Poppet (36 page)

Caffery scribbles down the number – some UK area codes still work off the telephone keypad where letters are assigned to numbers, so a town name beginning Adi … would read 0123. The number AJ gives him is local – in fact he recognizes it instantly as somewhere near Yate. Using his right hand, he drags across his keyboard and wakes his computer up. Starts tapping out an email.

As he types he talks. ‘Why are we looking at Keay?’

‘Um – because he was … I don’t know. Sort of secretive. He used to talk to Isaac, in private, maybe. I’m not sure, but that’s how I recall it. Also Keay was working in Hartwool Hospital.’

‘Which means? To the uninitiated, i.e. me?’

‘It’s in Rotherham, or nearby. Handel wasn’t held there, but the place is connected somehow. As I’m talking to you I’m looking at a book I’ve found and what happened in Hartwool is word for word what happened here in Beechway – patients had
exactly
the same delusions with
exactly
the same results. When Keay left Hartwool he came here. Less than a year later the same thing started happening to us.’

‘Why did he move?’

‘The place was closed down when there was that radical shake-up in the mental-health system. He and – um – our director got moved down here at the same time. You know – Melanie.’

Caffery’s hands hesitate on the keyboard. His attention shifts to the doll. The initials MA on the bracelet. The blonde hair. He pushes the keyboard aside and swivels his chair so he’s facing the door and doesn’t have to look at the gagged face. He takes his time – choosing his words carefully. Never alarm people unnecessarily.

‘Actually,’ he lies, ‘you’ve just reminded me. I was looking for a number for your director.’

‘I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t. You were going to wait,’ he says, cagily.

‘I know.’ Caffery wants to turn and check the doll. He imagines it behind him, sitting up on its own. Reaching a hand out. ‘But it can’t wait any longer.’

There’s silence at the end of the phone.

‘Do you know where she is? I need to speak to her. Call it a matter of urgency.’

Again a silence.

‘AJ?’

There’s a long exhalation. ‘It’s been a shite hound of a day,’ AJ says. Suddenly he sounds very loose, very apologetic. ‘Truth is, I don’t know. I’ve tried to call. She’s not answering her phone. I think it’s because she already knows what I’ve just told you about Keay.’

‘She does?’

‘They were … they were an item. For a few years. And now they’re not. He’s part of all of this. I think she knows about it – or maybe she suspects.’

Caffery keeps his tone light and noncommittal. Embryonic answers and questions are floating in his head. He still resists the urge to turn and look at the doll. ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Why? Well, for all the reasons you just said. She might be able to give us something useful.’ He injects enthusiasm into his voice. ‘And I’d like to have a word with her as soon as possible. In fact, let me have her details, her number, her address – I think we’ll pay her a quick courtesy call.’

Closed Road

AJ DRIVES TOO
fast. He knows these roads well, and usually he absorbs the colours of the trees, the flowers in the hedgerows – sometimes he’s too engrossed by them to notice the important things like speed signs and other motorists. But tonight the countryside is just a flattened grey cloud on the periphery of his attention. He is eaten up by wanting to see Melanie.

He’s called her maybe twenty times. Each time it’s gone to voicemail. He’s left three messages, with varying degrees of frustration, anger and forced patience. ‘We need to talk about this.’ ‘Can we chat – no blame, no anger, just a chat to get things straight?’

He doesn’t say,
You need to explain where Keay is in all of this. Have you covered for him? Have you been covering for something he’s cooked up with Isaac?

It’s six when he arrives at her house. Nine minutes before the satnav said he would. He can tell as he pulls into her road and sees blue lights flashing from several vehicles parked in the close ahead that whatever mistakes Melanie has made she’s paying for them tenfold. At the neck of the road, a uniformed cop is unravelling blue-and-white police cordon tape.

It’s a closed road. Not a crime scene. To AJ the difference is immaterial.

He puts the car into neutral and lets it roll slowly towards the cop. The officer blinks, blinded by the headlights coming at him. He stops unravelling the tape, bends his head to speak quickly into the radio attached to his hi-vis jacket, then lowers the tape reel and comes towards AJ. Batting his hands together and breathing out frosted clouds like a dragon.

‘Yes, sir? Can I help?’

