The Reckoning on Cane Hill: A Novel (10 page)

But still.

‘Just a minute,’ she called.

The coffee machine clicked off. Eileen placed the case files securely in the cabinet, then walked over to the door and unlocked and opened it.

The heat rushed in; even at this early hour, the day was beginning to bake. And yet it wasn’t that that made her take a slight step back. It was the sight of the young man waiting on the doorstep. He was about thirty years old, with neat brown hair swept to one side, wearing a smart suit. A plain but somehow attractive face with a nice smile. Genuine. The sight of him brought the tightness back to her abdomen, and the silence in the house behind her felt suddenly more dangerous than before. She had an urge to go and close the door to the hallway and
lock it, to protect John from the man on the doorstep, who was a reminder of the past life that had damaged him so badly.

Instead, she forced a professional smile.

‘Mark,’ she said.

Mark

Vulnerable people

It had been over a year and a half since I’d seen Eileen Mercer. In the immediate aftermath of the 50/50 Killer case, I’d been responsible for interviewing her about what had taken place at this house on that winter morning. I’d actually spoken to her the day before, when she had phoned the office. At that point, I’d detected a hint of mischief in her voice: a sparkle. Understandably, that had disappeared by the time I sat down with her at her sister’s house, but she had still been at least as in control of the interview as I was. Given her background in psychology and therapy, it hadn’t surprised me, but even so, in the circumstances, I had been struck by how intelligent and self-possessed she was.

The intervening time had been kind to her. She was in her sixties, slim and elegant, and if anything she actually looked younger now than she had eighteen months ago. But she no longer seemed quite so in control. My arrival had clearly flustered her. As she invited me in and showed me to an armchair, she kept glancing back in the direction of the main house, as though worried that my presence was going to disturb some precarious balance. I had no wish to upset her, and a part of me was sorry that I’d come. But I needed advice.

‘Quite a library,’ I said, admiring the shelves of books that
lined the walls. It was a warm room, managing to feel formal and professional but also immediately comfortable.

Eileen poured us both a coffee.

‘Thank you. How are you?’ For a second, I thought she was asking about Lise and Sasha, but then she added: ‘Things at the department, I mean?’

‘We’ve moved buildings. Apart from that, it’s the same as always.’ I accepted the cup. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Sipping the coffee, I realised that my answer wasn’t completely true. While I’d only worked under her husband for a day and a half, it was obvious that the aftermath of the 50/50 Killer investigation had altered the internal dynamics of the team for ever. Pete was in charge now, for one thing, and while he was a good cop, he wasn’t a natural leader. He certainly wasn’t John Mercer. There were none of the flashes of insight and wild intellectual leaps on which Mercer had built his legendary career, something I thought Pete understood only too well. And while Simon had carried on much as before, Greg’s relationship with the pair of them had shifted. He had committed a small betrayal that day, and while it was never explicitly mentioned, it had never been entirely forgotten either.

Eileen sat down in the chair opposite me, a coffee table between us. It was possibly the arrangement she used for her therapy patients. Perhaps, I thought, I could actually use some of that.

‘As the saying goes,’ Eileen said, ‘this isn’t a social call, is it?’

‘No. I was hoping for some advice. About a case that’s come up.’

She almost glanced behind her again. ‘From me?’

‘Yes. From you. Obviously, we can arrange a consultation fee.’

‘Well, I suppose we can see. But I don’t even know if I can help yet. Tell me about the case.’

I told her about the woman who was claiming to be Charlie Matheson, beginning with the circumstances in which she’d been
found, then working through the story of the accident and her belief that she had died in the crash. I finished up with my visit to see her husband, Paul Carlisle, and the photograph that had convinced me that the woman in the hospital was telling the truth about her identity. By the end of the account, Eileen was frowning.

‘That’s quite extraordinary.’

