by Ed James
Palmer snapped her notebook shut and leaned forward on her chair. ‘We’ve driven a long way. It feels like you’re obfuscating matters for some reason I can’t quite ascertain.’
‘I assure you, if I could share what’s going on, I would.’
‘Well, what’s going on in my head is there’s potentially a serial abductor at work.’ Palmer got up and stepped closer to Magrane. ‘Someone who’s tortured two seemingly innocent people before releasing them. Someone who might repeat the act. Who might even be doing so as we speak.’
Magrane huffed out a deep sigh and looked up. ‘Listen, it’s nice of you to join us down here, but my hands are tied.’
‘Fine.’ Corcoran buttoned up his jacket. ‘I’ll get my DI to ring you.’ He walked off but stopped by the door. ‘But if someone else goes missing or turns up in as bad a state as those two, just remember that you could’ve stopped this.’
Magrane took a few seconds, then gave another deep sigh. Still kept quiet, but the wall had cracked slightly.
Corcoran stepped towards Magrane. ‘I’m also wondering why you’ve done a full crime scene analysis of a MisPer’s bedroom.’
Kathy looked up from her laptop. ‘Sir, there’s no sign of Sarah Langton in the case file. No Sarahs at all, in fact. Checked without an H too.’
‘Thanks, Constable.’ Magrane sighed yet again and slumped down in his chair. ‘Your theory broke apart when you said “innocent people”. Mr Ritchie is the straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to Operation Ilium.’ He gestured at Kathy. ‘When DC Pritzakis caught Howard’s disappearance, one of those magical cases passed up from our uniformed brethren, she became extremely concerned about Howard’s connection to the activities occurring where he was taken. So, she persuaded me to sign a search warrant for his property, which I gather you’ve seen the results of?’
Corcoran nodded.
‘Well, we found several blocks of cocaine taped under his mattress.’ Magrane reached over for the laptop and pulled up a set of photos. Ten kilos, according to the caption. ‘I was running Operation Ilium out of Exeter, but suddenly it all seemed to centre around here. Subsequent investigations revealed that Howard was dealing cocaine from the hotel he worked in. People travelled far and wide to buy from him.’
‘And you think that explains his disappearance?’
‘Our two theories are either that he fled, or that his drugs suppliers snatched him and . . .’ Magrane tugged at his turkey-wattle neck. ‘They could’ve offed him or kept him under lock and key. You name it. None of our suspects are speaking, though. We ask, of course, but they’re keeping quiet. On the QT, we did receive word that Howard carried a sizeable drugs debt to a local drug lord, and our belief is this is retribution.’
Corcoran looked over at Palmer. ‘What’s your take on it?’
‘It’d make our lives a hell of a lot easier.’ She was standing by the window, the faint light catching her from behind. ‘How sure are you, Inspector?’
‘Not as sure as eggs is eggs.’ Magrane chuckled. ‘But I’m quietly confident these cases aren’t related.’
Twenty
[Palmer, 19:30]
They drove towards another lit-up stretch, with a city glowing to the left. Could be anywhere. The satnav told Palmer it was Swindon.
Right hand clamped to the wheel, Corcoran took another sip of energy drink, smelling overly sweet and tangy, and returned the can to the drinks holder without looking. He kept his gaze on the road ahead.
Palmer had talked enough for both of them, about her worst fears come to life. He didn’t talk, just drove. Silence was how he coped with his job. He compartmentalised everything, sticking all the trauma in a box, never to be opened.
Corcoran glanced over and caught her looking at him. ‘You okay there?’
‘Not really.’ She went back to her page. ‘I need to solve this puzzle.’
‘You don’t think Magrane’s right?’
‘Do you?’
Another glance at her, doubt twisting his lips. ‘I mean, it’s still possible these aren’t linked but Magrane’s drugs theory is pretty convincing.’
She set her pen down. ‘Don’t you think that it would be wiser to consider the alternative explanation?’
Corcoran stared hard at her, his baby-blue eyes catching the lights of oncoming cars. ‘What, that there’s a psychopath abducting people, torturing them, then letting them go?’
