hadn’t realized there were loft apartments in Matlock. They certainly hadn’t reached Edendale yet. But John Lowther’s home was on the fourth floor of a converted mill complex on The Cliff, high above Matlock Green, overlooking a conservation area. Lifts had been installed, and an entry system with coded access from the communal areas.

  Yes, some of the original features had been retained in the conversion, but not too many. Enough to make ‘period character’ a selling point, probably. Judging by Lowther’s place, the interiors had been given a very modern feel. This was open-plan living — a walkthrough from a study hall to the kitchen under exposed roof timbers and diagonal supports. The apartment was all chrome and glass, pastel shades and a tiny dining table set for two, looking as if it ought to be standing in an intimate corner of a fashionable restaurant. One problem, though. There was a high central ceiling, but if you wanted to walk close to the walls and look out of the windows, you’d better be a midget, or not mind a few bruises. The pitch of the roof was steep. Really steep.

  Fry stood in the middle of the living area and checked out the doors off the hallway. Two bedrooms, even. It was all wasted on a single man, which John Lowther plainly was. She guessed he hadn’t chosen the decor himself, either.

  ‘There’s nothing of immediate interest,’ said Murfin. ‘But we did find a bottle of tablets on his bedside table. Orphenadrine.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s probably not important.’

  ‘No …’

  Fry began to move away, then stopped and came back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Murfin.

  ‘That phrase — “it’s probably not important”. Those sound like famous last words to me. You’d better check it out, Gavin.’

  ‘OK, if you think so.’

  She had a feeling about this apartment. There was something she couldn’t see. Inside any home, there were public places and private places. In the rooms where strangers might be expected to intrude, the contents were carefully chosen to present an image: highbrow books, artwork, the collection of expensive porcelain. But take a peek into the bedroom on your way to the loo, and you might find the truth behind the facade — the trashy novels, the S amp;M gear, the Prozac on the bedside table. Or in this case, perhaps, the Orphenadrine.

  Fry wondered what lurked behind the foliage in a house full of plants, what a conservatory stuffed with fuchsias and tree ferns ought to be telling her. On the way down to Matlock, she’d phoned in and asked them to check the details of Luanne’s adoption with
the authorities in Bulgaria. A link might emerge, or an inconsistency.

  Cooper walked in clutching a bottle of Buxton Spring water, as if he was taking a break at home in his own sitting room.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Diane?’ he asked.

  ‘Henry Lowther.’

  ‘Not pleasant thoughts, judging by your expression.’

  ‘I was just wondering …’

  ‘Don’t keep it to yourself, then.’

  ‘Well, Brian Mullen said the reason Luanne wasn’t in the house at Darwin Street on the night of the fire was because she was staying at her grandparents’. She wasn’t sleeping through the night, and the Lowthers had taken the child to give him and Lindsay a rest, to let them get a night’s sleep. That’s what he said.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough.’

  ‘Mr Lowther didn’t seem to know that, though.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Oh, I might be mistaken,’ said Fry. ‘It was only an impression, because of the way he hesitated when I mentioned it. And that was my own fault — I prompted him with Mullen’s version of events, instead of asking him outright. I didn’t think it was important at the time, you see.’

  ‘Probably it isn’t.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. Brian and Luanne were the only two members of the family who weren’t at home when the fire started. But it must have been by chance, mustn’t it?’

  ‘So where do we go from here, Diane?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What leads do we have that can be followed up?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Have we got any clues at all?’

  ‘No.’

  Cooper tipped the last of the water into his mouth and tossed the empty bottle into a bin.

  ‘We’re really getting on top of this enquiry, then,’ he said.

  Fry didn’t react. Let him think she was mellowing with age, if he wanted to. Or that she just didn’t care any more.

  ‘You know, John Lowther reminded me a bit of that story you told me,’ she said.

  Cooper looked round. ‘Story?’

  ‘The one about the woman who lived in a cottage near your farm when you were a child.’

  ‘Old Annie?’ said Cooper. ‘Well, I can’t see the similarity myself.’

  ‘You said she didn’t speak to anyone for weeks on end, then talked far too much when she was in company. As if she had to prove that she could still hold a conversation.’

  Cooper looked surprised. ‘Yes, I did say that.’

  ‘Also, you mentioned finding her frightening. A slightly hysterical tone to her voice, you said. That’s what John Lowther reminded me of.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, there’s a job for you to do, Ben. I’ll call ahead and get the interview cleared with the hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  Fry explained to him. As Cooper prepared to leave, she listened to the silence of the apartment, well insulated and far enough away from the main road to deaden the sounds of traffic.

  ‘We’ve got to find John Lowther,’ she said. ‘He could be a lot more dangerous than Brian Mullen.’

  Fry dialled the number of the bungalow in Darley Dale, where she had been only half an hour before.

  ‘Mrs Lowther, where would your son go? What place might he be heading for right now?’

  She could picture the Lowthers looking at each other, deciding what answer to give. Fry half expected the phone to be handed to the husband, but it was Moira who spoke.

  ‘When John wants to be alone, he likes to go up to the Heights of Abraham.’

  An hour later, Dr Alexander Sinclair took off his white coat and put on a suit jacket, transforming himself from a clinical psychologist into a business executive. He sat down at his desk, opened a file and put on his glasses.

