Dr. Nichols, looking at me shocked, was silent.
“She wasn’t mad but someone was trying to drive her mad or make everyone think she was mad.”
His voice sounded shaken. “Poor girl, the lullabies must have been appalling for her. But are you sure they were intentionally cruel? Do you think they may have just been a terrible blunder by one of her friends who didn’t know her baby had died?”
I thought how convenient that would be for him.
“No, I don’t think that.”
He turned away from me. He was wearing a white coat this time, but it was crumpled and a little stained, and he seemed even more scruffily hopeless.
“Why didn’t you just listen to her? Ask her more?”
“On the only occasion I met her, my clinic was overbooked as usual, with emergencies just added with no more time allocated, and I had to get through them, keep down waiting times.” I looked at him, but he didn’t meet my eye. “I should have taken longer with her. I’m sorry.”
“You knew about the PCP?”
“Yes. The police told me. But not until after our last meeting. I told them it would cause hallucinations, probably terrifying hallucinations. And it would be especially potent given Tess’s grief. The literature says that users frequently harm themselves. The lullabies must have been the final straw.”
There was no dog in his NHS consulting room, but I could sense how much he wanted to reach out and stroke a reassuring silky ear.
“It would account for why she changed that morning from when I saw her to being suicidal,” he continued. “She must have heard one of the lullabies, maybe taken some PCP too, and the combination—” He stopped as he saw the expression on my face. “You think I’m trying to make excuses for myself?”
I was surprised by his first intuitive remark.
“But there aren’t any excuses,” he continued. “She was clearly having visual hallucinations. And whether that was from psychosis or PCP isn’t the point. I missed it. Whatever the cause—psychosis or a drug—she was a danger to herself and I didn’t protect her as I should have done.”
As in our first meeting, I heard shame seeping out of his words.
I’d come to vent my rage but there seemed little point now. He seemed to be already punishing himself. And he wasn’t going to change his opinion. The door swung open and a receptionist with a male nurse bustled in and seemed surprised by the silence in the room.
I closed the door behind me. There was nothing left to say to him.
I walked hurriedly down a corridor, as if I could outpace the thoughts that were stalking me because now I had no purpose to distract me; I could only think about you listening to the lullaby.
“Beatrice?”
I’d virtually stumbled into Dr. Saunders. Only then did I realize that I was crying, my eyes streaming, nose running, a sodden handkerchief in my hand.
“She was mentally tortured before she was murdered. She was framed for her own suicide.”
Without asking questions, he gave me a hug. His arms around me felt strong but not safe. I’d always found physical intimacy unsettling, even with family, let alone a near stranger, so I was more anxious than reassured. But he seemed quite used to holding distressed women, totally at ease with it.
“Can I ask you for coffee again?”
I agreed, because I wanted to ask him about Dr. Nichols. I wanted to get proof that he was incompetent and that the police should rethink everything he’d told them. And partly too, because when I’d spilled out about your being mentally tortured, he’d taken it in his stride, not showing any sign of incredulity, and had joined Amias and Christina in the very small band of people who didn’t dismiss me out of hand.
We sat at a table in the middle of the bustling cafe. He looked directly at me, giving me his full attention. I remembered our staring competitions.
But I still couldn’t. Not when the eyes belonged to a beautiful man. Not even in these circumstances.
“Dr. Saunders, do you—”
He interrupted. “William, please. I’ve never been good at formalities. I blame my parents for sending me to a progressive school. The first time I ever put on a uniform was when I got a white coat for this job.” He smiled. “Also, I have a habit of volunteering more information than I was asked for. I interrupted—you wanted to ask me something?”
“Yes, do you know Dr. Nichols?”
“I used to. We were on a Senior House Officer rotation together many years ago and we’ve stayed friends, although I don’t see much of him nowadays. Can I ask why?”
“He was Tess’s psychiatrist. I want to know if he’s incompetent.”
“No is the short answer to that. Although you think otherwise?”
He waited for me to answer, but I wanted to get information, not give it, and he seemed to understand that.
“I know Hugo comes across as a little shambolic,” William continued. “Those tweedy clothes and that ancient dog of his, but he
