Authors: Clare Donoghue
‘I don’t have a lot of time, Detective,’ Mort said, taking a mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. ‘Every day is a work day when you’re attempting my kind of research.’
‘You’ll need to switch that off in here, I’m afraid,’ Lockyer replied, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘not my rules’ kind of way.
‘There’s a common misconception about students at my level. I might have six years to complete my PhD, but I would wager I work more hours in a day than you do, Detective,’ Mort said, as if Lockyer hadn’t spoken.
‘I’ve no doubt.’ Lockyer tried to look impressed. His desire to hurt Mort was still strong, but Jane had asked for his help, which meant that he would try, if it was possible, to ingratiate himself with the wacko. ‘I can’t imagine studying for that long. How do you maintain focus?’
‘It can be difficult for some people. I have a goal – a purpose, Detective. Research takes time and patience. If breakthroughs are going to be made, someone has to have the resolve to stick with it, make sacrifices. I don’t see my work as studying. I see it as discovery. The university is a pre-school: kids wandering around stoned or hungover. I only foster the association because it benefits my research. Besides, I wouldn’t get funding without the board backing me.’
‘So who pays for your PhD then?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I do, in part, but the extent of my work requires further funding. I’m an investment, if you like. To be published – to become a leading voice in a certain field – you have to know the right people. Fortunately for me, Detective, I do.’
There was no doubt the guy was arrogant. He talked as if he was single-handedly curing cancer. ‘My ex-wife had cognitive behavioural therapy once,’ Lockyer said, in order to keep the conversation going.
‘CBT is an interesting field and has its uses. My work is a touch more complex,’ Mort said. ‘Did it work?’
Lockyer could tell Mort wasn’t really interested, but the fact that he had bothered to ask meant they were forming a rapport, of sorts. ‘I think so. She suffered from anxiety attacks when she was driving. A fear of crashing, I assume?’
‘It could be,’ Mort said, stroking his chin as if he was Freud. ‘Some practitioners are better than others. I would have said it went deeper than a simple fear of crashing. We are predisposed to fear injury or death. It is rarely the root of such problems. If I had been treating her, I would have been interested to know if there was a particular trigger.’
‘I don’t know about that, I’m afraid,’ Lockyer said. ‘We were separated when it happened.’
‘Interesting,’ Mort replied, smiling. ‘Separation anxiety is a classic disorder.’
Lockyer laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ll mention that to her,’ he said. ‘Another thing she can blame on me.’
‘Indeed. Relationships can be very trying,’ Mort said, rolling his eyes.
‘Women.’ Lockyer said. ‘More trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’ He was surprised the ‘boys together’ tactic was working so well. It was clear Mort was beginning to relax, get comfortable with his surroundings. In Mort’s mind, Lockyer was on his side, and that is exactly how Lockyer wanted him to feel: safe and secure. There was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be DS Bennett,’ he said, standing and opening the door for Jane.
‘Sorry I’m late, Terry,’ Jane said, walking in and taking Lockyer’s seat. He looked at Mort and rolled his eyes as he took the chair next to her. Mimicking body-language was the quickest way to put someone at ease and, as with their conversation, it was working. Mort smirked.
‘Not at all, Miss Bennett,’ Mort said, looking at Lockyer rather than Jane.
‘Great. Shall we get started?’ she said.
‘By all means,’ Mort replied, folding his arms. ‘Fire away.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘This might sound a bit odd, but can you tell me the subject of your thesis?’
Mort was looking at Jane. Lockyer was looking at Mort, studying his reactions.
Mort shrugged. ‘The converse relationship between fears and phobias.’
‘Ooo,’ Lockyer said, tapping his head. ‘Sorry to appear dense, but . . . what?’
‘Another common misconception, Detective,’ Mort said, as if he were talking to a child. ‘Most people believe fears and phobias are the same thing when, in fact, they are anything but.’
Lockyer looked at Jane. ‘I don’t know about you, DS Bennett, but I could do with a lesson in layman’s terms, couldn’t you?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, Terry,’ she said, taking out her notepad.