‘Yes, Aidan. In fact, we should be looking at other abductions, historic unsolved ones. It’s possible he’s been trialling this with others. Maybe he’s tried before, to see if he can get away with the abduction and release, but without the torture.’
‘You’re right.’ Corcoran blew air up his face. He seemed exhausted. ‘I should get Thompson to allocate some resources to that.’ Another glance at her. ‘In your heart of hearts, do you honestly think these are connected?’
‘I’m saying that would make it ten times easier to find out who is doing it.’
‘I know. Look, I see your point, I just don’t necessarily think they are connected, that’s all. I’m trying to be devil’s advocate here. If we only focus on them being connected, then we might miss a clue that leads us to who kidnapped Sarah. It could be Klaus or her husband, even this Andy guy. Are you with me?’
‘I totally see your point.’ She looked right at him, then sighed. ‘I don’t like this, Aidan. The pressure . . .’
‘Aren’t you a psychologist? Don’t you have to deal with stress and pressure on a daily basis?’
‘Well, yes, but nothing like this. When Howard attacked me in the hospital? You saved me, Aidan.’
Corcoran gave her a casual shrug. ‘All part and parcel of being a cop.’
‘Well, I’m not a cop.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘How can you deal with this?’
‘I’d ask the same of you. You speak to these psychopaths for days at a time, right?’
‘Weeks in some cases.’ Palmer took a few seconds, squinting at him through her glasses. ‘As part of my PhD and my post-doc, I met with some of the most violent offenders in the UK prison system, patients with severe psychotic disorders, usually undiagnosed until it’s way too late. You name them, I’ve met them.’
‘Like who?’
‘Raymond Burke?’ That got a nod from him. ‘Brutal murderer. Killed six prostitutes in London in the late nineties. He took out the anger he felt towards his wife and children on these prostitutes, acting out his psychotic behaviour. But he blamed it all on his own upbringing, on his violent father. Nothing was ever his fault, you see?’
‘But you sat in the same room as him?’
‘Well, only when he was on anti-psychotic meds, with a pair of twenty-stone guards to protect me. And they’re being nice to me because they want something, say leveraging my influence for parole or a cell upgrade. Besides, you must’ve interviewed some murderers in your time. How do you cope?’
Corcoran looked over at her. ‘Once I’ve finished, the Crown Prosecution Service takes over and they put them away, providing we’ve all done our jobs properly.’
Palmer had hit the nail on the head. Compartmentalisation. Relying on the system to deal with what he couldn’t. ‘Well, I have to hope they’ll get better.’
‘Raymond Burke getting better? Are you serious?’
‘He’s a painter now.’
‘Bollocks he is.’
‘I swear. Through his art, he’s learnt to quell his violent urges. Even reunited with his wife last year and she visits him in prison. His kids are another story.’
‘Bloody London.’
‘This isn’t just a London thing.’ She frowned at him. ‘You know Robert Carr from Edinburgh? The archetypal Scottish hard man. Again, psychotic behaviour bordering on psychopathy. Random assaults in the street, football hooliganism that didn’t die with the Taylor Report. He was a Hibs fan, stabbed three Hearts fans on the same day in Edinburgh. Didn’t register the fact he’d murdered three people. Couldn’t even recognise t
he fact. Told the police it wasn’t him. All three assaults were caught on CCTV. The knife was in his car when he was arrested and his football jersey was splattered with blood. And still he denied it.’
Corcoran shifted in his seat yet again, probably resetting his hip. ‘You’re going to tell me he’s a sculptor?’
‘He writes now.’
‘You’re just taking the piss now.’
‘I’m serious. He writes romantic fiction. Very moving stuff, as it happens. We’re trying to publish the books, with the proceeds going to the victims’ families.’
‘You really think someone like that can change?’ Corcoran gave her a sour look. ‘I’ve dealt with these people and there’s absolutely no saving most of them. Good people might do bad things and people make mistakes. Sure, they can be treated. But someone who’s born bad or raised to be evil? We could argue until the cows come home, but the Raymond Burkes and Robert Carrs of—’
‘I hate pluralising.’
