The Asylum

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘I’m guarding his house while SOCO are inside; he’s dead, Morton.’

  Her words struck him like a rock to the head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well,’ Juliette began, lowering her voice so that Morton struggled to hear her, ‘we’ll know more when the Scene of Crime Officers are done but it looks like suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Look, I can’t talk long, just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton said absentmindedly.

  Juliette paused. ‘Listen, Morton, I’m going to have to tell the sarge that you visited him yesterday and that he phoned our house last night,’ she warned.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Morton answered.

  ‘Got to go. See you later.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He pocketed his mobile and thought back to Peter’s garbled voice message, which he'd left within two hours of Morton having left his house. The message asked Morton to phone back as he'd found something important. Morton never returned the call, figuring that it could wait. A frenetic surge of thoughts and questions bounced around his brain. The idea of Coldrick topping himself seemed ridiculous. Then he remembered the money. Coldrick had paid Morton way over and above his usual fee. Who pays someone all that money in the morning then kills themselves that same night? It didn’t make any sense.

  The sun was shrouded behind voluminous, concrete-grey clouds when Morton set out, rendering the drive an uncomfortable fusion of stickiness and claustrophobia, which only worsened as the ten-mile journey progressed. By the time he reached Peter’s house on Westminster Rise, his skin was clammy and his pulse racing. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find when he got there – one police car and a few nosey neighbours maybe – but the reality was very different: an angled police car dramatically blocked the road, its blue warning lights flashing rhythmically, matching the beat of two further police cars and an ambulance parked behind it. A strip of yellow tape proclaiming in thick black letters: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, cats-cradled its way between lamp-posts and gateposts across the street. Behind the cordon were what appeared to Morton to be half of Kent’s emergency personnel, idly chatting and drinking hot drinks. And behind it all quietly stood the mournful little council house containing Coldrick’s dead body, penned in like a quarantined animal. He felt slightly sick as he parked up and climbed from his car. Morton, handsome with a boyish face that belied his being in the final few weeks of his thirties, was dressed casually in a loose-fitting, white t-shirt and faded jeans. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair, as his chestnut-brown eyes surveyed the scene before him; he blended well with the crowds of spectators who had gathered on the pavement.

  In his peripheral vision, a uniformed figure broke from the mêlée, heading towards him. It took a double-take to realise that it was Juliette, thunder etched onto her face, ducking under the cordon tape. Although she’d been a PCSO for more than six months now, he still hadn’t got used to seeing her in uniform. His presence here wasn’t going to go down too well.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ she demanded. Morton shrugged. He didn’t know.

  ‘I just wanted to see… Is there any news?’

  ‘SOCO are still in there. Nothing else to report. There’s no need for you to be here, Morton.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have killed himself, you know, Juliette,’ Morton ventured.

  ‘Not what it looks like in there. Besides which, you knew him for what, six hours?’

  ‘It just doesn’t feel right. Have you actually been inside?’

  Juliette nodded.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later. The sarge is sending someone over to talk to you at home.’

  ‘Coldrick wanted to show me something, Juliette. Can you get me in?’ Morton said, knowing it to be a futile question, but hoping that she could flash her badge or whatever she did and wave him through.

  Juliette laughed, glancing over her shoulder. ‘You think going out with me is going to get you past that lot? No chance. Go home.’ And with that she turned, stooped under the yellow tape and was reabsorbed into the sea of fluorescent yellow jackets.

  Morton returned to his car and started the engine. All he needed to do was stick it in reverse and leave this unpleasant place behind. But he was mesmerised by the spectacle playing out through the windscreen, his own television set with no off button. He supposed that was why cop shows always did so well on TV; there was something strangely appealing about life going so terribly wrong for someone else. He wasn’t a great fan of emergency services dramas. Juliette loved and loathed them in equal measure, usually lapping up the crime then decrying the police work with angry snorts of ‘It’s obvious who the murderer is’ or ‘That wouldn’t happen in real life’. Not like this, this was real life and he knew that if he waited long enough, he would see it – that one defining image that he’d seen a hundred times on telly and, sure enough, it came. Half an hour later Peter Coldrick’s lifeless corpse, enveloped in a black body-bag, was rolled out onto the pavement by two sombre paramedics, his head and feet cutting revealing shapes into the shiny, dark material. Seconds later, in front of the mesmerised audience, he was loaded into the yawning rear of the ambulance and slowly driven away. No sirens. No blue flashing lights.

  He started the car and headed home.

  Morton looked out from the lounge window of his home, a converted police station that fell in the long shadow of Rye parish church. Whilst some deemed it disturbing that Morton’s nearest neighbours were the long-deceased, he found it strangely comforting to live there. As far as he was concerned, the dead were so much more predictable than the living.

  He stared at a weathered sandstone grave, attempting to recall his journey home from Coldrick’s house, but there was nothing for him to latch onto. After the ambulance had pulled away his mind went blank, as if somebody had recorded over his memories with white noise. No matter how Morton allowed his mind to wander, it immediately boomeranged right back to the conundrum of Coldrick’s apparent suicide. Did a few hours spent in his company really afford Morton the absolute certainty in his belief that Coldrick hadn’t killed himself?

