Sorrow Bound

by David Mark

  Sees peach curtains moved by a timid hand.

  Sees the bone-white of Lewis Caneva’s skin.

  McAvoy puts his window back up and switches the engine off. He looks at his phone, half expecting there to be a message. There is none. Everybody back at the station is too bloody busy, fighting fires or trawling databases. Neilsen and Daniells have spent the weekend going goggle-eyed in front of computer screens, trying to come up with a list of anybody and everybody who had some involvement the night Sebastien Hoyer-Wood went through the window. They have managed to track down all the witnesses who gave a statement to the uniformed officers at the scene, and at McAvoy’s suggestion, persuaded the ambulance service to give them the names of the paramedics who saved Hoyer-Wood’s life. One is now living abroad and the other is a driving instructor in Hull. Daniells is trying to get in touch with him, and two uniforms have been sent to his house but so far, he’s off the grid. Were Pharaoh around she would no doubt be able to rustle up some extra resources, but Pharaoh is still locked away in a meeting room with ACC Everett, the Police Federation rep, and Adam Downey’s slick lawyer, trying to thrash out how best to play the case in the wake of Colin Ray’s decision to beat the shit out of him. Downey is still in Hull Royal Infirmary and the legal situation is a mess. He has already been charged, but without a bail hearing he is in a state of limbo. It’s likely that before the end of the day, magistrates will be instructed to give him bail, allowing him to walk free as soon as his injuries are healed. Where that leaves the case against him is anybody’s guess. Pharaoh is trying to persuade Everett that they should go ahead. Even Colin Ray has told them he is willing to take his punishment rather than let the little bastard go free. But Everett is unsure. He can see the headlines. He knows that Downey’s legal team will tell the court all about what one of CID’s senior officers did to Downey in the cells.

  McAvoy steps from the minivan, his bag above his head to try to block the rain. He slams the door and runs up the drive, sheltering against the wall as he raps on the wood. The colors change inside the opaque windows of the door, and a moment later Lewis Caneva is peering out.

  From his file, McAvoy knows that Caneva is fifty-six years old, but the man in the doorway could be two decades older than that. He has a slightly Mediterranean look, but if he is as Italian as his name suggests, he has not aged like a pinot grigio. He is bald on top, with a short horseshoe of white hair running from just behind his large ears. He’s wearing dust-speckled glasses, and there are broken blood vessels and purple mottling across his cheeks. His skin puts McAvoy in mind of church candles. Small patches of gray hair sprout below his nose and below his jawline, and it looks as if he has shaved haphazardly or in the dark. For a moment, McAvoy wonders if this is true. Wonders whether Caneva struggles to look at himself in the mirror for any length of time.

  “Sergeant McAvoy,” says Caneva, closing his eyes and sighing. “You made good time. Please. Come in.”

  There are large pauses between Caneva’s words and he sounds breathless; his chest and throat bone-dry. McAvoy rubs his boots on the plain welcome mat, then follows Caneva down a short corridor: varnished wood underfoot. To his left is a staircase, a waterproof coat slung over the banister and two pairs of shoes on the bottom step. Caneva leads him into a small, square living room. There is a two-seater leather sofa against one wall, facing an elaborate fireplace housing an unlit, furnace-shaped wood burner. The walls are decorated with what appear to be quality lithographs and sketches, all fine detail and pen-and-ink contours. There is no TV, but a variety of books lay scattered on the coffee table. As he stands in the doorway, McAvoy tries to glimpse their titles. They appear to be textbooks, though some of the text is laid out like prose. Caneva follows his gaze.

  “Bit of a hobby,” he says. “Analyzing the Beat poets from their words. Keeps me busy.”

  McAvoy shifts his feet, unsure what to contribute. He vaguely remembers reading some Allen Ginsberg while doing his A-levels, but fancies any attempt at demonstrating wisdom on the subject would end in tears.

  “Please,” says Caneva, pointing to the sofa. “Take a seat.”

