by Ann Gosslin
When Walter Keller stepped through Gessen’s door, his face was ashen. Losing one of their patients would have hit him hard, of course, but there must be more to it. With the bodyguard not responding to calls, something felt off. Could Sendak have played a role in Ismail’s death?
In spite of the haunted look on his face, Keller’s back was ramrod straight. ‘He’s gone, sir.’
‘Who? The bodyguard?’
‘Yes, sir. Must have slipped away as soon as we found the body of the boy. Afraid for his own neck, I imagine.’ He looked past Gessen and squinted at the window. ‘Considering the family who employed him.’
Gessen ran his hand through his hair. ‘Do you think the bodyguard had something to do with the boy’s death?’
Keller shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but he’s probably on a plane by now.’
Gessen cast around for the right words. Keller might be worrying about his own job as well. ‘For now, it’s business as usual. I don’t want to upset the patients.’ He glanced at his watch, conscious of time slipping away. He had a session with Vidor in thirty minutes. Just enough time to get cleaned up. In Vidor’s fragile state, it would be better for him not to know that a patient had died on Gessen’s watch. Possibly lured to his death by the man hired to protect him. Highly suspicious that he’d slipped away. If he were innocent, why run?
Keller took a call on his phone. ‘The police are here. They’d like to speak to you.’
30
The ground crackled with frost as Gessen cut across the lawn to meet the uniformed officers at the gate, a ruddy-cheeked young man with sandy hair, and an older woman whose face was impossible to read. His stomach lurched at the sight of them. Even as a child he’d feared the police. A holdover from the time he was a young boy living in a city of intrigue and secrets, where a man in uniform was something to fear. He couldn’t remember who had taught him this, or if he was taking his cues from the wary-eyed adults around him.
The air was thick with impending snow, forecast for the afternoon. He shook hands with the officers and invited them through. Once inside the gate, they paused to look around, silently absorbing the vast sweep of the grounds, the manicured gardens and spacious chalets. He knew how it looked to outsiders: a fairy-tale village tucked away in a pleasant valley high in the mountains. Amongst the locals the clinic had acquired a rarefied reputation. Natural for them to be curious, but there wasn’t much to see. Before he’d turned it into a psychiatric clinic, Les Hirondelles had been a typical mountain hamlet. One of hundreds, if not thousands, scattered throughout the Bernese Oberland.
Today seemed different though. Without a soul to animate the scene, even to Gessen’s eyes, the clinic looked like a theme park, a facsimile of a charming, old-world Alpine village, overlaid with a sheen of fakery. He had instructed the staff to keep the patients occupied while the police were on site. Confined to their rooms or in a special session of group therapy. Ursula, still intrigued by Vidor’s reaction to the abstract painting during their word association exercise, had assigned Vidor to another art therapy session with Isabelle. Skilled at plumbing the hidden depths of the psyche through art, Isabelle might succeed where he had failed. After the terrible business with the police was over, he was curious to see what Vidor might have produced.
The officers, Müller and Schulz, introduced themselves, and they stood awkwardly for a moment in the frigid air until Gessen led them down the stone path to the conference room on the ground floor of the manor house. Though bland and sparsely furnished in keeping with its function, it had a spectacular view of the mountains across the valley and provided a more appropriate place to bring them than his office.
‘May I offer you a coffee?’ Gessen said, as one of the staff stepped up to take their coats.
As the two officers exchanged glances, Gessen could sense what they were thinking. That this wasn’t a social call, but it was a chilly day, so why not? ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ said Schulz, the junior officer of the pair. His partner looked stern for a moment and then she softened. ‘I’ll have one too, if it’s not any trouble.’
Gessen pressed a button by the door. ‘Mathilde, would you bring us three coffees?’
While they waited, Schulz attempted some small talk. ‘Nice set-up you’ve got here. Sehr schön. I grew up in the next valley over.’ He gestured at the window.
