Sorrow Bound (22 page)

McAvoy steps from the car, his battered leather satchel above his head to try to block the rain. He slams the door and runs up the drive, sheltering against the wall as he raps on the wood. The colours change behind the opaque windows of the door and a moment later, Lewis Caneva is peering out.

From his file, McAvoy knows that Caneva is fifty-six years old, but the man in the doorway could be two decades older than that. He has a slightly Mediterranean look, but if he is as Italian as his name suggests, he has not aged like a Pinot Noir. He is bald on top, with a short horseshoe of white hair running from just behind his large ears. He’s wearing dust-speckled glasses, and there are broken blood vessels and purple mottling across his cheeks. His skin puts McAvoy in mind of church candles. Small patches of grey hair sprout below his nose and below his jawline, and it looks as if he has shaved haphazardly or in the dark. For a moment, McAvoy wonders if this is true. Wonders whether Caneva struggles to look at himself in the mirror for any length of time.

‘Sergeant McAvoy,’ says Caneva, closing his eyes and sighing. ‘You made good time. Please. Come in.’

There are long pauses between Caneva’s words and he sounds breathless, his chest and throat bone dry. McAvoy rubs his boots on the plain welcome mat then follows Caneva down a short corridor with varnished wood underfoot. To his left is a staircase, a waterproof coat slung over the banister and two pairs of shoes on the bottom step. Caneva leads him into a small square living
room. There is a two-seater leather sofa against one wall, facing an elaborate fireplace that houses an unlit, furnace-shaped wood-burner. The walls are decorated with what appear to be quality lithographs and sketches, all fine detail and pen-and-ink contours. There is no TV, but a variety of books lie scattered on the coffee table. As he stands in the doorway, McAvoy tries to glimpse their titles. They appear to be poetry books, though some of the text is laid out like prose. Caneva follows his gaze.

‘Bit of a hobby,’ he says. ‘Analysing a few of the old Beat poets. Keeps me busy.’

McAvoy nods, unsure what to contribute. He vaguely remembers reading some Allen Ginsberg while doing his ‘A’ levels but fancies any attempt at demonstrating wisdom on the subject would end in tears.

‘Please,’ says Caneva, pointing to the sofa. ‘Take a seat.’

McAvoy sits down awkwardly, watching as Caneva lowers himself painfully onto the seat next to him. It’s an awkward position and McAvoy has to half-turn to look the man in the eye. This close, he can tell Caneva is not well. He’s wearing two sweatshirts over a padded lumberjack shirt and still appears to be shivering. McAvoy wonders why he has not lit the fire. Notices, as he opens his mouth to speak, that his breath has begun to form crystals in the air.

‘Dr Caneva,’ he says. ‘I’m grateful to you for agreeing to see me. As I explained on the phone …’

Caneva nods, telling him it’s okay. ‘You mentioned it was to do with a case I assisted with? As I explained to you, I am of course constrained by doctor–patient confidentiality …’

Now it is McAvoy who interrupts. ‘I am fully aware, Dr Caneva. I appreciate you are in a difficult position and anything you say
that breaches those rules would of course be inadmissible in court. However, I understand that you are no longer a practising psychiatrist, so at least you won’t have the fear of breaching any professional code of ethics.’

For a moment there is silence in the room. McAvoy has decided not to make up his mind about the man who declared Sebastien Hoyer-Wood mentally unfit to stand trial. He does not want to prejudge him and therefore colour any information he gleans from this interview.

‘It’s very cold in here,’ says Caneva, at length. ‘I would have made up the fire but it wears me out. I’m not in the best of health, Sergeant.’

McAvoy looks at him, as kindly as he can.

‘I could do it,’ he says, shrugging.

‘Could you?’

‘No problem.’

McAvoy pulls himself off the sofa and kneels down in front of the fire. He does not speak as he twists newspaper into cones and assembles a triangle of kindling in the centre of the grate. He takes larger logs from the stack by the fireplace and a couple of pine cones, which he knows will burn like the devil as he touches a match to the paper. He wishes he had a little dried ragwort to add to the pile, the way his father taught him. The poisonous plant is one that fascinates him. Though it can kill horses, they seem to seek it out, nosing aside any quantity of verdant grass to nibble at the yellow-headed flower that can cause them an agonising death. McAvoy wishes he knew its Latin name, but never did that project at school. He makes a note to ask his dad.