  ‘You appreciate this is very exceptional, Detective Constable.’

  ‘The circumstances are exceptional, too,’ said Cooper. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you for this information otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve been persuaded by your senior officers. I’m only agreeing to this conversation on the understanding that I’m acting in the interests of my patient, and no further.’

  Sinclair peered over the top of his glasses, a mannerism that Cooper hated. It made him look like a disapproving schoolteacher.

  ‘We’re extremely concerned for Mr Lowther’s safety,’ he said. ‘Not to mention the safety of others that he might come into contact with.’

  ‘Very well. There are some specific details of this patient’s history that I can’t go into, but I can answer general questions about his condition, which might help you.’

  ‘Well, we already know that John Lowther spent three months in a psychiatric unit in Leeds.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Was he sectioned?’

  ‘No, he admitted himself voluntarily, following a series of psychotic episodes.’

  ‘What sort of episodes?’

  ‘Mr Lowther was experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations.’

  ‘Auditory — ?’

  ‘He heard voices,’ said Sinclair impatiently. ‘And “visual” means he was seeing things.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sighed and looked down at the file. ‘At the time, Mr Lowther appeared to be suffering hallucinations of increasing frequency and severity. Admitting himself to the unit was a very sensible decision on his part. He had good insight at that point, so he knew that he was ill.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by insight, Doctor.’

  The glasses came off, making Sinclair human again for a few moments. His eyes were pale blue. He was probably capable of projecting a reassuring bedside manner, when he thought it was necessary.

  ‘One puzzling feature of psychosis is that the affected individual doesn’t recognize the strange or bizarre nature of his own experiences. Even in the case of acute psychosis, a patient might be unaware that his hallucinations and delusions are in any way unrealistic.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘However, the level of insight can vary from one case to another. There can be quite good insight in some instances. Of course, this makes the psychotic experience even more terrifying. It means, you see, that the sufferer knows exactly what’s going on. To put it bluntly, he knows he shouldn’t be seeing demons and angels, or hearing voices — but he sees and hears them nevertheless. He can’t stop himself. Try to imagine being aware that you’re not in control of your own mind any more. You’d have to accept that some of your everyday perceptions are real, but others are illusory.’

  ‘It’s difficult to put myself in that position.’

  ‘Of course it is. Believe me, when a patient is aware that he’s losing control of his own thoughts, it strikes to the very core of self-belief, and can have an extremely destructive effect on his relationship with the world around him. It undermines the concept of identity, you see. I can imagine nothing more devastating, or more terrifying.’

  Sinclair put his glasses back on and peered at his visitor, assessing his reaction. Cooper was surprised by his sudden departure from the script, or rather from the notes in his file. For a few seconds, he’d spoken with real conviction. It struck Cooper that Alexander Sinclair had actually seen this happen to people he knew well — not just patients, but friends or family. Perhaps that was why he’d agreed to talk, despite the constraints of confidentiality.

  ‘Can you tell me what John Lowther’s auditory and visual hallucinations consisted of? Is it possible to say?’

  ‘In general. He heard voices that commented on his behaviour, and told him to do certain things. That’s why he admitted himself. He was frightened of what the voices might make him do, and he wanted us to stop them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Sinclair smiled. ‘Psychosis is only a symptom of mental illness, Detective Constable. The subsequent diagnosis was bipolar disorder. Mr Lowther was treated
with anti-psychotic drugs until the episodes receded, and then we adjusted his medication until he was stable enough to be discharged.’

  ‘So the medication made the voices go away?’

  ‘Well …’

  Cooper watched him hesitate.

  ‘But only as long as he kept taking the tablets?’ he said.

  ‘Of course. Anti-psychotic drugs work by changing the activity of chemicals that transmit messages in the brain. It’s very important to take the medication regularly, and at the prescribed doses.’

  ‘So when was John Lowther discharged from the unit?’

  ‘In April. He was in good spirits by then. He said he was going to tell everyone that he’d been away on holiday. Somewhere nice, like the Caribbean. Except that it couldn’t be the Caribbean, because he didn’t have a sun tan. I dare say his family didn’t let anyone know the truth either. That’s perfectly usual. There’s still a lot of stigma attached to mental illness, I’m afraid.’

  ‘He’d have to be on anti-psychotic drugs for some time, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes. But his records do show that he was worried about the side effects. Mr Lowther complained that he put on weight. And he twitched a lot, which he found distressing. Also, he said the medication made him impotent.’

  ‘He was very restless when we saw him last week.’

  ‘But no twitching?’

  ‘No.’

  Sinclair fiddled with his glasses. ‘Mr Lowther was prescribed Orphenadrine for the side effects, but he didn’t like the idea of taking more tablets. So instead …’ He hesitated again.

  ‘You think he might have stopped taking his anti-psychotic drugs?’

  ‘Yes, it’s possible. Dealing with side effects is always a bit of a trade-off. It’s a question of striking the right balance for each individual. Mr Lowther said once or twice that the effects of the drugs were worse than a few harmless delusions. He thought he’d return to his old self if he stopped taking the medication — he’d become slimmer, stop twitching, regain sexual function. It’s a common response. Patients feel an overwhelming desire to go back to a time when they felt happy and safe.’

  ‘Hold on a minute — “a few harmless delusions”?’ said Cooper, picking out the most remarkable phrase in what he’d just heard.