Alex frowned. Gossip got around fast.
‘You don’t need to do it,’ said Grace. ‘You don’t need to make up for anything. Your practice is fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Try and ignore your father,’ said Grace. ‘I know he’s on your back. You’ve nothing to prove.’
Although Alex tried to ignore his father on principle, he struggled to brush him off entirely. Influential in the medical world and advisor to various boards, Alex’s father was a prominent research psychologist and let Alex know it whenever he could. In the last month, Alex had received three rather cold phone calls from his father, suggesting he take a break from therapy and do something useful with his education.
‘Private practice suits you,’ said Grace.
Alex clenched his jaw. ‘Suits me?’
‘You know what I mean. Christ!’
‘I’m being asked to consult, Grace. I’m rather a well-respected psychologist in my field, you know.’
‘I know. That’s not what I meant.’
There was a pause, an awkward silence as Alex tried to wind down his frustration. It wouldn’t help.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Alex. The case. Nobody blames you.’
Alex bit his tongue. Those words had been repeated to him so many times they’d become meaningless. They might be true, but they didn’t work. The guilt remained.
‘I’ll transfer the money,’ he said. ‘Speak to you soon, Grace.’
He heard Grace sigh, but she knew better than to push it.
‘Take care, Alex,’ she said, hanging up.
Alex put the phone down, cursing himself for reacting so petulantly. Grace did understand his work. She was one of the few who ever had. The fact that it was his work that had contributed to his marriage breakdown was not lost on Grace. She was fair, but firm. His last case for the police had ended in tragedy, but his behaviour at the time had been a choice. He knew better, and he wished he could go back and change things.
He closed his eyes and smiled. He missed her voice. He missed a lot about her, but he never told her. It was too late for that.
CHAPTER THREE
Alex shivered as he stopped the car at the first security checkpoint. He cranked the heating up. The red-and-white barrier stayed down as a guard walked over, a thickset man with a tattoo of a snake devouring its own tail on the left side of his neck.
The prison entrance loomed, and Alex felt numb. He had been disconnected from this world for so long, yet it still felt familiar: the dirty orange brick walls of HMP Whitemoor hiding a lifetime of secrets and grime. The gatehouse was hostile, stacked with barriers and warnings. It granted entry to a different realm of human experience.
Alex opened the window and put on his practised doctor’s smile – insincere at this time in the morning, but useful for masking the growling discomfort in his gut. The cold air smelled damp and tingled in his nostrils.
‘Staff?’ said the guard, not returning the smile.
‘Kind of. Dr Alex Madison. I have an appointment.’
Alex held out his ID and the guard took it, sniffing as he scanned his clipboard. He flicked over to the next page and raised his eyebrows. ‘Not on my list,’ he said, lowering the clipboard, handing Alex’s ID card back through the open window.
Alex’s neck burned. He swallowed, then raised his eyebrows, forcing another smile. The guard continued to stare. Alex was aware he was physically unimpressive compared to the guard, probably half his size and weight, his groomed hair and stubble not currying any favours.
‘Can you check again, please?’ said Alex. ‘Dr Bradley is expecting me at nine.’ He glanced at his watch. It was eight fifty-three.
The guard huffed, turning and ambling back to the guardroom. Alex could see him speaking into a phone. Patience, he said to himself. Agitation will not help this situation. He glanced at the rear-view mirror, sweeping a few stray hairs back into place, judging his receding hairline with a frown. He watched the cars queue behind him. Sorry, he mouthed in the mirror, anxious that his first impression was spoiling by the second.
The guard made him wait another full minute before strolling back over. ‘Tell your boss to submit his paperwork on time.’
‘He’s not my boss . . .’ said Alex, but the guard didn’t wait for a reply, turning to give the nod towards the guardroom. The barrier lifted. Alex nodded in turn and mumbled an apology, not bothering to ask where to go after he got through the main gate, although he had no idea. He smiled his thanks and drove into the prison grounds.