Corcoran let out a laugh. ‘So do I.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But people like those two, true psychopaths or psychotics or whatever, we can only lock them up. That’s it. They’re broken beyond repair. They can’t be treated, they can’t be repatriated with society.’
She stared hard at him. ‘I’m wondering how a Thames Valley detective has this kind of experience. You get many serial killers in the Cotswolds?’
Corcoran exhaled slowly. ‘I moved here last November from the Met, where I . . . I saw evil with my own two eyes.’ He sucked air through his nostrils, taking it deep into his lungs. ‘Listen, I don’t want to patronise you, but I’ve interviewed gang members. Took down a few of the Tottenham Mandem gang.’
‘Oh, organised crime is fascinating. That hierarchical structure, that rigid top-to-bottom tree structure, where psychotic behaviour is entrenched into the culture, where to rise to the top you do so either through the force of your personality or through violence.’
‘This all sounds like your PhD thesis. I’m struggling to see how any of these psychopaths can change. Practically. In the real world, not in the classroom.’
‘With the right treatment, all violent offenders can be helped in some way.’
‘Come on. “In some way” doesn’t mean much.’
‘It means everything, Aidan. Whether it’s stopping them harming their family and their local communities, or whether it’s them becoming fully functioning members of society, well that’s down to the individual. But I can help them stop the violence. They all have triggers, those familiar surges of endorphins and adrenalin that spark before conscious thoughts can even form. Stop those and they can learn to control the rest of it.’
Corcoran shifted on his seat again as they ate up the carriageway. ‘So somehow they all stop their violence, learn to control the triggers, feel remorse for their destruction. Yadda yadda yadda. If they do change, are they really different or are they just playing you for a better cell?’
‘Back to that . . .’ Palmer looked over again. ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’
‘No, I’m enjoying this discussion.’
‘You have a funny way of showing it.’
‘I’m jousting with an equal.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘An equal?’
‘Equal and opposite.’ Corcoran pulled into the right lane to overtake a lorry. ‘Your approach is all theoretical, whereas—’
‘Aidan, my work isn’t just academic. I undertake therapy with these people. On my own.’ She let the words sink in. ‘I face them down, I get to know them as people. You just arrest them, compile evidence and, once they’re out of your interview room, you wash your hands of them. Maybe see them in court for an hour while you give evidence. My work has seen incredibly positive results. When you get a psychopath to turn their anger into art or prose or just something that isn’t extreme violence, it’s . . . Well. I’ve helped them learn to control their rage. I’ve changed them.’
‘I’d love to believe it, but a psychopath is always going to be a psychopath.’
‘You really don’t see my point?’
‘No. Look, let’s agree to disagree and keep an open mind here. Our priority is catching this guy, not helping him set up a business making Christmas cards.’
She shook her head. ‘Very cute.’ He sat back and he didn’t seem to want to continue his jousting with an equal. Where did he get off?
Corcoran reached down for his drink but missed.
With a sigh, she held it out to him. ‘There.’
‘Thanks.’ He slurped the cloying drink and passed it back to her. ‘Why do you do this?’
She slotted the drink back in the holder. ‘Do what?’
‘Well, you think you can help or change these people, but . . .’ Steel in his eyes, cold and hard. ‘Why? Why do you think you can change them? How did you start thinking you could?’
Despite that hard glint in his eyes, she saw some deep trauma, some severe pain that had shaped him. Made her recognise someone similarly affected by the professional hell they put themselves through.
She took a deep breath and looked out of the car window. Here goes nothing. ‘I grew up in Tewkesbury in Gloucestershire, in the shadow of a particularly sadistic killer. The local bogeyman. People’s parents would say, “The Tewkesbury Man will get you.” Then they caught him and locked him up. Years later, when I trained as a psychologist, I worked with a patient who was virtually catatonic. A male rape victim, wouldn’t speak to anyone. But over time, I earned his trust. Then I got another patient, same symptoms, but through the therapy he revealed to me that he’d killed three people. The guilt and shame pushed him in on himself. I helped him open up, to accept what he’d done. Three families got closure for losing their loved ones. Then, as part of my postgraduate studies, I was asked to interview the Tewkesbury Man. I worked with him over a couple of years. It gave me personal closure about the horror that’d hung over my youth. He’s still in prison, obviously, but he writes spy thrillers under an assumed name. He’s learnt to channel that rage into something else.’
