Poppet (22 page)

‘He’s on an s47 conditional discharge – and staying in the hostel every night was one of those conditions. He’s not complying, which is a criminal act, dah de dah. I won’t patronize you by reciting the spiel, you’ve been here before, you know the drill. Rooms are upstairs, aren’t they?’ Caffery is already out of his chair. ‘Maybe I’ll just knock on every door till I find the right one.’

He is out of the room before Hurst has time to make it around to the other side of his desk. The manager catches up with him in the hall. He’s breathing hard.

‘OK,’ he hisses. ‘All right – but can we please keep it low key?’

‘After you,’ Caffery says.

Hurst edges past him. ‘Low key – yeah?’ he repeats.

‘Of course.’

Caffery follows him up the stairs to the first floor. Two doors open within seconds of each other; the first tenant steps on to the landing – strung out, the front of his sweatshirt stained, his trousers hanging half mast. When he sees Caffery he makes a quick U-turn back into his room. The second door slams shut before Caffery can get a look at the occupant.

All of the rooms are secured with Yale locks. As Hurst pulls out the key to the door of number five, he seems to be having misgivings.

He turns his back to the room and raises both hands. ‘I don’t know, man. I should probably wait till I get the all-clear from the mental-health team.’

Legally, Caffery can’t go in without an invitation, but it will take time and useless paperwork to obtain a warrant. He fixes the manager with a stare. ‘Aren’t you curious what Handel did that got him locked up for fifteen years?’

‘No – and I don’t want to know.’ Hurst’s ears flush red. ‘We’re not given details on patients’ mental health, just guidance on what to look for in case they become unstable. We’re here to rehabilitate, not judge.’

Caffery leans back against the handrail. He examines the cherubic face from the pale, shining forehead to the dimpled chin. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t know the nuts and bolts of how your “clients” end up in the system. Sadly, I do know. And in Handel’s case let’s just put it this way – ‘sick’ isn’t even ballpark.’

Hurst fingers the bunch of keys attached to the key reel on his belt, but he’s still undecided.

‘And that was when he was only a kid,’ Caffery continues. ‘I don’t think any of us know what he’s capable of as an adult. A paranoid schizophrenic, out on licence, missing for twenty-four hours?’

Hurst’s eyes fix on the door number, and a pink patch of colour spreads from his ears to the dome of his head.

‘And you have only just reported him missing?’

‘OK, OK,’ he mutters, dragging the keys from his belt. ‘I can manage without the lecture.’

Pompom Socks

THE TRUST IS
far from perfect, but even AJ has to admit the sports facility they’ve given their employees discounted membership to is pretty damned splendid. Situated on the outskirts of Thornbury, Tarlington Manor boasts a twenty-five-metre swimming pool and a gym packed with the latest fitness gizmos – suspension trainers, Core-texes, and vibrating power-plates. There’s a sauna, a laconium, twenty tennis courts and an outdoor hot tub with a log fire next to it where middle-aged women sip champagne at lunchtime.

Three days a week Melanie leaves work early, comes here and knocks the hell out of a squash ball on her own for an hour. AJ has to check at least six viewing galleries before he finds her court. She is soaked with sweat but still thrashing the ball, her ponytail bobbing like mad. Her T-shirt is pink with a black puma above the left breast and she’s as sexy as hell in her lycra training shorts, blinding-white trainers, and little white pompom socks like the ones he remembers the girls wearing at Wimbledon when he was a teenager. In those days he used to spend a lot of time watching the ladies’ tennis – much to Mum and Patience’s amusement and ridicule.

It wouldn’t be that difficult for Isaac Handel to figure out where Melanie lives. The image of the figure in the garden flickers around AJ’s head. And DI Caffery, and the way he was so uncomfortable talking about the murders at Upton Farm.

He makes his way down to the next level and opens the door to the court. Melanie stops when she sees him – gives a surprised yelp and flaps her hand. ‘AJ! Go away, for God’s sake, don’t watch. You’ll make me self-conscious.’

‘Self-conscious? After what you let me do last night?’

