Bedlam (9 page)

Richardson sighed. “You know, Joe, I’m just trying to help you.”

McNeil’s hand strayed to the scar that dissected his right eyebrow. He took a slow breath. “Sorry, but no, you’re not. You’re sitting there dabbling with my psyche, deciding my future at the behest of my boss, and neither of you give a shit about it anyway. But, hey, don’t worry, you’ll still get your fee. Let’s just get this over with and then we can both get on with life.”

“Okay, if that’s the way you feel, we’ll leave the subject of what happened to your parents if you’re uncomfortable discussing
it, and we’ll cut straight to the reason why your boss thought it pertinent that you meet with me. Tell me, Joe, why do you believe that Kit is still alive when all evidence points to the contrary?”

“Kit?”

“It’s all in your record, Joe.”

“You mean you’ve been discussing me behind my back?”

“That makes you sound a little paranoid, Joe, which rather proves my point. I haven’t discussed you with anyone. I do, however, know all about what happened to you and I’ve observed your behaviour. I’m curious as to why you maintain your belief concerning Kit, even though you risk your job and friendships because of it.”

“Because I know she’s alive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I feel it in here.”
He placed a palm against his chest, withdrawing it swiftly when the action reminded him of Nell rather than Kit.

“Have you seen her?”

He swallowed awkwardly, distracted, and trying hard not to be. “No … not while I’m awake.” That sounded weird even to his own ears, but it was out and he couldn’t take it back. He cursed at his own ineptitude and the doctor looked at him a little harder.

“Have you spoken with her?”

“Yes … no … not exactly …”

“What does that mean?”

Fuck.
He didn’t want to have this discussion with a man whose job was to dig into the pain of others. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and he was wasting time which could have been better spent, but despite that, he had an overwhelming need to say out loud what he felt deep inside. “It means I hear her in my head. I feel her next to me at night. I sense her presence when I need her, and before you send out for the strait jacket, I’m not crazy … I …”

“You miss her, Joe. It’s understandable and perfectly normal. I don’t think you’re crazy, but I do think you need to take a step back and evaluate what you’ve just told me.”

“
Evaluate?
What is this, some test where a high score means I’m sane and a low one a fuckin’ head case? This is my life we’re talking about. Do you think I want to live like this? I can tell you I don’t. I don’t want Kit in my head. I want her here in my arms. I want people to believe what I’m saying and help me find her.”

“Is she here now?”

“What?”

“Kit - do you hear her now?”

McNeil shook his head. He felt his heart rate climbing, the steady thud getting louder. “You don’t get it. You’re not listening to what I’m saying. She’s not a ghost. She isn’t stuck on a fuckin’ cloud somewhere.”

“I am listening, Joe, with great interest. But do you realise how confusing your reality is to those who don’t share it? You insist Kit is still alive, yet by your own admission, she behaves like a spirit, haunting your mind and your dreams.”

“My reality?” Perspiration prickled his brow and he dashed it away with the back of his hand. “Look, if I had an answer, an explanation, then I wouldn’t be here. All I know is: she’s alive somewhere, and I need to find her.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Joe?”

“What?”

“The paranormal.
Do you believe in life after death, in things that go bump in the night?”

“I believe in life and death, and nothing in between.”

“And yet you yourself are evidence to the contrary.”

“I don’t follow you …”

“The girl you revived.”

“What about her?”

“Don’t you read the newspapers, Joe? You’re headline news this morning. The resurrection man, the policeman who revives the dead. They’re calling it a miracle.”

“She wasn’t dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“What is this? Of course she wasn’t dead. I mean her heart had stopped … I think … but she wasn’t dead, not like they all thought. You’re a
doctor, you know how these things work. People can’t be brought back. If they could, we’d all be at it, and the world would be overrun with people who should be six feet under. If she really was dead, she’d still be fucking dead, wouldn’t she?”

“I know that, Joe. What I’m asking is what do you
believe
?”

McNeil clenched his hands tightly in his lap in an attempt to quell the tremors.
Inhale, exhale
. He tried to do it surreptitiously but failed. “If I believed I could bring someone back from the dead, I could think of a few others I’d rather spend my time on. I’d be out there on the road with my touring medicine show hawking batwings and eye of newt to desperate souls who know no better, and making a fortune in the process.”

“That sounds a little heartless, Joe, and I’m sure you’re not. Do you regret your actions?”

“I’m just sick of having to defend them.”

“I’m sure the girl is grateful to you.”

“Forget her. She’s not important.”

“Do you wish it had been Kit?”

