by Mo Hayder
As he works, Misty’s eyes seem to follow him. Every time he looks up from his desk, it’s as if she’s saying, What about me? Have you forgotten me? He almost holds a hand up to deflect the glare of her attention. He’d turn her to face the wall if he didn’t think that would be worse.
He checks his blank phone screen, wondering whether to call Flea. He starts to compose a text message, but thinks better of it, pockets the phone and sits for a while swinging his hands at his sides, not sure what to do with himself. If this thing ever gets resolved it will be on Flea’s terms, and in her own good time.
Irritated now, he pulls on his coat, heads down the stairs to the car park and gets in the car. It feels good to be moving. It feels good to be thinking about something else. Even Isaac Handel – a teenage psycho who killed both his parents and did unspeakable things to their bodies.
He drives out through the west Bristol suburbs wondering how much faith one should put in the mental-health and justice systems in the UK. The answer is, of course, that one can never be one hundred per cent confident. How often does a person secretly torment fellow patients? And how often does someone like that get away with it? Even get released from the facility, unchecked and unmonitored?
Ordinarily, Caffery would ride roughshod over anyone who had the nerve to ask for a favour then slap conditions on it. But, strangely, he likes AJ. Besides, after what Caffery’s heard he’s happy not to go to Beechway unit, and instead to go directly to Isaac Handel. At the very least, he wants to be sure Handel’s sticking to the terms of his discharge. To find out who’s keeping track of his movements.
His supported-living placement is the Avonmere Hotel, overlooking the muddy riverbanks. Caffery pulls up outside a little after midday. The exterior is fitted out to look like a standard B&B, though the sign in the sitting-room window probably always reads ‘no vacancies’. Caffery knows places like this. The clientele won’t look much like visiting businessmen or tourists, either. In fact they’ll all be addicts and s37/41 discharges.
No one stops Caffery walking in or peering into rooms. The ground-floor accommodation is set up for group socializing – a sitting room, dining room and games/TV room; the upper floors are probably divided into bedsits. He finds a door marked ‘Office’ at the end of the hall and opens it. Still no one has stopped him. The manager is with a client, but one glance at Caffery in suit and tie, and he bends to the client and murmurs, ‘Can we finish this later?’
The client swivels in Caffery’s direction, his movements slow and slightly jerky. His eyes don’t seem to register anything, but he shoots to his feet so fast he nearly topples over.
‘No rush, mate,’ the manager says.
The guy nods three times, looking at his feet. Bringing his hand up to the crown of his head, he swats his hair with the palm of his hand, smoothing it forward so that it lies flat on his forehead. Caffery stands to one side, holding the door open. The guy lumbers out, not making eye contact. Caffery waits until he’s gone before showing his warrant card.
‘Detective Inspector Jack Caffery.’
‘Yes,’ the manager says. ‘Been looking forward to meeting you.’ He must be in his late thirties, but his face has a childlike quality that is heightened, paradoxically, by his baldness. He has shaved what little of his hair remains, giving him the appearance of an ageing cherub. He wears a black stud in his right ear and a Celtic-knot steel ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Behind his desk is a poster of The Smiths, Glastonbury 1984. He offers his hand.
‘Bill Hurst.’
Caffery shakes his hand. Notices that as soon as he releases it, Hurst brings his hand straight to the back of his neck.
‘I’m here to speak to Isaac Handel.’
‘Yes – yes.’ Hurst stands awkwardly – scratching his neck – avoiding meeting Caffery’s eyes. ‘Yes, you did say.’
‘So? Is there somewhere private I can chat to him?’
‘Thing is …’ he begins sheepishly. ‘About Isaac …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘What is?’
‘He’s kind of not here at the moment.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Not here.’
‘That’s what I thought you said. So where, kind of, is he?’
‘Ummmmm … not a hundred per cent sure, to tell you the truth.’
‘When I phoned, you said I could speak to him.’