Officer Müller pursed her lips and retrieved a notepad from an inside pocket of her jacket. Gessen tried to read her expression. They would have received the coroner’s report by now. Did it mention this might be a suspicious death? He prayed not. An extended inquiry could go on for weeks. As far as he was concerned, Ismail’s death was an accident. Suicide was the other possibility, though it seemed unlikely. Why would Ismail end his own life, when he was so desperate to be reunited with his beloved?
The only one at fault was Gessen himself. Any lapse in security rested squarely on his shoulders. After the investigation was over, he would reconsider his stance on securing the property with a high fence, though he hated the idea. This was a medical clinic, not a prison, and the patients’ stays were voluntary. What would it do to their well-being if they had the impression they were locked in?
Even before he learned of his own family history, Gessen had a horror of closed spaces and locked doors, so he could only imagine what effect they might have on his patients. Far from home. Disoriented and vulnerable to whatever ailment had brought them here. What they needed most – and one of the selling points of the clinic – was the healing energy of the mountains and the illusion of wide-open space. No spirit can properly soar behind high fences, razor wire, and locked doors.
Officer Müller pointedly clicked her pen. ‘Until additional information comes in,’ she said, ‘we’re treating Mr Mahmoud’s death as an accident. Suicide is also a possibility, of course, so it would be helpful to know something about Mr Mahmoud’s state of mind in the days leading up to his death.’
Gessen had come prepared to the meeting, and he flipped open his diary to consult the relevant dates. ‘The day before he went missing, Mr Mahmoud had a private therapy session with Dr Lindstrom at three in the afternoon.’ He passed the diary to Officer Müller. ‘I was away on other business and heading back to the clinic by train when Dr Lindstrom called to say that Mr Mahmoud was missing.’
Officer Müller glanced at the diary and made a note. ‘Did Dr Lindstrom notice anything out of the ordinary? Perhaps he was agitated or upset.’
‘I don’t believe so. No more upset than usual.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Doctor–patient confidentiality, even after death, prevents me from divulging the details, but what I can tell you is that Mr Mahmoud had trouble accepting he was ill. He was not happy about being here. Our work together was hampered by his overwhelming desire to return to England.’
‘What was stopping him?’ Her eyes met his. ‘If I understand the law correctly, no patient in this country can be kept against their will. Unless it’s been shown they’re a danger to themselves… or others.’
‘That’s correct,’ Gessen said. ‘But prior to admission, Mr Mahmoud demonstrated suicidal tendencies, and he’d threatened his father with bodily harm. Apparently, things were very heated between them, so they struck a deal. Mr Mahmoud, Ismail, would submit to six months of residential treatment at a clinic of his father’s choice. If Ismail completed the treatment successfully, his father would release him from his obligation to take over the family business, which is based in Cairo. Ismail wanted to stay in the UK and study medicine. I believe there is also a young woman there he’d wanted to marry, but he never said much about that.’
Officer Müller tapped her pen on the table. ‘Why did he need his father’s permission to stay in England or to marry the girl of his choice?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ Gessen said. ‘It was a family matter.’ He sipped the last of his coffee, but the dregs were bitter on his tongue. He paused before continuing. ‘It can be di
fficult for those of us brought up in the West to appreciate the importance other cultures place on family ties and dynastic succession.’
‘Dynastic?’
‘Mr Mahmoud is – was – the second son of a powerful family in the Middle East. When the oldest boy died in a car accident some years ago, the father assumed Ismail would give up his dream of becoming a doctor and step into his older brother’s place. When Ismail refused, things grew ugly, and he made a half-hearted attempt to kill himself. He and I agreed that, as part of his treatment programme, he would keep his part of the bargain. Ismail was hoping that, after the six months were over, his father would come to his senses and allow him to choose his own path in life.’
Officer Müller jotted down a note on her pad.
Silence filled the room. Gessen looked up to see snow spinning down from the darkened sky. ‘Though our primary focus is psychiatric treatment,’ he continued, ‘the clinic also functions as a place of refuge, a retreat for troubled individuals while they figure out how to live in the world.’