  He realised that his strong feelings might well stem from the harrowing circumstances surrounding Coldrick’s death, rather than the death itself. It somehow had managed to crank open the lid of an area of his brain that he only accessed when absolutely necessary. He imagined that place to be like a small wooden chest with a tight-fitting lid that only he could open when he chose. It was the same place that he kept memories of his childhood, his mother and questions surrounding his own identity and hidden past.

  Morton’s addled brain leapt from Coldrick’s death to his brother, Jeremy, who was on the verge of being posted to Afghanistan. Was this how it would feel to be told that he'd been hit by a Taleban sniper? He chastised himself for his morbid pessimism about Jeremy’s ability to survive in a war-zone. As he glanced out at the erect needle commemorating the town’s war dead, the thought occurred to Morton that maybe he was projecting his own inadequacies onto his brother. He often thought that he would have been a conscientious objector if he had been alive in either of the World Wars, although he was never quite sure if this was from cowardice, or with the benefit of hindsight.

  His disjointed thoughts were interrupted when a Volvo V70 police car, with luminous blue and yellow bodywork, parked outside his house and two officers climbed out and knocked officiously on the front door. Morton showed them into the lounge where they peeled off their hats and introduced themselves as PC Glen Jones, who gave Morton the stark impression of being on day-release from the SAS, and WPC Alison Hawk, a feline-like creature with cold grey eyes.

  ‘Had you known Peter Coldrick long?’ Jones asked, the very moment that they were seated.

  ‘No, I first met him yesterday morning,’ Morton answered.

  ‘And he phoned you last night?’ Hawk asked, scrunching up her face. Morton met he
r stare, fixed on him, unblinking, ardently scanning for inconsistencies. He nodded, went over to the answer-phone and duly pressed play. You have one new message. Message left yesterday at six twenty p.m. Morton, it’s Peter Coldrick. Can you come over as soon as you get this? I’ve got into my dad’s copper box and found something.

  ‘Having seen you yesterday morning, why do you think he was so desperate to see you again in the afternoon, Mr Farrier? What do you think he had found?’ she asked, pen poised over a notepad in anticipation of his answer.

  Morton shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I wish I’d gone over there now – maybe he’d still be alive if I had.’

  ‘And what was the nature of your relationship with Peter Coldrick?’ Jones asked.

  ‘I was working for him,’ he answered.

  ‘Doing what?’ Jones asked.

  ‘He paid me to research his family tree, that’s all. I'm a forensic genealogist.’

  ‘Can I ask how much he paid you?’ Hawk asked.

  Morton paused, knowing that the figure would sound preposterous to them. It sounded preposterous to him. He also knew that there was no way of withholding the information: they would undoubtedly be able to produce a breakdown of his bank account faster than he could. ‘Fifty thousand.’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds?’ Hawk repeated. ‘Peter Coldrick paid you fifty thousand pounds so that you could tell him who his family was?’ She cast an ominous look to her colleague, and Morton felt sure that he was about to be read his rights.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Morton answered, finally regaining his confidence and realising that he hadn’t actually committed a crime. Thank God he had a PCSO as an alibi for last night. ‘He paid me a lot more than I have ever been paid before or ever will be again, I’m sure. You’re right, it does sound strange. But if you are listening to me, you’ll also realise that I received that money in good faith.’

  Jones produced, seemingly from nowhere, a small white envelope bearing Morton’s name. ‘Open it,’ he directed.

  Morton took the proffered envelope and tentatively withdrew a short, typed letter. He felt strangely obliged to read it aloud, despite a rather large obstruction unhelpfully lodged in his larynx. ‘Morton, please stop the research. I’ve realised that it’s all irrelevant now my parents are gone. Please keep the money and enjoy it. Peter.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hawk said with a caustic smile and a knowing glance to her esteemed partner, ‘we don’t yet know if the letter is genuine. We will be having it analysed. Is there any reason you can think of as to why Mr Coldrick would take his own life the very day he paid you such a significant sum of money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how did he seem to you?’

  Morton shrugged, having nothing to compare it to. ‘Not suicidal.’

  There was a pause as Morton watched a whole conversation passing unspoken between the two police officers.

  WPC Alison Hawk suddenly stood up and Morton felt sure that she was going to arrest him. Would they handcuff him even though he wasn’t resisting? How ironic, Morton thought, living in a former police station. Maybe they should just convert the cellar back into a cell. It wouldn’t take long: the four-inch-thick metal door was still intact, as were the bars on the window. A life sentence with boxes of Christmas decorations, old school reports, congealed tins of paint and thirty-nine years' worth of general detritus.

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Farrier,’ Jones said. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Morton said goodbye and watched from the lounge window to make sure that they actually left. The Volvo left the square with gratuitous speed, leaving in its fume-ridden wake a welcome silence.

  He emitted a long and protracted sigh when he realised that it was all over. Everything was finished now that Coldrick was - whether by his own hand or another's - deceased. Whatever mystery might have lurked in his family had died with him. And that was that. Job done, thank you very much.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Morton said, the very moment that Juliette had stepped across the lounge threshold.