‘Well, I still don’t agree with you.’ But the steel had softened in his eyes. ‘What’s our plan of attack when we get back?’
[20:42]
Palmer stepped through the doorway into Sarah’s room. Low lights, equipment hissing on both sides of her bed.
Dr Yadin tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned in to whisper, ‘Sarah?’
Her eyes opened, clustered with sleep crystals and confusion. She looked even worse than earlier. Her face was shrunken in like a fruit dried in the sun. Parched lips. And just nothing behind the eyes, like she’d left her soul in the cell. She made a small grunting noise.
‘Sarah, the police want to speak to you again. Are you able to?’
Sarah moved slightly, adjusting herself in the bed. Seemed like she nodded, but even that took great effort. Her gaze shifted and she nodded again, definitely this time. ‘I want to.’
Palmer took a chair beside the bed, but kept her distance. She gave a warm smile. ‘Sarah, how are you feeling?’
‘Worse than I look.’
Palmer fought the urge to laugh. Humour was a good sign. ‘Sarah, there are a few things I need to ask you, okay? If you don’t know, it’s fine. Okay?’
She nodded.
‘Does the name Howard Ritchie mean anything to you?’
Sarah thought about it for a few seconds, her forehead tightening. ‘No.’
‘You definitely don’t know him?’
‘Who is he?’
‘What about all forms of the name? Howie?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘What about Ward?’
‘Is that a name?’
‘It’s a form of it, yes. You don’t know him?’
‘Who is he?’ Sarah shifted uncomfortably. ‘Did he do this to me?’
‘No, Sarah.’ Palmer looked over at Corcoran in the doorway and got a nod in return. ‘Have you ever been to Axminster?’
‘Where?’
>
‘It’s in Devon. What about Exmouth?’
‘I know of it. Someone at college came from there.’ Her fingers moved like she was trying to click. ‘A friend of Christopher’s. Can’t remember her name.’
‘Have you ever surfed?’
‘What? No. I mean, I body-boarded on our honeymoon in Jamaica, but . . . No. I didn’t like it.’
The next question was the hardest one. Palmer bit her lip, building up confidence. ‘Sarah, have you ever taken drugs?’
Her teeth separated, thin lips forming a snarl. ‘At university, I took an ecstasy tablet at a nightclub and . . .’ She shut her eyes. ‘I almost died.’
Palmer caught Corcoran’s frown. The vaguest of links, but it didn’t seem to help them in any way. She focused on Sarah again. ‘What about Christopher?’
‘Hardly.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘He drinks, but he’s never taken drugs. Why are you asking?’
Palmer leaned forward. ‘It’s possible that somebody else has suffered the same fate as you.’
‘Shit.’ The word hissed out of her like the ventilator.
‘When you were imprisoned, did you ever think there might be others being held?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘You said you heard a rumble?’
‘Maybe.’ Sarah gasped. ‘I mean, I was out of my mind in there. I couldn’t think and I was so hungry and tired and thirsty.’
‘But that rumble?’
‘Just noises. I thought I was hallucinating. Like devils were singing to me.’
Corcoran stood up tall. ‘What kind of singing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sarah picked at her eyes. ‘Wait, when he opened the door and took me out of the cell, I think I could hear music playing. It was . . . It was like it was coming through a door?’
‘From another room?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Can you sing it yourself? Or hum it?’
Sarah frowned. Then she started humming a jaunty tune, with the second phrase punctuated by a staccato rhythm. ‘Something something and he’s here for you.’
Corcoran was in the room now, his phone open. He tapped the screen and the Charlie the Seahorse theme tune blasted out.