The Torment of Others (18 page)

‘You’re not kidding. I couldn’t even argue, not with the kids there. She stood in the hall, telling them Daddy has to go away for a few days because of work. And that look on her face, like she was daring me to contradict her.’

Paula shook her head, trying to imagine what that must have felt like and failing. ‘So what did you do?’

‘I picked up my bags and walked. Got in the car and drove around for a bit. I just couldn’t get my head round it, you know? I tried phoning Lindy, but she wasn’t picking up. I parked up and I just wandered round the city centre. Then I called you.’ He picked up his glass and drained the remaining half-pint in one.

‘I’m so sorry, Don.’

‘Me too, Paula.’ He picked up the fresh bottle and poured it carefully into his glass, watching intently as the beer cleared and formed a head.

‘Do you know what brought it on?’

He made a wordless noise in the back of his throat. ‘What always brings it on for cops?’

‘The job,’ Paula said heavily.

‘The job,’ Merrick agreed. ‘You know what it’s been like the past few weeks. We’ve been working all hours, then having a pint to unwind, because you need a space. You can’t go home till you’ve put a bit of distance between you and the day, otherwise you just trail the shit in behind you. And when you do go home, it’s the cold shoulder. Either that or it’s, “You’re never here, you never see the kids, you’ve no idea what it’s like trying to cope with everything, I might as well be a single parent.” Ever since I got the promotion, it’s been relentless.’

‘Did you try talking about it?’

Merrick’s mouth twisted miserably. I’m not good at talking about feelings, Paula. I’m a bloke. I tried to explain about how it is, how what I do matters, but she just twists it round so it sounds like I think the job’s more important than her and the kids. It’s been brewing a while, but this case has just been the last straw. She accuses me of preferring to spend my time talking to hookers than to her’

Paula put a hand on his arm. ‘From what you’re saying, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. What about relationship counselling? Have you thought about that?’

Merrick tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Thing is, Paula, I’m not even sure I want to go back. I’m not the same man who married Lindy. I’ve gone in one direction and she’s gone in another. We’ve nothing in common any more. Did you know she’s gone back to college part-time? She wants to be an educational psychologist. Can you believe it? Feels like the only psychology she’s learned is how to put me down.’

‘So you’ve maybe been staying in the pub a bit longer than you would otherwise?’ Paula wasn’t quite sure where this was going, nor how she wanted to play it.

‘Maybe. But whatever’s going on between me and Lindy, I don’t want to lose my kids. I love my lads, you know that.’

‘I know that, Don. But leaving Lindy doesn’t mean losing your kids. You can still be their dad even if you don’t live with their mum. You can still take them to the footie, go swimming with them, take them on holiday even.’

Merrick snorted. ‘And how easy is that in this job? How often do we knock off when we’re supposed to?’

‘You’re an inspector now. You don’t work shifts, you don’t have to do the overtime like you used to. You can make a space for your boys in your life. If you want it badly enough, you’ll do it.’

He gave her a pleading look. ‘You think so?’

‘I think so.’ Paula glanced over to the bar where a bunch of men in their twenties were arguing loudly about the football. She made an instant decision she hoped she wouldn’t come to regret. ‘This is a dump, Don. Have you got somewhere to stay?’

He looked away. ‘I thought I’d check into a hotel.’

‘Don’t be daft. If you and Lindy are going to split up, you’re going to need all your pennies. You can have my spare room,’ Paula said gruffly.

‘You mean it?’ He seemed genuinely surprised.

‘If you don’t mind sharing it with the world’s biggest pile of ironing.’

The ghost of a smile spread across Merrick’s face. ‘Didn’t you know I’m shit hot with the iron?’

‘Perfect. Just don’t use my razor, OK?’

Sam Evans cracked open the window of his car to let a trickle of smoke out. One thing about doing stakeouts in red-light districts was that nobody paid much attention to a lone man sitting in a car. Nobody except the working girls, but they’d steered clear after he flashed his warrant card at the first to approach him. He’d stressed he wasn’t interested in them, and they’d left him alone.

Aidan Hart’s alibi might have been enough for Carol Jordan, but when he had interviewed the psychologist, Sam Evans had sensed a man with something to hide. He wondered what that something was and whether it might be turned to his advantage. If there was a way to put Aidan Hart in the frame for murder, it would be to Evans’ advantage in every possible way.

So he’d taken to watching Hart whenever he got the chance. One thing soon became clear: Hart and his wife led virtually separate lives. He didn’t know if that was from mutual preference, or if it had evolved because Hart only seemed to go home to sleep. His evenings were usually spent in bars and restaurants, drinking and dining with men who looked like him–prosperous, well-groomed and self-satisfied.

But there was another side to Aidan Hart’s life that Evans wouldn’t mind betting was unknown to his drinking buddies. On the nights when he wasn’t engaged in career-building and male bonding, he picked up women for sex. The shock he’d had when Evans had confronted him obviously hadn’t been enough to still his appetite. All it had done was to relocate it.

Instead of trawling in Temple Fields, Hart had gone further afield. Manningham Lane in Bradford, Whalley Range in Manchester and now Chapeltown in Leeds. From what Sam could glean, he went for women who had a place to go rather than settling for a blow job in his gleaming black 4x4. On two occasions, he’d gone back for seconds after adjourning to an Indian restaurant for a meal.