‘Oh, stop it.’ She crosses to her kit in the corner and pulls out a towel, which she holds up to her face, letting it hang down in front of her body so he can’t see her full length. She’s wearing wristbands too – another retro detail that takes him straight back to the eighties. ‘Go away – I’ll have to stop if you don’t go away.’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Need to talk?’ She lowers the towel from her face. Sweat has smeared her mascara. ‘Oh-oh. That sounds ominous.’

‘Mel, let’s not pretend. You saw something in the garden the other morning. And last night I saw it too.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head seriously. ‘We didn’t. It was our imaginations – we were half asleep. No sleep, too much sex, too much booze. I can smell it on me.’ She lifts her arm and gives her armpit a dubious little sniff. ‘It’s coming out of me. Christ – lucky I’m playing on my own here.’

‘I wasn’t drunk last night. And even if we were both drunk the night before and we
imagined
it – the fact we imagined the same thing says we’re worrying about it. And we’re worrying about it because we know on some level Zelda, and Pauline and Moses may have seen something similar. And I’m about as sure as I can be that I know who was behind their “hallucinations”, “delusions” – if that’s what we’re going to call them.’

Melanie’s eyes open even wider. ‘Not Handel again – please. I really think we—’

‘It’s not just Zelda’s picture, it’s not just what he did to his parents. It’s … I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Please, you need to believe me.’

‘We’ve talked about it.’ She puts a hand out, making to leave the court, but he stands his ground.

‘Melanie – I read the tribunal transcript.’

Her face changes at that. Her eyes tighten a little, like cooling metal, and she drops her weight back on to her heels. ‘I’m sorry? You read the transcript – what does that mean?’

‘I read your statement to Handel’s discharge tribunal. I never realized you’d been so involved with him.’

‘
Involved?
What the hell are you talking about?’

‘The way you talked, it sounded as if you’d spent every day with him. You said things like: “he was always cooperative”, “absolutely no problems with compliance”, “understands the nature of his illness and the importance of daily contact with the team to maintain that stability post-transfer”, “gave me the impression that he understood the severity of his crime, and also deeply regretted it” … Shall I go on?’

Melanie’s face is burning. Her nostrils have dilated slightly and she’s sucking air in very slowly to calm herself.

‘Shall I go on, Melanie? Because I read it all and it’s bullshit – you never spent any time with Isaac. I never once saw you speak to him.’

‘I don’t get you,’ she says bitterly. ‘I don’t get you at all.’

She pushes past him to the door, jabbing him with her elbow as she does. She slings the bag over her shoulder and walks away in a very straight, precise line.

‘Melanie?’ he says to her retreating back. ‘Melanie – I’m sorry – I don’t want an argument.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘No, honestly, I didn’t mean to sound …’

He trails off. She has reached the ladies’ locker room. Without a backward glance she goes inside and slams the door behind her.

Carrier Bags

WHEN CAFFERY THINKS
about it, he can’t imagine how Isaac has survived a cold October night with nowhere to stay. The patients receive an allowance while they’re on the unit and, according to AJ, Isaac had saved a lot of cash; nevertheless Caffery reckons he’d struggle to get a room. A confused schizophrenic would be shown the ‘no vacancies’ sign, no matter how much cash he had on him. An image comes: a warm bed, food. Someone helping Handel? AJ mentioned power cuts in the unit that coincided with each episode; it’s hard to believe that a patient would have the kind of access to pull that off on his own.

Someone else involved. Caffery parks the idea in the corner of his head. He’ll come back to it later.

He stands in the room at the Avonmere Hotel, absorbing it all. It’s just big enough to squeeze in a single bed, a bedside cabinet, chest of drawers and wardrobe. The curtains are thin; the carpet, a hardwearing cord, looks as if it has been cleaned recently. Everything is neat, well ordered: the bed is made, there is no clothing on view except for a pair of slippers. The chest of drawers is piled high with magazines. Caffrey flicks through them:
What Hi-Fi
,
Computing
,
Computer Weekly
, two Maplin catalogues, and one from Screwfix. There is no TV in the room, just an iPod docking station.

Caffery opens the bedside cabinet and takes out a brown pharmacy bottle. Seroxat – it’s in Handel’s name. He shows it to Hurst and gives it a shake to demonstrate it’s empty.

Hurst spreads his hands wide. ‘Don’t look at me – speak to the mental-health team.’

‘Yeah, we’ve got a department like that in the police. The SEP unit.’