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ Mort said. Lockyer sat back in his chair. Jane did the same. They had run through a mock-interview at her house after their pizza. This was all part of the plan: unsettle and agitate Mort and see what transpired. He looked from one to the other and then at the table. ‘Okay, fine. A fear is based on something rational – an individual might be fearful of flying, spiders or heights. Yes?’ Lockyer nodded. ‘These fears are based on rational deductions. If a plane crashes, there’s a high probability you will die. The bites of some spiders can kill. If you fall from a great height, again you can injure yourself or die.’
‘Right,’ Lockyer said, watching as Jane noted down what Mort was saying.
‘A phobia is by no means rational. It cannot be explained or controlled. People can be phobic of the bows of ships, birds, outdoor spaces or crowds, men, flowers, numbers . . . Need I go on?’
‘Why would someone be frightened of numbers?’ Lockyer asked. He couldn’t deny he was curious. He felt Jane looking at him. This wasn’t part of her plan.
‘Your question, as banal as it sounds, Detective, is the basis of my study. There is no reason . . . I’m sorry, I mean there is no
rational
reason for an individual to fear numbers. In layman’s terms, as you put it, fear is rational. A phobia isn’t.’
‘How do you study either?’ Jane asked.
‘That, Detective, is part of my study and not something I am prepared to go into detail about . . . with you.’
‘Why is that?’ Lockyer asked.
‘My research and findings have long-term scientific importance in the world of psychology and cognitive therapy, Detective. I am already in talks with several parties about a publishing deal for both my research and the history behind it. Competitors would love to poach my work. I don’t intend to let that happen.’
‘Have you ever heard of taphophobia?’ Jane asked. Mort opened his mouth and shut it several times like a stranded fish. Lockyer had to give her credit. Her hunch about Mort was spot on; he was hiding something. ‘Am I saying that right?’ she asked, looking down at her notepad. ‘It’s the fear of being buried alive, isn’t it?’ Mort’s expression remained static. ‘I only ask because a colleague mentioned the origin of the word to me. It comes from the Greek,
taphos.
It means tomb.’
‘Terry,’ Lockyer said, sitting forward. ‘You still with us?’
Mort’s eyes seemed to clear. He tipped his chin up and said, ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘Is it part of your study?’
‘No,’ he said, without hesitation.
‘That’s a shame,’ Jane said, pursing her lips. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help with the inquiry into Maggie’s death. I guess I was hoping,’ she said, sucking air through her teeth, ‘that we might be able to help each other. After all, you are the expert.’
Mort sat back and puffed out his chest. Despite some obvious effort, he was unable to hide his glee. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. Lockyer resisted the urge to shake his head. The guy was a preening idiot. One hint of praise and he was on his back, as it were. ‘What happened to Maggie was appalling,’ Mort said. ‘However, I won’t deny that the circumstances of her death do interest me and would, given enough information, make a significant addition to my thesis. With that in mind, I would be willing to assist you, where I can.’
‘That would be great,’ Jane said, nodding. ‘Of course, the investigation would have to be concluded before I could talk to you at length. I can speak to the powers that be and see if you would be able to have access to the file, even.’
‘What do you need to know?’ Mort asked. He was fidgeting in his chair with what appeared to be excitement.
‘Well,’ Jane said. ‘Is there anywhere I could find research on the subject, to add to the file? I’ve had a look on the Internet – Wikipedia and such – but there’s not a lot there . . . just basic definitions and that kind of thing.’
Mort crossed his legs and unfolded his arms. He cleared his throat. Lockyer could swear he could hear the cogs in the guy’s brain turning. ‘Well, I think I remember reading a paper on it a few years ago, when I was completing my Masters. I could dig it out for you, I suppose, if you could bear with me?’
‘Not a problem,’ Jane said. ‘In the meantime, what can you tell me about the phobia itself?’
‘Taphophobia dates back to the 1800s. At the time it was not the irrational fear that it is now, as there were numerous cases of accidental live burial. People had coffins fitted out with air-hoses, glass lids or bells attached. The practice led to familiar phrases such as “saved by the bell” and “dead ringer”.’
‘Really?’ Lockyer said. ‘I always thought that bells on coffins was an urban myth.’ For someone who claimed not to be studying the subject, Mort’s recall was impressive.
‘No, Detective. There was a genuine demand for safety coffins among those with the means to pay for them. Anyway, I digress,’ Mort said, as if he was lecturing a room full of students. ‘I’m not surprised you had trouble locating much information. There has been no significant research into the matter.’
