“I’ve got the little angels practicing their Christmas carols before bed,” Walt chuckled down the line. “Nothing to worry about at this end. Although I’m going to go out on a limb and say I think EZ has fallen for a girl. Don’t worry, Bex. I’ll enforce the rules and keep a special eye on him. No breezies inside the house at night!”
“Have you met her, Walt? Is she a good kid?”
“From what the boys say, Teneesa’s a beast. In fact she might even keep him on the straight and narrow. Look, I just called to say, well, that is, I’m meeting up with Neil on the eighteenth. We’re going to Jimmy’z to have a beer for Zane.”
“He’d like that, Walt. Thanks.”
She closed her eyes against a wash of regret. A year ago she and Zane had been happily planning their lives together. She was unable to shake a sense of dread dogging her steps as the first anniversary of Zane’s death approached. A year on, the nightmares were fading but the sense of desolation that hit her sometimes was still as sharp and relentless as ever. Starting afresh in London she had made a deliberate decision not to share her past with her new team. She’d had too much practice dealing with the hushed tones and pitying glances of her New York colleagues to want to handle more of the same here. It was the reason she relished her heavy workload. It saved her from mulling over the raw memories of what her life should have been, had Zane not been ripped from it in a car crash.
“Listen, give your folks a call some time, okay? Your mom’s worried about you. Especially at this time of year.”
“I will. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk again soon.”
Bex found herself too choked up to continue a conversation that riddled her with guilt, convinced she was a bad daughter for avoiding the sympathy and pity her parents were offering right now. Of course they were worried about her first Christmas alone. Except it was already her second Christmas alone. The first she had spent sedated in a hospital bed going out of her head with grief.
Her phone chirruped again. She checked it. It was a message from Jo Morris, an overloud Australian recruit she had met during her July training course. They had never been close and hadn’t spoken in months.
I’m having an orphans Xmas do on the 24th for all overseas recruits without family in London. 7:00 p.m. No excuses. I want to compare notes with everyone. Jo.
Bex flicked her phone off. She recalled Jo’s strong, brash accent as she socialized her way through training and knew she would have to invent an excuse. The crushing sorrow that weighed her down would only dampen everyone else’s festivity.
Chapter 14
Tuesday 12 December
Jo’s message bothered her like an annoying fly. Bex still hadn’t fabricated an excuse for not attending Jo’s Christmas party. She had no doubt that the event would be filled with happy couples. A number of the overseas recruits had brought their families to the UK. Others would have hooked up with partners during the past few months, she was sure, remembering the flirtatious banter between Jo and the ginger-haired New Zealander, Brett. What was her nickname for him? Roger? Ranger? The word eluded her because she’d never heard it before.
Bex shook herself mentally. Why was she still even contemplating Jo’s message when she had more than enough work to occupy her? Closing several files, she left her office and walked the few steps to the briefing room.
Idris, Reuben and Quinn were sifting through the Carrolls’ personal records. Eli was in the corner hunched over his phone, making Bex wonder if he was talking to his daughters who were now living with their mother in Liverpool.
“Anything interesting?”
They had spent several hours on the records last night before calling it quits. First thing this morning the team had got stuck into the archive boxes.
“I’ve come across a recurring debit on Andrea Carroll’s credit card to Dr. William Downer, psychiatrist,” Reuben said.
“So the mother was seeing a shrink on a regular basis.” That was nothing unusual to Bex. Most of the people in her parents’ circle had a therapist on speed dial along with their accountants and lawyers.
“It could be an indication of issues in the family or between the mother and father?”
“You’re right, Reuben. Call and see if they’ll confirm that Mrs Carroll was a client.”
“I’ve found some hospital records from February last year for Harley. As far as I can tell it looks like he was hospitalized overnight,” Idris said.
“Any indication of the reason for his stay?”
“No details.”
Bracing herself to be snubbed, she addressed Quinn. “How did it go with last night’s interviews?”
“We talked to Daisy Van Wieren and her parents. She’s nearly fifteen now and claims she can barely remember the incident and agrees with the police report that Keith Carroll touching her might have been an accident while they were swimming in the pool. The parents seem happy to put the whole incident behind them and requested that we don’t rake it over again.
“Afterwards Reuben and I went door-knocking in Falcon Gardens. Most of the neighbors have known the Carroll family for several years, although none of them claim to be particularly close. This morning we spoke to an aunt and a couple of cousins who appear to be the father’s closest relatives. All talked about him being a decent chap, very involved in Harley’s school and extracurricular life. Apparently he was some sort of leader with the Kids Commando club that Harley belonged to.
“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 false.
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 o
f 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.”
Courting Death Page 8