He sensed that a shutter had closed between them, and knew she would cite patient confidentiality if he tried to press her.
“This is an ongoing murder investigation, Miss Cochrane. We’ll sequester his hospital notes if we have to, and remove any files we feel might pertain to his case if it means we can prevent him from harming anyone else.”
Cochrane’s cold manner thawed a little. She had simply not realised the gravity of her charge’s situation. “I’m sorry, sometimes it is necessary to protect our patients from the eagerness of the public to condemn and demonise. I’m sure you understand.”
“Then perhaps you could help us to understand him more fully,” Bryant suggested. “Did he ever talk about the girl he kidnapped?”
“There are extensive therapists’ notes in his case history, but I can probably save you a lot of time with a precis. Tony’s story is sad, but hardly uncommon. Pellew’s family was originally from Zandvoort, in Holland. His father had been in and out of jail all his life. He was a violent alcoholic whose first two sons had been taken into care. He met Tony’s mother in the pub where she worked, and their relationship was a familiar cycle of alcohol misuse and physical abuse. She left him, taking Tony with her, and worked in City of London pubs, usually in bars that had live-in premises above them. Although we have only anecdotal evidence, it seems likely that she supplemented her income through bouts of prostitution. Oddly, I think Tony was at his happiest during that period. He would have been about eleven then.”
“Camus suggested that we spend our adult lives seeking to restore childhood’s brief moments of happiness,” said Bryant.
“Tony told me he felt safest during those evenings he spent waiting for his mother to finish behind the bar, or waiting for her to return after seeing a punter. She always left him in the pub. He tried to strangle his first girlfriend, did you know? It didn’t take long for a pattern to emerge. He would latch onto girls he met in his mother’s pub, come on too strong and scare them off by trying too hard to keep them with him.”
“The serial killer Denis Nielsen murdered because he wanted companionship,” May reminded them. “He was not only lonely but incredibly boring. The only way he could make his victims stay around was by rendering them unconscious.”
“Tony told us something similar,” said Cochrane. “He had all sorts of scenarios worked out to keep women by his side. He didn’t need to kill them to re-create his happiest hours, merely make them immobile. It seems he experimented for a number of years without getting caught, although there were a few close calls. He felt at home in pubs, and dreaded the sound of the last bell, knowing that the place would empty out and leave him alone.”
“The girl he kidnapped was anxious to point out that she was never hurt by him in any way,” said May. “And yet it seems he decided to start killing them.”
“You say he changed after his mother died. How did that change manifest itself?”
“He’d always been boisterous, eager to join in and organise meetings. He enjoyed a good argument with the others, although he could be very attention-deficit and tended toward over-excitement. After her funeral he withdrew from everyone, wouldn’t talk or think for himself, exhibited the classic signs of depression, became morbidly introspective, lost weight, spent too much time asleep.”
“If he was unwell, why was he transferred?”
“This building has been sold, Mr Bryant. It is about to become luxury apartments. The pressure is on for us to place all of our patients elsewhere as soon as possible. Tony Pellew was apparently no longer considered to be a threat to himself or anyone else. It was decided that the Broadhampton was better equipped for his needs.”
“Are you aware that he’s no longer at the Broadhampton, either?” asked May.
“I knew the board decided to release him recently, because they contacted me in order to obtain my personal files,” Cochrane explained.
“Don’t you think their decision was rather odd?”
“Not so much these days. You’d be amazed if you knew about some of the people who get sent back out onto the streets.”
“You must have made your own judgement as to whether he was in any fit state to be released.”
Cochrane regarded Bryant with a cool detachment that suggested she had an opinion but wasn’t keen on sharing it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with the staff at the Broadhampton,” she replied.
As the echoing rooms of Twelve Elms Cross were emptied and barred, it seemed as if their past melancholies would fade and die with them, to be replaced by the bright, light cubicles of a luxurious new prison.
? The Victoria Vanishes ?
28
Maternity
Bryant was unusually quiet on the journey back. He stared from the scarred windows with his chin resting on a liverspotted knuckle, lost in thought, impervious to conversation. May was confident that it would be only a matter of hours before they would find Pellew, and his partner’s silence perplexed him.
“All right, out with it,” he said finally. “What’s wrong?”
Bryant turned to fix him with translucent blue eyes that were, for once, unreadable. “You would say that we understand each other to an unusual degree, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “I mean, over so many years, the extraordinary way in which we’ve been involved in each other’s lives?”
“Indeed. I never know exactly what you’re thinking, but I usually have a pretty good idea. I can’t imagine anyone knows you better.”
“And that’s how I feel about you. I know you leave the TV on all the time, and love buying those hideously vulgar new suits. I know you’ve got a sister in Brighton. I know you lost the wallet I bought you for your birthday, and purchased an identical one so I wouldn’t find out. I know you hate beetroot and suffer from hay fever. I know you still blame yourself for the death of your daughter, even though there was nothing more you could have done for her. I wonder, therefore, if you’ve been entirely honest with me.”
“What do you mean? What about?”
“The past, John. The past. There were, of course, a few periods when we weren’t working together, and I know I didn’t see enough of you during the time you were married. That’s understandable; you were in love, and were having to deal with the onset of Jane’s mental problems; I was wrapped up in troubles of my own. I suppose I always realised there were – omissions – in your life. I forgot about them for a while, but I started wondering again during Oswald Finch’s wake.”
May furrowed his brow, but decided to say nothing. It was better to let Bryant clear his head without interruption. Perhaps it was time for the conversation he had so long avoided.
“I got to thinking. Instead of floral tributes, Oswald asked for contributions to be left in the care of a ward at the Broadhampton Hospital. When I asked you about it, you refused to catch my eye. In fact, considering the number of times we’ve had cause to check with the Broadhampton’s patients in other investigations, you’ve always seemed uncomfortable with the subject. I think it’s time you told me the truth.”
“What about?” May played for time. He had not lied so much as omitted details, but after all this time he knew that the inconsistency felt like something more deceptive.
“Jane, your wife. Surely you couldn’t have lied to me about her?”
Any answer May could have made dried in his mouth. He stared helplessly back.
“On more than one occasion you told me she was dead, or at least you suggested as much, but it was the way you said it, as if you meant
“I wasn’t deliberately trying to mislead you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I knew she’d had a breakdown. I assumed she’d died in the Broadhampton, and that Oswald knew about it, which is why he wanted contributions sent there.”
“No,” said May, shaking his head. “No, she didn’t die, Arthur. She’s still there.”
“Then it’s true. My God. I don’t understand. Why would you keep such a thing from me?”
