Dr Mark Ryan looked like a forensic psychologist. Confident. Trustworthy. His office, in the old biscuit factory in Bermondsey, was homey. Warm. Comfortable. Safe. You couldn’t tell that this was a space filled with stories of trauma, betrayal, limiting beliefs, anxiety and sometimes just deafening silence, but Henley was not relaxed.
‘You look as though you’re pissed off with me, Anjelica?’ Mark asked as he sat down in the leather armchair across from her.
‘You know full well that I’m pissed off with you,’ said Henley. She picked up the cup of tea that Mark had put on the coffee table.
‘I don’t know why. I’ve been telling you for the past three months that you weren’t ready to go back. You just weren’t listening. I’m pretty sure that your own therapist would have told you the same thing.’
‘I’ve stopped seeing him,’ she said.
‘What do you mean you’ve stopped seeing him? Since when?’
‘About seven weeks.’
‘For God’s sake. Why?’
‘You know why. Dr Afzal is too judgemental.’
‘You’re projecting.’
‘Whatever. I would have preferred you.’
‘And I’ve told you before that there’s a fundamental rule in therapy that there have to be appropriate boundaries between the therapist and the patient. You and I getting pissed in the Market Tavern would definitely cross that line.’
Henley smiled at the memory of the mini pub crawl that she and Mark had gone on after Abigail Burnley had been convicted of fifteen murders.
‘So, as a friend. Not a therapist, because that’s unethical,’ said Mark, ‘how have you found it being back?’
Henley leaned into the sofa and searched for the right words. She couldn’t tell him about the panic attack last night. She had already pushed that to the back of her mind.
‘Comfortable. It feels comfortable. And that’s wrong, isn’t it?’ Henley continued, looking out of the window behind Mark’s head. They were on the fourth floor with a view of the city skyline. ‘I shouldn’t be feeling comfortable among all of that.’
‘If I was your therapist, which I’m not, I would say that it’s not for me to say whether being comfortable is wrong or right. If that’s how you feel, then that’s how you feel.’
‘Safe.’
‘What?’ Mark raised his head.
‘Being out there, back on the street feels safe. Which is odd because the streets are anything but safe, whereas being stuck in that office…’ Henley paused, but Mark’s expression was encouraging, devoid of judgement, and she continued. ‘It felt as though I was being punished for something that wasn’t my fault. He punished me for a mistake that he made.’
‘He? You mean Pellacia?’
‘No.’ Henley put the tea down. Mark had forgotten to add sugar. ‘No. I mean him. Rhimes.’
‘You hardly talk about him, which, considering how close you were, is odd.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. He’s dead. We have to get on with it.’
Mark opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it.
‘He took the easy way out. Left us all in an absolute mess. I expected more from him.’
Henley wasn’t sure where all of this was coming from. She had resented therapy since she’d been ordered into weekly sessions with Dr Afzal. For the first six months, once she was able to leave the house, she sat rigid, hardly speaking. She didn’t like being forced to do anything and she especially didn’t like being forced to talk about something that had been done to her.
‘You’re still angry with him? With Rhimes?’ Mark asked. ‘It’s not uncommon to feel that way when someone close to you commits suicide.’
‘I’m not angry. It’s a waste of energy and my time.’
Henley wondered if Mark knew that she was lying. She was still angry with Rhimes. Every memory carried a jolt of pain. Her heart broke every time she thought about what Rhimes had done.
‘Have you told Rob that you’re back on the street?’ Mark asked.
‘Back on the street?’ Henley couldn’t help herself from laughing. ‘You make it sound like I’m a sex worker.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, but you know what I mean.’
‘Yeah, I told him last night. He wasn’t exactly jumping up and down and wishing me well.’ Henley could feel the knots of tension in her shoulder as she thought back to Rob’s reaction. He’d accused Henley of lying to him; of putting her career before their marriage. Rob was still giving Henley the silent treatment when she’d left for work that morning.
‘You can’t really blame him,’ said Mark.
