‘Was that sent here?’ I asked.
‘No, Bangor,’ he said. ‘Is it Lucinda Press’ style?’
‘I’d know it if I saw it,’ I said. I looked at the photocopy, cut and stuck letters. ‘No, not at all.’
‘This is getting crazy, does no one just say what they think anymore?’ the chief asked.
‘Cowards, an age of cowards these days,’ said Sarge Simon.
‘And a world full of banana peels,’ said Hewitt.
‘Poetic,’ Chief Dunne said.
‘I do try.’ She winked at him and he smiled back.
My stomach plunged.
*
At six p.m. we arrived at the psychiatrist’s office on the Upper Newtownards Road. ‘We were just closing up,’ his secretary said.
‘We just need a word with Martin Walsh.’
‘I’ll get Dr. Walsh now,’ she said.
She tried to phone him but he was coming out of the room with his briefcase in hand, sorting out car keys. ‘Hello,’ he said, alarmed.
‘I’m DI Harriet Sloane,’ I said, ‘and this is …’
‘Superintendent Fleur Hewitt.’
‘What has happened?’ Martin asked.
‘We’re here to speak with you about a patient who as murdered.’
‘Chloe Taylor?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You go on home and I’ll lock up,’ he told the secretary.
‘You sure?’ she said.
‘Yes, thank you.’
She gathered her belongings and left.
‘Come through,’ he said and went into his room and sat.
‘This is making me uncomfortable,’ said Hewitt, ‘I’ll just move my chair.’ I watched her bring her chair close to his. Martin was smiling with amusement and confusion. ‘Now I’ll not feel like I’m being analysed,’ Hewitt said.
I tried to keep a straight face. ‘We are here to ask you about your knowledge of Chloe Taylor.’
‘Chloe was my patient,’ said Martin, ‘as you’ve already gathered.’
‘How long were you treating Chloe?’ I asked him.
‘A while. Not very long.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘She self-referred. A private patient. She had some feelings she wanted to work through.’
‘She had mental health problems?’ asked Hewitt.
‘That is not uncommon,’ said Martin. ‘Most of us will at some stage in our lives.
‘Chloe was proactive, because of her family history of mental health problems, she was great at noticing the signs and getting help.’
‘How often did you see her?’
‘Anything between once a month to once a week.’
‘When did she last see you?’
‘A fortnight before the incident.’
‘Her murder, or some other incident?’
‘Her murder. I didn’t like to say the word,’ he explained.
‘How did she seem, then?’ I asked.
‘Manic.’
‘I’m not an expert like you,’ said Hewitt. ‘What does that word mean, manic?’
‘She said she’d been spending money she didn’t have, she was excitable, and with her disorder there are lows. And when she didn’t show on the Tuesday night, the night before the murder, I assumed she was feeling low.’
‘She would cancel often?’ asked Hewitt.
‘At times,’ he said, cocking his head to the side.
‘Was there anything inappropriate in your relationship or with her outlook toward you?’
‘There was nothing inappropriate. How do you mean?’
‘Did she have a crush on you, perhaps?’ I asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘We have been told that there seemed to be a relationship between you two,’ Hewitt announced.
‘Me and Chloe?’ Martin Walsh laughed. ‘A relationship. Hmm …’
I locked eyes with him.
‘That’s just ridiculous,’ Martin said.
‘But you saw her socially?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Yet there is a photo of you and her together. It’s on Facebook.’
He looked confused. ‘I can’t think what photo that would be. There are none.’
‘You are at a bar and you have your arms around her,’ said Hewitt.
‘And she with you, Dr. Walsh,’ I added.
‘I do. I know now. That was at The Bell.’
‘The bar in Ballyhackamore?’
‘Yes, Ballyhack. I was there eating and she was there, heavily intoxicated. She was acting silly when she saw me – I suppose because it was out of context from when we would normally see each other, in our therapist-patient capacity. She was saying to her friends, “Look, it’s Martin,” you know?’
‘And so you went and had a photo taken with her?’