  McAvoy sits down awkwardly, watching as Caneva lowers himself painfully onto the seat next to him. It’s an awkward position and McAvoy has to half turn to look the man in the eye. This close, he can tell Caneva is not well. He’s wearing two sweatshirts over a padded lumberjack shirt and still appears to be shivering. McAvoy wonders why he has not lit the fire. Notices, as he opens his mouth to speak, that his breath forms crystals in the air.

  “Mr. Caneva,” he says. “I’m grateful for you agreeing to see me. As I explained on the phone—”

  Caneva nods, telling him it’s okay. “You mentioned it was to do with a case I assisted with? As I explained to you, I am of course constrained by doctor-patient confidentiality—”

  Now it is McAvoy who interrupts. “I am fully aware, Mr. Caneva. I appreciate you are in a difficult position and anything you say that breaches those rules would of course be inadmissible in court. However, I am led to believe that you are no longer a practicing psychiatrist, so at least you won’t have the fear of breaching any professional code of ethics.”

  For a moment there is silence in the room. McAvoy has decided not to make up his mind about the man who declared Sebastien Hoyer-Wood mentally unfit to stand trial. He does not want to prejudge him and therefore color any information he gleans from this interview.

  “It’s very cold in here,” says Caneva at length. “I would have made up the fire but it wears me out. I’m not in the best of health, Sergeant.”

  McAvoy looks at him as kindly as he can.

  “I could do it,” he says, shrugging.

  “Could you?”

  “No problem.”

  McAvoy pulls himself off the sofa and kneels down in front of the fire. He does not speak as he twists newspaper into cones and assembles a triangle of kindling in the center of the grate. He takes larger logs from the stack by the fireplace, and a couple of pinecones, which he knows will burn like the devil as he touches a match to the paper. He wishes he had a little dried ragwort to add to the pile, the way his father taught him. The poisonous plant is one that fascinates him. Though it can kill horses, they seem to seek it out, nosing aside any quantity of verdant grass to nibble at the yellow-headed flower that can cause them an agonizing death. McAvoy wishes he knew its Latin name, but never did that project at school. He makes a note to ask his dad.

  “Lovely,” says Caneva, a slight smile on his face.

  He sits back against the sofa cushions and watches the yellow flames take hold. Though it is not yet giving off warmth, the light in the room seems to have energized Caneva a little, and there is a healthier color to his cheeks.

  McAvoy returns to the sofa and prepares to speak, but Caneva beats him to it.

  “Bowel cancer,” he says unexpectedly, turning his head to McAvoy. “Diagnosed six years ago. Two operations and a bout of chemo. They say I’m better now. Not cancerous, anyway. Not sure I feel it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You imagine that once they’ve cut the cancer out everything will be back to normal, don’t you? It’s not like that. They messed about with me so much that my old life is gone. I don’t mean to be rude here, but I’m never off the toilet. Seriously. That’s where they’ll find me, when I go. I’ll be on the toilet.” The smile drops. “Not that anybody will be looking.”

  McAvoy brushes the raindrops off his trouser legs. Rubs his hands through his hair. “You don’t get many visitors?”

  Caneva shrugs. “My daughter, couple of times a month. My son every few months. They’ll ring. Birthday or Father’s Day. But they have their own lives, I suppose.”

  “Grandchildren?”

  Caneva shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  They both sit and watch the fire, as if waiting for the other to spoil the nice warm g
low that the policeman has brought to the room.

  “You want to talk about Seb,” says Caneva with a sigh.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling, I suppose.”

  McAvoy looks at the older man. “Is that something that psychiatrists believe in? Intuition?”

  Caneva looks away.

  “I suppose I just know that it’s to be answered for.”

