Bedlam (8 page)

“Does he have a name, this errand boy?”

“I call him ‘Weed’.”

“Weed?”

“He’s a green-haired runt who smokes like an old man.”

“Fair enough.”
McNeil scribbled down his number on a scrap torn from the notebook. “Ask him to give me a call.”

“Sure,” replied Curtis, and McNeil knew by the look on his face that he had no intention of speaking to anyone.

“Maybe I’ll just wander down there and see for myself.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“So?”

“Just
sayin’”

“Just saying what?”

Curtis gave a sly grin. “That’s when the bad things come out to play.”

Chapter Fifteen
 

It was dark when he got back to the flat. Sleet followed him up the path slamming relentlessly against his hunched shoulders. He pulled up his collar and quickened his step. So much for keeping his stitches dry; his hair was soaked, flattened against his scalp and he was chilled to the bone. Running entirely on fumes, his internal red light had flashed its warning somewhere between the canal and the tattoo shop. He’d ignored the signs and was now facing the consequences. Supposing the two-headed serpent had reared up and sunk its fangs in his flesh, he wouldn’t have noticed. It had been a hell of a day. He just hoped he wasn’t set for an equally hellish night.

The interior was just as he had left it, cold and empty, Kit’s possessions strewn everywhere, providing the only spots of colour in an otherwise monochrome space. He paused in the doorway. The room was infused with her scent. Ordinarily he would have inhaled greedily and taken comfort from it, but the exhaustion which had plagued him since the episode with Nell subverted any emotional interaction. He stepped over her clothes, didn’t have the will to gather them up and to hold them close in place of her. He couldn’t take anymore today.

He stripped off his wet clothes and stood a moment, shivering, while he considered whether his body was about to shut down for want of food or alcohol. For once neither seemed adequate. He reached for the pills he’d resisted for so long and climbed into bed. Tonight he needed sleep, and he was going to make damn sure he got it.

Sometime in the early hours, in that limbo time before dawn, when day creatures are tucked in their burrows and night creatures seek them out, the temperature in the flat dropped even further and McNeil stirred.

He grumbled in his sleep and reached out to retrieve the covers, tugging harder when he met with resistance. Typical Kit, she always did hog the duvet.

“Hey, sweetheart you have to share. I’m freezing my bits off here.”

The covers suddenly gave and he felt her warmth as she sidled close and slid her arms around him. Soft, smooth, scented skin - how could he resist? She stretched languidly against him, her naked breasts against his back, fingers playing gently at his belly. He responded, slowly at first, but as longing pulled him from slumber and her hand slid lower, he turned to face her and sought her sweet mouth.

“I’ve missed you …” he murmured, his words lost as she deepened the kiss. Her fragrant hair swept his face and he closed his eyes and breathed in her essence. Slowly and irresistibly he was drawn toward a climax he had yearned for throughout months of despair. She pushed him back against the pillow, gently, and rose above him, her hands braced against his
shoulders. Her silken skin caressed him like an exquisite cloth, every movement a pleasurable torture. The interminable searching, the endless wait, it was finally over and all was swept away as her pace quickened, his body reacted and he gripped her in a final desperate thrust. “Promise me you won’t leave again …,” he breathed heavily against her ear as he held her tight, laid across him warm and replete. She raised her head and placed her finger against his lips.

“Hush
…” she whispered, her voice pure honey, a balm to a battered soul. She smiled her sweet smile and in the soft pre-dawn light the room was bathed in a violet glow.

He woke to an empty bed and the certain knowledge that his nightmare was far from over.

Chapter Sixteen
 

The doctor’s office wasn’t what he was expecting. Doctor - who was he kidding? - the psychiatrist, the shrink, the guy who was all set to take one look at him and announce him disturbed, crazy, whatever, wasn’t situated in the usual Department medical offices. He’d been there before, when he’d first lost Kit, after they’d decided he wasn’t complicit in her disappearance but before they’d lifted his suspension and returned him to duty. Then, it had been a formality, where he’d sensed apology and sympathy in the doctor’s manner, as if sitting there behind his desk he’d known exactly what lay ahead for McNeil, and he was giving him an easy ride in preparation.

He checked the address on the card and the time on his watch and debated on the value of going in at all. There were other places he had to be, the hospital for one. He’d intended going round there first thing, catching Nell unawares, when he was firing on all cylinders and before she had a chance to perfect her mysterious and spooky act. And that’s all it was, he was sure of it, a game she was playing to while away the time to draw attention away from the fact that maybe she knew more than she should about the murder of the vagrants. But he’d overslept, woken to grim reality, and if truth be told, he wasn’t in any fit state for another one of Nell’s performances. The only
thing he was sure about was that the pills were a mistake. Last night had been far too real.

The doctor had his suite of offices in a rambling Victorian building set on the outskirts of
town, a once-fashionable area gone to seed that was gradually being rejuvenated with money from those with an interest in making more of it. McNeil didn’t care who made money if it meant the rundown suburbs were tamed. The area had been sopping up criminal flotsam and jetsam from Bedlam like a sponge, so it was good to see the big old houses turned back from squats and DSS bedsits, even if it did condemn and condense the less affluent in Bedlam’s inner ghetto. At least it was easier to police.