‘There was nothing in it, if that’s the angle you’re taking. Which, I appreciate, seeing the circumstances. The tragic circumstances. But, for goodness sake, my wife was there. It was Rebecca who said, “Go make a sad girl happy”.’ Martin paused. ‘Chloe had just recently split up from her boyfriend, I remember thinking that that was why she was drunk. So as not to feel the pain of that relationship ending.’
‘You never discussed it again after?’ I asked.
‘The next time I saw Chloe after seeing her in The Bell, I said, “Did you have a good night?” and Chloe couldn’t remember a thing about it … or so she said. I thought she was embarrassed about her behaviour. Not that there was anything untoward about her behaviour, she was a little tipsy, so I dropped it. Because I’m not in the habit of making people feel worse about themselves. That’s the opposite of what I’m about.’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ I said. ‘So … the photo?’
‘Maybe putting the photo on Facebook was Chloe’s way of trying to make her ex jealous?’ He shrugged. ‘You know how these relationships are with younger people these days and social media’s part in it.’
‘Martin, where do you live, if we need to speak to you again?’
‘You can call here. I usually take lunch at one p.m.’
‘I’ll take a note of your home address and phone number anyway,’ said Hewitt.
Martin lifted a business card and wrote his address on the back of it, Leathem Square, Dundonald.
‘Would you put a mobile number or home phone on there for me, thank you kindly,’ said Hewitt.
‘I’m at work more often than not.’
‘But you are heading home now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’ I could see him tense up.
*
‘She was a smart, liked, attractive girl; surely, she would have a relationship,’ I mused.
‘Yeah,’ said Hewitt. ‘Surely! If she wanted one. Though some people can be on their own.’
‘There must be signs of a relationship in her room. A memento. A ticket stub, a love letter,’ I said.
We went to Chloe’s house at 7p.m. and Thomas eventually opened the door to us.
‘Is your dad about?’
‘He’s at the shops,’ he said.
‘We want to take a look at Chloe’s room, we have a feeling there might be a clue there.’
His lips parted slightly, I thought he might say something to stop us but he held it in.
We walked past him and went upstairs and into a room that was painted white with the built-in furniture also white. The desk, the overhead cupboards, white too. Apart from their glass doors, and inside a row of all the Harry Potter books. Chloe’s bedding was pink, gold and white and disarranged; still as she got out of it the morning she was murdered.
Glynis decorated this room when her daughter was much younger, I could sense it.
It was pretty but the real adult Chloe appeared in the ethnic mementos, colourful incense-scented candles. Posters on the wall of Malala Yousafzai, Frida Kahlo, Rosa Parks and other women whose faces I did not know, but really should have.
I shook t
he books above her bed waiting for a letter to come out, while Hewitt searched under Chloe’s mattress for a diary, stopping to smile sadly at the Bagpuss on her pillow. Thomas came and lingered at the door, his mobile phone in his hand.
‘Have you found Chloe’s tiger coat?’ he asked.
‘We haven’t. We missed you earlier,’ I said, trying to block his view of Hewitt as she carried out her search.
‘Should you be going through her things?’ he asked.
‘We are trying to look for anything that would help us, help your family.’
‘We missed you earlier, Thomas,’ said Hewitt this time.
‘I missed my bus. It went earlier than it was supposed to.’ He developed a typical teenage stroppiness on his face.
‘And you couldn’t call us? Your phone was turned off, it seemed.’
‘My battery was dead.’
‘Missed bus and dead battery,’ I said. ‘Notice all these USB ports cropping up everywhere for people to charge their phones lately?’
‘No excuse these days for a dead battery,’ said Hewitt. ‘Plus, we were here when you answered the phone to your dad.’
He said nothing. Then he hardened his face like, I’m not the kid you think I am. I’m not the person you think I am. I felt a flicker of fear as he blocked the doorway. ‘I was on one percent battery when I was talking to Dad. I managed to charge it for a second after borrowing a friend’s charger.’
‘Is this the friend whose house you stayed at?’
