Two things were on Cross’s mind when he returned to work that Monday. Flick’s case, of course, and his mother’s letter. He had made the decision to track her down. Not because of any emotional need for connection – he was just curious, he told himself. In truth, though, he did have a need to find her. He needed to show her that he had turned out well. He was all right. Different, yes, but fine. He had a job, one he was extremely good at, in no small measure because of how he was. He looked after his father; took responsibility for him. In short, he needed to prove her wrong.
Her leaving them because of him had had a huge effect on their lives. It had been a dreadful, selfish thing to have done to his father, now that he thought about it. His need to show her this was, in a funny way, born of the same compulsion that drove him to work at investigations the way he did. He couldn’t bear injustice. He had to put it right whenever he came across it, and if that wasn’t possible, at least alert others to its existence. This was what he wanted to do with his mother – point it out, that was all. He didn’t want her in his life and she probably didn’t want him in hers. But he needed her to know that she’d been wrong.
*
‘So Raymond settled in at the home?’ Ottey asked as they had coffee, ruminating about their progress, or lack of, in the case.
‘I think so. He seems to have set up a small business in there,’ Cross replied.
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s offering a wheelchair repair service to all the other residents.’
She laughed.
‘Why is that amusing?’ he asked.
‘It’s just so sweet and typical of him,’ she said.
‘You know him well enough to make that judgement, do you?’
‘I hope he’s charging them,’ she said, ignoring the question.
‘That’s what I said. He’s being paid in kind.’
‘I beg your pardon? What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Cake. He’s getting a lot of cake,’ he explained.
‘Oh, okay. That’s a relief. I must go and see him. Take the girls,’ she said.
‘I’d go quickly, as I’m not sure how long they’ll last,’ he replied.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘The cakes.’
‘I’m not going for the cakes,’ she replied.
‘I met an old DCI there. Moffatt. Esther Moffatt.’
‘Don’t know her.’
There was a momentary silence. Ottey found herself thinking about Flick.
‘Could we be wrong about this case? Could she have killed herself? Suicide is such a weird act, but who knows what was going on in her head?’
‘Maybe we should ask the man who’s supposed to know exactly that,’ said Cross.
‘Dr Sutton? Good idea.’
‘I’ll go on my own.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s made various assumptions about me, because of the way I am, and so thinks he has the upper hand.’
‘Why would he feel the need to have the upper hand?’
‘Firstly because I’m a policeman and secondly because that’s how he operates, whoever you are.’
‘Well, more fool him. Take Mackenzie with you,’ Ottey suggested.
‘I would ask you why but it occurs to me that it would be convenient to be driven.’
*
‘Do you think he could involved?’ Mackenzie couldn’t help but ask as she drove them to Sutton’s office. Cross was about to call her out on this when she stopped him. ‘I know. Stupid thing to ask. No evidence. No facts. No reason to think anything.’
Cross was happy with this. He thought she was learning, and anyway he didn’t want to correct her and possibly upset her because she’d been very useful getting her friends to help with his father’s flat.
They arrived at a Georgian building in the middle of Bristol. As they entered, Mackenzie noted the brass plates by the front door with names of various doctors on them – Sutton’s office was on the first floor. They walked into a very well-furnished reception with a couple of sofas and armchairs. Cross walked up to the receptionist. She was busy organising things on her desk, and as Cross began to speak she held up her hand to stop him. As she was finishing he noticed how immaculately tidy her desk and the shelves behind her were. She was immensely organised. He was impressed.
She finally looked up, in her early forties, Cross estimated, but dressed like someone twice her age, conservatively and in muted colours. She wore a tweed skirt with a silk shirt and cardigan. She had horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck that looked like they might have been passed on to her by her grandmother.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked Cross.
‘We’d like to see Dr Sutton,’ he replied.
‘You don’t have an appointment.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Do you have a doctor’s referral?’ she asked.
‘I do not,’ he said. ‘I’m a detective from the Avon and Somerset police force,’ he went on, displaying his warrant card.
At this point Dr Sutton opened the other door in the office and appeared.
‘It’s okay, Diana. I’ll see them, thank you,’ he said, disappearing back into his office.
Cross was about to follow when Diana held up her hand and said commandingly, ‘Wait!’ He did so and she pushed a book towards him, with a biro. ‘Please fill out your details, including your warrant card number.’
He complied and was about to walk into Sutton’s office when again she said, ‘Wait!’
He stopped obediently while she tore out the strip he’d written his details on, put it into a plastic badge holder and gave it to him. ‘Clip it onto your lapel please. Are you going in as well?’ she asked Mackenzie.
‘She is,’ Cross replied for her.
‘Name?’ she asked as she started to fill out another strip.
He looked at her for a moment, put the badge on nevertheless and walked into Sutton’s office. Mackenzie followed. The room had a comforting smell of Sutton’s aftershave and leather seats, whose odour may well have been enhanced by the past tears of many a patient. The room was old-fashioned in its decor – light-panelled walls and framed prints. Sutton sat behind a large wooden desk with a leather inset which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dickensian bank. Cross was conscious that Sutton’s chair was higher than his, making Sutton look down over the desk at him; an obvious ploy to give him an air of superiority.
‘DS Cross, a pleasure to see you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about Di— Miss Coogan. She does have her little peccadilloes.’
‘Interesting choice of word,’ Cross commented.
‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense that it is applied to me with irritating frequency at work when people are trying to be polite about what they find most annoying about me,’ Cross replied.
