‘Well, he’s been here since the September of 77.’
Me: ‘He was in Pinderfields before that though?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘I think it was the June that he was admitted.’
Hook: ‘With a nail in his head?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps, lowering his voice.
‘And he did that himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
In this cold and black room Mr Papps is sweating, fiddling with the gold buttons on the blue blazer: ‘You don’t know about his wife, his ex-wife?’
‘No,’ says Hook.
Nothing, I say nothing -
Mr Papps, he wipes his brow and he tells Hook: ‘In January 1975, a man called Michael Williams believed he was possessed by an evil spirit. A local priest tried to perform an exorcism, however something went wrong and Williams ended up killing his wife and running naked through the streets of Ossett covered in her blood. The woman’s name was Carol Williams. She was Jack Whitehead’s ex-wife. Williams killed her by hammering a nail into the top of her skull. Worse, Whitehead was there. Saw it all.’
‘He was there?’
‘Yes, Mr Hook. He was there.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And Williams?’
‘I believe he’s in Broadmoor, but I’m not certain.’
‘So in 1977 Whitehead tried to do it to himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘The top of his skull.’
‘No, the place?’
‘The Griffin Hotel, Leeds.’
Hook turns to me: ‘That’s where you lot are staying, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I nod.
‘Bloody hell. Did you know?’
‘No,’ I lie.
He turns back to Papps: ‘And so he was brought to Pinderfields, and then here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t think you could survive, would you?’
I’m thinking of hollows and heads, craters and craniums, the pictures on the wall.
‘Actually, quite the contrary,’ says Mr Papps. ‘In the ancient world, a hole in the head was often used as a cure of other trauma or depression. Hippocrates wrote of its merits.’
Me: Trepanation?’
Papps is nodding: ‘Yes, trepanation. Apparently John Lennon was interested in it. And, as I say, it was quite common in the ancient world.’
‘But this is the modern world,’ says Hook. ‘And John Lennon’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘The modern world.’
I ask: ‘So what progress has he made?’
‘You’ve met him? Not much.’
Hook: ‘Is he likely to?’
Papps is shaking his head: ‘Hard to say.’
‘He’s on medication?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you write out his prescriptions for us, the names of the drugs?’
Papps nods.
Me: ‘Visitors?’
‘Not many. I’d have to check.’
‘Would you?’
Papps nods again.
I say: ‘The lady on the desk, she tells us that Leonard Marsh has left you?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps.
‘Was he in charge of Mr Whitehead?’
‘Not in charge, no. But he certainly had helped look after him for quite a time. Since he got here.’
‘Whitehead?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps.
‘Why did he leave?’
‘Leonard? I’m not sure, just had had enough he said.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s difficult work, Mr Hunter.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
Silence -
Then I say: ‘Who is his doctor?’
‘Jack Whitehead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me.’
It’s Dr Papps?’
‘Yes,’ he smiles. ‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No,’ I say, standing up, frozen -
Papps sighs: ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
Up the stairs, down the half-green half-cream corridors and across the landing, out of the main building, over the cold walkway and into the extension, locking and unlocking doors, back to Jack -
The last corridor; long and locked -
In the green paint, another etched tract:
Down the last corridor, long, to the last door, locked -
Dr Papps, keys out -
Hook, a free hand on the doctor’s sleeve: ‘Has Whitehead left the hospital in the last twenty-four hours?’
Papps: ‘Of course not.’
‘In the last week, the last month.’
‘Inspector, Mr Whitehead hasn’t left his bed, let alone his room, since he got here.’
Me: ‘How can you be certain?’
Papps gives the dangling keys a shake: ‘How could he?’
‘But…’ starts Hook, but I give him the wink and he stops -
Papps looks from Hook to me and back again -
I nod at the door -
Papps shrugs, turns the keys, and then the handle -
He pulls back the door -
Silence -
‘After you,’ gestures Papps and we enter the room.
It’s cold this time and lighter, the toilet in the corner still dripping, the chair gone.