‘What?’ he asked.
A car flew into the driveway, the engine shut down.
‘We wanted to meet you hours ago.’ Hewitt looked at her watch. ‘Four hours ago. You’re not avoiding us, are you?’
The front door opened and Thomas called out for Jackie, who came storming up the stairs.
‘We were only wanting to know about your art project,’ I told Thomas, putting a photo album back in its place.
Jackie’s face was red with rage. ‘Fuck off and do it now.’ He looked from me to Hewitt and back to me.
‘Thomas,’ I said, ‘why are all the pictures in your display of Chloe?’
‘She posed for him,’ said Jackie, ‘they were close; only siblings. We’re a small family who stick together, now fuck off.’
‘Okay, we’ll leave,’ said Hewitt. ‘We know this is hard and that you’re grieving, Mr. Taylor.’
‘Grieving?’ asked Jackie. ‘I can’t start grieving until Chloe’s murderer is found.’
We walked out, Jackie coming down the stairs behind us. I sat in the car and texted Thomas:
Do you know Chloe’s email address?
[email protected]
And the password by any chance?
It’ll be her date of birth – 2 February 1998 – or mine – 3 September 1999.
‘He knew about her trip to Pakistan,’ I said, ‘he knew and now his dad is angry with him for keeping it secret.’
‘Look what I found,’ Hewitt said taking a piece of photographic paper from her jacket pocket.
‘What is it?’
She turned it face up, it was the same photo that was on Chloe’s Facebook of Martin Walsh and her.
‘Thought you might like to frame this copy, it has written on the back, M and C, and a small x. Oh, an x is a kiss.’
‘You took it?’ I asked.
‘It won’t be missed.’
‘I can’t believe you took it.’
‘Oh, grow up,’ Hewitt told me.
‘Let’s go to his house.’
‘Martin’s?’
‘Yes, let’s go right now.’
‘Alright,’ she said. It was the first time she had listened to me and taken my lead. We went to the courtyard of stylish townhouses off East Link Road in Dundonald.
Rebecca, a voluptuous woman with shoulder length brown hair, opened the door and we went through the introductions.
‘We were speaking to your husband earlier,’ Hewitt said to her, ‘and we wanted to ask him a few more questions.’
‘My husband doesn’t live here; is this the address he gave?’
Hewitt showed her the back of Martin’s business card.
‘Unbelievable! What do you want to talk to him about?’
‘A patient of his.’
‘Something’s not right,’ said Rebecca.
‘With what?’ I asked.
‘That you are calling out here when you say you have just spoken to him. That sounds urgent, and if he is making out that he and I are fine, then he’s a liar.’
‘We’re just following a trail when it’s warm, Mrs. Walsh.’
‘Martin’s having an affair,’ Rebecca said. She had sad large brown eyes. She looked close to tears.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘When did you find out?’ asked Hewitt.
‘No big ah-ha moment, a sense … he starts caring more what he looks like, those movie clichés.’ She looked around outside and added, ‘Come in. This is awkward, speaking like this in the hallway.’
Rebecca had been cutting the stems off flowers that spilled over the kitchen table and sat beside a sheet of cellophane. A large kitchen knife sat across them like a silver boat caught in a shimmering wave.
‘And you’ve fallen out with Martin?’ I said, looking out of the two narrow patio doors with their little black balconies, and out onto the main road.
‘Spectacularly,’ said Rebecca.
‘When did you fall out?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. He moved in with his friend Bill in the meantime, until we get the house sorted, get it sold.’
‘There’s no for sale sign.’
‘It’s out on the road.’
‘Where does Bill live?’ I asked.
‘A flash apartment, it’s in Kincora Mews. In one of those big old houses that have been repurposed.’
‘You probably heard about a young woman, Chloe Taylor, who was murdered last week. Almost a week ago.’
Rebecca savoured her bottom lip.
‘She was a patient of your husband,’ said Hewitt.