‘I see. Then I apologise to you both. The thing is with Di, I think she’s probably on the spectrum.’ If Sutton was expecting this to elicit some sort of acknowledgement from Cross he would’ve been disappointed. ‘She has her routine and systems and nothing will sway her away from them. It seems pedantic and at times unnecessary, but on occasions it does pay dividends. I suppose you could say there’s method in her madness.’
‘She didn’t strike me as mad,’ said Cross.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I don’t actually know what I’d do without her,’ said Sutton.
‘There’s no need to apologise. I can certainly see the logic of her system.’
‘Well, I have an appointment with a patient at four thirty, Sergeant, so perhaps we should get straight to the point,’ he said.
‘I’d like to ask you more about Flick. You seem to have had a profound effect, or, it may be more accurate to say, important effect on her life, recently,’ Cross went on.
‘I would hope I have such an effect on all of my clients,’ Sutton purred.
‘Tell me. In your opinion, was she happy?’
‘That’s not the sort of question a psychotherapist finds easy to give a straightforward answer to.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Cross.
‘Because of its generality. Happiness is a complex issue. How do we define it? Was Flick happy? The only thing I can say is that, at times, she was; at other times, she was not,’ Sutton said, choosing his words carefully.
‘So she did have periods of unhappiness?’ Cross asked.
‘Don’t we all? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be glib. To answer your question, yes, she did.’
‘And was there a particular area of her life that made her prone to these periods of sadness? Or do you call them triggers?’ Cross asked.
‘Yes, there were,’ Sutton replied, giving nothing away.
‘What were those, exactly?’
Sutton rested his lips on the tips of his fingers as if in prayer.
‘I fear we’re moving into areas of patient confidentiality here, Sergeant,’ he said and smiled.
Cross said nothing for a moment, and merely looked back at Sutton. He was trying to gauge whether the therapist genuinely felt this, or whether it was something he was hiding behind.
‘So would you say that doctors, therapists, lawyers, any profession bound by ethical concerns are ipso facto of no use to the police in a murder enquiry?’ Cross asked.
‘Interesting question, Sergeant.’
‘Your answer would be more interesting, Doctor,’ replied Cross.
Sutton now demonstrated that he had as much prowess as Cross in being silent when it suited him. Cross turned to Mackenzie. She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a piece of paper. She held it out for Cross who looked away from her to the doctor. She then held it out for Sutton.
‘A warrant for any medical records you possess pertaining to Felicity Wilson,’ she said.
Sutton examined it and smiled.
‘Thank you.’ He went over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file, then flicked an intercom button on his phone. Diana appeared promptly.
‘Could you please make a copy of these, Di?’ he said, then turned back to Cross. ‘I assume you’d rather spend the rest of our appointment discussing Flick than poring over her file, which you could look at in your own time if you had a copy?’
‘That would certainly make more sense,’ Cross replied.
But although she had the file in her hands, Diana remained rooted to the spot. Sutton looked at her for a second and then realised what she wanted.
‘Oh yes, he does have a warrant. Here you are,’ he said, handing it to her. She looked at it quickly and left.
‘A little by the book, our Diana,’ said Sutton.
‘If only more people were like that,’ replied Cross. ‘I’m assuming you’re now happy to discuss Flick?’
‘I am. You can understand my need for legal enforcement,’ said Sutton.
‘I can see your need for it, but in the circumstances, I can’t claim to understand it,’ Cross replied. ‘What were Flick’s periods of unhappiness related to?’
‘Firstly, I’m not sure I would categorise them as periods. It would be more accurate to describe them as moments,’ said Sutton.
Cross made a note of this, then looked up. Sutton said nothing. Neither did Cross, who just waited for an answer. After all, Sutton had merely made a distinction in the terms of his question.
‘Do you need me to repeat the question?’ Cross asked.
‘No. I’m sorry, of course not. Um, she regretted her past drug use. Was worried that she was always vulnerable to it, which upset her. She had residual guilt about Daisy’s ill-health at birth. Simon was also a major factor in making her miserable, insecure, anxious, worried.’
‘“Vulnerable to it”?’ Cross said, quoting Sutton. ‘Her addiction, presumably?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you describe her as an addictive person?’ Cross asked.
‘Excellent question, Sergeant Cross. No, I wouldn’t. She may have spiralled into drug addiction at one point in her life, but she didn’t have an addictive personality.’
‘Wouldn’t you say recovery itself can sometimes be addictive?’ Cross asked.
‘For some perhaps, yes, but a better addiction. I wouldn’t confuse determination with addiction.’
‘Why did she give up alcohol as well then? She didn’t have an alcohol problem, as far as I’m aware.’
‘No, she didn’t, but people in her situation often do. Give up alcohol,’ said Sutton. ‘People in recovery often avoid things like alcohol because it lowers their defences, leaving them vulnerable to a relapse.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve used the word vulnerable,’ Cross noted. ‘Was Flick vulnerable to a relapse, in your opinion?’
‘Everyone in her situation, in recovery, is vulnerable to a relapse. Recognising that is part of being able to stay clean,’ Sutton explained.
‘But you’ve said before that Flick relapsing was out of the question,’ Cross commented.
‘I think I said it was unlikely in her case, but now that you’re phrasing it in that way, let me say categorically that, in my opinion, it was out of the question – her relapsing.’ Sutton again gave Cross the level-eye.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I can’t. You asked for my opinion, which I’m giving you,’ he replied firmly.
‘So you think it’s more likely that she killed herself?’
‘More likely than what?’ Sutton asked.
‘Than that she relapsed and accidentally overdosed,’ Cross said.
‘I think either scenario is highly unlikely, Sergeant. I agree with you. Someone killed her,’ the therapist stated emphatically.