Hart’s apparent addiction to hookers didn’t trouble Evans on a moral level. He’d shagged a few of them himself over the years. But it did make him wonder about what was going on inside Hart’s head. Certainly, it was providing Evans with ammunition that he might be able to make something of. Everybody knew that sexual murderers often used prostitutes, everybody knew that exposure to extreme behaviour desensitized people. Hart was starting to shape up nicely as a suspect, even if Carol Jordan had taken him out of the picture.

Evans was determined that his assignment to the Major Incident Team would be the next step on his upward climb. And if he had to make Carol Jordan look derelict in her duty to achieve it, well, so be it.

He was the one with the knowledge, after all. And knowledge was power.

The knock on his office door was the usual perfunctory rap of the hospital staff. ‘Come in,’ Tony called.

One of the nurses stuck his head round the door. ‘You wanted to see a patient in here, that right? Not in an interview room?’

‘That’s right.’

The nurse raised his eyebrows in a sceptical expression as if to absolve himself of any responsibility for what might happen. ‘I’ll go and get him, then.’

While he waited, Tony wondered about the strategy he was about to pursue. Thinking outside the box was his speciality, but he didn’t normally impose his wilder ideas on vulnerable people. He barely had to rehearse the arguments against it, so strong were they: it was unprofessional, it potentially put a patient in danger and it was against all the principles of treatment to ask something of a patient that had no direct relevance to his therapeutic regime. On the other side of the balance, he had constructed his own argument. The possibility of saving lives should override all other considerations. The patient wouldn’t be in physical danger because this was a controlled environment. The best thing he could do for this particular patient was to raise his self-esteem, and setting him an achievable task was a good way of doing that. Of course, it was arguable whether this was an achievable task, so Tony would have to take care to make it apparent he thought it was close to impossible, that it was a last throw of the dice.

Which it was, of course.

There was no time for further speculation. The nurse pushed the door open and moved back to allow Tom Storey to enter. He took a couple of uncertain steps across the threshold, then paused. His stoop had become more pronounced, Tony noted. Storey looked around, an expression of faint puzzlement on his placid features. His grey eyes swept round shelves already crammed to bursting with books, box files and padded envelopes with torn corners. They came to rest on Tony, who had swivelled round on his chair so he had his back to the paper-strewn desk and faced out into the room. ‘Come in, Tom,’ Tony said, getting to his feet. ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured towards one of a pair of low chairs arranged in a corner.

Storey frowned. ‘We don’t normally meet in here,’ he said uncertainly.

‘No, we don’t,’ Tony said.

‘Does that mean you’ve got bad news for me?’

Tony wondered fleetingly whether an operable brain tumour was good or bad news for a man in Tom Storey’s position. ‘I have got some news for you, it’s true. But also we’re here because today I need your help. Come on, sit down.’ He took the older man’s elbow and steered him to one of the chairs then sat opposite.

‘How are you doing, Tom?’ he asked.

Storey averted his eyes and stared down at the place where his hand used to be. The club of bandages had given way to a lighter dressing, making it look as if he had a particularly uninteresting sock-puppet on the end of his arm. ‘You were right. They say I’ve got a tumour in my brain.’ He rotated his head, as if trying to relieve a stiff neck. ‘Funny, not so long ago that would have seemed like the worst thing in the world.’

‘It’s never a good thing. How would you feel if I told you that the tumour is operable?’

A faint sheen of sweat appeared on Storey’s bald head. He gazed mournfully at Tony. ‘This is a terrible thing to say, but I’d want them to operate. I’d want to live. I know that a lot of the time I feel like I’ve got nothing left to live for, but if you ask me whether I’d rather take a chance on living, I’d say yes.’

Tony couldn’t help the swelling of pity for Tom Storey’s ruined life. So unnecessary, so final. So much the worse because Storey was clearly an intelligent man who now had devastating insight into his condition. ‘You feel guilty about that, don’t you, Tom? On top of all the other stuff you have to feel guilty about, you feel guilty because you want to live.’

Eyes sparkling with tears, Storey nodded. ‘I’m a coward,’ he stammered. ‘I…I can’t face myself for what I sent them to.’

‘You’re not a coward, Tom. Dying, that would be the coward’s way out. Living with yourself is what takes courage. You can’t give back what you took away, but you can live what remains of your life with good intention.’

‘So is it operable, then? This tumour, can they get rid of it?’

Tony nodded. ‘So they tell me. Like I said before, it won’t cure what’s wrong inside your mind, but we can help make that easier for you. You’ll have noticed a difference already with the meds we’ve put you on?’

Storey nodded. ‘I feel a lot calmer. A lot more in control.’

That was, Tony thought, good news for his plan. ‘And that should continue to improve,’ he said. ‘What the operation will do is to give you a future. And I think you can make use of a future, Tom. I really do.’

Storey rubbed his eyes with the back of his remaining hand. They won’t ever let me out of here, will they?’

‘It’s not impossible, Tom. A lot depends on you, and a lot depends on us.’

‘So I suppose you want to write about me? Make yourself a name by treating me? Is that how you want me to help you?’ There was a faint but unmistakable note of resentment in his voice.

Genuinely taken aback, Tony cursed himself for assuming he’d won a more secure place in Tom Storey’s confidence than he clearly had. I’m sorry you think we’re here to exploit your pain, Tom,’ he said, trying to recover ground he hadn’t even known he’d lost.

‘It’s how you people get on, isn’t it? You put the likes of me under the microscope, then you turn us into articles and books.’