‘Soon to be ex-husband,’ Rebecca corrected. Hewitt nodded. ‘She was Martin’s patient?’ Rebecca asked for clarification, her mind still clearly on how he had wronged her. She was unable to see beyond it, to see the bigger picture.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘So she’s the one?’ said Rebecca.
‘Which one?’ Hewitt frowned.
‘The affair he’s been having. That makes sense.’ Rebecca looked around the room, and then she frowned too. ‘There was a Chloe, I remember now. She saw Martin on a night out and couldn’t keep her excitement to herself.’
‘You saw Chloe?’
‘Once. That’s right. That’s who that was … That dead girl. Oh God!’
‘When was it? Was it when this photo was taken?’ Hewitt took the photo from her pocket, careful to only show the front of it.
Rebecca’s frown deepened as she looked at it, then her face relaxed. ‘Yes,’ she announced. ‘That girl wanted a photo with him. I remember now.’
‘Martin was telling the truth about that,’ I said. ‘That you were there when this photo was taken.’
‘Yes, I was. Do you think he’s implicated in some sort of way, in her murder?’
‘We’re not suggesting that,’ said Hewitt. ‘We are just trying to speak to the main players in Chloe’s life, and we’re trying to learn whether, or not, there was a connection between Martin and her.’
‘Did it seem as if she liked him?’ I asked.
‘Yes. But as a wife you also think, that’s too obvious, the way she was behaving. I mean, asking for a photo? Hugging him. Is that too obvious?’
‘Do you honestly think that it was reciprocated, say, if Chloe did have a crush?’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Rebecca, ‘it’s not the first time a young woman has fallen for her therapist. People falling for their therapist is very common. People are vulnerable, and here’s someone who finally
cares.’
‘So, there have been other instances?’
‘Absolutely. This is the only time I think he has acted. And I know he has because of the signs, and he’s a man, for god’s sake, if a pretty young woman is putting it on a plate …’
‘What makes you think the affair was with a patient, and possibly Chloe? Those allegations could hurt his career.’
‘His leaving could hurt our children. It has hurt them. Look, I don’t know for definite, I’m not alleging this exactly, but am I looking at it as a possibility. I know he’s seeing someone. It’s only now I’m seeing that this girl and the murdered girl are maybe the same person. I only saw her for a short time that night. But Martin had ample time to come clean. We went for a drive, for hours and hours, we talked. Drove everywhere: Newtownards, Bangor, Crawsfordsburn, pulled up at Helens Bay and talked some more.’
‘Talking about?’ I asked.
‘Me asking him if he wanted another woman, giving him a chance to admit something.’
‘Did Martin admit he was having an affair?’ asked Hewitt.
‘A wife just knows,’ Rebecca stated. ‘They know. He denied it, like I knew he would, but once you see one lie everything else becomes a lie too. Then – and this is embarrassing; I haven’t even told my best friend – I found his bag of tricks.’
‘Bag of tricks?’ I said. ‘What was in that?’
‘He had a bag full of stuff: condoms, a black leather G-string, lubricant. It was in the loft. That G-string was not for him – let’s put it that way. So that’s how I know … After our youngest child was born I had an emergency hysterectomy. Sod’s law, because two months before that Martin had a vasectomy. We never used condoms. He came back to get his stuff, and guess what? The bag is missing too.’
Hewitt looked at me and sucked her back teeth.
*
As we left the townhouse, Justin ran past by on the main road, he was with a woman who had long hair, a brown swishy ponytail. They were both red faced.
‘Hello strangers, working hard,’ he shouted over, in a flirty, breathless tone.
‘You’re working hard, I see,’ said Hewitt.
‘Come join us,’ he said running backwards and nearly stumbling onto the road.
Yes, I thought. I wanted to run. My baby belly was still there, a little bit, that dead unshifting tissue of my C-section was the other bane of my life. My brother Addam and I usually did the Belfast Marathon every May, but he had stopped running and I hadn’t registered that year. If I couldn’t make a good time, I wouldn’t do it at all.
Problems with Girls (DI Sloane Book 2) Page 13