How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  Everyone was diminished by hospital beds. It wasn’t as if Tony was a big lad to start with. He looked pale and frail, hooked up to beeping machines, dark circles round his closed eyes, nose swollen and purple. On the other hand, he was breathing without a ventilator and his pulse looked stable. She spoke his name softly. No response. ‘We’re here for you, mate,’ she said, replacing the clipboard and leaving the room.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked the officer casually as she closed the door behind her.

  ‘The usual kind of thing,’ the man said indifferently. ‘Got into a ruck with the wrong person. You the one doing the operation, then?’

  ‘No, but I have an interest in cases like these.’ She was already on her way back to the front desk. ‘Thanks,’ she said to the nurse. ‘I’ll pop back later, but keep me posted if there’s any change, please.’

  She checked her watch as she headed back to the lift. She was going to be late for her rounds, but not by much. Time to make a phone call.

  Paula liked airports. She liked the anonymity and the possibility of the junk food Elinor frowned on. She liked browsing the kind of shops she’d normally not bother with, taking a delicious pleasure in the knowledge that she’d never be stupid enough to spend £700 on a handbag or a pen. And she liked that she didn’t bump into anyone she had to give orders to or take orders from.

  She was sipping a mocha topped with a ridiculous swirl of whipped cream when her phone danced on the table top and Elinor’s name lit up on the screen. Surprised, since there was seldom any reason for Elinor to call when she was at the hospital, Paula snatched up her phone and took the call.

  ‘Thank goodness I caught you before you boarded,’ Elinor said without preamble.

  ‘What is it? Is it Torin?’ Paula’s first thought, even though she wasn’t technically the boy’s parent.

  ‘No, it’s Tony.’

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘He’s been admitted to neurosurgery.’

  ‘At Bradfield Cross? But that’s miles from Doniston. Why is he there, what’s happened?’ Anxiety raised her voice and a woman at the next table stared unashamedly.

  ‘He’s here because we’re the regional centre of excellence for neurosurgery. Doniston General shipped him across last night. He’s got a fractured skull and a brain bleed.’

  ‘Dear Christ, no! That’s terrible. What happened?’ Paula turned her head, lowered her voice.

  ‘I don’t know any details. The officer guarding him said he got into a ruck. But look, Paula, don’t panic. It looks like a pretty straightforward injury. It’s a small bleed and it’s not in a critical area. They’ve scheduled him for a routine op this morning, it should be a straightforward job. They’ll drill a little hole and drain the blood to relieve the pressure and that should be the end of it. Well, they’ll maybe leave a drain in for a day or two. But he should be absolutely fine. I just wanted to let you know. Because it’ll be all over social media in no time, you know how leaky hospitals are.’

  ‘Poor Tony. This is awful, Elinor. And a fractured skull?’

  ‘It’s not too bad, truly. From the scans, it looks like he might have hit something with an edge. A shelf or a table or something. But I’m no expert.’

  ‘I can be there in half an hour.’ Action, always the panacea for fear.

  ‘There is genuinely no need. I’m calling not because I think you need to be afraid but because I wanted you to hear it from me.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor?’ Affection rather than sarcasm.

  ‘Something like that. Now go to Galway and I will call you as soon as I hear anything at all. I promise.’

  A thought struck Paula. She couldn’t believe it had taken so long. ‘I’ll have to tell Carol.’

  ‘You will. It does need to come from you.’

  Paula sighed. ‘This is so not what she needs. Not when she’s making progress.’

  ‘You can’t not tell her.’

  Paula gave a soft laugh. ‘Not if I don’t want to join Tony in neurosurgery.’ She glanced up at the departures board. ‘They’re not boarding us yet, I’ll call her now.’

  But there was no reply. Carol’s phone went straight to voicemail. Just as it had the previous evening. After the beep, Paula said, ‘Carol, give me a call when you get this. It’s important. I’m about to get on a plane, I’ll be on the ground just before noon. Talk to you later.’