‘I know that I can’t, but listen, I didn’t come here to talk about me. It’s about this case.’ Henley told Mark about the investigation so far.
‘I haven’t heard anything in the news about this,’ said Mark.
‘We’re not releasing a press statement just yet. Bodies get pulled out of the Thames every day. That’s hardly news, but two dismembered bodies being found within a day of each other. Now that’s news and the last thing that we need is speculation.’
‘So, do you have any leads? Any suspects?’
‘We’ve got a couple of theories that we’re following. Revenge, possible ex-boyfriend or girlfriend—’
‘Even though dismemberment is about power and it’s a display of extreme hatred towards the victim, it’s not something that women typically do. Dismemberment is a psychological form of closure and gratification and it takes determination. Women, no offence to you, Anjelica, are more… emotional.’
‘No offence taken. So, what about revenge?’
‘Your murderer would be more focused if it was revenge. They would either kill the new girlfriend or boyfriend, but to kill both and then dismember… In my opinion, no.’
‘What about a copycat?’ Henley pulled up the photos on her phone, the symbols cut into Zoe’s skin.
‘Hold on a sec.’ Mark took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the end of his tie. ‘Is that a crescent and a double cross?’
Henley nodded.
‘The last time that I saw anything like this was back when Peter Olivier was on the loose. Was this carved on both bodies?’
‘Only on Zoe’s. Which meant that I had to see Peter Olivier this morning.’
‘Excuse me. You did what?’
‘You heard what I said, Mark.’
‘And you didn’t call me first. I could have talked you through it. Prepared you.’
‘You’re not my therapist, remember.’
‘But still… How was it? How was he?’
‘Frustrating. Unhelpful. I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Henley dismissively. ‘I need something from you. Would you be able to prepare a profile for me?’
‘Of course I can, but I’ll need the investigation report… Well, as much as you’re prepared to give me and all the information you have about the two victims.’
‘I’ve already got it for you.’ Henley handed over a memory stick.
‘Great. Give me a couple of days to put something together.’
A wave of nausea overtook Henley as she stood up. She placed a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself.
‘Hey, are you OK?’
‘I just got up too quickly. I’m fine.’
‘No. You’re not. Seeing Olivier would have triggered something in you. Anjelica, at some point you’re going to have to talk about what happened to you and not from the viewpoint as a detective but as a victim. A survivor of a horrific ordeal.’
‘Don’t call me that. Don’t call me a survivor. It makes me sound… Weak.’
‘How is being called a survivor a sign of weakness?’
‘I don’t want labels.’
‘PTSD doesn’t just go away. I know what you’re like, Anjelica. You’re very good at compartmentalising.’
‘It’s what makes me good at my job.’
‘Your job is one thing but compartmentalising your actual life. That’s different.’
‘It works for me.’
‘At some point, you’re going to overfill those compartments. You’ve been through a lot. You’re still processing things. It’s only been seven months since your mum died. I’m not even sure if you’ve properly grieved yet.’
‘It’s too late to grieve and you’re not supposed to be giving me therapy.’ Henley tried to smile but failed. She checked her watch. It was twenty past eight. She had already missed Emma’s bedtime and Rob would likely greet her with stony silence once she got home; not that she could blame him.
Mark walked over to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘If you’re not going to talk to Dr Afzal at least let me recommend someone to you.’
Henley took the business card from Mark’s hand. ‘Dr Isabelle Collins?’
‘She’s very good. Call her if you ever change your mind about going back to therapy.’
‘I’m not promising anything.’ Henley’s phone began to vibrate in her pocket. She read the message from Ezra: Can U come back to SCU? V. imp info on Ladywell.
Henley wanted to reply No. She needed to be home and spend time with her own child, to watch Emma sleep, kiss her forehead. Be a mother.
‘Mark, something has come up. I’ve got to get back to the station,’ said Henley grudgingly. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘Not a problem. Just remember, if this is a copycat and he’s following Olivier’s MO, there will be more bodies and probably a lot sooner than you think.’