‘Other than the piece you read?’ Jane said.
‘No, no,’ Mort replied, his agitation obvious. ‘That was nothing – just the bare bones really. Nothing has been
published
on the subject.’
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘there are other factors in the case that suggest premeditation, alteration of the environment, prior knowledge of—’ She stopped. ‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss those matters with you, at this time.’
‘Not until the case is finished,’ Lockyer said, looking at Mort and giving him a small nod.
‘I understand,’ Mort said. He was intrigued, that much was obvious, which meant he was either an exceptional actor or he had no knowledge of the camera and air-hose in Maggie’s tomb. Jane’s theory blurred in Lockyer’s mind for a second. Mort was not an average student. He was nowhere in the neighbourhood of normal, for sure. He knew more about taphophobia than he should, but despite some anxiety he wasn’t displaying the signs of someone who had been complicit in the murder of his ex-girlfriend. Lockyer wondered if he should ask Jane to step outside, to reassess how she should continue with the interview.
She put her fingers to her chin as if she were deep in thought. ‘Thinking about it, this isn’t going to work. You wouldn’t be able to publish any findings on taphophobia.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Mort asked, staring at Jane.
‘Sorry, it’s my fault,’ she said, looking over at Lockyer. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this. ‘I’ve already asked my team to look into it, and any and all research on the subject . . . Once there’s an arrest, our findings rather than yours will no doubt be published in the wake of the case,’ she said, looking at Lockyer. He nodded his agreement, not knowing what she was talking about. ‘After all, in this instance we would be the experts, not you.’
Mort looked as if he was going to cry. ‘That’s impossible. It’s my research. There are no other works worthy of publication,’ he said.
Lockyer shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Terry. As you said, you hadn’t intended to include tapho . . . whatever it’s called in your thesis, so the publication of your research won’t be affected at all.’
‘But I—’ Mort stuttered.
‘Not to worry, forget it, Terry. Let’s move on,’ Jane said as if Mort had not spoken. ‘Victor Lebowski is a supervisor on your PhD. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Mort said, staring off to one side.
‘Do you know him well?’ Jane asked.
‘No. I told you that.’
‘Were you aware that Lebowski was dating Maggie?’ Jane asked.
‘No. I suppose it makes sense that it was him. A watered-down version of myself,’ he said. ‘I really don’t have time for this.’ He didn’t look upset or surprised.
‘Just a few more questions,’ Jane went on. ‘We received information that you had been in contact with Maggie, as recently as the night she was murdered. That you had, in fact, been trying to get her back for several months, sending flowers – that kind of thing.’
‘Whoever told you that is lying. Maggie had contacted me to see if there was a chance of reconciling. I made it very clear there was not.’ Before Jane could interrupt him, he went on. ‘Check my phone records, my email account, my bank account. You will find no record of calls, emails, flowers or anything of that nature.’
‘We appreciate your candour,’ Lockyer said. ‘If you speak to the desk sergeant before you go, he can arrange for you to surrender your phone, et cetera.’
‘Fine,’ Mort said. ‘Now if you don’t mind . . . I have work to do.’
‘Of course,’ Jane said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ She closed her notepad.
‘Terry,’ Lockyer said, pushing his chair back. ‘I’m not gonna lie to you. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling us.’ Mort started to shake his head, but Lockyer held up his hands to silence his protests. ‘That said, I think it’s only right to make you fully aware of the implications.’
‘And they are?’ Mort asked.
‘If – and I stress the word
if
– you have information that in any way relates to Maggie’s murder and you withheld it, the consequences would be serious,’ Lockyer said. ‘You would be breaking the law. If you were found to have withheld vital evidence, you could be charged with the obstruction of justice. If that happened, Terry, I can’t imagine many publishers willing to take on your thesis at the end of your PhD, or ever.’ Mort looked as if he wanted to jump over the desk and hit Lockyer. ‘I think it’s something you need to think about, Terry. Seriously.’
Mort didn’t move.
‘As I said,’ Lockyer walked over to the door, ‘if you can give your details to the desk sergeant, he can arrange for your phone and email records to be checked.’ He opened the door and gestured for Jane to go first.