  She stood up abruptly and, appetite gone, she walked away from her unfinished drink. She wondered where Carol was and why she wasn’t answering her phone. She couldn’t help a frisson of fear for her friend. How much more could Tony and Carol go through before one of them broke for good?

  51

  Even psychopaths have their breaking points. The issue is finding the pressure point that takes them there.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Melissa Rintoul liked to arrive at work at least half an hour before her first appointment. Her standard preparation was a ten-minute meditation then a swift look through the appointment schedule to make sure she was primed for what lay ahead. Over the years, she had trained herself not to be taken by surprise. It didn’t help patients if you showed your shock or revulsion at the things they told you. But even she struggled not to indicate that it was far from normal to find a client sitting on her doorstep, head bowed and arms wrapped tight around her knees when she arrived at half past seven.

  ‘Carol,’ she said, her voice calm and quiet. ‘Why don’t you come inside and have a cup of tea with me?’

  Carol looked up, her face haggard and her red-rimmed eyes empty. ‘I’ve failed,’ she said, struggling to her feet, staggering as her legs cramped under her.

  Melissa held out an arm to steady her but Carol grabbed at the door jamb instead. She led her straight to her consultation room and Carol followed meekly, taking the chair that she gestured towards. ‘Tea,’ she said, going back to the reception area. She boiled water and dropped a couple of green tea bags into cups, aiming for speed rather than delicacy. She was back with Carol in a couple of minutes, handing her the drink. Melissa sat down opposite. ‘Why do you think you’ve failed?’

  Carol stared into her cup. ‘Last night, I bullied someone. He wasn’t a good person. But that’s no excuse. Then I stood by while someone else threatened him with a knife. I did nothing to stop it. I colluded in it. The worst part is that I . . . ’ She sighed heavily. ‘I revelled in it. While it was happening, I enjoyed that sense of power, even when I knew it was wrong. I hated myself but it was like a drug. I couldn’t stop it.’

  ‘Did either of you physically hurt this person?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘“Not really”? What does that mean?’

  Shamed, Carol muttered, ‘I pushed him. He fell over. But he wasn’t hurt, just scared. And then he . . . he caved in. But if he hadn’t . . . ’ Another sigh. ‘I think the other person would have hurt him and maybe I wouldn’t have stopped her. I was so hyped up.’

  ‘How did you feel? Physically, I mean?’

  ‘My heart was racing, my pulse was pounding. I felt almost sick with the surge of adrenaline.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually attack this man. You kept control of yourself, Carol.’

  Carol shook her head. ‘No. I was so close to tipping over the edge and losing it.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘I was willing to. All this work I’ve been doing, all these exercises. I thought I was getting somewhere but at the first crisis, I fell to bits again.’ She put her tea down and grabbed her hair with both hands, covering her face, rocking in her chair.

  Melissa waited till Carol dropped her hands to her lap again. ‘What did you do afterwards?’

  Carol sniffed. ‘I was so disgusted with myself. I’ve always been someone who tried to do the right thing. Tried to behave decently, honestly. I despise bullies. I don’t think I abused my power when I was a police officer. I exercised power, I know I did, but I didn’t exploit it. But now? I�
�m a stranger to myself.’

  ‘What did you do afterwards?’

  Carol stood up abruptly and walked to the window. With her back to Melissa, she said, ‘I was beside a beach. I ran through the sand dunes and walked towards the sea. It was a long way out, it must have been low tide. I felt drawn to the sea. I wanted to walk into the sea and just keep going till none of it mattered any more.’

  ‘I’m so glad you didn’t do that, Carol. Can you tell me what it was that stopped you?’

  Carol gave a little snort. ‘The thing that always stops me. Duty. Obligation.’

  ‘Obligation to whom?’

  ‘Not to whom, to what.’ She turned back, her face twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Justice. Making things right. See, I’d made a commitment I couldn’t keep if I was at the bottom of the sea. So I dragged myself back up the beach and drove here. To confess my failure to someone who would understand why I despise myself so completely right now.’