AJ stares past him at the house. He can see people moving in the garden. There’s a van parked to the right of the driveway – white and unmarked. He can see into the kitchen: it’s a mess. Food and plates smashed on the floor. Windows smashed. Someone has torn the place apart.

‘I’m looking for Melanie Arrow. She’s a resident here.’ He licks his lips, not taking his eyes off the mayhem inside the house. ‘But I guess you’re not going to let me through.’

‘We’re carrying out a routine inquiry, sir. Are you a relative? A friend?’

‘Of Melanie’s? Yes – I am, very much a friend.’

‘Have you any ID?’

AJ has. His NHS card is in his wallet. He holds it up. ‘I work with her. DI Caffery knows me.’

‘Is he MCIT? Avon and Somerset?’

‘Yes.’

The cop nods. ‘And you last saw Melanie …?’

‘A couple of hours ago. At the hospital we work in. Can you tell me what’s happening?’

The cop doesn’t answer. He half straightens, hands behind his back. Turns his head left and right, as if surveying the horizon. As if weighing up his response.

‘We don’t know. She’s not here.’

AJ closes his eyes. He puts his finger to his forehead.

‘Sir? Are you OK?’

He nods weakly. The cop is leaning through the window, a hand resting on his shoulder.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m fine. Honestly, fine.’

Monster Mother

NO ONE HAS
said ‘kidnap’ and no one has said ‘abduct’, but the words are there, as clear as can be, in the gaps between what the police are saying and what they’re not saying. He doesn’t tell them what he knows about Melanie’s role in releasing Isaac. It’s not ironic or deserving, the way it’s backfired on her. She is going to pay for her mistake a hundred times over. He feels like throwing up. And him – a psychiatric nurse. He’s supposed to be able to deal with stress. Ha fucking ha.

He gives the officer his statement, tells them as much as he can remember about Melanie’s Beetle (limited – he knows it’s black, but he can’t recall the number plate). When they’ve finished with him, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s tried calling Caffery, but he’s out of signal range, and the receptionist at MCIT keeps repeating,
He’s out of the office, I’ll get him to call you
…

The idea of going home fills AJ with dread. Patience isn’t going to be sympathetic. She has no idea about the weight of guilt he staggers around under daily – that he blames himself for what happened with Mum, and that it’s happening again. Once again he’s failed to be there at the right time.

Now without having given it any conscious thought he finds himself back in the unit – standing outside Gabriella’s room. He must be expecting some glimmer of hope or a reassuring word from her, because the moment he looks through the wire-reinforced window and sees her, his spirits sag even further. He’s not going to get happy Monster Mother. He’s going to get the dark heart of the storm.

She’s crouching in the corner. Nursing her non-existent arm as if it hurts. Her dress is of an indigo so dark it looks black. When he knocks she doesn’t answer. He understands she’s taken off her skin again and is hiding.

‘Gabriella?’

He steps inside. Doesn’t look at her, keeps his gaze steady.

‘Gabriella – where are you?’

‘I’m here,’ she hisses. ‘AJ, over here in the corner.’

He looks at her. ‘Hello,’ he says, pathetically. ‘Hello.’

Her smile is sorrowful. ‘You can feel it, can’t you, AJ? I can see it all round you – you’ve got the aura. It’s hurting.’

AJ is almost knocked over by the tenderness in her voice. It’s like being touched on the forehead by Mum when he was a kid having a nightmare.

‘Yes, I’m … I’m …’ He can’t get the words out. ‘Can I sit down?’

She gives a gracious nod. ‘But don’t look at my skin. If you look at it The Maude will know.’

‘And your skin is … ?’

‘Over there, hanging on the bed. Don’t look!’

AJ turns the chair so his back is to the bed, where her skin is hanging. His hands and feet are jittery with adrenalin. Like having air pumped around his arteries and veins.

‘Gabriella, things are happening. Out there – in the world – things are happening.’

‘I know, AJ, I know. It’s coming back.’

‘What’s coming back?’

‘You know what I mean. I mean the one who sits.’

AJ stares at her. She’s insane, he repeats to himself. She is completely insane. She doesn’t know anything. She’s picked up on his tension about Isaac and what he’s done with Melanie and has converted it into a fantasy.

