Suddenly Handel removes the tape he has used to muffle the microphone. The sound is deafening, startling everyone. The security supervisor comes in and hastily leans across Linda to flick the volume down. The team hold their breath. Next to AJ, the senior negotiator lowers his face, touches his finger to his forehead. Linda puts her hand over her mic – as if she doesn’t want a single whisper or movement feeding itself to the hostage and the hostage taker. AJ leans silently against the wall, hoping the people behind him haven’t noticed that his legs are shaking again.
Then the tape is removed from the screen. There’s a blinding glare of light as the camera adjusts to the sudden brightness. Then the image of the room flashes up.
Melanie is sitting on the floor, her back to the wall, her head bent. AJ leans forward and scans her frantically, taking in the details. She is dressed. She is wearing the clothes she was wearing when she came in. Nothing is ripped or torn. Although her shoulders are drooping, she is alive. Breathing. From this angle he can’t tell if she is injured.
Handel stands in the corner of the room, his head made larger by the foreshortening effect of the lens, the holdall on the ground in front of him. He is stepping from foot to foot, convulsively wiping his hands, his eyes roving restlessly from Melanie to the door to the camera. His jeans are too big for him, they hang around his skinny frame – but they are, at least, AJ notes, zipped up. And there’s no sign of blood on his clothing.
In the doorway the senior negotiator leans into the staffroom and conveys all this to the commander in a whispered voice. AJ hears snatches of what they’re saying: Give it time – see what develops – implement delivery plan. He tries to control his breathing – keeping it silent. It takes a monumental effort of will not to make a sound.
Melanie lifts her head and looks at the camera. Her face is unharmed, there are no bruises, no blood. But her eyes are like black holes.
‘Can you hear me?’ she says.
Linda switches on the mic, draws close to it. ‘I can hear you. My name’s Linda.’
Melanie nods. ‘I know. We’ve been listening to everything you said.’
‘So,’ Linda says. ‘Am I talking to you or to Isaac?’
‘You’re talking to me,’ says Melanie. ‘Are you police, Linda?’
‘Actually, you know what – technically, I am. But that’s not my role at the moment. I’m not here as a police officer, I’m here to help you and Isaac. I know at this point we may be a long way off you coming out, but my job is just to talk to you and discuss how that will happen. So Isaac, if you were thinking about coming out, I’m the one who can discuss it with you.’
‘That’s OK,’ Melanie says. ‘It’s all going to be straightforward.’
In the corner, Isaac nods fervently. He is getting more and more agitated, rubbing his hands together faster and faster.
Linda shoots a look at AJ. It was the word he used earlier. Isaac’s not always as straightforward as he seems.
‘Straightforward?’ she repeats into the mic.
‘That’s right.’
‘OK, Melanie,’ Linda says slowly. ‘Tell me a little more. We’re all working towards you and Isaac coming out of there happy so we can put this behind us.’
‘Yes.’ Melanie nods slowly. ‘And all you have to do is listen.’
‘That’s what I’m doing.’
‘And who is there? Who else is listening?’
‘Do you want to make this more private? I can ask them all to go, if you want.’
‘No. I just want to know who’s there.’
‘OK, there’s me and I’ve got a colleague here from London. There’s two members of your security team. There’s …’ She looks at the commander, who stands next to the door, arms folded. He gives his head a quick shake. ‘And then,’ Linda continues, passing over the commander and his tactical advisor with barely a hesitation, ‘there’s your ward coordinator.’
‘AJ?’
‘Yes. AJ.’
‘Hi, AJ.’ Melanie raises a hand to the camera, does a solemn little wave. ‘Hi.’
AJ looks at the senior negotiator. Opens his hands to say, What do I do? Do I answer? The guy nods and AJ crosses the room, bends to speak into the mic. He can smell Linda’s perfume he’s so close – she’ll probably be able to hear his heart thumping.
‘Hi, Melanie. I’m here.’ He pauses, his eyes on the screen. Then, instinctively, he says. ‘Hi, Isaac.’
Isaac knows AJ’s voice. He lifts his hand in acknowledgement. Linda moves the microphone slightly away from AJ.
‘Melanie – what was that you were saying about this being straightforward?’
