“Schrodinger’s cat,” Dr Harman said, picking up his train of thought.
“Mmm?”
“It’s a quantum physics thought experiment about a cat in a box. The cat’s being potentially poisoned, but you can only truly tell if it’s alive or dead by opening the box.”
Garrick shifted position in the chair. He’d been there so long it felt as if it was moulding to his shape.
“You’d hear it scratching.”
“That’s not the point. It’s a soundproof box. You can’t hear or see the cat.”
“Murders I can handle,” he said with a wry smile. “But hurt a cat, and it will take more than the law to save you.”
Harman gave a good-natured chuckle. Or was she humouring him?
“How people treat animals reveals a lot about them.” Garrick waited to hear if that was a good thing or not, but she tapped the tip of the pen gently against her lips and looked thoughtful. “What I meant with Schrodinger’s cat is, not wanting to know the truth is actually a prevalent attitude with most people. For example, not knowing how much debt you’re in means the debt can’t be so bad. Not knowing your fiancé is cheating on you, means life continues as normal.”
Garrick glanced at her. That was an unusual analogy to throw at him. Had it been a slip of the tongue? Dr Harman was looking at her plant, as if noticing the withering leaves for the first time. Her shoulder length wavy blonde hair was tied back today. Garrick hated himself for noticing. He hated finding her attractive. Flirting with one’s therapist was surely a textbook act of insanity.
“I’m still not sure why you brought the cat into this.”
She smiled and looked squarely at him. “The biopsy. You still don’t have a date for it, correct?” Garrick nodded. “Which could be something of a relief, because right now you’re in a state of not knowing. Ignorance is bliss.”
“Not in my profession.”
“No. But in life it’s a self-defence mechanism that keeps stress at bay. It allows you to focus on more pressing matters in hand. And that can be a good thing, as long as you don’t let ignorance become your reality.”
Garrick let that sink in for a moment. Harman loved oblique associations, cryptic analogies, and tenuous allegories. “Are you fishing around about what happened with John?”
John Howard had been a long-time friend. And, unbeknownst to him, a serial killer on the side. A difficult proposition to accept about the closest friend he had.
“Well, you mentioned him, not me.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Dr Harman, if we were in court then you would be accused of leading the witness.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Now you’re venturing down the lane of quackery,” Garrick laughed. “I respect you too much for that.”
He caught a flash of a smile as she noted something on the pad.
“You’re too sharp for me, Detective.” She glanced at her Apple Watch. “And we’re almost out of time, which means you avoided the questions I was going to ask about whether your date made it to the next round.”
He had managed two more rounds with Wendy after their disastrous first date. Incredibly, she had reached out to him after that, and the next two dates had gone well. Slow, but well. But he didn’t want to let Dr Harman know that. Not yet.
“Too bad,” Garrick replied as he stood. “At least we have a subject for the next session.”
Dr Harman sharply tapped the pen on her pad.
“It’s so much easier when you set the agenda.”
Garrick smiled, but couldn’t help thinking that she had just set him up. On the way to his aging beige Land Rover, he pulled the collar of his Barbour tighter against the rain and tried to remember whose turn was it to set the date. He was pretty sure it was Wendy’s.
He checked his phone to see if she had messaged him as it had been on silent during his session. There were three missed calls and a voicemail from DS Okon. That could mean only one thing.
3
It was still raining heavily when Garrick pulled up outside the driveway of the detached house in Tenterden. He didn’t need to check the address. The police car at the entrance gate was enough to confirm this was the murder scene. He showed his ID card to the copper, who told him to park further up the street.
It was difficult to find a parking spot on the narrow street, and by the time Garrick jogged back to the house and up the gravel driveway, his pants were soaked through.
The house was an impressive size and had been heavily renovated from its Georgian origins. Even from just the lights from the police vans, he could see the front garden was fastidiously maintained. The twenty yards of gravel driveway was taken up by two marked incident vans and a police car. The forensic team was putting up a tent against an extended wing of the house. The front door was open, with a policewoman standing just inside. When he showed his ID, he was directed into a large living room, filled with more white suited forensics being watched by a young Nigerian detective, DS Chibarameze Okon.
“Hi Chib, what have we got?”
Chib frowned when she noticed Garrick’s coat was dripping on the plastic that had been laid to protect the floor. Somehow, it looked as if the rain had missed her completely. Taking the hint, Garrick removed his jacket and shoes, placing them on the plastic. Chib tossed him a rolled-up pair of blue plastic overshoes, which he dutifully placed over his socks. He noticed she was wearing hers over her sensible flat shoes. He took a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket and put them on.
“Owner of the house.” She nodded to the body on the floor. “Derek
