by Nicci French
“And then you stopped.”
“One day I realized I was enjoying telling the story. Like I was some kind of hero for having lived alongside this girl who became a mass murderer. It was almost my party piece, the thing that made me interesting, gave me a kind of status. So that was when I shut up a bit. I still talk to Trudi sometimes—my wife.” He gave a nod to the woman in the photo. “She knew Hannah as well and was in and out of the house. But less and less. It’s become more like a dream. Not misty, too clear, unreal. But I’m going on about myself. What’s happened?”
“There have been concerns about how the inquiry was conducted,” said Yvette.
“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you about that. I only met the police once—no, twice. The first time was a junior officer—a young woman who seemed in rather a state, actually, not like how I thought a police officer would be. And once the man in charge—what was his name?”
“DCI Sedge?”
“That’s the one. He was a bit stern with me. I gave a statement, but I don’t think it was particularly helpful, one way or the other. I was out of town on the night of the murders.”
“It was more a general context that we were after,” said Frieda.
“What kind of thing?”
“Tell us about the house first of all.”
Tom Morell looked rueful. “By the time Hannah joined us, it was pretty dreadful. Not at all what I’d had in mind when we started out. I had this idea of a commune, where everyone was welcome and everyone equal, where we all contributed what we could and helped those in trouble. You know the kind of thing. But it didn’t really work out like that, though the first year or so was all right. We were in this house that had been abandoned for ages so it was pretty run-down. Then the woman I moved there with had a fling with one of the others and they both left together. By that time Jason and Shelley were there. Have you met them yet?”
“We’ve talked to Jason Brenner.”
“How is he?”
“Not in the best of health,” said Yvette.
“He wasn’t a very easy housemate,” said Tom Morell. He looked from Yvette to Frieda. “This won’t be used in any way?”
“We’re not interested in his drug habit, if that’s what you mean.”
“Right. He was injecting heroin and drinking as well. Stealing to pay for it. He was an odd mixture of apathetic and aggressive. Funny, women seemed to like him in spite of that, though he never seemed bothered.” He gave a little shrug. “I was always polite and reasonable and attentive and they never looked at me, but Jason—he just had to crook his little finger. He was good-looking, I guess.”
“I understand he was involved with Hannah.”
“I guess she was involved with him. He didn’t have relationships. He just fucked women. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“He had a thing going on with Hannah, who deserved better, and with other women he brought back to the house, and with Shelley, who was off her head most of the time. She was rather shrill about it all, not that I blame her.”
“Shelley?”
“Yes. She yelled a lot. And Jason couldn’t give a toss. And Hannah . . . oh, I don’t know.”
“You liked her.”
“It’s hard to remember what I made of her now, because of what happened. That gets in the way. But I did like her. So did Trudi.”
“So when she was charged with murdering her family, you must have been devastated.”
“I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I accepted it had happened but I couldn’t square it with the woman I knew. She was nice. That’s a stupid word, but she was.”
“Everyone we’ve spoken to has talked about her being wild and troubled.”
“Maybe. But no more than Jason or Shelley or any number of people who came through our doors. She was just a lost kid.”
“She stole,” said Yvette.
“Did she?”
“According to Jason Brenner, she stole from her family.”
“Maybe she did.” He leaned forward suddenly. “I went to the trial,” he said. “To the public gallery.”
“What was it like?” asked Frieda.
“She looked so helpless. Half of me was horrified by her and the other half felt sorry for her.”
“When you said you talked about it obsessively after it had happened,” said Frieda, “were there things you didn’t ever say?”
Tom Morell looked at her, color rising in his face. “Why do you ask that?”
“Sometimes we feel compelled to repeat a story until it has become our fixed version of reality. I’m interested in what we need to leave out.”
He stared at her for a few moments, then said abruptly: “I had sex with her.”
“Hannah?”
“Yes. When she was upset because of bloody Jason Brenner. A few nights before it happened.”
“And why had you left that out of your story?”
“I told myself it was a way of trying to comfort her. But I’d wanted it to be more than that.”
“And she didn’t?”
“Not at all. I was just this overweight man who cooked spaghetti for everyone. It gives me a shivery feeling even now. I had sex with her and she cried in my arms and I held her, and then not many hours later she murdered her family.” He looked at Frieda. “I never even told Trudi. It seemed some kind of taboo.”
“What happened to the squat?” asked Yvette, into the silence.
“It broke up. I don’t know how long it took because I never went back there. I couldn’t face it. It had started out as my experiment in how to lead a good life—and look what happened. Maybe I was partly to blame.”
“Hardly,” said Yvette.
“I’ve a little daughter now.” He looked toward the photograph on his desk.
“She’s lovely.”
“I tell myself that I’ll protect her. But Hannah’s parents weren’t unloving. Maybe they even protected her too much, so that she felt trapped. How does a kind young woman turn into a brutal murderer?”
“That’s the question,” said Frieda.