‘Yes – I thought he’d have come back by then. You’ve got to understand, this isn’t a secure hostel. Clients are required to sleep here, but they’re free to go wherever they want during the day as long as they’re not breaking any restrictions in their discharge papers.’
Caffery takes a moment to rein in his impatience. He counts to ten in his head. ‘OK, OK. Let’s start from the beginning – when did you last see him?’
Hurst begins to fidget. ‘Ummmm …’
‘Come on, spit it out – this morning?’ Hurst doesn’t answer. He scratches his neck harder. ‘Jesus!’ Caffery exhales. ‘Yesterday?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘It’s not a perfect system. I’m short-staffed, just had two phone calls from people calling in sick. It’s the uncertainty about what the government wants to do to our jobs.’
‘Fantastic. Outstanding.’ Caffery shakes his head, weary. The more he sees, the more he’s wondering why Handel was ever released into a flimsy place like this. ‘He must have slept somewhere last night?’
Hurst shrugs.
‘You’ve reported him missing?’
‘This morning. The Community Mental Health Team will take it from here.’
He still can’t look Caffery in the eye. Christ, what a spectacular jerk this guy is.
‘Anyone here he talked to? Anyone who might point me in the right direction?’
‘Not really – Handel was a bit of a lone wolf from what I saw of him. Didn’t talk to anyone that I saw, just listened to his iPod, kept himself to himself.’
‘And he was compliant?’
‘Mostly. A bit agitated. He was always playing “All Souls’ Day” on his iPod. You know?’ He gives Caffery a faintly hopeful look. ‘The Ataris? Best pop punk to come out of the States in decades?’
Caffery sighs. Shakes his head.
‘It’s only a day,’ Hurst protests. ‘Not that long.’
‘You know how lame that sounds? Even as it’s coming out of your mouth, a part of you must be thinking: this is lay-ayme.’
Hurst dips his head. ‘Point taken.’
‘When’s his depot due?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
Two days before the antipsychotic depot injection is due. From the little Caffery knows about mental illness, Handel’s stability will disintegrate rapidly if that appointment is missed.
‘I need to see his room.’
Hurst’s eyes widen a fraction. ‘Awww, mate, I’m sorry – I can’t allow that. Everything in this place is based on trust – the staff’s trust for the clients and the clients’ trust in the staff. I can’t go letting you into someone’s room without a really, really good reason.’
‘He’s on an s47 conditional discharge – and staying in the hostel every night was one of those conditions. He’s not complying, which is a criminal act, dah de dah. I won’t patronize you by reciting the spiel, you’ve been here before, you know the drill. Rooms are upstairs, aren’t they?’ Caffery is already out of his chair. ‘Maybe I’ll just knock on every door till I find the right one.’
He is out of the room before Hurst has time to make it around to the other side of his desk. The manager catches up with him in the hall. He’s breathing hard.
‘OK,’ he hisses. ‘All right – but can we please keep it low key?’
‘After you,’ Caffery says.
Hurst edges past him. ‘Low key – yeah?’ he repeats.
‘Of course.’
Caffery follows him up the stairs to
the first floor. Two doors open within seconds of each other; the first tenant steps on to the landing – strung out, the front of his sweatshirt stained, his trousers hanging half mast. When he sees Caffery he makes a quick U-turn back into his room. The second door slams shut before Caffery can get a look at the occupant.
All of the rooms are secured with Yale locks. As Hurst pulls out the key to the door of number five, he seems to be having misgivings.
He turns his back to the room and raises both hands. ‘I don’t know, man. I should probably wait till I get the all-clear from the mental-health team.’
Legally, Caffery can’t go in without an invitation, but it will take time and useless paperwork to obtain a warrant. He fixes the manager with a stare. ‘Aren’t you curious what Handel did that got him locked up for fifteen years?’
‘No – and I don’t want to know.’ Hurst’s ears flush red. ‘We’re not given details on patients’ mental health, just guidance on what to look for in case they become unstable. We’re here to rehabilitate, not judge.’
