Helen swallows. Manages a few words. ‘What do you want? Please, I don’t have much–’
‘Detective Constable, we know precisely what you are worth, and financially, your meagre savings are akin to the fluff in my pocket. No, I need one small favour from you, and then the footage in question will be destroyed.’
‘What? What do you want?’
‘At present, a young man of my acquaintance is unreasonably being held in custody. He is in Hull Royal Infirmary having suffered some rather nasty injuries at the hands of the intriguing and entertaining Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray. I am optimistic that your ACC Everett will ensure that the charges against him are dropped. He is, after all, an accommodating man. However, there are those within the police force who will not roll over quite so easily, and to that end, it would be best if those who witnessed young Mr Downey’s brief moment of embarrassment could be persuaded to alter their statements. There is a seamstress by the name of Melanie Langley who helped apprehend Mr Downey. I would be most grateful if she could be persuaded to alter her version of events. I have, of course, got many other ways to accomplish this goal, but your intercession would be least messy.’
Helen holds her stomach, feeling a fresh wave of nausea. ‘I can’t, I don’t–’
‘Please, Detective Constable, there is more. I am further led to believe that while Mr Downey was incapacitated, an associate of Miss Langley took it upon herself to relieve him of a sum of money. This money is neither here nor there, but the presumptuousness, the lack of respect, are unacceptable in light of the ongoing expansion of our enterprise. I would like the name and address of this person. If it helps, I am led to believe she is very pretty, was carrying a child, and is somewhat Romany in her appearance and deportment.’
The nausea stops. The pain halts. Adrenalin flows through Helen’s body. She opens her mouth but is cut off before she can manage to speak.
‘I am grateful for your assistance in this matter. I realise this is a lot to ask and it will be difficult for somebody with your sense of justice and morality. To this end we have deposited a large sum of money in your bank account. I would suggest, as you endure the sting of acting against your better judgement, that you remind yourself you are doing so to save lives. I would also encourage you to visit a general practitioner at your earliest convenience. Our mutual acquaintance is a carrier of any number of sexually transmitted infections …’
Helen drops the phone. It lands on the sofa without being switched off, and at the other end of the line the man to whom she was speaking hears her throwing up all over her living-room floor.
4.40 p.m. Chamomile House, in the heart of the Lake District: just two miles south of where William Wordsworth doomed the humble daffodil to a lifetime of overexposure.
Some 160 miles north of Hull.
Aector McAvoy is leaning on the desk in a brightly lit reception area, talking to a pretty young woman about the traffic he has endured on the three-hour drive up from Chester. He has passed through hail, rain and blindingly bright sunlight. He would not be surprised to see snow start to fall.
Here, now, the weather is dry but decidedly gloomy. Beyond the windows the clouds hang low: a damp hammock punctured by the tops of the trees that dot the woodland grounds of this expensive care home. It’s a welcoming place; all slate roof and chunky brickwork, low roofs and climbing ivy. It is home to twenty-two patients with varying degrees of dependency, all of whom pay handsomely to enjoy the best possible facilities. This is a care home that smells of rhododendrons and roast dinners rather than boiled cabbage and bleach, and McAvoy, with his aching back and tired eyes, is considering checking himself in.
‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’
McAvoy is running out of things to say to the receptionist. She is strikingly pretty, and from his elevated vantage point he has inadvertently noticed both the tattoo on her chest, and the lace of her bra. Neither of these discoveries has helped him make small talk, or calmed him down after a difficult and tiring journey, made longer by constantly having to pull over to take phone calls from the office. Ben Nielsen is doing a superb job, following McAvoy’s instructions and hunting down everything they have on the people who were patients at Caneva’s facility the night of the escape. He is also seeking whatever is available on Lewis Caneva’s family, and on a hunch, is doing a general search on the father of Sebastien Hoyer-Wood. McAvoy does not know what he expects to find but is certain the answers will be unearthed if they all just keep working hard and thinking positively. The thought of giving any kind of rousing speech to the troops terrifies him, but he fears that such a moment may yet be called for. Pharaoh has unofficially handed things over to him during her absence, and the two officers under his command are rising to the challenge of pleasing him.