McNeil shook his head in disbelief. “How many fucking
’
times do I have to say this? Kit is not
dead
.”

Richardson shrugged. “And as you’ve just made quite clear,
Joe, neither was the girl. Tell me about the last time you saw her.”

“Nell?”

“Ah, you know her name. Good. So not a total waste of your time after all, and I’m sure she agrees. The girl is alive because of you, whether you accept that or not. My faith in you is restored, Joe. You are not the uncaring monster you pretend to be. But no, I meant Kit. Tell me about the last time you saw Kit.”

“Why?”

“I’d just like to understand how you parted. Was there anything said or unsaid? A misunderstanding perhaps? Sometimes it’s difficult to move on where there’s an element of regret or guilt.”

“Are you asking if we argued, if we parted on bad terms, am I wracked with guilt and blaming myself? Because, believe me, I blame myself daily for not being there when she needed me. But no, I didn’t drive her away and the only regret I have is that I’ve kept her waiting this long, and I’m still nowhere near finding out what happened or where she might be.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found. Have you considered that? Maybe it’s time to move on, to accept that part of your life is over and seek out a new relationship. You’re a young man, Joe. You have a life ahead of you that is currently restrained by the past. I’m afraid there comes a point where you have to let go.”

McNeil reared up angrily and flung back his chair. If this was meant to be therapy, it wasn’t working. He was more wound up now than when he came in.

“Session over, doctor. Send your bill to DCI Mather.”

“I’m sorry if I touched upon a raw nerve, Joe, but this is just the beginning, the felling of the first tree in a forest of doubt. It will hurt. The truth always does. You have to appreciate that things are seldom as straight forward as we imagine.”

McNeil’s head was suddenly bursting with whispered voices all competing for attention. He backed to the door, trying to look contained and in control, while inside his panic was rising. “While you’re busy making kindling out of hope, what about Kit?”

Richardson angled his head thoughtfully. “You need to go back to the very beginning, Joe, either here with me in a safe environment or out there with no protection. You choose.”

“Protection from what?”

“The truth, Joe.
Life is seldom black and white. To co-exist, we must learn to live within the grey.”

Chapter Seventeen
 

His phone vibrated angrily as he left the doctor’s office. He ignored it, as he had throughout the consultation. Whoever was calling could wait. He had other stuff to think about.  Richardson might well be a sanctimonious prick but he was correct about one thing: he’d spent too long looking in dark corners for Kit and it was time to switch on the light. He’d neglected the importance of what had precipitated her disappearance. He needed to go back to square one.

Maybe she’d gone to the canal for a specific reason, though he couldn’t imagine what that might have been, or perhaps the investigating team were correct and she had picked up someone who had forced her to drive there but, either way, the location was significant to both scenarios. It was time he caught a look at the police files.

He started the car, cursing at the feeble excuse for a heater. Sleet covered the windshield. It was early for snow but the weathermen had warned it was on the way. He shivered, unsure whether his chills were due to the cold, his encounter with Richardson or just his general demeanour. He felt he was going round in circles. He reached in his jacket pocket to shut off his phone and pulled out Richardson’s prescription instead. He couldn’t recall picking it up off the desk. The bottle sat snugly in his palm, distracting him in an ‘eat-me / drink-me’ kind of way. It wasn’t that far off the mark. He felt like he’d been stuck down a rabbit hole for the last twelve months. His hand began to tremble, and the more he tried to quell it, the worse the tremors became until the pills inside the bottle rattled enticingly against the glass. He couldn’t go on much longer pretending nothing was wrong. He called softly to Kit, but his mind was too full of what-ifs for him to hear her clearly, if she was there at all.

He let out a sigh, unscrewed the cap and shook out one capsule. What the hell, in for a penny …

By the time he got to the station he was feeling chilled, and it had nothing to do with the weather. Supposing he’d cracked open the capsule and snorted the contents, the drugs couldn’t have got into his blood stream any quicker. He climbed unsteadily from the car and stood a moment with a hand on the door. The first flakes of real snow began to fall. He turned his face to the sky and focused on the snow tunnelling towards him. There was something refreshing about the way it scoured his cheeks. He closed his eyes.
Inhale, exhale
. When he was back in control he ducked his head and hurried across the car park.

Dennis intercepted him halfway to the building. “Where the bloody
hell have you been? I’ve called you more times this morning than I called the wife when we were courting. Do you never answer your phone?”

McNeil shrugged. “I was busy.”

“Yeah? Doing what?”

“You know what. You made the appointment. I’ve been to see the shrink.”