Caffery leans back against the handrail. He examines the cherubic face from the pale, shining forehead to the dimpled chin. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t know the nuts and bolts of how your “clients” end up in the system. Sadly, I do know. And in Handel’s case let’s just put it this way – ‘sick’ isn’t even ballpark.’
Hurst fingers the bunch of keys attached to the key reel on his belt, but he’s still undecided.
‘And that was when he was only a kid,’ Caffery continues. ‘I don’t think any of us know what he’s capable of as an adult. A paranoid schizophrenic, out on licence, missing for twenty-four hours?’
Hurst’s eyes fix on the door number, and a pink patch of colour spreads from his ears to the dome of his head.
‘And you have only just reported him missing?’
‘OK, OK,’ he mutters, dragging the keys from his belt. ‘I can manage without the lecture.’
Pompom Socks
THE TRUST IS far from perfect, but even AJ has to admit the sports facility they’ve given their employees discounted membership to is pretty damned splendid. Situated on the outskirts of Thornbury, Tarlington Manor boasts a twenty-five-metre swimming pool and a gym packed with the latest fitness gizmos – suspension trainers, Core-texes, and vibrating power-plates. There’s a sauna, a laconium, twenty tennis courts and an outdoor hot tub with a log fire next to it where middle-aged women sip champagne at lunchtime.
Three days a week Melanie leaves work early, comes here and knocks the hell out of a squash ball on her own for an hour. AJ has to check at least six viewing galleries before he finds her court. She is soaked with sweat but still thrashing the ball, her ponytail bobbing like mad. Her T-shirt is pink with a black puma above the left breast and she’s as sexy as hell in her lycra training shorts, blinding-white trainers, and little white pompom socks like the ones he remembers the girls wearing at Wimbledon when he was a teenager. In those days he used to spend a lot of time watching the ladies’ tennis – much to Mum and Patience’s amusement and ridicule.
It wouldn’t be that difficult for Isaac Handel to figure out where Melanie lives. The image of the figure in the garden flickers around AJ’s head. And DI Caffery, and the way he was so uncomfortable talking about the murders at Upton Farm.
He makes his way down to the next level and opens the door to the court. Melanie stops when she sees him – gives a surprised yelp and flaps her hand. ‘AJ! Go away, for God’s sake, don’t watch. You’ll make me self-conscious.’
‘Self-conscious? After what you let me do last night?’
‘Oh, stop it.’ She crosses to her kit in the corner and pulls out a towel, which she holds up to her face, letting it hang down in front of her body so he can’t see her full length. She’s wearing wristbands too – another retro detail that takes him straight back to the eighties. ‘Go away – I’ll have to stop if you don’t go away.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Need to talk?’ She lowers the towel from her face. Sweat has smeared her mascara. ‘Oh-oh. That sounds ominous.’
‘Mel, let’s not pretend. You saw something in the garden the other morning. And last night I saw it too.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head seriously. ‘We didn’t. It was our imaginations – we were half asleep. No sleep, too much sex, too much booze. I can smell it on me.’ She lifts her arm and gives her armpit a dubious little sniff. ‘It’s coming out of me. Christ – lucky I’m playing on my own here.’
‘I wasn’t drunk last night. And even if we were both drunk the night before and we imagined it – the fact we imagined the same thing says we’re worrying about it. And we’re worrying about it because we know on some level Zelda, and Pauline and Moses may have seen something similar. And I’m about as sure as I can be that I know who was behind their “hallucinations”, “delusions” – if that’s what we’re going to call them.’
Melanie’s eyes open even wider. ‘Not Handel again – please. I really think we—’
‘It’s not just Zelda’s picture, it’s not just what he did to his parents. It’s … I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Please, you need to believe me.’
‘We’ve talked about it.’ She puts a hand out, making to leave the court, but he stands his ground.
‘Melanie – I read the tribunal transcript.’