He’s pleased they aren’t grumbling about being stuck in the office, giving themselves migraines in front of flickering computer screens, getting steadily unhealthier in sticky, fly-blown rooms. After all, it is McAvoy who has taken on the job that none of the others want. He’s the one who has to sit down with a monster. It is a thought that scares him. He doesn’t feel up to it. He has got better at believing in himself, but there are still times when he wants to run back to the office and hide in a cupboard while stronger personalities take charge.
A little shaky, a tremble in his voice, he turns his attention back to the young girl.
He is trying to think of something to say to her when a small, round-bottomed woman in her late thirties emerges from a corridor, smiling broadly. She extends a soft plump hand, which McAvoy takes in his. She is wearing what looks a little like a karate suit, but it is a livid blue and has the name of her employers stitched on the breast, next to an upside-down watch.
‘I’m Evelyn,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’ll be looking after you. Sebastien’s waiting for you. He seems quite excited.’
McAvoy turns back to the receptionist, who appears to be checking that her blouse is sufficiently unbuttoned for a tall man to enjoy the view. He gives a smile that makes him look like a pumpkin lantern, and then scurries away. At six foot five, McAvoy is not built for scurrying. He looks like a giant in chains.
Evelyn leads McAvoy back out through the front door and across the car park where his people-carrier is still making a worrying whooshing noise. So far, he has driven well over 200 miles today and the car is as unaccustomed to long journeys as he is to squeezing his big frame into such a small seat for so long. Both he and the vehicle are suffering.
‘You’ve caught us at an awkward time, Sergeant,’ says Evelyn as she points him down one of the footpaths into a copse of trees. ‘Problems with the drains. We have a septic tank here. Doesn’t need emptying more than twice a decade, provided you use the right chemicals, but we rather forgot to inspect the chamber and it’s really backed up. Not very nice. If we hadn’t got it drained we would have been wading in sludge, and that isn’t what you want when you’re in a wheelchair.’
McAvoy, who stands a good head and shoulders above her, is surprised to find that he has to jog to keep up with her boisterous, bustling progress down the path. He can’t think of what to say,
so sniffs the air. Smells rhododendrons and damp grass. Smells earth. Gets a tiny whiff of Evelyn’s anti-bacterial hand-wash and Avon perfume. He decides to make no comment on the septic tank.
‘Sebastien’s at the end there,’ says Evelyn, pointing ahead. She has led them around the building and swipes a key card on a pad by the glass back door. Stepping inside, she ushers him down a wide, empty corridor, its walls illustrated with pictures of hot-air balloons and birds.
‘I don’t really know what you’re expecting of him,’ she says, neutrally. ‘He can’t communicate well at all. He can make emotions understood and we know when he’s angry, but other than that, it depends whether you’re on his wavelength or not. I’ve helped him write the occasional message on some website or other that has caught his eye, but you have to go through the alphabet with him for every single letter. It’s very laborious, but that’s what we’re here for, I suppose. His computer is his lifeline. Very expensive piece of kit, but it means he gets to know what’s going on in the outside world and I don’t have to spend every moment reading to him.’
McAvoy stops in the corridor, several feet from the room that contains the man who used to enjoy raping women in front of their husbands. He suddenly doesn’t want to knock. He turns to Evelyn.
‘So you’re his personal carer? Full-time, yes?’
Evelyn brushes her bobbed hair back from her pleasant round face. ‘I’m his nominated staff member, if that’s what you mean. Each of our patients has somebody who is specifically responsible for their well-being and standard of care. I oversee a team of nurses and health-support workers who then assist in taking
care of him. Sebastien’s one of our more challenging patients. A lot of our patients are relatively mobile. Sebastien needs round-the-clock care. We have a good staff though and can call on a central agency for support should we ever be short-staffed. He’s well looked after.’
McAvoy nods. He’s not sure he’s overly concerned with how well they are looking after Hoyer-Wood.
‘How much do you know about his case history?’ he asks, delicately.
Evelyn appears to understand the magnitude of the question. ‘To treat our patients the best way we can, it’s important to know as much about them as we can. We have full access to Sebastien’s case notes. He’s been in the system a long time.’
‘And the court case?’