‘I agree. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

‘There is something,’ she said. ‘Cotard’s delusion. It’s quite rare, and I’ve never encountered it myself, but sufferers can become convinced that parts of their bodies are missing, even though they aren’t. In extreme cases, they believe they’re literally dead.’

‘That sounds promising.’

‘Except, of course, they don’t really die. And from what you’re telling me, someone actually
did
die in that car crash.’

‘That’s true.’

‘What were your impressions of her?’

I leaned back in the chair. ‘Well ... I didn’t get the feeling she was lying to me. Her memory was very confused. But on a basic level, I think she really did believe what she told me.’

‘Was she fragile?’

‘A little.’ I thought about it; that wasn’t quite right. ‘She looked scared. A bit bewildered and overwhelmed by everything. But there was also anger there, especially towards the end. Frustration.’

‘Frustration?’

‘That people weren’t taking her seriously. And also that she couldn’t think clearly.’ I recalled what she’d said to me:
I need to remember
. ‘She seemed to believe there was something important she had to remember, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t.’

‘And aside from the story itself, did she appear delusional?’

‘No. Apart from the content of what she was telling me, I never got the impression she was delusional. She was angry
with me for not believing her, but aside from the scars and the subject matter, she came across as fairly normal.’

‘Those are big asides, aren’t they?’ Eileen said.

‘Yes. They are.’

‘All right.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘It’s hard to say without interviewing her myself, but it seems to me that there are two basic possibilities you’re dealing with here. To my mind, one of them is far more likely than the other. And that’s obviously discounting a third explanation altogether.’

‘Which is?’

‘That she really has come back from the dead.’

I thought of Lise, and replied far too quickly.

‘People don’t come back from the dead.’

‘No.’ Eileen gave me the slightest of smiles. ‘Of course not. Which leaves the next option: that she’s making it up entirely. Lying to you. You don’t believe that’s the case?’

‘No.’

‘Which leaves the possibility that she’s telling not the truth, but her version of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When people undergo trauma, it’s often hard to face up to it, so they parcel it up, compartmentalise it. Recast it in their heads so it’s easier to deal with. Some experiences are simply too painful to face head on. The story she’s told you so far, and the things she might tell you as time goes on, may well all be her mind’s attempt to make sense of what’s happened to her. It would be genuine and honest from her point of view, but not necessarily literally true.’

‘Partly true, though?’

‘Yes. Not a total fabrication. She thinks she’s been dead. So wherever she’s been, maybe she was surrounded by religious iconography. I don’t know; I’m speculating. But the point is, the story could be an interpretation of something terrible that’s happened to her, rather than a literal account of it.’

I thought about it.

‘Could you
make
someone believe they were dead?’ I said.
‘Because she actually claims to remember going through the windscreen of the car. She’s sure that happened.’

‘You say she was tortured?’

‘She’s scarred: lots of cuts to her face. I don’t know if she sees it as torture.’

‘She might not, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t. And in answer to your question, yes, I think it’s possible in theory. I’ve never heard of it happening before, but torture, brainwashing, gaslighting, manipulation ... yes, of course. You see it in cults, certain oppressive regimes. It’s usually used to make people more compliant, but this is just an extension of that really. Same principles, same techniques.’

‘It’s far more extreme.’

‘It is,’ Eileen said, ‘but given two years, and with enough repetition and mistreatment, I think you could probably make someone believe almost anything you wanted them to. In the end, they would
want
to believe it.’

I nodded, thinking it over.

‘Some of the details would correspond to what really happened. So the thing to do would be to get as much information as possible.’

‘As carefully as possible.’

‘Of course.’

‘Because you have to be careful with vulnerable people.’

I nodded again, aware once more of the home beyond her office, and the way she kept glancing in that direction. Was John in there now? Presumably so. But I had no wish to see him, and it was obvious from Eileen’s manner that she didn’t want whatever peace he’d found since leaving the police to be disturbed.

‘Of course,’ I said again, then stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee. And the advice.’

‘I’m not sure how much help I’ve been.’

