The next morning, Farrell arrived at the Crichton Hospital and ducked into the men’s room before announcing himself at reception. He splashed his face with cold water. The face that looked back at him out of the mirror gave nothing away. Good, that was how he wanted it.
Sitting in the waiting room, he remembered the last time he had been waiting here to see Dr Clare Yates. Mental illness was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. It stripped you bare, turned you inside out for others to gawp at. A lot of what had happened to him was mercifully blank. He could still, however, remember the gut-wrenching terror afforded by the paranoid delusions. The episode of psychosis had never reoccurred although the fear that it might was like a persistent needle in the psyche that never let him alone.
He had had to submit to a stringent psychiatric evaluation when he joined the police and had to submit an annual report from his psychiatrist in Edinburgh to confirm that he was still of sound mind and cooperating with his treatment plan. He seriously doubted that there was any point in taking the tiny maintenance dose prescribed but he didn’t feel inclined to make a fuss. He had been lucky to be taken on back then and he knew it.
Clare Yates had been like a cool drink of water to a man dying of thirst. Back then, still in her twenties, she had the effortless poise and confidence enjoyed by the alpha female at the top of her game. After years of depriving himself of female company he had fallen for her like a ton of bricks, mistaking clinical passion and concerned glances for something else. Recalling the moment when he had leaned across and kissed her on the mouth he remembered with shame the revulsion he had seen on her face. After that, he’d been referred to someone else, a senior male psychiatrist, who’d eventually stitched his shattered self back into something capable of masquerading as normality. Over time, the pretence became real.
Farrell gave himself a mental shake. He hadn’t thought about Clare Yates for years. What was the matter with him? It must be being here in this room that had triggered all these unwanted memories. He was a police inspector now, a grown man in a position of authority not some broken-down washed-up priest. She’d better not try and stonewall him or she’d soon see he meant business.
Farrell determinedly squashed the small jolt of excitement he felt when she walked through the door. Her hair was different. The short cut that had framed her elfin features had gone and in its place were long tumbling dark curls. It suited the woman she had become. He stood up and approached her decisively. It gave him a huge measure of satisfaction to see that she looked even more ill at ease than he did. Determined to put matters on a formal footing and keep them there, Farrell spoke briskly.
‘Doctor Yates, I’m hoping you can throw some light on an investigation I’m working on.’
She smiled warmly at him and he felt his defences begin to crumble.
‘It’s lovely to see you again. Come along to my room. We can talk there,’ she said and set off along the corridor.
Farrell followed her, his eyes inscrutable. As they sat down in her comfortable office, more like a cosy sitting room than a consulting room, he was unable to stop his eyes sliding of their own volition to her left hand, to check out whether she was wearing a ring. She wasn’t. The slight twitch of her mouth told him she’d seen him. Time to take control.
‘Did you know a Catholic priest by the name of Father Boyd?’ he asked.
Her eyes widened in recognition at both the name and his use of the past tense. She leaned forward in her chair.
‘Yes, I knew him. Are you telling me he’s …?’
‘Dead. Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘But I only saw him two weeks ago. He looked absolutely fine,’ she continued, trying to make sense of it.
Farrell pressed on. ‘He was murdered,’ he informed her.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘So you’re …?’
‘Senior Investigating Officer,’ he filled in for her.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘He was meant to see you today at twelve o’clock. I need to know why. It could be relevant to the investigation.’
‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that patient confidentiality continues after death.’
‘There are a number of exceptions to that rule. You could justify disclosure on the basis that it’s in the public interest to catch this murderer before he kills again. Surely, it is also in the interest of his surviving sister that the police are given any relevant information that might directly or indirectly lead to the capture of his killer?’
‘Fine, you win. Father Boyd had been referred to me by his GP as he’d been suffering from moderate depression, a symptom of which was alcoholism.’
Farrell had guessed as much.
‘I need you to keep this to yourself,’ he said. ‘Before he was murdered he’d been sent a few anonymous letters. One of these contained the comment “I know what you did”. In his sessions with you did he make any reference to the letters or who might have sent them?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘Definitely not. We’d only had three sessions so I’d just scraped the surface really, barely got started; you know how long these things take.’
That’s it, thought Farrell, twist the knife. Don’t let me forget who’s got the upper hand in this little exchange. He kept his countenance impassive.
She continued, ‘I can tell you that he seemed deeply troubled. He mentioned he felt guilty about something he had done years ago; made one or two comments about the past starting to haunt him, stuff like that.’
‘And you didn’t think to probe any deeper?’ asked Farrell.
‘I was getting to it,’ she said defensively. ‘You can’t rush these things; have to peel the layers away slowly.’
There was an awkward silence. Farrell’s heart was hammering and he felt hot and sweaty. Was it wishful thinking on his part or was she feeling some kind of connection between them too? She had lowered her gaze and was studying her clasped hands intensely. Probably just remembering what a basket case he’d been in those days. Looking at her full lips he felt an unwelcome frisson of desire as he remembered with startling clarity the moment he had touched his own to them. Time to get out of here.
He stood up abruptly, ready to leave. She rose as well. They stared at each other for a long moment before Farrell broke the silence.
‘Well, if you think of anything else, please get in touch.’
He passed her a card and their hands touched. He snatched his back as though it had been burnt, hoped she hadn’t noticed.
‘Frank …’ she said, moving closer.
Farrell had to fight the impulse to back away from her and render himself even more ridiculous in her eyes. He looked at her in what he hoped was a manner of cool enquiry: one eyebrow quizzically raised, just the ticket.
‘Yes?’
‘About before …’
The woman was a sadist. Surely she wasn’t going to rub his nose in it after all these years?
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I owe you an apology.’
Farrell could feel the heat rise in his face and move down his whole body. He said nothing, having temporarily lost control of his tongue.
‘I was young, just starting out,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid I allowed my feelings to get the better of me. I must have been sending out mixed messages. I realized when you kissed me that I’d failed you professionally and just panicked, I guess.’
Farrell tried for a joke to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Hey, with that amount of guilt you must be Catholic,’ he quipped.
She smiled and the sun came out. Farrell could feel a rusty grin pushing against his cheeks.
‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, maybe you’d like to join me for a drink some night? I’m writing a paper on the development of criminality in adolescents: the old nature versus nurture debate. I would welcome the insights of a serving police officer informed by your unique spiritual background.’
‘Sure. Why not?’ replied Farrell, the nonchalance of his response utterly belied by the colour creeping up his face.
They arranged to meet at the Swan, a quiet country pub, the following week.