Choked

as a man because he was eighteen, but when she finally met him, she thought he was just a boy. A small, confused boy, underweight, his growth stunted by a childhood of malnutrition, his educational progress hampered by the damaged hard-wiring in his brain.

She stopped walking, looked at the trees ahead of her. Tried to think of the questions she had asked him, the answers he had given her. She couldn’t recall specifics, but she remembered his attitude, his demeanour. Lost. If she had to sum him up in one word, it would be that. A lost boy cast adrift in the big city after inadvertently letting go of his mother’s hand. He didn’t understand what was going on around him, or how serious his situation was.

He had been found with the shotgun in his hand, and the police had, with good reason, assumed his guilt from that. She had gone along with that assumption, as directed by the defence lawyers, and her questions had been weighted accordingly.

What was he doing at the house? Could he remember what had led up to that? How had he felt about his mother marrying Jack Sloane? Specific, focused questions.

But he was vague in his answers, unfocused when asked about those specifics.

He couldn’t remember how he had felt, or what he was doing there. But he had been very happy for his mother. His mother was happy so he was happy too.

What about his mother now?

Now he was sad. Very sad. And Marina remembered him looking sad as he said it. Then his expression had changed, his face had lit up in a smile. But it was all going to be OK, because Jiminy Cricket had said so.

Marina had been intrigued. Asked him more. Who was Jiminy Cricket? Why was everything going to be OK?

He had looked at her beatifically. Jiminy Cricket was the voice of his conscience. Jiminy Cricket had said his mother was in heaven with the other angels. And Jiminy Cricket had a plan. Everything would work out OK. Just wait and see.

Afterwards, she had repeated the conversation to the lawyers. They weren’t surprised. Other psychologists had experienced the same thing. They believed that Stuart had a split personality. His damaged mind had been unable to cope with the enormity of what he had done, and he had abnegated responsibility in that way.

Marina hadn’t been convinced. She had read his records. Stuart had never displayed any prior symptoms of multiple personality or dissociative states. This Jiminy Cricket sounded like a real person, someone else in the room with him. Stuart seemed to have no knowledge of how the shootings had been carried out, or indeed how to use a gun at all. She wasn’t convinced he was actually responsible for the killings. Yes, the lawyers had said, but it could also be argued that the trauma of his actions had brought on the multiple personalities, had given him the knowledge to use the gun, the courage to act on his impulses …

And that was what they had gone with.

Marina had flagged something else up too. She was sure she wasn’t the only psychologist to notice, but it never appeared in the trial. When she asked Stuart about his stepbrother and stepsister, he recoiled, his expression filled with dread. He became agitated, stuttering and stumbling over words, unable to sit still. Convinced there was something there, she had tried to press him. She wanted to question him further on his relationship with them, but had been politely but firmly reminded what her brief was. The brother and sister were not a part of it. They were the victims in this case. And they were also very rich, so the defence had to think carefully before making any investigations into them or allegations against them. Marina had reluctantly agreed.

The case continued to gnaw at her, but since she hadn’t been called on to give evidence, there was nothing she could do. As her colleagues suggested, she banked the cheque and settled down with a nice big gin and tonic to put it out of her mind.

But she still followed the case on the news, in the papers, and was horrified at the level of reporting, the scale of tabloid vitriol directed against Stuart from people who had never met him. She saw his supposed multiple personalities defence ridiculed and heard no mention of his relationship with his step-siblings. When he was found guilty and sentenced, she wasn’t the least surprised. But she had to let it go. It was no longer her problem.

Until now.

She looked round, trying to find a path back to the beach huts. Then noticed what was in front of her. A huge old house, backing on to the river, crumbling and overgrown, nature trying to reclaim it, pull it back into the earth. And she knew immediately what it was.

The old Sloane place.

That had been one of the stipulations after the trial, she remembered. The brother and sister moved away but wanted the house to be left to rot away on its own. They had refused every offer from developers and the council to buy the land or do something with the old property. They wanted it left as it was.

They had got their wish.

The phone rang. Love Will Tear Us Apart. She answered it and was asked if she had read the email. She said she had.

‘You were the only one who believed him,’ the voice said. ‘The only one who thought he was innocent. We checked the records. You knew what was going on. That’s why we chose you.’

Marina said nothing.

‘Now do you understand why you’ve been brought here? What you’ve got to do?’

Marina, still staring at the house, remembered the last part of the email.

Stuart Sloane was not insane. Stuart Sloane did not have multiple personalities. Stuart Sloane is as sane as you or I. She doubted that part but had read on. Stuart Sloane has been made a scapegoat and been defrauded out of millions by the Sloanes that should rightfully have been his. Stuart Sloane needs to get even.

Stuart Sloane needs your help to do that.

‘Yes.’ Marina sighed. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘Congratulations, Dr Esposito. You’ve got a new client.’

36

Tyrell saw the woman from the kitchen walking towards the caravan and felt immediately angry. He didn’t want her anywhere near him. But he also knew that he didn’t have a choice.

The door was unlocked, opened and she stepped inside. He had only seen her through the kitchen window. She had been angry-looking, red-faced. Now, up close, she looked different. The red had drained from her features, leaving her pale and blotchy. She had applied make-up, but it was uneven, poorly done. Tyrell had read somewhere that faces could be described as sculpted. This woman’s had been chiselled. Her hair was messy, uncombed, and seemed to be at an angle to her head. Her clothes — leggings, trainers, fleece — were shabby and dull, as if they had been washed too many times.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’

He stood up, stared at her. Didn’t move. She wasn’t meeting his gaze.

‘I don’t like you,’ he said.

She sighed, looked at her watch. ‘Which breaks my heart.’

‘You were horrible to that little girl. Really horrible.’

She said nothing.

‘You shouldn’t have talked to her like that.’

‘None of your business.’

He could feel something welling inside him but wasn’t sure what. ‘You scared her. You shouldn’t have scared her.’ Anger? Sadness? ‘You should never scare children. Never … ’ He felt the hot pinprick of tears at the corners of his eyes as he kept staring at her. She looked away from him. Was she embarrassed in some way?

Tyrell moved in towards her. She flinched, moved back slightly. ‘You threatened her.’ He scrutinised her closely. ‘What kind of person threatens a little girl?’