Dennis raised his brows in surprise, as if McNeil’s non-attendance had been a given. “What did he say?”

“Not a lot.”

“What did
you
say?”

“Even less.”

“Are you seeing him again?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Dennis shook his head with frustration. “Joey, I know I keep repeating myself, but this time I really mean it. I’m about done with you.”

“Dennis, you told me to go and I went. The guy was
… well, he was a shrink, what more can I say? Would you be happy telling a stranger all your innermost thoughts and dirty secrets?”

“Dirty secrets?”

“I’m generalising, Dennis.”

“Forget secrets, dirty or otherwise. We don’t have time for that now. Smarten yourself up. Mather wants to see you. He’s not a happy man.”

“When is he ever?”

“This is serious, Joey. Have you seen the papers this morning?”

“I don’t read the papers. Too much bad news gives me indigestion.”

Dennis snorted.
“Indigestion? I’m surprised your digestive system isn’t pickled with the amount of booze you’ve put away lately.”

McNeil ignored him. “Journalists are just out to grab the next big story. It’s not news,
it’s creative writing.”

“Yeah, well, just make sure you haven’t been talking to them. Mather is practically apoplectic. That bird, Clarissa what’s-her-face from the ‘Herald’ is having a field day.”

McNeil tried to edge away. Having been forewarned of the likely content of the local broadsheet, he had no desire to be held to task by Dennis or Mather. He had more pressing things to do, and as none of them were strictly within the rules, he didn’t need Dennis breathing down his neck while he bent them. He hadn’t been allowed a role in the enquiry into Kit’s disappearance, and he didn’t have clearance to look at the files, but he needed to know what the investigating team had pulled together, what additional evidence had led them to surmise that she was dead and at what point they’d decided to give up.

“I’ll catch up with Mather later.”

Dennis grabbed him by the sleeve. “No, you won’t. He sent me to find you, ‘to bring you in’ were his actual words. A word in your ear, Joey. Tread carefully. He’s gunning for you.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“Well, Joey, that says it all.”

Mather’s office was on the top floor, as befitting his inflated opinion of himself. He’d acquired it by default after some wheeling and dealing. He was partial to the view. It looked south, away from Bedlam, green fields and distant rolling hills, the Promised Land, the rural idyll that Mather aspired to on retirement.

The windowsill was filled with plants that helped sustain the dream while he wished his life away. He nurtured them like children, which was more than could be said for his own brood
who had leapt from the nest at the first opportunity, taking most of the branch with them. It had left the man with a bitter taste in his mouth which he regularly spat out at those who didn’t meet his exacting standards.

The squad was relieved by his choice of location, as it meant he, his geraniums and his bile were distanced from them, and as a result they were left in comparative peace until a case worthy of his involvement reared its head. McNeil wasn’t bothered
either way since he held no particular affection for the team or Mather. The only downside that he could see was that the office was a long way from the car park when a swift exit was called for. He considered that today might just be one of those occasions.

Both men paused outside the door, dentist surgery dread adding reluctance to their step. Dennis gave McNeil a final once over. “How’s your head?”

“Still on my shoulders.”

“Well, let’s try and keep it that way. I stuck my neck out for you, so don’t let me down in there. Mather thinks you’re
a loose cannon. I’m beginning to agree with him, but don’t make me come out and say it. I’ll cover your back as long as I can, but if there’s anything at all that you haven’t told me, now’s the time to spit it out.”

McNeil shook his head. “I’m just doing my job.
How about you?”

Dennis reached out and straightened his tie. “Shit. Have you been fighting again?”

“No.”

“You’ve got blood all over your collar.”

“I must have cut myself shaving.”

Dennis peered closer. “You either have a shaky hand or you need glasses. You almost nicked your jugular.”

McNeil shoved his shaky hands in his pockets. “
Almost?
Lucky me,” he added with a slow smile. The meds were kicking in and he felt just fine.

“Bloody hell, you can’t help yourself, can you? I’m just trying to help you, Joey.”

“Yeah, you’re not the first person to say that to me today. All of a sudden everyone wants to help me. I wonder why.”

“If you need to wonder about it, Joey, then I’m insulted, and
you
have a problem,” muttered Dennis as he knocked at the door. “Just don’t get down wind of him. Mather can smell trouble a mile off.”

*  *  *

DCI Mather was seated at his
desk, phone in hand, when they entered the room. A short man, he had only just made the grade before height restrictions were crucial to recruitment. He made up for his lack of stature with an expanding girth, which was currently squeezed between the arms of his executive leather chair, the rewards of high rank, or more likely the spoils from the latest police auction. Either way, he had the plushest office in the station. He slammed the handset down and scowled at them both.