Evelyn looks nonplussed. ‘The file said he was charged with an offence while exhibiting mental health problems. That was when he suffered his initial injuries, I believe. Those injuries to his brain led to severe epilepsy, and I understand that in turn caused the stroke that left him like this. It was a double tragedy, really, as it appears that he was making good progress with his physiotherapy and speech therapy. Some people just have misfortune thrown at them.’
McAvoy studies the image nearest him on the wall. Admires the fine pencil strokes that have created the wicker basket, hanging below a brightly coloured balloon. It is an image that suggests freedom. Release. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off it and step into the room of a man whom he cannot picture, but feels he is beginning to know.
‘It’s expensive here, I presume?’
Evelyn smiles. ‘You get what you pay for.’
‘And who pays for him?’
She spreads her hands, apologising for not being able to say. Then she leans in and whispers, as if this will be less of a breach of confidentiality: ‘His father died. He inherited a lot of money.’
McAvoy nods his thanks.
Breathes deeply.
Coughs.
Blinks.
He can’t put it off any longer.
He takes three steps and knocks on the pine. At his side, Evelyn turns the handle and pushes open the wide door.
Sebastien Hoyer-Wood sits in a low-backed chair at the centre of a large, green-painted room. In front of him is a computer monitor; to his right a low sofa facing a television. One wall is all glass, reflecting back the opposite wall, which is stacked with books, CDs and DVDs. The floor is linoleum, but with a wood-panel effect.
‘Would you mind?’ says Evelyn, pointing to a small patch of black matting by McAvoy’s feet. ‘You have to discharge your static on there or it can cause a fit.’
Flustered, McAvoy does as he is told, rubbing his shoes on the odd material, until Evelyn tells him he can stop.
‘Do I take my boots off?’
‘No, you’re fine now. Anyway, this is Sebastien. Sebastien, this is Detective Sergeant McAvoy. He’s come to talk to you.’
McAvoy extends a hand, as if to shake. He looks at the proffered palm. Feels appalled with himself. Drops it back to his side.
Up close, Hoyer-Wood is a melted waxwork, a handsome sculpture left too close to the fire. His face is bottom-heavy, locked open in a permanent yawn. A column of thin drool spills
from his lower lip to puddle on the chest of his green sweatshirt. His clothes seem to conceal nothing but bones. McAvoy is put in mind of a pirate’s skeleton. He half imagines pulling back the man’s shirt to reveal bare ribs and a cutlass blade.
Evelyn beckons him forward.
‘Please, take a seat. It’s best if you’re near him. It might help you better understand.’
Hoyer-Wood’s expression does not change as McAvoy clumsily takes a wooden chair from beside the bookcase and places it next to the patient. He turns his head and looks at Hoyer-Wood’s computer screen. A web page is open, the text-size triple the norm. McAvoy glances at it. Hoyer-Wood is reading an essay on a poem by Robert Browning. It is a verse that McAvoy recognises and admires; ugly language made beautiful. It is written in the voice of a jilted wife, planning to poison her husband’s lover. McAvoy glimpses the words ‘moisten’ and ‘mash’. Reads the phrase ‘pound at thy powder’. It is a poem in which murder is coolly and deliberately planned and enjoyed.
‘Browning?’ asks McAvoy, turning to Hoyer-Wood, whose eyes are rolling back to stare at the panelled ceiling. ‘I always enjoyed “Lost Leader”. I like the Beat poets too. And the modern classics. Actually, a mutual acquaintance of ours is currently studying the Beat poets.’ McAvoy looks at the side of the other man’s face, trying to capture his gaze, before adding: ‘Lewis Caneva.’
Next to him, Hoyer-Wood twists in his chair, his mouth opening and closing and a series of unintelligible noises coming from his throat.
‘I don’t think that’s one of his favourites,’ says Evelyn, sitting down on the sofa.
‘No,’ says McAvoy. ‘I got that.’
‘He’s very fortunate to have this machine,’ says Evelyn, indicating the computer in front of Hoyer-Wood. ‘It recognises certain sounds. It has a keypad too that he can operate with his finger when the drugs have his muscle spasms under control. At the moment he’s having quite a rough time. He can surf the Net quite easily. We loaded up a lot of favourite sites and he can scroll through them as he wants. He can spell out search words, though it’s a hell of an ordeal. Still, it keeps him out of mischief, eh, Sebastien?’