  ‘Let me get in first, Morton. Jesus. Hello?’

  ‘Sorry. Hello,’ he said, kissing her on the lips.

  Juliette sighed and made a meal of removing her steel-toe-capped boots before she answered. ‘It’s suicide, Morton. No sign of forced entry, no suspicious prints. Ballistics, forensics; everything points towards him killing himself. Not to mention that there were suicide notes, including the one to you: imagine how that looked. “Morton Farrier, isn’t he your bloke, Juliette?” Christ.’

  Morton resented the implication that he was somehow to blame for Coldrick’s suicide note, but knew better than to change the tracks along which their discussion was running if he wanted further information. He wondered if he could really have it so wrong in his mind when all the weight of the evidence was stacked against him. Then he considered what Juliette had just said. ‘Ballistics?’

  She nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

  Calm, passive Peter Coldrick had shot himself? Morton couldn’t imagine a less likely method of suicide. Riding an elephant into an electricity pylon seemed only slightly less of a plausible way to die. It was so absurd as to be laughable. ‘It can’t be right, Juliette.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough - there’ll be an investigation and inquest after the post-mortem in the next few days. It’s going to be a thorough one, the Chief Constable of Kent has decided to descend upon us for a few days. Some procedural, quality assurance monitoring thing or other, which is just what we need. With her breathing down our necks, you’re pretty much guaranteed a meticulous job,’ she said, heading to the bedroom.

  ‘That’s something I suppose,’ Morton mumbled, keeping close to her heels.

  ‘I might be able to find out more tomorrow. I’m on at five in the morning standing outside the damned house,’ she complained, pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and loose-fitting t-shirt that had been purchased with the unfulfilled idea of a regular jogging routine.

  ‘Does that sound normal to you?’ Morton asked. ‘Have you ever guarded the house of a suicide before? Murder maybe, but not suicide.’

  Juliette paused then shook her head. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. Like I said, the big boss is in so we’ve got to go OTT on everything.’

  Morton didn’t get it. What were they worried about, that Coldrick’s dead body might return? He thought about it for a moment and the idea came to him that maybe he could use this abnormality in police procedure to his advantage.

  ‘Will it just be you there?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘I expect so now that SOCO have done their bit; might be two of us. Why?’

  ‘You need to let me get inside,’ Morton said.

  Juliette laughed as she left the bedroom and dumped herself down into the sofa. Morton trailed in behind her.

  ‘I’m serious, Juliette. Turn your back, do whatever you have to do. I really need to see if I can find what Coldrick wanted to show me.’

  Juliette rolled her eyes. ‘Why do you care, anyway? Surely the job’s finished now he’s dead? Does it really matter what he wanted to show you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Morton answered. Granted, it was the shortest-lived case of his career, but one that had piqued his curiosity – what if Coldrick’s suspicions held even a nugget of truth? Kent Police might not find Coldrick’s death suspicious, but he sure did. Maybe it was simply that he had nothing better to do. Whichever way, he wanted to get inside that house. ‘Please, Juliette. I just need five minutes in there.’

  ‘No, Morton. Anyway, I might get to the station tomorrow and be doing something completely different.’

  Morton sighed and sloped off into the kitchen to make dinner, hoping that by making his disappointment evident, she might take pity on her dejected boyfriend and change her mind. She didn’t. She did what Juliette did best, and changed the subject. ‘Did you get the email from Jeremy today?’ she called.

  ‘No, what was that?�
��

  ‘Invite to a leaving party Saturday night. It’s all a bit rushed as his regiment’s being posted out on Monday.’

  Morton had known that the day of Jeremy’s posting overseas was looming ever closer, but he’d put it to the back of his mind, hoping that the day would never arrive.

  ‘We’ve got to be at your dad’s house at seven.’

  Morton groaned. ‘I suppose that means he’ll be there, then.’

  ‘Of course he’ll be there. Did you think Jeremy wouldn’t invite his own dad or something?’ Juliette asked, appearing at the kitchen doorway. ‘It’s been ages since you’ve been to see him or spoken to him. It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I spoke to him on his birthday,’ Morton countered.

  ‘That was two minutes on the phone five months ago, Morton.’

  She was right: it was time to make an effort. It just didn’t come naturally to him and even saying the word dad felt like he was speaking in tongues.

  ‘Are we supposed to get him a going away present?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, Morton,’ Juliette said, circling her arms around his midriff as he began to prepare the dinner. ‘It’s okay to be worried about him.’

  Morton exhaled, allowing his tense muscles to relax in her embrace. As he considered his brother out in Afghanistan, he became aware, possibly for the first time since he was eighteen, of a bond between him and Jeremy. Was it a genuine fraternal bond? Or just the type of bond that forms when two people live in the same house for several years? A lone tear ran down his cheek and plopped unceremoniously onto the chopping board.

  ‘Bloody onions,’ he muttered.

  CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE WITH HIDING THE PAST, CHAPTER 2

  Hiding The Past is the first full-length Morton Farrier investigation in the acclaimed Forensic Genealogist series.

  Read on to discover the blurbs of and praise for the other books in the series.

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