“DI Todd, DS McNeil, glad you could make it. I said nine-thirty, but what’s an hour here or there when a major
investigation is grinding to a halt. Bedlam must rest easy at night knowing you two clowns are policing its streets."

McNeil shot an apologetic glance at Dennis. It was unfortunate that he was the innocent caught in the spread of Mather’s scattergun wrath. Dennis tightened his jaw and said nothing. McNeil awaited permission to sit while Dennis edged back out of the line of fire and took up sentry post against the door as if he feared McNeil might try to slip out of it.

“What the hell is going on, McNeil?”

“I have no idea, sir.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He had a fuzzy feeling in his head, and he rolled his neck and blinked to restore concentration. It was difficult. Mather had the heating turned up, and all he could think about was loosening his tie and sinking a cold one.

Mather narrowed his eyes and studied him a little closer. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you awake, detective. Perhaps if you spent less time in the local hostelries you’d be a little fresher in the mornings.”

“Sir.”

“Have you been talking to the press?”

“About what?”

“The school jumble sale, the cancellation of the number nineteen bus - what in God’s name do you think? About the case!”

“No, sir.”

“Then what the bloody hell is all this shite?”

Mather picked up a newspaper and flung it across his desk. McNeil didn’t get the chance to read the headlines before Mather snatched it back and launched into an abridged version.

“That bloody woman from the ‘Herald’ has got her teeth into this. Page one no less."  Mather continued reading.

Miracles do happen. Bedlam Detective brings woman back to life

Mystery surrounds the unconfirmed event which occurred at the scene of a double murder. A police spokesman refused to comment on the possibility of a serial killer at large or to confirm the identities of the victims.

I can reveal, however, that the detective responsible for the timely intervention, which saved the unnamed young woman’s life, was previously investigated over the disappearance of his long-term girlfriend. Detective McNeil was recently photographed after a bar room brawl.

Saint or sinner? Let us know what you think?

“
Miracles? Bar room brawls?
What the fuck is going on here, McNeil? You’re a professional. You’re meant to behave like one. Look at the bloody photo, for Christ’s sake. You look like you belong on the Jeremy Kyle Show.”

McNeil didn’t know how they’d got it, or why, but it wasn’t his best shot. He angled his head to take in the detail while Mather brandished it like a weapon. Taken after his run in with Curtis, he was being manhandled out of
Minkey’s by two men he didn’t recognise. He was hammered, his face was battered, his clothes a mess. He was a disgrace to himself and the force, and there was no getting around it. He shrugged his apology, unclear whether an explanation was ultimately what Mather wanted or a simple bollocking would suffice.

“Sit down,” barked Mather, “before you fall down, and explain to me why I shouldn’t just rip up your warrant card and send you down to the Job Centre. Come on, we haven’t got all day. What have you got to say for yourself?”

McNeil slid into the seat, his take on the whole matter slightly skewed. The fuzziness was now a warm glow. He was beginning to think more kindly about Dr Richardson.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, sir. For a start, the girl wasn’t actually dead, so not really a miracle, more a stroke of luck - for her, not me. Next time I see someone gasping their last, I’ll just keep on walking and stay out of trouble. And the photo, well, that was all just a misunderstanding.”

“The girl? Are you saying Roger screwed up? That all of this is his fault?”

McNeil shot a glance at Dennis. He was focused on the geraniums but the scowl said it all.

“Not exactly, no.”

“
Not exactly
. That just about sums you up, McNeil. Not exactly this, not exactly that.” He screwed up the paper and flung it in the waste basket. “Forget the bloody girl. I couldn’t give a snowman’s carrot about the girl. Of course she wasn’t dead. Only an idiot would believe all this talk of miracles. So, Roger had a bad day, the first in forty years. I think we can give him that one for free. What I’m bothered about, DS McNeil, what has me hot under the collar and spitting blood, are photos of my bloody coppers getting rat-arsed. Misunderstanding! Do you think I came down in the last shower? You were bloody hammered and it’s not a one-off, is it? Don’t think because I’m up here among the civilized people that I don’t hear what’s going on? I hear everything, McNeil, and what I hear about you is giving me great cause for concern. It doesn’t do the department’s reputation any good, and believe me, McNeil, it doesn’t do you any favours either. This is just the kind of thing that keeps journalists in a job. The article goes on at length about police standards, your disgraceful behaviour and about your girlfriend’s murder. It suggests that we mishandled the case, that
you
believe we mishandled the case …”