Alex followed the signs to the staff parking lot and pulled into the one empty space. He wondered if he was entitled to his own. He doubted it. Not for the short time he’d be here.
The parking lot was tucked around the side of the main entrance. Unpleasant smells from a kitchen wafted over as he exited the car, billowing from vents set high up on the wall. Crisp packets and tissues drifted across the tarmac towards him from a cluster of black-wheeled bins. A stray cat yawned on top of a stack of old tyres against the wall, its yellow eyes lazily following Alex as he walked away.
Following the directions emailed to him by Dr Bradley, and after enduring several more stop-and-check routines, Alex entered the D Wing staff entrance.
If the outside was impressive and daunting, the inside was barren and decrepit. A public-sector building with less character than a warehouse, it reeked of underinvestment and lack of care. The floor was pocked and marked, the skirting boards held on with duct tape, while lazy carpentry held together the more substantial structures.
Several warning signs on the wall clarified the rules about contraband, forbidden items and electrical devices. A guard offered him one of two battered plastic chairs in the corridor while he waited to be escorted to his office. He was reminded to get his security photo and biometrics taken today otherwise he’d be delayed at the gate again tomorrow. He needed an HMP Whitemoor-approved prison ID to be granted access. At this news he offered another fake smile.
He stared at the stained cream wall for a couple of minutes, trying not to inhale the faint smell of bleach, before the inner doors buzzed and swung open.
‘Dr Madison.’ A woman raced up to Alex and grabbed his hand, shaking it hard. She was tall, with tanned skin and dark hair. Her hands were soft and her eyes beautiful.
Alex cleared his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘trouble at the gate.’
‘They stop people getting out as well,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry, you get used to it. I’m Sophie.’
‘Alex.’
‘I’m your assistant,’ she said with a smile, pulling her hand away.
‘An assistant? I don’t—’
‘I know,’ said Sophie, ‘but I’m a trainee in need of a supervisor, so you’re it, if only short term. Is that going to be a problem?’
Alex paused, assessing his new companion. She talked fast, with what he assumed was a light German accent. Attractive and outwardly confident, Alex warmed to her immediately, although beneath her physical charm he saw something deeper – a flicker of nervousness in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.
‘No problem,’ he said, not wanting to debate the finer points of his contract in the corridor with an assistant he wasn’t supposed to have. ‘Shall we—’
‘Of course,’ said Sophie. ‘Follow me. I’ll take you to your office, you can get settled, maybe grab some coffee, and then I’ll take you through a few details – if that’s OK?’
‘Dr Bradley’s expecting me.’ He checked his watch again. Four minutes past nine.
‘Robert? He’s not here,’ said Sophie, skewing her mouth. ‘He got called away. It happens a lot: he covers three prisons. Didn’t you know? I guess not. You’ll meet him soon enough, maybe tomorrow. I expect he wants to talk to you before you start your work.’
Alex frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This was his first criminal case in three years. Dr Bradley knew it and knew why. But this time the referral had come from on high: a senior of
ficial at the CPS wanted Alex on this case and had provided enough information to pique Alex’s interest. A bizarre multiple murder followed by the death of a clinician – none other than the psychologist tasked with assessing the murder suspect. That sort of case didn’t come along very often, if ever. Despite his reservations about taking on another criminal case so soon, might this just prove to be a chance for Alex to rescue his career – and himself?
Whatever Grace had said about private practice suiting him, she knew he wasn’t satisfied with it. His heart and soul lay in forensics. He might have nothing to prove to the police, but he did to himself.
Today, however, he’d wanted a professional introduction with the psychologist in charge, to go over the finer details of the case and the suspect he was tasked with assessing. He was not expecting a rushed intro from a young post-doc over a cup of coffee.