‘That’s right.’ She glances at Isaac. ‘Yes,’ she says slowly, deliberately. ‘All I have to do is admit my “crimes”.’
‘Your crimes?’
‘Namely the following. That I …’ She pauses and swallows – as if the words are difficult to get out. ‘That I tortured my, uh, my patients. That I inflicted harm on them, which I later explained away as self-harm. That I …’ She sends a wavering glance in Isaac’s direction, as if seeking a prompt on the rest of a script. ‘That I, er—’
‘Hurt them,’ he says dully. ‘You hurt them.’
‘That’s right. I hurt them.’
‘You put ideas in their heads.’
‘I put ideas in their heads. And ultimately, unlikely though it sounds, in two cases, ultimately I …’ She gives another painful swallow. Then finishes in a hurry: ‘I drove them to their deaths.’
‘And that’s what you want to tell us?’
‘Yes. It is.’ She gestures to where Isaac is rummaging through the holdall. ‘That’s what I wore when I did it, so I wasn’t recognized.’
Isaac straightens and produces a Perspex mask. It’s a radiation mask – AJ recognizes it instantly. Some of the people at Mum’s neurology clinic used to wear them. He thinks of the picture Zelda drew, and of what he saw in Melanie’s back garden. That smooth, eerie, skittle head.
There is a long silence. Linda clicks off the mic and uses her heels to wheel her chair back so she is nearer the senior negotiator. ‘Into surrender plan?’
‘Yup – hold for one – I’ll clear that.’
He turns to the staffroom and hisses to the commander. ‘We can start on a surrender plan, it’s looking good.’
The sergeant with the sweet face turns to leave the room, speaking into her radio as she goes. There’s a palpable notching down of tension in the security pod. Linda and the senior negotiator go into a huddle and on screen the men in riot gear begin to move away from the seclusion room. On the second camera, Isaac is working at removing the screws and the iron rods he has used to barricade the door. AJ stares at Melanie on screen. He stares at the radiation mask.
In the room there may be a release of tension but there’s something else too: a kind of disappointment that it’s all come and gone so easily – that Isaac isn’t the deranged man they’d prepared for but a schizophrenic effortlessly defused by Melanie’s ‘confession’. No heroics and no door battering and no hostage situations. Just another wacko.
Only AJ isn’t happy.
‘Sir?’
Everyone in the staffroom stops what they are doing and turns to AJ. He holds the commander with his eyes. ‘Can I speak to him before he comes out?’
The commander cocks his head on one side. ‘The situation is winding down. We’re into a surrender plan, I think we know what we’re dealing with now.’
‘Do we? Are you sure he won’t try something when that door opens?’
‘The team are trained.’
‘And I’m trained too. I’m trained really well with this one patient in particular. He’s bluffing – I know him. I’ve been in this position with him before and I’ve known things go seriously wrong at this point.’
The commander thinks about it. Then he nods at the senior negotiator. ‘Let him have a go.’
‘Thanks.’ AJ checks his phone in its belt holster. He’s waiting for Caffery to
call back. He’s sent six texts and left three voice messages, updating him as the situation has unfolded – so far, no reply. He tucks the phone away and goes to the desk. Linda is frowning at him – not happy at all, but eventually she gets up and bad-naturedly pushes the chair towards him.
‘Don’t you cock this up for me now …’ she whispers. ‘Please don’t.’
He nods. Sits and switches on the mic. ‘Isaac?’ he says. ‘Isaac – it’s me.’
On screen Isaac stops what he’s doing. He tips his head back and stares up at the camera.
‘AJ?’
‘Yes. It’s AJ. Isaac – I’ve got a question for you. Did you stand outside Ms Arrow’s window four nights ago?’
Isaac’s eyes are wandering, the way they often do when he’s stressed – the way a blind person’s eyes will wander, unable to hold any sort of contact. It gives the impression Isaac is answering someone he perceives behind his own eyes. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I did.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Um.’ He closes his eyes and opens them. ‘Because she had to be frightened like they were.’
‘Like who was?’
‘Like with Pauline and Zelda and Moses when she sat on their chests. I wanted her to be frightened too like they were.’