‘Lovely,’ says Caneva, a slight smile on his face.

He sits back against the sofa cushions and watches the yellow flames take hold. Though it is not yet giving off warmth, the light in the room seems to have energised Caneva a little, and there is a healthier colour to his cheeks.

McAvoy returns to the sofa and prepares to speak, but Caneva beats him to it.

‘Bowel cancer,’ he says, unexpectedly, turning his head to McAvoy. ‘Diagnosed six years ago. Two operations and a bout of chemo. They say I’m better now. Not cancerous, anyway. Not sure I feel it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘You imagine that once they’ve cut the cancer out everything will be back to normal, don’t you? It’s not like that. They messed about with me so much that my old life is gone. I don’t mean to be rude here but I’m never off the toilet. Seriously. That’s where they’ll find me, when I go. I’ll be on the toilet.’ The smile drops. ‘Not that anybody will be looking.’

McAvoy brushes the raindrops off his trouser legs. Rubs his hands through his hair. ‘You don’t get many visitors?’

Caneva shrugs. ‘My daughter, couple of times a month. My son every few months. They’ll ring. Birthday or Father’s Day. But they have their own lives, I suppose.’

‘Grandchildren?’

Caneva shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

They both sit and watch the fire, as if waiting for the other to spoil the nice warm glow that the policeman has brought to the room.

‘You want to talk about Seb,’ says Caneva, with a sigh.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just a feeling, I suppose.’

McAvoy looks at the older man. ‘Is that something that psychiatrists believe in? Intuition?’

Caneva looks away.

‘None of us are as clever as we think we are.’

After a moment, McAvoy nods. ‘We’re investigating two murders within the Humberside Police boundary. Both victims assisted in saving Sebastien Hoyer-Wood’s life almost fifteen years ago in Bridlington. Our enquiries have led us to believe that Hoyer-Wood was a very dangerous man who was responsible for some very serious crimes. However, he has never been tried and never been jailed, and that was due in part to your testimony that he was mentally unfit to stand trial. At the moment, none of this makes a great deal of sense and we have no suspect and only half an idea, but I am of the opinion that you have some things to tell us about Sebastien Hoyer-Wood that may help. So, in essence, we’re in your hands. It’s very much a question of what you would like to tell me.’

Caneva looks away. Stares, through the net curtains, at the dark skies and the wall of water that beats against the houses and pavements of this quiet street. He looks back. At McAvoy. At the glow of the flame. At his books upon the coffee table, then down at his slippered feet on the peach carpet. His eyes close. He breathes, slowly, painfully. It is as if he is coming to an end.

‘Dr Caneva?’

The older man turns to him.

‘We were university friends,’ he says, and has to cough when his voice comes out weak and reedy. ‘Both studying medicine. Early Seventies, this was. I can’t remember how we got talking. I think I was reading a book that he’d just seen the film of. Don’t ask me what it was. But that was kind of typical of the pair of us.
Me, reading. Him enjoying the bright lights. Seb was kind of a big personality. He was a couple of years younger than me. I’d seen a bit of the world after finishing school and started university a little later than everybody else. Even so, we hit it off. We lived in different dorms for the first year but got a house together in our second.’

‘And this was London, yes?’

Caneva nods. ‘Yes, sorry. We’re both southerners. I only moved up here to be near my son, after I retired and sold the house. I just live off the equity nowadays. The difference in prices …’

McAvoy waves a hand, and immediately regrets it. He should just let the man talk. To rattle on the way he wants. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘No, no, you’re right. You want to know about Seb. Well, we were friends. Best friends, if you can imagine such an old-fashioned concept. I was the quiet, bookish one, and he was all buzz and big bangs. He was very good-looking. Got a lot of attention from the ladies. Could have had anybody he wanted. I just don’t think he wanted them. There was the odd girlfriend here and there but he wasn’t really into relationships. Had a lot of female friends but didn’t take advantage. I think that was partly what caused the incident.’

McAvoy’s eyebrows meet. ‘In Bridlington? Seriously?’