INTERLUDE FOUR
There are many different ways of visiting patients in Chelsworth Hospital. The more privileged can stroll across the lawns, supervised or unsupervised. More usually, there is the visiting room, where visitors are liable to be searched. Visitor and patient face each other across a table and any physical contact is closely monitored. In special circumstances, relatives may visit a patient’s bedside.
None of these is judged appropriate for Professor Hal Bradshaw. At the front desk, he surrenders his mobile phone, his wallet, his watch, his keys, two pens and a small notebook.
“As per the agreement,” says the male nurse, who has the bulk, the tattoos and the demeanor of a nightclub bouncer.
“Don’t I need a pass?” asks Bradshaw.
The nurse shakes his head. “You’re only going to one place. I’ll take you there and then I’ll bring you back here.”
Bradshaw is led through the part of the building that is like the country house it had once been, and through the part that is like a hospital with bars and locks, and beyond that along corridors and finally to a room with no windows and gray linoleum, nothing on the pale green walls and just four molded plastic chairs. He sits down and the nurse picks up one of the other chairs and puts it down next to the wall. He sits on the chair and it seems too small for him, like a chair used by children playing at being adults. They sit in silence and Bradshaw looks at his wrist but his watch isn’t there. Normally at such a time he would take out his phone and check his mail but he doesn’t have it and he feels almost undressed without it.
Finally the door opens and Mary Hoyle comes in with another male nurse. He gestures toward a chair and Mary Hoyle sits down. The nurse sits just behind her and to one side, but close, so that he can reach out and touch her. Or stop her. Hal Bradshaw looks at her. He has seen the photographs. A couple of blurry ones when she was a little girl. The iconic mugshot after
her arrest. The sensational ones showing her looking blissed-out that were taken during the time of her killing spree and that all the newspapers carried; they still get used every time a journalist writes about “unnatural’ female killers. But he has been writing and negotiating and bargaining for this opportunity to see her face to face.
She looks like a primary-school teacher.
She is wearing gray slacks and a pale green T-shirt. Her hair is cut short, boyishly, and her eyes are as blue as precious stones, startlingly so. Bradshaw thinks of the old superstition, that the eyes of a dead person register the last image that the person saw. He wonders for a moment what those eyes have seen. She smiles at him, as if she’s sharing a joke with him, as if they are both aware of the absurdity of it all.
“So, are you going to help me to get out?”
“I’ve looked at your case,” Bradshaw says. “It looks promising. Obviously I need to assess you.”
Her smile turns slightly sad. “People keep wanting to assess me and examine me and prod me.”
“I’m sure we can help each other.”
“How could I possibly help you, Dr. Bradshaw?”
“Please, call me Hal.”
“Like the song?”
“What song?”
“It doesn’t matter. Hal. How could I help you?”
“Your case is interesting. Millions of words have been written about it and yet nobody’s ever written about it properly. In my opinion. If I can do that, that will help you. It will show that you have gained insight. That you’ve grown. That you’re safe to release.”
“It was Davy,” says Mary Hoyle. She gives him her best smile. “I was only a teenager when I met him. I fell under his spell.”
Bradshaw smiles reassuringly at her but at the same time he remembers the reports of the trial, how each had blamed the other. But he has also read the court psychiatric report. He remembers a phrase: “Without her, he was nothing.”
“So what I’d like to do is to come and see you regularly, and if we make progress, that can only help you with the board.”
“I’m sure we can make progress,” says Mary Hoyle. “That’s what we’re meant to do here, isn’t it? Make progress.”
“Yes.”
“I’d be happy to see you.”
“That’s great, Mary. Really positive.”
“Can I ask you one question, though?”
“Anything.”
“Do you know a woman called Frieda Klein?”
Bradshaw is so surprised that for a moment he can’t speak. “How do you know about Frieda Klein?” he asks.
She smiles again. There is something captivating about that smile, promising secrecy, intimacy.
“We have a wonderful library here. We can read anything, literature, history, porn.” Hoyle looks amused by Bradshaw’s expression. “True crime. The only books we can’t have are books about crimes committed by people who are actually in the hospital. So the books about me aren’t here. I imagine you’ve read them.”
“I’ve looked at them,” says Bradshaw, uneasily.
“There are one or two about Hannah Docherty, and they’re not here either.”
“Who’s Hannah Docherty?”
“I’ve read about Frieda Klein in several books. There was the one about the little girl who was kidnapped.”
“So what?” says Bradshaw, not liking the change of subject.
“And now she’s taken an interest in Hannah Docherty.”
Bradshaw looks at Mary Hoyle in disbelief. “You mean Frieda Klein is meddling with someone in this hospital?”
“She’s been here. That’s all I know.”
“What’s that about? Why is she interested?”
“I don’t know,” says Hoyle. “I don’t know about any of this. Look.” She holds her arms out. “What do you see?”
“I don’t know,” says Bradshaw, warily. “What am I meant to see?”