  ‘Please, sit down, Carol. It’s not good to move so restlessly when you need to find the calm space inside yourself.’

  Carol threw herself into the chair like a sulky teenager. ‘I thought I was managing my PTSD, but it all went to shit at the first test.’

  ‘No, Carol. You’re not a failure. The fact that you are here and not at the bottom of the sea, not in police custody for beating someone up, not drunk in a gutter somewhere – all this tells me that you are the opposite of a failure. You are not in the same place as you were when you first arrived here. You have made progress, Carol. I know it doesn’t feel like it this morning, but you are getting better.’

  ‘But I’m not fit to be out in the world.’

  ‘That’s not true. And you are shifting from genuine remorse to self-pity, even in this short space of time. That’s not a healthy place for you to be, and I think you know that very well, Carol. What we’re going to do now is a series of exercises to ground you. To bring you back to where you want to be. To remind you of how that feels.’

  And so Melissa began to lead Carol back through the process she had already taught her once. They were less than five minutes into the arm exercises when Carol collapsed to her knees on the floor and began sobbing, the abandoned weeping of a deserted child. Melissa knelt next to her and took her into her arms, holding her close but not tight. If she could make Carol feel safe through this catharsis, there was every chance that she’d see this as brief backsliding – two steps forward and one back, perhaps – and not as the disaster she’d believed she’d brought to the door that morning.

  At last Carol had no more tears. She slumped against Melissa, exhausted. ‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked.

  ‘No need for that. I promise, you will not sink this low again. You’re here, and that’s because this process is working. You trust me, don’t you?’

  Carol thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Now you have to extend that trust to yourself.’ Melissa gave her a last hug then helped her to her feet. ‘I have another patient right now,’ she said. ‘Before you drive anywhere, I want you to rest and to do a full set of your exercises. We have a room upstairs where you can lie down and sleep for a while.’

  Carol followed her out through reception, where a middle-aged man slouched in a chair, glowering. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Pete,’ Melissa said, leading the way upstairs to a tiny room furnished with a day bed and a side table. ‘Stay here as long as you need,’ she said. ‘But before you leave, promise me you’ll do your exercises.’

  Meek as a child now, Carol nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down as suddenly as if her legs had given way. ‘I thought I’d never find sleep again when I came here in the middle of the night. I think I was mistaken.’

  Melissa gave her most reassuring smile. ‘Be kind to yourself, Carol. You deserve kindness.’ And she left Carol, refusing to allow herself a moment’s doubt that her patient would indeed find her way back to a version of herself with much less pain.

  52

  Most of the earliest texts on offender profiling insisted on dividing serial offenders into ‘organised’ and ‘disorganised’. It was a binary that failed to stand up to any degree of close scrutiny. Serial offenders generally exhibit behaviour that falls into both of these areas of distinction.

  From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL

  Paula navigated Shannon Airport on automatic pilot, following the same signs as everyone else, clearing passport control effortlessly. ‘Make the most of it before Brexit fucks everything up,’ the young woman beside her in the line muttered. Paula emerged in the arrivals hall to be confronted by a man in a bottle green suit with shoulders like a prop forward and a shock of bright ginger hair waving a sign that read DI MCINTYRE, as if Diana were her first name.

  ‘I’m McIntyre,’ she said. ‘Thanks for coming to pick me up.’

  He beamed at her and extended a hand that completely enveloped hers. ‘Detective Sergeant Fintan McInerny,’ he announced in a voice that needed no PA system. ‘I’m a regional detective based in Galway. At your service, ma’am.’

  Paula winced. Like Carol Jordan, she hated the formal address. It made her feel like an irrelevant old lady. ‘Skip the ma’am,’ she said. ‘Paula will do.’

  He looked pained. ‘My boss is a bit of a stickler. He wouldn’t like that.’

  Paula cracked a smile. ‘Just go with “inspector” then, Sergeant.’