When Officer Müller met his gaze, it was easy for Gessen to read her thoughts: Another playground for the idle rich. Wouldn’t we all like to have such problems? But he had no desire to explain that his clinic wasn’t some upscale health resort for the wealthy bored. If they were interested in learning more about the history and philosophy of Les Hirondelles, they were welcome to pick up a brochure on the way out.
Officer Schulz cleared his throat. ‘We understand that Mr Mahmoud had a private bodyguard who was posing as one of the staff.’
Gessen frowned. Who would have told them that? Were they already in contact with the family?
Müller cut in smoothly. ‘We’d like to speak to him, as well as your head of Security.’
‘Unfortunately, that will be difficult.’
The two officers stared at him.
‘Our Security manager will be happy to speak with you, of course, but Mr Mahmoud’s bodyguard has unfortunately vanished. No one’s seen him since Ismail’s body was found.’
This information seemed to animate Schulz. But Officer Müller didn’t bat an eye. Instead they asked a few more questions. Did he think Mr Mahmoud could have taken his own life? Did he have any disputes or altercations with the other patients, or ever threaten to hurt anyone? The questions seemed routine, but a cold sweat soaked the skin under Gessen’s shirt. The poor boy was dead. Accident or suicide, what did it matter now? Schulz cut in with a sharp tone that brought him up short.
‘There’s a third possibility.’ His pen clattered on the table. ‘He was murdered.’
Murdered? Gessen had shied away from considering that option, finding it unthinkable at first. Though of course it was possible. Even Walter Keller, as unruffled as they come, had broached the idea. Who would do such a thing, the bodyguard? ‘What would be the motive?’
‘Animosity, prejudice? A tussle over a woman, perhaps?’
Gessen shook his head. There was no woman who might fit the profile. Except, perhaps, for Libby. And who would be fighting Ismail for her attentions? The idea was ludicrous.
‘He was in love with a girl in England.’
Office Müller broke in smoothly. ‘Regardless, to get a full picture of the case, we’ll need to speak to the staff. And the other patients, of course.’
And then there were five. The last thing his patients needed in their fragile states was to be grilled by the police about a possible murder. A bright young man whom nearly everyone seemed to like. He’d have Ursula put together the list of names, though one of them would have to be present during the questioning.
Why not start with Vidor? The police’s probing might resolve his flicker of unease that Vidor might somehow be involved. As a housemate, he may have viewed Ismail as mildly annoying, but surely nothing that amounted to a motive for murder.
31
Vidor entered the conference room to find two police officers standing at the window. The sight made him uneasy. Two against one, an unfair match, though he supposed the police always worked in pairs. Ever since Gessen had shown him that odious video from Copenhagen – obviously a fake meant to frighten him – he’d been irritable and on guard, waiting for another trick to be sprung upon him. These officers could be another of Gessen’s ploys to throw him off balance. With Ismail happy to play along in the conspiracy, only too pleased to put the screws on Vidor and make him sweat.
Behind the officers, the mountains were draped in a fresh layer of snow. One of Gessen’s personal assistants, a petite woman with a cap of sleek black hair like a chickadee, brought in a tray of coffee and pastries.
The woman officer gestured to a chair. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Kiraly. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’
Time? He suppressed a sigh. All he had was time. Oceans and oceans of it. ‘Please take all the time you need,’ he said, giving the woman what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘I have nothing but time, and little to fill it with. Tempus rerum imperator.’
‘What’s that?’ The younger officer sat up straight, with all the earnest zeal of a schoolboy.
‘Time: commander of all things.’
The boy noted it down. Another eager beaver. Vidor nearly groaned.
The woman cleared her throat. ‘I understand you’ve been informed of the unfortunate death of Mr Mahmoud.’
‘I have,’ Vidor said. ‘Though until today, I did not know that was his surname.’
‘And why is that?’
‘We use first names here only.’ He paused. ‘To protect our privacy.’
She raised her eyes to his, her pen poised. ‘Did you know Mr Mahmoud well? I understand his room was next to yours.’