Caneva waves his hands. Seems to send his mind somewhere else. ‘No, no. While at university. A girl. A fellow student. She tried it on with Seb. He politely declined. She was a real beauty, very vivacious and lively. She wore these little hippy dresses that drove people crazy. She wasn’t used to being rejected. She went off in a huff and the next day she told her modern languages tutor that she had been assaulted. Sexually assaulted. I’m not
saying she hadn’t been, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying it wasn’t Seb. He was with me all night. But Seb was the one she pointed the finger at. She didn’t tell the police. Just told her tutor and he told the faculty of the university and Seb was brought in. He was shocked. Just didn’t know what to make of it. It was like his whole world had fallen in. Seb’s from an old family in Warwickshire. Military men, most of them. I think Seb had hopes of maybe serving as a doctor in the military when he finished his training. His dad was one of those really strict, distant types. I was with Seb when he called him to tell him what had happened. I had to listen in as he told his dad they were thinking of kicking him out and were advising the girl to go to the police …’

‘What happened?’

Caneva rubs his hands over his face, pushes his cheeks back so it looks as though he is moving at speed. ‘We changed courses.’

‘We?’

‘I wasn’t doing very well in regular medicine anyway. I persuaded him to take the easy route and just get the hell out of there. Seb had shown a flair for physiotherapy. I felt psychiatry was something I could do well. The faculty were pleased to have the situation brought to a quiet conclusion.’

‘And the girl?’

Caneva looks away. ‘I don’t know.’

There is silence in the room as each man absorbs the story. Finally, McAvoy speaks.

‘You stayed in touch, yes? You both graduated and went on to decent careers?’

Caneva pulls a face. ‘I did a little better than Seb,’ he says, almost guiltily. ‘I was a good psychiatrist. Got a job with a
respected London firm straight out of university and specialised in several elite fields. I ended up as a partner in a practice in Bloomsbury. I married. Had two children. The right kind of life, or so they tell me.’

‘And Seb?’

Caneva stares at the flame. ‘He had his problems. I don’t think he put himself back together really. He did okay in physiotherapy. Worked for a decent practice, met some interesting people. But there was a bit of him missing. That spark. We stayed in touch, of course. He spent a couple of Christmases with us. He was my son’s godfather, though it took some persuading to get him to take the job.’

‘He didn’t want it?’

‘Said he didn’t deserve it. By then he had withered a little. He was drinking a little too much. I don’t know whether he had started using drugs but I know that whenever we met, he would make jokes about him needing to see me for more than just my sparkling personality. Looking back, I should have seen that he was in trouble. I should have done more.’

McAvoy clicks his tongue inside his mouth. Thinks again of the crimes Hoyer-Wood went on to commit. ‘You didn’t think he was dangerous?’

‘I wouldn’t have had him near my family if I did,’ he says, and his voice cracks on the word ‘family’. He closes his eyes, tight. Controls his breathing. ‘I knew he was depressed. I knew he was single and lonely. I should probably have had him to the house more often, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

‘Your wife?’ asks McAvoy, suddenly curious. ‘How did she feel about your old university friend?’

‘She knew him from university too. She liked him. Thought he was fun. But she saw the change in him too. Saw what a mess he was becoming.’

‘And when you heard about his crimes?’

Caneva pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You have to remember that Seb was only ever charged with one incident. Despite the investigations of Humberside Police, there was no evidence he carried out any other crimes. So, when I heard about him breaking into a house in Bridlington and being viciously beaten by the homeowner, I had a very different picture in my mind from the one you currently hold. To me it was a cry for help. In my mind, he was the victim. Seb underwent surgery. He nearly died. And while he was under the knife, the police tried to build a case against him that would have put him in prison for a very long time. I visited him in hospital. He could barely speak. He couldn’t move down one side of his body. They tried him with physiotherapy and he collapsed after every step. He had to defecate in a bag. This was not a man who needed prison. He needed help.’

McAvoy nods. ‘So, you helped.’

Caneva breathes in, holds it, and then lets the air out of his lungs. ‘For a while, my firm had been looking to provide a facility for the mentally ill. We wanted to set up a place for calm, quiet study that would be a relaxing, soothing place for the patients. I brought that initiative forward. I found premises in East Yorkshire. At that time, there was a high demand on existing provision for the criminally insane. It seemed obvious that there was money to be made for the company by getting Home Office approval to also take mental patients referred by the courts. Thankfully, one of our other partners had some old school connections that were able to fast-track the application. I was
managing director and chief psychiatrist. I planned to maintain the Bloomsbury practice and provide a certain number of days at the premises in East Yorkshire.’