  After a moment, McAvoy nods. “We’re investigating two murders within the Humberside Police boundary. Both victims assisted in saving Sebastien Hoyer-Wood’s life almost fifteen years ago in Bridlington. Our inquiries have led us to believe that Hoyer-Wood was a very dangerous man who was responsible for some very serious crimes. However, he has never been tried and never been jailed, and that was due in part to your testimony that he was mentally unfit to stand trial. At the moment, none of this makes a great deal of sense and we have no suspect and only half an idea, but I am of the opinion that you have some things to tell us about Sebastien Hoyer-Wood that may help. So, in essence, we’re in your hands. It’s very much a question of what you would like to tell me.”

  Caneva continues looking away. Stares, through the net curtains, at the dark skies and the wall of water that beats against the houses and pavements of this quiet street. He looks back. At McAvoy. At the glow of the flame. At his books upon the coffee table, then down at his slippered feet on the peach carpet. His eyes close. He breathes, slowly, painfully. It is as if he is coming to an end.

  “Mr. Caneva?”

  The older man turns to him.

  “We were university friends,” he says, and has to cough when his voice comes out weak and reedy. “Both studying medicine. Early seventies, this was. I can’t remember how we got talking. I think I was reading a book that he’d just seen the film of. Don’t ask me what it was. But that was kind of typical of the pair of us. Me, reading. Him enjoying the bright lights. Seb was kind of a big personality. He was a couple of years younger than me. I’d seen a bit of the world after finishing school and started university a little later than everybody else. Even so, we hit it off. We lived in different dorms for the first year but got a house together in our second.”

  “And this was London, yes?”

  “Yes, sorry. We’re both southerners. I only moved up here to be near my son, after I retired and sold the house. I just live off the equity nowadays. The difference in prices—”

  McAvoy waves a hand, and immediately regrets it. He should just let the man talk. To rattle on the way he wants. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “No, no, you’re right. You want to know about Seb. Well, we were friends. Best friends, if you can imagine such an old-fashioned concept. I was the quiet, bookish one, and he was all buzz and big bangs. He was very good-looking. Got a lot of attention from the ladies. Could have had anybody he wanted. I just don’t think he wanted them. There was the odd girlfriend here and there, but he wasn’t really into relationships. Had a lot of female friends but didn’t take advantage. I think that was partly what caused the incident.”

  McAvoy’s eyebrows meet. “In Bridlington? Seriously?”

  Caneva waves his hands. Seems to send his mind somewhere else. “No, no. While at university. A girl. A fellow student. She tried it on with Seb. He politely declined. She was a real beauty, very vivacious and lively. She wore these little hippie dresses that drove people crazy. She wasn’t used to being rejected. She went off in a huff, and the next day she told her modern languages tutor that she had been assaulted. Sexually assaulted. I’m not saying she hadn’t, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying it wasn’t Seb. He was with me all night. But Seb was the one she pointed the finger at. She didn’t tell the police. Just told her tutor and he told the faculty of the university and Seb was brought in. He was shocked. Just didn’t know what to make of it. It was like his whole world had fallen in. Seb’s from an old family in Warwickshire. Military men, most of them. I think Seb had hopes of maybe serving as a doctor in the military when he finished his training. His dad was one of these really strict, distant types. I was with Seb when he called him to tell him what had happened. I had to listen in as he told his dad they were thinking of kicking him out and were advising the girl to go to the police . . .”

  “What happened?”

  Caneva rubs his hands over his face, pushes his cheeks back so it looks as though he is moving at speed. “We transferred.”

  “‘We’?”

  “I wasn’t doing very well in medicine anyway. I persuaded him to take the easy route and just get the hell out of there. Seb had shown a flair for physiotherapy. I felt psychiatry was something I could do well. The faculty was pleased to have the situation brought to a quiet conclusion.”

  “And the girl?”

  Caneva looks away. “I don’t know.”

  There is silence in the room as each man absorbs the story. Finally, McAvoy speaks.

  “You stayed in touch, yes? You both graduated and went on to decent careers?”

  Caneva pulls a face. “I did a little better than Seb,” he says almost guiltily. “I was a good psychiatrist. Got a job with a respected London firm straight out of university and specialized in several elite fields. I ended up as a partner in a practice in Bloomsbury. I married. Had two children. The right kind of life, or so they tell me.”