‘It was, but he mainly kept to himself. I don’t believe he spoke to me more than once or twice. This is a hospital, Ms…’
‘Müller. Officer Müller.’
‘Not a Club Med.’
She scratched something on her notepad. ‘Could you tell me when you last saw Mr Mahmoud?’
Vidor considered this. Should he tell them that Ismail had made a point of rubbing him the wrong way and that he took special pains to avoid him? Better not. The sensation that prickled his skin whenever that annoying lad entered his orbit was too subtle to put into words. So was the vague sense of threat he felt at the idea of Ismail sleeping on the other side of his bedroom wall. The police might count it as a mark against him. Perhaps even wonder whether he’d had something to do with Ismail’s disappearance. Preposterous, of course, but you never knew with the police, always so eager to point fingers at the innocent.
‘Two days ago, I believe, was the last time I saw him. It might have been a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday? Late afternoon. Around four, it could have been. Or five, though it’s hard to say exactly.’ He looked at his interlocutor. ‘You may have noticed the absence of clocks.’
The two officers exchanged a glance. ‘So, you and Mr Mahmoud were not on friendly terms?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He bristled. What were they implying? ‘But I’m not here to socialise, and I don’t make a habit of chatting with the other patients.’ He examined a patch of abraded skin on his wrist. He must have scraped it yesterday when he slipped on the icy path. ‘I’m supposed to be resting.’
Officer Müller checked her notes. ‘One of the other patients said she saw you talking to Mr Mahmoud on the afternoon he disappeared.’
Vidor’s head snapped up. Who would have told them that? ‘Not that woman Hélène, I hope.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Mad as a hatter, that one.’
Officer Müller fixed him with a clear-eyed gaze, waiting for him to say more, perhaps even hoping to entrap him in a falsehood. Little got past this woman, that much was clear.
When nothing more was forthcoming, she closed her notebook. ‘Thank you, Mr Kiraly. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Actually, it’s Professor Kiraly,’ he said. ‘I’m a Cambridge don, and was recently awarded an OBE from Her Majesty the Queen.’ He didn’t want her thinki
ng he was a drooling idiot with scrambled eggs for brains. ‘Very sad, of course, what happened to that boy, but what could you expect?’ He’d heard the rumours. ‘Deeply depressed, apparently, and pining for some girl back in England. The young can be so impulsive, can’t they? At that age, everything is so dramatic.’ He briefly locked eyes with the younger officer. ‘Are you familiar with the concept of l’appel du vide?’
The officer pursed his mouth.
‘The call of… emptiness?’ This from Officer Müller.
‘I prefer to think of it as “void”. The call of the void. It’s an actual neuropsychological phenomenon,’ Vidor said, warming to the subject. ‘I’m sure Dr Gessen could enlighten you further on the psychology of it, but from a neurological perspective it describes the urge one gets, usually not acted upon, fortunately, when standing on a high platform. Or the side of a mountain. The seductive urge to fling oneself into open space. It’s not a suicidal wish, more like a compulsion. Possibly tied to dopamine disturbances in the brain.’
Officer Müller’s pen was poised in mid-air, as if contemplating whether or not to write any of this down.
‘I feel it myself at times,’ Vidor said, with what he hoped was a note of existential sorrow. ‘It’s particularly acute here, so high on the escarpment, and that vast bowl of empty space calling out to us, day and night. My solution is not to go near the edge. Perhaps young Mr Mahmoud felt, to his peril, inexplicably drawn to the call of that open space.’ He looked from one officer to the other. At last, he had a captive audience. ‘Or perhaps he simply lost his balance and fell.’
* * *
The snow was coming down fast, though more like shards of ice than downy flakes, and a bitter wind lashed the pines. Vidor welcomed the change in weather, the first real storm of the season to reach the valley, and a harbinger of what might be in store when the full force of winter arrived. Soon, the clinic would be cut off from the world. Subjected to the howling winds that shook the trees and scoured the granite outcrops. A reminder of how insignificant they all were, as they travelled through space and time on a whirling blue sphere, unaware of the meaning, if any, of their place in the cosmos.