It’s rare I open the office on a Sunday but this is important, for me now too. I’m involved whether I like it or not. It’s peaceful without Dora barking appointment times to me and bothering me with cancellations or enquiries. I fling open the windows with abandon and make a strong coffee. I sit heavily behind my desk, I’ve got work to do before they arrive.
Tony slept in the spare room last night, and by the time I put him to bed, with Jeremy already asleep on the couch in the pool room, he was blathering on about how much he really loved Monika. I told Jeremy and Tony I had emergency appointments today. They squinted lazily at me and I reassured them that I made fresh waffles. But looking after two drunken men was the least of my worries last night. Keeping Ewan occupied was my first priority and we watched a film together. Funny how a crisis brings him closer to me. Even Lydia was out of sorts, so much so that she ate some food and kept it down. I am used to the sounds of vomit hitting the toilet bowl, and there wasn’t any. The death of Brandon Stand hit all the kids hard, and Monika’s death paled into the background. I heard her once talking to my youngest son, in his room, privately and intimately. She read him bedtime stories, long ago, when he was still my baby. Even James stayed in last night, and watched some of the film with us, from under a blanket, laid on the sofa, close to me, as if I’m the one who’ll keep us all safe.
I hear a lone car and watch as Carrie pulls up in her Mercedes. The car is like her: a roaring engineering masterpiece, covered in pretension. She wears a casual summer dress and shows off her figure. I hope not for me. I’m struck by her femininity but not disarmed by it. Carrie is no longer simply my client. The real work begins today.
I almost press the intercom to call Dora, but I remember that it’s Sunday and I greet Carrie myself. I take a look around my office before she wafts in. It’s a shrine to dignity and achievement but the trinkets of therapy – the candles, lotus symbolism, yin and yang room freshener, the eye of Horus – and the paintings on the wall, irritate me momentarily. Carrie removes her sunglasses and behind them I see puffy red eyes that don’t belong there.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Carrie says with gratitude.
‘Not at all, I didn’t have anything planned.’
Only starting my own investigation into Monika’s death.
‘It’s a beautiful day.’
She ignores me. Her mind is elsewhere.
Carrie takes her usual seat and I am reminded of the shelter the office affords me. My clients think I’m invincible, like a machine. I have a professional veil around me, and it cloaks Doctor Alex Moore underneath. I offer her a drink. She’s changed, or maybe I have. I remind myself of my own routine. The first thing I do is wait. That’s the easy part.
‘I’m ashamed of something I’ve done,’ she begins. It’s a quicker than normal start.
I say nothing and she picks the skin around her nails. She’s uncharacteristically jumpy and I pretend I don’t know why.
‘Like I said on the phone, I found myself in an awkward situation and it brought back so many negative memories.’
We’re doctor and patient, she suspects nothing.
‘What sparked it for you? Start from the beginning,’ I soothe.
She walks me through the last forty-eight hours. How she wandered through her home, seeking predators. She explains how her guard was down when she made the rash decision to visit Tony. She doesn’t mention his name.
‘It’s normal to have regressions.’
‘I know, but so intense? Why now? After all the work I’ve done, and after all these years.’ Her face is anguished.
‘Tell me what happened after you realised there was no one in the house.’
‘But that’s just it: there was someone in the house, because later, the next day, I discovered something was missing.’
‘What was it?’
‘I keep a safe, in my bedroom. I’m terrible, I don’t lock it all the time, but I had this time.’
‘What do you keep in it?’
‘Not much. I was given something to put in there. It’s a long story. I know somebody who’s had bad luck in his life. And I mean really bad luck. Shit just follows him around, and I was doing him a favour.’
‘This friend. He’s important to you?’
She nods. ‘I guess so. I feel sorry for him.’
She’s lying; he means more than that.
‘Is that the same? Sympathy is an emotion, so let’s go with that. You feel responsible for him somehow? Like a child.’
‘He’s a grown man,’ she laughs.
‘But you’re close.’
‘He fitted my new kitchen.’
She’s not looking at me. She’s focused on her own inner turmoil. I see Henry Nelson in her house as I imagine it. Ethically, I’ve crossed a line that I shouldn’t, but I have to.
‘And that’s how you met? He fitted your kitchen?’
She nods.
I wait. I’m reminded of Henry’s charisma. He’s fooled plenty of women. Myself included. Or at least he tried. I peer at the flowers in the window box – if only they could give me some direction. They’re party to everything I hear inside this office.
‘He’s a lot younger than me. I’m such a cliché.’
It’s one of those moments where clients look to me to massage their ego.
‘You’re not a cliché at all, Carrie. Men are attracted to beautiful women no matter their age.’
‘I was flattered.’
‘And what wound was he shedding light on?’
Carrie has a habit of acting out with younger men. It’s not the first time she’s done it and it makes Tony – at fifty-five – an exception to her rule.
‘Did it feel good to take power from an unconventional relationship?’ I steer things back to Henry.
She blushes. It’s rare but she doesn’t seem to mind that I catch her out. After all, that’s my job.
She nods.
‘Okay. So, the relationship became one of guardian and trusting child? What did he give to you to hide?’
‘A knife and some money.’
My heart races. Suddenly I want to take the framed photo of my children from my desk and hug it, so it can’t come to harm.
‘Have you any idea why he gave them to you to hide?’