‘What?’

‘Someone Else’s Problem.’

Hurst narrows his eyes. He’s beyond disgruntled now. ‘I don’t get a cop’s salary,’ he says. ‘No early retirement and a pension either – index-linked or otherwise.’

Caffery puts the pill bottle back in the cabinet. He checks under the bed, pushing his hand up between the slats and the mattress. He runs his fingertips along the top of the curtain rail and then across the empty coat hangers in the wardrobe, making them clatter. He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for – he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, except to prove a point to Hurst. How many people like Handel slip through the net, he wonders. In places like this it’s probably a daily occurrence.

He stops. In the bottom of Handel’s wardrobe is a stack of folded carrier bags. He squats down and presses his hand against them. They’re all from Wickes. A hardware store is not the most reassuring place for someone like Handel to be shopping – particularly in the context of what he did to his parents.

Caffery pulls the bags out and carefully shakes each one. They are all empty, except for the fifth, which contains a receipt for the iPod dock and the box it came in – now empty.

‘Most of our clients spend their allowances on sweets and crisps.’

‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they spend it on,’ Caffery says drily. ‘Mind if I keep this?’

‘He might want it for the guarantee.’

Caffery gives him a long look.

Eventually Hurst shrugs. ‘Be my guest.’

Fred Astaire

IT’S SEVEN FIFTEEN
. AJ sits on the bench outside the ladies’ locker room, feeling shittier and shittier by the second. He has drunk two cups of coffee from the machine and eaten a Mars bar and now all there is to do is stare at the notices on the board and rub his toe against a piece of chewing gum that clings resolutely to the floor. It’s been forty-five minutes, and although plenty of women have come and gone in that time, giving him surreptitious looks that make him feel like a prize pervert, none of them has been Melanie. Either she can sulk for Britain, or she’s climbed out of the locker-room window.

He regrets what he said, the way he said it. He’s texted her three apologies, but the signal’s not good down here so there’s no knowing whether they’ve arrived, or if she’s ignoring him. He’s about to fish the phone out and try again when the door opens and Melanie comes out.

She’s changed into a simple white wool dress and furry suede boots. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower. She’s got no make-up on and she’s so lovely his heart almost stops.

‘Melanie—’ he begins, standing up. But she puts a finger to her lips, shakes her head. She drops her bag and sits on the bench about a foot away from him, studying him intently.

‘AJ.’

‘Melanie, I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not for you to say – I’m the one who should be sorry. I did lie. It’s just … sometimes you look at the patients, who’ve sometimes made just
one
mistake, a mistake they’ve paid for over and over again by being in the unit, having to jump through all the hoops we set them, and you know they
deserve
a chance to get out and live a normal life. But at the same time there’s one vital piece of the jigsaw missing – a box ticked in the wrong-colour biro or some tiny detail that will make the great bureaucratic engine spit out their application and refuse discharge. Through no fault of their own, the patient will be back to square one, facing the prospect of being run through the spin cycle all over again.’

AJ rests his hands on his knees and taps out a drumbeat. He doesn’t agree with Melanie that every patient, no matter who, deserves a chance. A lot of the people in the unit have taken away someone else’s right to life; in any other facility they’d be called murderers. Some of them are beyond rehabilitation. Especially the ones whose crimes are as memorable as Isaac Handel’s.

‘AJ? Have I said something wrong?’

‘No, no. I don’t blame you. Especially not with the amount of pressure the Trust are heaping on you over performance targets.’

He’s talking about the ‘intractable’ patients, the long-stay patients, the bed blockers. Those that can’t be recycled out into the community because relatives are unwilling to accept the patient back into their lives. Or those who have no desire to leave the unit and start facing up to the responsibilities of the real world, so they throw obstacles in the way of their own discharge. Such patients form a giant plug in the pipes of the system, and in an effort to clear the blockage, the staff at Beechway are bombarded with directives from above reminding them of the need to lower the ALS – the average length of stay. Melanie, most of all, must get hit with it constantly.

‘Believe me, we all feel that pressure, Melanie. There isn’t a nurse or therapist in the unit who wouldn’t be tempted to take part in a little off-the-rule-book activity if it meant patients moved faster through the system. And you – well, you must be feeling it harder than any of us.’