Gilmour House had a Grade II listed exterior and an infamous past that McNeil only knew of because it had once been owned by a man who, like good King Henry, changed wives as regularly as his socks. A religious zealot, he had murdered four of them before the good people of Bedlam discovered his nefarious fancies. Of course that was when Bedlam had good people, which was long before McNeil’s time. He’d read about the case in police college and studied the sepia photo of the grim-faced, handlebar-moustached murderer with macabre fascination. The wives had been poisoned and buried before they were fully dead. The man had gone to the gallows after a grave digger heard devilish moans seeping out of the latest burial plot. By the time the good wives of Benjamin
Rath were exhumed, the lids of their coffins were scarred, their finger nails broken and bloody, and they had long since breathed their last.

By curious coincidence, Benjamin
Rath had also held a degree in psychiatry from a time when the profession trod a fine line between genius and lunacy, and lobotomies were the panacea of all mental ills. The irony wasn’t lost on McNeil, given the house’s current occupant and his own questionable sanity.

Because of the listing, the exterior of the house had remained as in
Rath’s time, sash windows and old red brick untouched by the developers, but inside was a modernist capsule designed to make a statement. To McNeil, in his fragile state, the harsh lighting and minimalist décor merely jarred. It might well be Feng Shui and filtered, but he dismissed it with an irritable shake of his head.  He was only doing this for Dennis, and the sooner it was over the better.

There was no one at reception and no one waiting to be seen, just an underlying smell of new carpet and fresh paint. He stood a moment, waiting, listening for any sound that might indicate the imminent arrival of the receptionist before giving in to temptation and moving round to the other side of the desk. In the absence of an appointment book he moved the computer mouse, but all he got for his trouble was a screen saver and a request for a password. He checked his watch impatiently and wandered to the wall-mounted leaflet rack. There were a multitude of additional therapies on offer, all designed to
combat the twenty-first century plagues of emotional trauma, relationship issues and addiction, no doubt for a hefty price. He wondered who was picking up the tab for his visit. He doubted the Department would have the funds to splash out on such a gold standard facility.

He pulled out one leaflet at random, of the happy-
clappy discover-your-inner-self genre, basically a help group where people sat around and made everyone else miserable with their own misery. He had enough of his own without dipping into the collective.

“Good morning. You must be Detective McNeil.”

McNeil turned, a similar greeting on his lips, but it stalled when he recognised the well-dressed man from the day before who had offered assistance in the hospital lobby. He narrowed his eyes, assessed this coincidence for a moment and then shrugged it off. He was a doctor; doctors hung around in hospitals. He extended his hand and nodded his salutation.

“I think we already met.”

“Yes. I believe you wanted to punch me.”

McNeil winced. “You could tell just by looking at me?”

“It was rather obvious.”

“Sorry.
Bad day.”

“We all have bad days.”

“Not like mine.”

The doctor smiled benignly, and although undoubtedly well-intentioned, McNeil found his manner patronising. He didn’t like it, which wasn’t the best start to their meeting.

“May I call you Joe?”

McNeil shrugged. The good doctor could call him any damn thing he liked. Five minutes in the building and he was ready to leave. He wanted to tell him he’d changed his mind and the appointment was a mistake, but he held his tongue. He called to Kit but she was keeping silent, too. He was on his own.

“Joe, my name is Dr Richardson. If you’d like to follow me, we can find somewhere a little more convivial for our chat.”

Chat?
Chatting was for friends with time on their hands and nothing better to do than discuss the weather, the football, or the state of the economy if they were really bored. It was the wrong term entirely for a discussion with a man who was being paid to listen. Nevertheless, McNeil followed as they left the stark lobby and stepped back in time to the Victorian remains of the building. There was an immediate change in ambience and lighting, the florescent brightness of the reception superseded by illumination so subdued that it took McNeil a moment to ensure that he was placing his feet in the right place as they climbed a broad staircase.

“You trying to save on the electric?” he muttered as he gripped the rail.

“My apologies. We’re still in the midst of re-development and there seems to be a problem with the wiring in this part of the building. No matter how many times the electrician undertakes a repair, it insists on reverting to type - a factory default, no doubt, that ensures we expend the maximum funds in return for diminishing service. I assure you the consulting room is adequately lit for our purposes.”

At the top of the stairs the landing branched both ways. Up here, instead of new carpet, there was a pervading smell of old plaster. Richardson led him to the left and a stout oak door which stood slightly ajar. McNeil hung back, distracted by the sound of running feet at the end of the other corridor. With the memory of Benjamin
Rath fresh in his mind, he tensed, turning to glance over his shoulder as Richardson continued to mutter about the wiring.

“Nothing is ever black and white, is it?”