“Nothing. No tattoos. And look at my face. No piercings. I don’t take sides. I don’t get sucked in. But a place like this is like a family, a family whose well-being I do my best to contribute to. People know they can turn to me here. But Hannah Docherty killed her family. And now she’s doing damage to the family in here. And some people don’t like it.”
Bradshaw thinks for a moment. “That sounds like Frieda’s sort of person. There’s usually plenty of damage wherever Frieda Klein goes. She burned my house down once.”
“She burned your house down?”
“It wasn’t exactly her. But she had a responsibility.”
“Interesting,” says Mary Hoyle.
“It’s not interesting at all,” says Bradshaw, standing up.
He holds his hand out to her but the nurse behind her shakes his head. “No touching,” he says.
SEVENTEEN
The next morning Frieda’s final patient was Maria Dreyfus. Things had got worse with her. Her anxiety had spilled over into the session itself, about the whole idea of having therapy.
“I’ve been talking to friends,” she said.
“That’s always good,” said Frieda.
“No, it isn’t. It’s like having ten clocks and each of them shows a different time. I told you that my husband, Rob, says I should be doing exercise. Which I do. I go for walks when I can. Some people say I should change my diet, cut out gluten or carbs. One friend says we should see a marriage guidance counselor. Another one says that Prozac saved her life. Another said it’s just about being in our mid-fifties. That’s what it’s like and it’ll pass, like the weather. I just need to wait. So what do you think?”
“I think we can use these sessions to decide what you think is best for you.”
“I’m against the whole idea of pills. I used to think I didn’t want to put chemicals into my brain to make me a different person. But sometimes at the moment I feel like I’d rather be anyone but me.”
“Medication can work for some people. But it’s not a quick fix.”
“I believe in therapy for other people. I think other people can find the causes of their pain or their bad patterns. I just don’t believe in it for myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the problem.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know what else to say or how to describe what I mean. I guess I can’t imagine not feeling like this. Take the feeling away and I wouldn’t be me.”
“Who would you be?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saying you don’t want to change.”
“I just can’t imagine it. It would be like taking the salt out of the sea, blood out of a body.”
“You’re letting dread define you.”
“Dread is me.”
Frieda phoned Erin Brack.
“Hey, Frieda, how’s it going?”
Talking to Erin Brack, Frieda felt as if she was meeting a cheerfully drunk person while grimly sober. She was also aware that she mustn’t offend her. “I’m fine,” she said. “I was just wondering if it was still all right to borrow the Docherty material.”
“Totally fine. But you’re going to need a van, I can tell you.”
“I can get a van.”
“And a strong pair of arms.”
“That too. So when can I come?”
“I’m almost ready for you. What about next week? Thursday?”
“Fine,” said Frieda.
“I’m really looking forward to talking to you about it.”
“Good.”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“I look forward to hearing them.”
“I can’t imagine how I can help you!” said Shelley Walsh, as she opened the door of her Wimbledon semi and whisked Frieda and Yvette inside before anyone could glimpse them.
“Detective Constable Long has explained why we’re here?” asked Frieda.
“Please, would you mind taking off your shoes. I know you’ll think I’m fussy, but I’ve only just cleaned the floor and it’s so wet outside
.”
Frieda bent and took off her shoes. Yvette stared at Shelley Walsh incredulously. “My shoes?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. And coats hang on those hooks there.”
They waited while Yvette laboriously untied the double-knotted laces on her boots.
“Shall we go into the kitchen? I have to warn you that I can’t give you long. A few minutes. I might not have a job but that doesn’t mean I’m not a busy woman. My husband complains that I never stop!” Shelley Walsh gave a bright, sudden smile.
“That’s fine,” said Frieda. “Just a few minutes.”
The kitchen was like a laboratory that hadn’t yet been used for conducting experiments. The copper pans that hung in descending order of size above the hob gleamed; the food mixer looked brand new; the wooden spoons in the pink jug were like a flower arrangement. And Shelley Walsh was equally immaculate. She was small and slender. Her dark blonde hair was tied tightly back; she was dressed in spotlessly clean and unfaded blue jeans, with a navy blue jumper over a white shirt. Her nails, Frieda saw, were manicured and pale pink; her lips were glossy and her eyebrows plucked into a neat arch that gave her a faintly inquiring look.
“What can I do for you?” She folded her hands together and placed them on the table in front of her. She arranged her face into an expression of neutral helpfulness.
“As you know, we’re revisiting the Hannah Docherty case,” said Frieda, carefully.
“How strange.”
“We just wanted to ask a few questions about Hannah when you knew her, at the time of the murders.”
“I hardly knew her.”
“You were friends.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
“I met her,” suggested Shelley Walsh. “Yes. I did meet her.” As if even this were in doubt.
Beside her, Frieda heard Yvette give strange half-snort.
“You met each other when you were fifteen.”
“If you say so. It was so long ago.”
“According to the files I’ve seen, you remained in close contact for the next three years.”