Linda clears her throat. When he turns she’s hurriedly scribbled on a notepad the words: Don’t challenge. Go along with it. Collude with him is fine. Objective = get the hostage out.
AJ nods. Then he clicks the microphone on again. This time he allows his hand to rest protectively over the button so Linda can’t switch it off. ‘Isaac?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Did you poison my fucking dog?’
Linda draws in a sharp breath. She stands next to him, staring meaningfully at him.
‘Answer me, Isaac,’ AJ says hurriedly. ‘Why did you poison my dog?’
Isaac moves his head from side to side, as if he’s hearing something so surreal and inexplicable it’s almost beyond wonder. ‘Poison?’ he murmurs. ‘I don’t think I did that, AJ. I wouldn’t do that. I like dogs, I do.’
Berrington Manor
EVENTUALLY JONATHAN CALMS himself. He takes sips of air, like water, swallowing over and over. Then, when the shaking has stopped, he drags his T-shirt up from the waist and wipes his face.
‘OK?’ Caffery asks.
He nods. He licks his lips. ‘I didn’t know about Zelda. If I’d known it was going to happen again I’d have – I’d have done something.’
‘I’m sure you would. Let’s go back to you arriving at Beechway. When did you first mention what happened in Rotherham to Isaac Handel. Was it when you—’
Jonathan shoots Caffery a quick look. ‘Isaac Handel?’
‘Yes. Tell me how you got talking. You worked with him on his dolls in art therapy – the poppets. You helped him with them.’
Jonathan frowns. His eyes leap all over Caffery’s face as if he’s trying to work out where this is going – what his strategy is going to be. ‘Yes, I did. Handel’s dolls were … his outlet.’
‘You must have let him use tools?’
‘Yes, and I supervised him constantly. Took the equipment away after every session. Followed the rule book.’
‘You know Isaac thought he could control people with the dolls. You are aware of that, aren’t you?’
‘I’m aware he believed that. What’s this got to do with anything?’
‘And you never had any professional reservations about what he was doing? Dolls with their eyes sewn closed?’
‘Reservations? Not really – I thought it was odd, him depicting death like that. But no more than some of the things that go on in places like Beechway.’
Caffery pulls out his phone and scrolls through the images of the dolls. Finds the one of Pauline in the pink satin and holds it out. Keay shifts himself forward and looks at it. He nods. ‘Yes – that’s Pauline. This pink satin – that was his way of making her comfortable.’
‘Making her comfortable? By killing her?’
‘What?’ Jonathan blinks. ‘Isaac?’
‘This doll he made – her eyes are stitched closed, same with the dolls of his parents. Showing what he wanted to happen to Pauline – what he intended doing.’
‘No – no. This is all—’
‘This is all what?’
‘Wrong. Isaac might have stitched his parents’ eyes closed before he killed them, I don’t know. But with Pauline it was different – he only stitched her doll’s eyes closed after she was found in the grounds. He was extremely upset about it. That’s why she’s at rest in all this pink satin. Like a coffin. And is that meant to be Zelda? See, he’s closed her eyes too. That will be after she’s died, not before.’
Caffery puts his phone away. ‘OK,’ he says calmly. ‘We’re talking at cross purposes, aren’t we?’
Jonathan nods at him incredulously. ‘Yes. I mean, you have got this so wrong.’
‘Have I? Then tell me.’
Jonathan traps his hands between his knees, as if he is afraid they might do something independent of him that he will regret. ‘OK,’ he says eventually. ‘OK. Tell me – how much do you know about domestic violence?’
Caffery did a one-day course back in the Met, years ago – he remembers the phrases: cycles of abuse; Stockholming; justification; self-blame. He remembers because he once hit a girlfriend himself and he still hasn’t quite levelled that in his head.
‘You do at least know the psychology of abuser and victim?’ Jonathan prompts. ‘And when you think “domestic abuse”, you automatically think man on woman, right?’
‘Or man on man.’
Jonathan gets up and lifts the hem of his T-shirt. Caffery stares at his naked stomach. Under the pink Kinesio tape his ribs and abdomen are covered in bruises, faded to yellow or green, some merging into larger blocks of colour. He has deep scratches in several places – some at least ten inches long. One appears to have been infected at some point. He tries to lift the T-shirt above his head, but can’t. ‘Sorry. You’ll have to help me with this.’
