‘What the fuck was that about? A knife to the throat? Are you crazy? You could have made me an accessory to murder.’
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Carol.’ Fingers on the handle, door opening. ‘Just keeping it in the family.’
Carol grabbed Vanessa’s arm, drawing her away from the car. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You sent me to do a job, then you waltzed in and turned it into— I don’t know, some sort of Tarantino gameshow.’
Vanessa pulled herself free. She chuckled. ‘I like that. A Tarantino gameshow. Listen, if you wanted me to stay out of it, you shouldn’t have told me where you were. I got the job done, didn’t I? You’d have been there all night, smashing ornaments and chatting away. I thought you were tougher than that, but you’re as soft as my useless son.’
Something inside Carol’s head seemed to shatter, filling it with white noise. She grabbed Vanessa by the shoulders and screamed at her, spittle flying. ‘Stay away from us, you bitch. We’re done with you. Come near me or Tony again and I’ll be the one with the knife. You want to take a chance on how soft I am? Bring it on, bitch.’ She pushed Vanessa away from her, hard, so she faltered, then tumbled to one knee.
Carol stepped back, breathing hard, hating herself, hating her rage.
Vanessa looked up at her, calculating. Then she relaxed and pushed herself upright. She brushed the dirt from her knee, tutting at the damage. ‘Have you any idea how much this suit cost? I should bill you.’
Carol shifted on to the balls of her feet, teeth bared in a snarl.
Vanessa gave a little laugh. ‘Well done, Carol. But we’re through now. No more fun outings for us. There’s no reason why I should ever bother you or that pitiful excuse for a man I have to call my son.’
Carol turned and jogged down into the dunes. The alternative would have been to descend even further into the hell that evening had become. She’d never had a particularly close relationship with her parents – that had been the role of her brother Michael, and since they held Carol responsible for his death, they’d become even more distant. But she couldn’t imagine living with the knowledge that Vanessa was your mother. It was amazing that Tony had survived her, a miracle that he had become the man he was.
There was a storm raging inside her now, a turmoil of panic and grief and disgust. All the work she’d done, all the progress she’d thought she’d made, all stripped away. She was back where she’d started, a failure. She walked down the beach towards the sea, distant at low tide, the ruffled surface silvered under a three-quarter moon that pulled her onward just as it pulled the sea itself.
She knew what she had to do. The question was whether she had the courage to do it.
50
The more the neuroscientists tell us about the workings of the human brain, the more we psychologists have to factor into our assessments. For example, it’s now well-documented that frontal lobe damage can lead to personality changes including lack of inhibition, aggressive behaviour and risk-taking.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Dr Elinor Blessing shrugged into her white coat, slung her stethoscope round her neck and slipped from the locker room to the coffee station next door. She filled her water bottle at the cooler, tuning out the chatter around her as she considered the morning rounds ahead of her. She was roused from her thoughts by a lanky junior doctor saying her name.
‘You know him, don’t you, Elinor?’
She half-turned. ‘Know who?’
‘The murderer on ward fourteen.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Chisholm?’ More irritated than interested by the exchange, she turned back to her bottle.
‘The murderer on ward fourteen. You know him.’
She sighed, exasperated. She didn’t like Chisholm. He was flippant, dismissive and prone to making so-called jokes at patients’ expense. This sounded like one of his usual inappropriate comments. ‘Saying the same nonsense twice doesn’t make it any clearer. You’re not going to have much of a career as a medic if you can’t explain yourself lucidly.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘There’s a guy in the side room on ward fourteen. Neurosurgery. He was brought in last night with a depressed skull fracture. He’s under guard because he’s a prisoner at HMP Doniston—’
‘Tony?’ Shock clutched at Elinor’s chest. ‘Tony Hill?’
Chisholm grinned triumphantly. ‘I knew you knew him. I said to the charge nurse, Dr Blessing’s wife worked with him before he went on the rampage.’
She was already halfway to the door. She paused and turned back to face him, eyes dark with anger, voice icy. ‘Shut up, Chisholm. You do not go around breaching patient confidentiality in this hospital. Especially not when you’re as full of shit as you are.’
Elinor yanked the door closed behind her, his words floating after her. ‘But he did kill someone, there’s no getting away from that.’
Down the hallway, follow the line of blue tiles to the lift, press the button, press the button pointlessly again. Fifth floor, follow the red tiles to the wards, twelve, thirteen, through the double doors to the reception desk of ward fourteen. Neurosurgery. Elinor only realised how grim she was looking when she registered the startled look on the nurse’s face. She found a smile and stuck it on. ‘You’ve got a patient called Hill? Tony Hill?’
A quick flash of curiosity, hidden immediately. Nurses hated giving anything away, especially to doctors who weren’t their doctors. ‘Anthony Hill.’
‘What’s the score?’
Reluctantly, the nurse said, ‘We got him from Doniston General last night. Depressed fracture of the skull. Subdural haematoma. He’s down for a burr-hole trephination later this morning with Mr Senanayake.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘We’ve got him under light sedation.’
‘OK. He’s an old friend of mine. Can you have somebody beep me when he’s come round after his surgery.’ She showed her pager number to the nurse, who