The staff admin area of D Wing felt like an NHS hospital, a location with which Alex was familiar from his own clinical training. Overcrowded desks tucked away in badly designed office cubicles, the smell of bleach from the corridor replaced with the smell of biscuits and coffee. It was a far cry from his current office, which housed hand-stitched leather couches and solid hardwood furniture, his reproduction Regency writing desk in pride of place.
There weren’t many desks in Sophie’s unit. Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorders was a small department, dealing with ninety inmates who were kept separate from the other four hundred and thirty in the main prison population. Among those ninety were twenty or so in segregation, or solitary confinement. Among those twenty was the one inmate he’d been asked to assess.
‘This is DSPD.’ Sophie indicated a set of desks surrounded by partitions. ‘Forensics over here and all other disciplines through there.’ She pointed at five empty desks. One of them had a dead plant on it.
Alex nodded, wondering if the prisoners’ cells were better or worse than this.
‘Your desk is here.’ She pointed to the cleanest one of three. ‘I’m next to you and the third is used by Robert – I mean Dr Bradley – when he’s here.’
‘No offices?’ said Alex, surprised the three doctors were expected to share a cramped cubicle. He tried not to look at the dirty cup marks marring the desktop.
‘We did have,’ said Sophie, ‘or at least my old manager did. They’re being used for storage at the moment. They said they’d clear and renovate them. We moved out here and I guess they forgot.’ She put her hand to her mouth, smudging her lipstick. ‘Is the desk OK? I could clean it again if you—’
‘The desk is fine,’ said Alex, aware that Sophie was trying hard to make him welcome. He should try a bit harder. He dropped his bag on a tatty swivel chair and sat on the edge of the desk, facing her. She chewed at one of her fingernails. He studied her hands and saw that all her nails were short and ragged.
There was an awkward silence. Alex glanced at a radio on a nearby filing cabinet. Soft jazz floated out of the speaker. Sophie leaned over and switched the radio off.
‘If it’s just me I have it on,’ she said, ‘for company.’
Alex smiled.
‘A bit different from Harley Street?’ said Sophie, pointing at the desk.
Alex was surprised. ‘You researched me?’
‘A little,’ said Sophie. ‘When Robert gave me your name I googled you. You’ve been in the tabloid limelight – lucky you.’ She raised her eyebrows in amusement.
‘Lucky me,’ he said, hoping she’d only read the good tabloid reports, not the bad. He frowned.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,’ said Sophie, her smile disappearing as she saw his expression. ‘I’m interested in your practice, how you apply your procedures in the private sector.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ Alex shook his head, annoyed at himself. His current practice was quite well publicised. He pulled out the chair and sat. ‘It’s fine. What would you like to know?’
Sophie remained standing. ‘You’ve done this before?’ she said. ‘Forensic assessments for the CPS? Robert mentioned that you used to, but don’t any more.’
‘I used to, yes,’ he said, pausing. Would she know why he’d stayed away for so long? ‘Not for a while though. If I’m honest, most days I sit in my practice and listen to people with small amounts of anxiety and large amounts of money.’
‘Clinical? CBT? Stuff like that?’
‘A lot of that. I’m a clinical psychologist by profession and by branding. If you ever work in the private sector you’ll realise branding is as important as your training, perhaps more so.’
Sophie tilted her head. ‘So that’s how you started working with celebrities?’
Alex smiled, the tension easing away. She’d obviously read the gossip online.
‘I don’t work exclusively with celebrities. A couple of years ago I made a name for myself by treating a footballer with performance anxiety,’ he said. ‘Word spread and before I knew it I was the go-to man for several big clubs. I got calls day and night from managers and agents. It was a . . . very successful period for me. I set up my practice and it’s still going on the same basis.’
‘Psychologist to the stars,’ said Sophie.
Alex wasn’t sure whether Sophie was making fun of him or not. Her expression remained serious, but she smiled.
‘That’s what Women’s Own magazine labelled me,’ he said. He didn’t admit to Sophie he’d given the magazine that strapline in a telephone interview. He was still unsure if it had been a good idea – it had earned him a certain amount of scorn in professional circles, but had been good publicity at a time when he was convinced he’d never go back to forensics. Building up his business had been top priority, at the expense of almost everything else.