Her face changes at that. Her eyes tighten a little, like cooling metal, and she drops her weight back on to her heels. ‘I’m sorry? You read the transcript – what does that mean?’
‘I read your statement to Handel’s discharge tribunal. I never realized you’d been so involved with him.’
‘Involved? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘The way you talked, it sounded as if you’d spent every day with him. You said things like: “he was always cooperative”, “absolutely no problems with compliance”, “understands the nature of his illness and the importance of daily contact with the team to maintain that stability post-transfer”, “gave me the impression that he understood the severity of his crime, and also deeply regretted it” … Shall I go on?’
Melanie’s face is burning. Her nostrils have dilated slightly and she’s sucking air in very slowly to calm herself.
‘Shall I go on, Melanie? Because I read it all and it’s bullshit – you never spent any time with Isaac. I never once saw you speak to him.’
‘I don’t get you,’ she says bitterly. ‘I don’t get you at all.’
She pushes past him to the door, jabbing him with her elbow as she does. She slings the bag over her shoulder and walks away in a very straight, precise line.
‘Melanie?’ he says to her retreating back. ‘Melanie – I’m sorry – I don’t want an argument.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘No, honestly, I didn’t mean to sound …’
He trails off. She has reached the ladies’ locker room. Without a backward glance she goes inside and slams the door behind her.
Carrier Bags
WHEN CAFFERY THINKS about it, he can’t imagine how Isaac has survived a cold October night with nowhere to stay. The patients receive an allowance while they’re on the unit and, according to AJ, Isaac had saved a lot of cash; nevertheless Caffery reckons he’d struggle to get a room. A confused schizophrenic would be shown the ‘no vacancies’ sign, no matter how much cash he had on him. An image comes: a warm bed, food. Someone helping Handel? AJ mentioned power cuts in the unit that coincided with each episode; it’s hard to believe that a patient would have the kind of access to pull that off on his own.
Someone else involved. Caffery parks the idea in the corner of his head. He’ll come back to it later.
He stands in the room at the Avonmere Hotel, absorbing it all. It’s just big enough to squeeze in a single bed, a bedside cabinet, chest of drawers and wardrobe. The curtains are thin; the carpet, a hardwearing cord, looks as if it has been cleaned recently. Everything is neat, well ordered: the bed is mad
e, there is no clothing on view except for a pair of slippers. The chest of drawers is piled high with magazines. Caffrey flicks through them: What Hi-Fi, Computing, Computer Weekly, two Maplin catalogues, and one from Screwfix. There is no TV in the room, just an iPod docking station.
Caffery opens the bedside cabinet and takes out a brown pharmacy bottle. Seroxat – it’s in Handel’s name. He shows it to Hurst and gives it a shake to demonstrate it’s empty.
Hurst spreads his hands wide. ‘Don’t look at me – speak to the mental-health team.’
‘Yeah, we’ve got a department like that in the police. The SEP unit.’
‘What?’
‘Someone Else’s Problem.’
Hurst narrows his eyes. He’s beyond disgruntled now. ‘I don’t get a cop’s salary,’ he says. ‘No early retirement and a pension either – index-linked or otherwise.’
Caffery puts the pill bottle back in the cabinet. He checks under the bed, pushing his hand up between the slats and the mattress. He runs his fingertips along the top of the curtain rail and then across the empty coat hangers in the wardrobe, making them clatter. He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for – he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, except to prove a point to Hurst. How many people like Handel slip through the net, he wonders. In places like this it’s probably a daily occurrence.
He stops. In the bottom of Handel’s wardrobe is a stack of folded carrier bags. He squats down and presses his hand against them. They’re all from Wickes. A hardware store is not the most reassuring place for someone like Handel to be shopping – particularly in the context of what he did to his parents.
Caffery pulls the bags out and carefully shakes each one. They are all empty, except for the fifth, which contains a receipt for the iPod dock and the box it came in – now empty.