McNeil swung back around, frowning, but before he could put words to his thoughts, children’s laughter filled the hall and drew his attention away from Richardson’s retreating back. Two little girls scampered down the stairs behind him, playing chase and pulling pigtails. McNeil let out a breath.
Get a grip
.

“So,” began Richardson as he ushered McNeil into the room and gestured for him to take a seat, “what brings you here today?”

McNeil raised a brow. Richardson knew exactly why he was there; his file was laid out on the desk in front of him. So much for the friendly chat. He realised this was going to be one of those conversations which, in reality, was simply a long list of questions directed at him. He was a detective, he knew how these things worked, and if he’d a mind for being awkward, he could play along.

“You tell me.”

“Well, what do you hope to gain from our meeting?”

“I have no idea.”

“In that case, I’ll start. I would hope that together we might, through discussion and reflection, help you to overcome the problems you’re experiencing and come to terms with your situation.”

“Problems?”

Richardson settled back in his chair and studied McNeil for a moment before retrieving the glasses which had slid to the end of his nose. “There have been concerns raised about your current obsession, your inconsistent grasp on reality and…your lack of adherence to departmental regulations.”

“Oh, those problems.”

“Have you come straight from work, Joe?”

McNeil smiled sourly. No, he’d come straight from heaven and landed in hell, courtesy of a couple of pills and the sweetest sex he’d ever had. Trouble was, it was all in his head and he
didn’t think Richardson would want to hear about that, even if there was an appropriate leaflet in the lobby. Or maybe he’d want to hear every heart-stopping, blood-pumping, detail, but McNeil wasn’t inclined to share.

“No,” he answered instead. “I always look like shite. I don’t sleep very well.”

Richardson’s gaze hovered for a moment on McNeil’s blackened eye before he smiled indulgently. “Well, that’s certainly something I can help you with.” He reached for a prescription pad and scrawled something illegible upon it. “Normally I’d ask you to take this to reception as you leave and Selina would dispense it for you, but sadly Selina has a domestic emergency today, babysitting I believe. So if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll make it up for you myself.”

“There were kids playing on the landing,” offered McNeil.

Richardson rose from his seat. “You saw them?”

“Yeah, two little girls.
They were headed down the stairs.”

Richardson frowned. “You must be mistaken.
Selina is home with her children.”

McNeil shrugged. “Well, somebody’s kids are running around in a poorly lit building - you might want to sort that out before Health and Safety come knocking.”

“I agree, Joe, It definitely needs sorting out. Give me a moment and I’ll do just that.”

Left alone in the consulting room McNeil’s gaze naturally fell on the file left tantalisingly within reach on the desk. Did he really want to know what they all thought of him? No, probably not. Had it been left out deliberately to test his reaction?
Definitely. McNeil smiled. When it came to mind games, Dr. Richardson had obviously forgotten he was an experienced interrogator and knew every trick in the book.

He left his seat and began to prowl the room. He soon became aware of something that did appeal to his detective nose and innate curiosity. He allowed his hand to run down the mahogany filing cabinet, an unobtrusive tug revealing that
Dr. Richardson unlocked his cabinet in the morning and probably didn’t lock up till he went home at night. Why that should be of interest, he wasn’t sure.

He slid open the top drawer. It was loosely filled with manila files.  After a cautious look to the door, McNeil thumbed through them. Disappointingly, there were no names to identify the clients, simply numbers. He was about to pull out the first one, investigate further and satisfy his idle curiosity, when he heard the creaking boards on the landing announce Richardson’s return.

“No little girls, Joe.” He resumed his seat, smiled indulgently and placed a small brown bottle on the desk in front of him. “They seem to have disappeared.” He pushed the bottle towards McNeil. “You’re obviously overtired and not quite yourself. I’m sure these will help enormously. Take one morning and night. They’ll help you relax and see things a little more clearly.”

McNeil was sure they wouldn’t. Richardson may well be correct about his diagnosis but not the remedy. There was only one cure for what ailed him, and her name was Kit. “To be honest, I’d rather sort things out myself.”

“But you’re not sorting things out, are you? Which is why you’re here today. Tell me, Joe, how much do you drink in an average week?”

McNeil scowled. “When I finally get an average week I’ll let you know.”

Richardson smiled pleasantly but McNeil wasn’t fooled.

“Let’s talk about your childhood, Joe.”

“Let’s not.”

“Were you a happy child, Joe? Do you have good memories?”

“I don’t remember. I was just a kid. It was a long time ago.”

Richardson persevered. “I understand you were brought up by an aunt after the death of your parents.”

McNeil frowned. “Where are you getting this from?”

“From your record, Joe.”

“What’s my record got to do with you?” He felt himself bristle at Richardson’s intrusion. He had no intention of discussing his childhood, happy or not, but like the helpless recipient of a subliminal message, the prompt had been set, and the jumble in his head was suddenly pushed to one side by an image of a small boy in a faded Star Wars T-shirt. The boy sat cross legged on a doorstep, his back to a closed door. One eye had been closed by a fist, one brow split open by another. His bottom lip trembled. His hands were clasped tightly over his ears. Blood oozed between his fingers.