‘Gabriella, do you remember the man who used to teach art in the unit? His name was Jonathan Keay? He left about a month ago.’

Monster Mother’s face twists. She rubs her non-existent arm convulsively.

‘Jonathan. Yes – Jonathan. I remember you all, you see, AJ. Each one of you – whatever you’ve done – whatever’s been done to you … Jonathan is one of my children, but he’s in pain – he isn’t the person he should be.’

‘What sort of person should he be?’

Monster Mother shakes her head. ‘It’s coming now, AJ – it’s getting nearer.’ She raises her hand to the door. ‘It’s so near it’s going to come through there – this minute – it’s going to come through the—’

Before she can finish the sentence, the panic alarm starts to wail. It’s not the usual ward alarm – that has a different cadence. This is the unit-wide alarm – it means a serious incident.

‘See?’ Monster Mother says. ‘I told you – it’s coming back.’

AJ checks his pager. There’s a message:
AJ – security central please
. He stares at it.

He doesn’t want to, but he gets to his feet.

‘Gabriella,’ he says, in that weary monotone all the staff adopt when they have to instruct the patients. ‘This is a lockdown – you’ll have to stay in here for now, OK?’

Monster Mother nods solemnly. ‘Good luck, AJ. Good luck.’

He opens the door. Looks from side to side. There are one or two patients with their heads out of their doors, wondering what’s happening. Others are being herded from the day room into the corridor. The Big Lurch is there, helping get patients into their rooms, quickly locking doors. He sees AJ and waves frantically.

‘AJ – AJ! Unit-wide alert, mate. Get to the security pod – the supervisor wants to talk to you now.’

Berrington Manor

CAFFERY IS NOT
enjoying the phone calls and organization required now this case has gone cross-border. The task of checking on Melanie’s welfare has been passed to his oppo in the Gloucestershire force. The message that comes back isn’t a happy one. The front door of her house stands wide open – there are signs of a struggle. The house has been ransacked and her car is missing. AJ – who must have known just from Caffery’s tone that Melanie was in danger – has appeared at the house. According to the Gloucestershire police, he’s filled them in on what he knows. The Serious Crime unit has been mobilized. Panic is mounting.

Jonathan Keay grew up in Berrington Manor. No house number, no street name. Just the house name, the village and the postcode. There can’t be many psychiatric nurses who were raised in a place like this, Caffery thinks, as he pulls into the property. The driveway, flanked by tall poplars like some grand French avenue, is almost half a mile long. A bank of floodlights comes on with his arrival, illuminating a smartly kept equestrian yard with stalls the size of dining rooms and highly polished finials on the partitions. Beyond he can see the pale expanse and hand-lettered signs of an outdoor ménage – jumping poles stacked in a three-sided barn. The grey stone chimneys of a sprawling mansion rise behind a high brick wall to his left.

He drags on the handbrake, cuts the engine and opens the car door. The yard is quiet, well swept and cleaned – in fact, there’s no sign of anything actually going on here. No straw bales or farm machinery or buckets or horse rugs draped over doors. No people. There are three high-end BMWs all in the same slate grey in an open car port facing the stables, but aside from that the place could be uninhabited.

He hasn’t called ahead. He doesn’t want the Keay family getting advance warning of his arrival. No time to dream up excuses. Maybe he should have made contact though, if only to check that someone is actually here.

The wrought-iron gate in the wall opens on to a knot garden of low boxwood hedges with a large conifer at the centre, its branches sweeping down in a dark tent shape. A stone bench encircles the trunk and a few modest pieces of statuary are dotted around, all uplit by invisible lamps. The house itself is three storeys, with an additional row of dormer windows in the roof. The trunk of an enormous wisteria winds across the entire lower half of the facade, gnarled and grey as the stone itself. The front door is closed and there are no lights on at the windows.

The heavy iron knocker echoes through the house. There’s a long silence. He’s about to turn and go back to the car when he hears a woman’s voice on the other side of the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Police.’

‘Police?’

‘Nothing to worry about – just a few questions I want to ask.’

The door opens to reveal a woman in her late fifties – tall and extraordinarily elegant in her lavender-grey pashmina, her tailored jeans. Her angular face is framed with carefully cut greying hair. June Keay, he thinks. Jonathan’s mother.