Caffery stands. Carefully, conscious of the intimacy of this, he raises the T-shirt from Jonathan’s waist. As he lifts he sees instantly – Jonathan’s chest, from armpit to armpit, has deep scratches etched across it. A patchwork of blackened scabs cling to newly growing scar tissue. Caffery squints at the scars. They’re difficult to see in the low light from the computer screen.
‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ Jonathan sits back with a wince. ‘You need a mirror to read it. My partner thought I was leaving. I was meant to see this every time I looked in the mirror. I told my parents I was in a fight – in a pub. They want me to press charges. I’ve said no.’ He turns his head painfully so he can see Caffery’s face. ‘I suppose all along I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.’
‘Your partner?’
‘You’re wrong when you think domestic violence is only man on woman, or man on man. A woman did this.’ He sees Caffery’s face and gives a dry laugh. ‘I know – no one believes it when you say it. But it does happen that way, trust me. She got hold of some benzodiazepine – I never did drugs myself, so the benzos poleaxed me. Woke up ten hours later. I thought it was a bad dream until I noticed she’d dressed my wounds and bandaged me. She was crying on the floor next to the bed. Begging me to forgive her. I was so in love I think I’d have done anything rather than believe she could … could do some of the things she was doing.’
‘Does “she” have a name?’
He hesitates. Then he says in a low voice that is almost a whisper, ‘Melanie Arrow.’
‘Melanie Arrow?’ Caffery lowers his chin, frowns at Jonathan. ‘The unit’s director?’
Jonathan nods. He presses two fingers on either side of his Adam’s apple, as if he’s trying to control something in his throat. ‘Nearly twenty years we worked together. She couldn’t keep a relationship together – not with anyone. I sat and watched them come and go. Watched her tear herself apart over each
one. Waited my turn. I’d have followed her to the ends of the earth. She was everything I wasn’t. There was softy public-schoolboy me, with my Latin A levels and rich mummy and daddy, while she was born on a sink estate in Gloucester. You’d never guess it from the way she talks, would you? She dragged herself all the way up the tree – to the place she is now. I met her when I left the whole money system and become Citizen Keay and … well, shit – I mean, you’ve seen her. She was pretty and sweet and above all she was a fighter. Can you imagine how I felt about her?’
He trails off, looking again at his hands, which clench and unclench on the bed.
‘Except I was a fail at supporting her – keeping her sane. It was like keeping a drowning victim’s head above the water. When I worked out exactly who she was – what she was – I told her I was leaving. Leaving her, the hospital, the profession.’ His mouth twists into an ironic smile. ‘That’s when I got my brand. Adultery.’
‘What are you telling me, Jonathan?’
‘Don’t you know?’
He holds Jonathan’s eyes steadily. ‘I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘A childhood like Mel had? It leaves scars. Her dad had cancer when she was a child. He survived, but she used to tell everyone he was dead. She’d cry about it to anyone who’d listen – and all the while he was alive and well. She just didn’t want anything to do with them. He was a council worker – basically, he was a dustbin man – and she was too proud to admit it.’
‘I repeat – what are you telling me, Jonathan?’
He clears his throat, embarrassed. ‘When patients at Beechway started talking about The Maude, exactly the same as they had at Hartwool, I thought …’ He waves his hand in front of his face, as if to say he was blinded. ‘I don’t know what I thought. I was in denial, I suppose. Have you ever been so in love with someone you’d close your eyes to almost anything? Even something like this?’
Caffery can’t answer that. Not to himself, and certainly not to Jonathan.
‘Even when Pauline died I tried to pretend she’d just wandered off of her own volition. Melanie is absolutely lovely, so charming to everyone around her, you’d never think for a moment she was capable of …’ He breaks off to wipe his eyes again. ‘It was her pattern when her relationships ended, her way of releasing her anger, frustration. You can time every appearance of The Maude by her break-ups. Pauline was attacked in her room a week after Melanie’s husband filed for divorce. A couple of weeks later Moses gouged out his eye. And now you’re telling me Zelda? After I left?’