‘He works with disadvantaged kids and they fuck up all the time – excuse my language. He promised me that the knife hadn’t been used for anything bad, and the money was to save this kid the aggro of it being found. God, I sound like a mug saying this out loud.’
‘No. You helped somebody because they asked you. You were available to them, like a mother. Like your mother wasn’t.’
Carrie puts her head in her hands and runs her fingers through her hair, like a lover might.
‘You wanted to believe him.’
‘I did believe him. He’s straight. Clean. Reformed. I know he is.’
She thinks that repetition will make her words true.
‘But you doubt why he gave you the knife?’
She nods.
‘I believe him that it wasn’t his to hide, but…’
‘You feel used?’
She nods again. Her make-up and fake breasts seem slightly ridiculous in the harsh light, with the song of birds as a backdrop. Their melody is brighter when they’re free, but caged birds still chirp, full of hope and life. If humans had that attitude, I wouldn’t have any clients.
I let her think.
‘So, the knife and the money were taken from the safe?’
‘Just the money.’
‘But you can’t report it because it was there illegally in the first place.’ I state the obvious. ‘You’ve had quite a weekend. I need to remind you of your declaration when we first met, that I have an obligation to report anything that might be linked to a crime.’
She gathers herself, stares and nods. Reality hits her.
‘I haven’t been involved in a crime,’ she says convincingly.
‘I believe you. What has this kitchen fitter to do with your actions on Friday night, with your other friend. You called him Tony?’
I need to tread carefully because it’s not my style to delve too deeply into the detail. Specifics are like weeds. They suck oxygen from what is useful. I’m just distracting her from my fact-finding.
She takes a lungful of air.
‘Tony is the husband of the woman who was found murdered. You must have seen it on the news. I recommended the kitchen guy to him, and I’ve got this awful feeling that Tony has something to do with it. Why else would he ring me, desperate to fill his bed with someone else?’
Her voice is like a machine gun on my nerves.
‘I’m getting these flashbacks of shit that I thought I’d dealt with years ago. It’s driving me crazy. I think I need some time off work and I was wondering if you could write me a sick note?’
She’s closed back up but I have what I need.
‘Of course, I told you I’d do that for you. This work is incredibly fierce. It depletes your energy. I’ll sign you off for a month – is that okay?’
She smiles and her shoulders relax but her fingers still toy with themselves.
‘You can breathe now. Tell me about your panic attacks.’
‘It’s tearing me to shreds. My shame and guilt have gone through the roof, I feel responsible for this woman and I didn’t even know her.’
‘So you think the husband had something to do with it?’
‘That’s what the police think, it’s obvious to me. They were like smirking parasites, all over his house, and looking me up and down, like rubbish, satisfied that I’d been caught with him. I took drugs.’
I imagine Hunt finding Carrie in Tony’s house, and vicariously gleaning satisfaction from the find: his suspect playing nicely into his hands. But it’s a heavy admission, my opinions aside. I need to be transparent with her about disclosures.
‘Carrie, I must stop you here again. Even though I’m bound by certain confidentiality laws, if there’s a disclosure that concerns me, then the likelihood is that the police may eventually get around to a similar conclusion, once they delve into the history of this poor woman.’
I allow her to mull over the possibility. Clarity overwhelms her and she looks like she might have a full-blown panic attack, right here in my office.
‘Oh, God, do you have to divulge information to the police because it’s a criminal case? Even if I’m not involved?’
It’s a curious habit of non-believers, invoking the Almighty. I do it myself.
‘Why would the police ask me for your records? It’s highly unlikely.’ I throw the panic back her way.
‘But they might? Oh, Jesus, Alex, can you help me? Please, I’m begging you, I can’t go through all that again. I don’t want to get involved.’
‘Do the police have a valid reason to request personal information on you? If they do, they’d need a warrant. I’ve been asked to work on criminal cases before. We’d have to stop our work together.’
‘Christ.’
There she goes again. As far as I’m aware, Carrie didn’t experience religious repression during her childhood, so maybe it’s an ingrained national hangover from puritanism. It’s something that fascinates me. But I’m getting off track.
‘The police have spooked you. They like to do that sometimes. But what about this young man asking you to hide something? That to me sounds like it was involved in something illegal. What is your gut telling you?’
I already know that simply by her sitting in my chair, opposite me, divulging to me her innermost fears, she’s not far from crumbling altogether. She might even try to run away – why else is she planning to take time off work?
‘I really don’t know,’ Carrie says. ‘I just don’t know.’ She leans over and begins to cry. I have never seen her this vulnerable before. I pass her a box of tissues.
‘Carrie?’ I ask gently when I think she’s done. ‘You’ve told me a lot today about things that have happened. You’ve mentioned a lot of events. That’s important because it anchors our timelines, but what’s really important here is that you react as your authentic self and not the panicked child from long ago.’
But I know that’s exactly what she will do. Because it’s all she’s got left when the trappings of success are blown to smithereens. Hunt intends to do just that.
Carrie’s relapse is spectacular.
Inevitable fatigue is looming over her body. The session is almost over. I pass her the sick note.
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m looking after a friend’s villa in Bali.’
Run, run, run.
‘Does anyone know your contact details for an emergency?’
Carrie shakes her head wearily.
‘You can give them to me.’
‘Can I? Thank you. Thank you so much. Have you got a pen?’