She walked me over to the door. But as I opened it, I realised I was still wondering. That I couldn’t quite leave it.

‘How is he?’ I said.

‘He’s fine.’

But she said it too quickly, the same way I’d responded after her words had brought a flash memory of Lise to my mind. And it wasn’t so different, was it? Here I was, a ghost from her husband’s past, threatening the new life – the hard-won peace – that had been established over the past year and a half.

‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘Thank you again.’

As I stepped out, Eileen seemed to relent slightly.

‘He’s working on a new book,’ she said. ‘It’s about ... that man.’

Despite the warmth of the morning sun, I felt a chill at her choice of words.
That man
. I knew who she meant, of course. Even though he was dead and gone, we’d never successfully identified the 50/50 Killer; we had no idea who he was or where he’d come from. He stood anonymously at the focal point of the whirlwind of violence he’d unleashed on the city, and on John Mercer in particular.

And Mercer was working on a book about him? I didn’t know what to say. The thought of him revisiting that case -poring over it; maybe obsessing over it – was unnerving, and I now understood Eileen’s unease a little better.

‘I don’t know if it’s healthy,’ she said, reading the expression on my face. ‘But he’s fine right now, and I’ll take that. It seems to be what he needs.’

‘Well, then. That’s good.’

‘And for now, he’s happy.’

But there was an undercurrent to the way she said that. And another one a moment later, when she closed the door gently but firmly without saying goodbye.

Mark

Mercy

As I sat down for my second interview with Charlie Matheson, I knew I was going to have to approach things very differently from the first.

The advice Eileen had given me remained fresh in my mind: there was no telling how much of Charlie’s story was true. Certainly, she hadn’t died in the accident. Beyond that, some parts of her account could be entirely accurate, while others might be fantastical elaborations with only a hint of basis in reality. It was my job to begin to delve into that. And I would need to be gentle with her while I did it.

Because you have to be careful with vulnerable people
.

And of course another difference from yesterday was that this time I believed the woman really might be Charlie Matheson.

‘Detective,’ she said as I sat down in the chair beside the bed.

I switched on the camera on my lapel.

‘How are you feeling today, Charlie?’

‘Better. Thank you.’ She nodded once. ‘I’m sorry for my outburst yesterday, just before you left.’

‘You don’t need to apologise.’

‘Oh, but I do. That’s really not like me. At all. I don’t like losing control, and I was annoyed with myself afterwards. It
was just that everything was –
is
– so confusing for me at the moment. This is all so overwhelming.’

‘Which is understandable.’ I tried to smile reassuringly. ‘And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too if it seemed like I wasn’t taking you seriously.’

‘You believe me now?’

‘I believe you’re who you say you are.’

‘Did you talk to Paul?’

‘Yes. He was very upset, as you can imagine.’

‘Oh? Not pleased, then?’

‘Well ... it’s complicated.’

‘I suppose so. How is he?’

‘He’s engaged.’ And just as when I’d spoken to Carlisle yesterday, there didn’t seem any point in sugar-coating the facts. ‘His new partner is pregnant.’

The look on her face when I said it was heartbreaking, but she only allowed the sadness a fleeting appearance before it was gone again. She knew I’d seen it, though, and after a moment she gave me a flat, empty smile.

‘Well. Of course. It has been two fucking years after all, hasn’t it?’

Just like the sadness a moment ago, the trace of anger vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She was more in control of herself than yesterday, I thought; where she’d appeared vulnerable and disorientated during that first interview, she seemed much more self-possessed now.

‘He always wanted children, Paul.’ There was a wry smile at that, then she shook her head. ‘And it makes sense that he’d move on, especially with me dead.’

‘You aren’t dead, Charlie. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last two years, but I do know that.’

‘I remember dying. In the car crash.’

‘Are you really sure about that?’

‘Yes.’ But I thought she sounded less certain than she had yesterday. ‘I remember the car. And I remember going over the embankment.’