  “And Seb?”

  Caneva stares at the flame. “He had his problems. I don’t think he put himself back together really. He did okay in physiotherapy. Worked for a decent practice, met some interesting people. But there was a bit of him missing. That spark. We stayed in touch, of course. He spent a couple of Christmases with us. He was my son’s godfather, though it took some persuading to get him to take the job.”

  “He didn’t want it?”

  “Said he didn’t deserve it. By then he had withered a little. He was drinking a little too much. I don’t know whether he had started using drugs, but I know that whenever we met, he would make jokes about him needing to see me for more than just my sparkling personality. Looking back, I should have seen that he was in trouble. I should have done more.”

  McAvoy clicks his tongue inside his mouth. Thinks again of the crimes Hoyer-Wood went on to commit. “You didn’t think he was dangerous?”

  “I wouldn’t have had him near my family if I did,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word “family.” He closes his eyes, tight. Controls his breathing. “I knew he was depressed. I knew he was single and lonely. I should probably have had him to the house more often, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.”

  “Your wife?” asks McAvoy. “How did she feel about your old university friend?”

  “She knew him from university, too. She liked him. Thought he was fun. But she also saw the change in him. Saw what a mess he was becoming.”

  “And when you heard about his crimes?”

  Caneva pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have to remember that Seb was only ever charged with one incident. Despite the investigations of Humberside Police, there was no evidence he carried out any other crimes. So, when I heard about him breaking into a house in Bridlington and being viciously beaten by the homeowner, I had a very different picture in my mind from the one you currently hold. To me it was a cry for help. In my mind, he was the victim. Seb underwent surgery. He nearly died. And while he was under the knife, the police tried to build a case against him that would have put him in prison for a very long time. I visited him in hospital. He could barely speak. He couldn’t move down one side of his body. They tried him with physiotheraphy and he collapsed after every step. He had to defecate in a bag. This was not a man who needed prison. He needed help.”

  McAvoy nods. “So, you helped.”

  Caneva breathes in, holds it, and then lets the air out of his lungs. “For a while my firm had been looking to provide a facility for the mentally ill. We wanted to set up a place for calm, quiet
study that would be a relaxing, soothing place for the patients. I brought that initiative forward. I found premises in East Yorkshire. At that time, there was a high demand on existing provisions for the criminally insane. It seemed obvious that there was money to be made for the company by getting Home Office approval to also take mental patients referred by the courts. Thankfully, one of our other partners had some old-school connections that were able to fast-track the application. I was managing director and chief psychiatrist. I planned to maintain the Bloomsbury practice and provide a certain number of days at the premises in East Yorkshire.”

  “And Seb?”

  “He was still in hospital. Still barely able to communicate.”

  “And yet you volunteered to compile the psychiatric report that went before the judge.”

  McAvoy does not mean for his words to sound like an accusation but there is little other way for Caneva to take them. He bristles a bit.

  “At that time, there was nobody better qualified in the country than me.”

  “How did you conduct the interviews, given his difficulties?”

  Caneva looks down. Begins to speak and stops himself.

  “You didn’t, did you? Didn’t interview him at all?”

  Caneva sniffs. Takes a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, but does nothing with it other than hold it in his palm.

  “I’d known him for twenty years. It was obvious to me prison was no place for him. My facility was a healing place. A place where he would get well.”

  McAvoy considers taking out his notebook, but decides not to. He wants to focus his gaze on the older man’s eyes. “And the judge agreed, yes? The criminal proceedings were thrown out.”

  Caneva nods. “We had the very best facilities. We brought in specialists to help with his physiotherapy, and obviously Seb’s own skills and expertise were very handy with that. Once the court case was no longer hanging over him, he could concentrate on healing. He made progress. He began to speak more freely . . .”

  McAvoy runs his tongue around his mouth. Cracks his jawbone.