  He grinned back at her. ‘I’ve got the car right outside.’ He reached for her overnight backpack. ‘Can I take that?’

  She let him. Feminism was all very well, but there was no need to suffer for it. Sergeants were called ‘bagmen’ for good reason. And McInerny looked as if he could tote her bag with his pinkie.

  He was true to his word. Immediately outside the terminal a shiny four-by-four, elegant as a rhino, sat on double yellow lines with a uniformed garda standing next to it. He nodded to McInerny and walked away. They were out of the airport and on to the M18 motorway in a matter of minutes. There was no dawdling in McInerny’s driving; he overtook like a fly half dodging a full back, coming right up on the car in front before swerving dramatically into the outside lane. Paula, who hadn’t been in the West of Ireland since a very damp camping trip in her early twenties, was pleasantly surprised not to be dawdling along one of the country roads she’d travelled then.

  As if reading her mind, he said, ‘Have you visited here before?’

  ‘So long ago it feels like a past life experience. A lot of Guinness, a lot of live music and a lot of rain is what I mostly remember.’

  ‘Nothing much has changed except the roads have got better and so’s our economy. It’s a shame it’s raining now, this is a grand drive when you can see it.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll clear up.’

  ‘I think it’s set in for the day. But you’re not here to see the view, are ye? Nuns, is it?’

  ‘Just the one. She used to be the Mother Superior of a convent in Bradesden, just outside Bradfield.’

  ‘I went to Bradfield once. My cousin married a lad from there. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it. The reception was in an Irish club and it was more Irish than anywhere I’ve ever been in my life, if you take my meaning? So this nun, you think she’d been abusing the children in her care?’

  ‘It looks that way. It’s hard to track down the former residents. They were in care for the kind of reasons that don’t tend to lead to stable regular lives. But what we have so far is one key witness statement about girls being beaten and psychologically tortured.’ Paula stared out of the window. ‘And around forty skeletons buried under the front lawn.’

  McInerny whistled. ‘That’s not something that happens by accident.’

  ‘The trouble is it’s hard to prove abuse. There’s no physical evidence of cause of death. And we’ve got the convent priest basically shrugging and saying, “children die”.’

  ‘And despite all the terrible things that have been coming out about what nuns and priests have been doing
with the children and young people in their care over the years, there are still plenty of people who absolutely refuse to believe it. My nana, she’s one. She thinks it’s all a pack of lies from people who want to get money out of the Church. Everybody knows the Church is loaded and she thinks it’s an easy touch for blackmailers and liars.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s deluded, of course. But her generation, they’ve given their lives to the Church. How in the name of God are they expected to cope with the disgusting stories coming out all the time?’

  ‘I take your point. But you don’t think like that, right?’

  ‘Me? God, no. I always thought the nuns were evil. Have you ever noticed, the word “convent” contains the word “coven”? We had one old bitch, she loved taking the ruler to the backs of our hands. We’d have to put them palms down on her table then she’d flex the ruler high as she could then wham! She’d let it go and I tell you, it would bring tears to the eyes of Superman himself. Jaysus.’ He shivered theatrically. ‘I can still remember the sting of it.’

  ‘And nobody made a fuss?’

  He roared with laughter. ‘If you went home and complained, you’d get a bang on the ear. “You must have done something terrible to drive Sister Augustine to such a pitch,” my mother would say. No, when it comes to nuns, I’d believe just about anything. You ask me, Hitler could have got them to run his concentration camps, no bother.’

  ‘I’d have thought that was an outrageous statement until we found those buried children at the Blessed Pearl convent.’

  There was silence for a couple of miles, then McInerny spoke. ‘I was maybe a wee bit over the top there. My boss tells me I speak before I think. But we’re not actually going to the convent of the Order of the Blessed Pearl itself, are we?’

  ‘No, Sister Mary Patrick isn’t living in the convent. I don’t know why that would be? I’m not exactly au fait with the finer distinctions of life inside Catholic religious orders.’