And he was being truthful. Alex’s clinical background, combined with several years of specialising in forensic psychology for the CPS, had given him a wide range of experience to call upon. Generalised anxiety disorder, phobias, depression, addictions – Alex had treated them all and earned quite a name for himself as a result. He’d let the magazine run with it.
What they didn’t say was that no form of psychological intervention was foolproof, and things didn’t always go as planned. Alex had already learned that the hard way, to disastrous effect. Shutting himself away in private practice had been the easy option.
‘I’m afraid private work isn’t all that glamorous,’ he said. ‘Exposure therapy, behavioural activation, some regression and hypnotherapy.’
‘Hypnosis?’ Sophie’s smile had faded. Something was bothering her. ‘For controlling people?’
‘Not controlling,’ said Alex. ‘No, that’s not what it’s for.’ He was puzzled at her query. ‘But in the right hands it’s effective. And lucrative.’
Sophie stepped forwards and glanced at his hands, then back to his eyes. Her smile didn’t return. She was odd, but despite the direct questions, Alex liked her more by the minute. Having an assistant might not be too bad after all.
‘Enough about me,’ he said, aware that he was staring at her again. He averted his eyes and glanced around. ‘Tell me about this place, Sophie. You like working in DSPD?’
Sophie’s expression changed and her smile returned. ‘You bet. Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorders rule!’ She waved her hand at various books and folders on her desk, all branded with the title DSPD in bold type. ‘I’m lucky to have a placement here. Well, lucky might not be the word, but I’ll learn a lot. It’ll be good for my career.’
Alex nodded and stayed silent. Sophie’s smile remained on her lips but not in her eyes. Something troubled her about her career. Alex waited for her to continue.
‘Our unit is one of only four in the UK,’ she said. ‘Most of our inmates have committed extremely violent or sexual crimes. Some are sectioned already, but several are still awaiting assessment.’
Alex frowned. ‘What do you think about a DSPD diagnosis?’
‘Well, it’s not a clinical diagnosis, obviously, but rather a catch-all for those
prisoners whose personality and behaviour is dangerous to society – to say the least, in certain cases.’
Alex smiled. ‘ “Not a diagnosis” is the best description I could give it too, given there is no evidence for either the disorder or the treatment.’
‘But in practice it’s just an extreme version of antisocial personality disorder,’ countered Sophie. ‘That’s a real diagnosis.’ She shuffled her feet, her boots scratching on the floor.
‘True,’ said Alex. ‘So are you telling me all ninety of your patients in DSPD have antisocial personality disorder? That’s rather neat.’
‘Erm, I guess not. Although a lot of them haven’t finished their assessments yet – it’s possible some don’t belong here.’
Alex nodded. Sophie was honest, if a tad wired. But she knew what she was talking about, which would be useful for him. Alex had studied HMP Whitemoor’s management of DSPD. He doubted it would give him much insight into the suspect, but he knew that establishing the culture in a place like this was important. DSPD could be used to lock violent offenders away indefinitely, delaying proper assessment and treatment and reducing the chances of moving them back into the general prison population, or a lower security prison. At least Sophie understood that DSPD was more of a political mechanism than a clinical one.
He jumped as his phone vibrated, causing his keys to jingle.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Sophie and pulled the phone out to check the screen. It was Jane. He watched it vibrate for a few seconds before answering.
‘Hi,’ he said, standing and turning away. Sophie busied herself at her desk, switching on her ageing Dell laptop.
‘Just checking you got there OK,’ said Jane. Her tone was interested, if a little cold. ‘What’s it like inside the prison? Is Dr Bradley nice? I wanted to see if we were OK. After this morning. You know . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ said Alex, annoyed she’d called during office hours. What did that say about him? She was just trying to show she cared.
Sophie’s computer beeped and she whispered an apology.
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