Poppet

The Avonmere Hotel

CAFFERY WASN’T LOOKING forward to the superintendent’s new case, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe there are benefits. They say the watched pot never boils – it might be good to keep himself occupied while Flea has time to let the shock work through her system and decide what she’s going to do. And maybe by then he’ll have a plan B for if she says no.

He reports back to the superintendent, sits through the inevitable lecture – how much longer will the teams be out searching for Misty Kitson? How he can justify the spend? Surely the press must be satisfied by now? – and then announces his intention to check out the Beechway case. Just have a sniff.

The superintendent isn’t easily won over. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But I want to know tomorrow at the latest how we’re going to categorize it. And if it’s a case for us then I want you full throttle on it.’

The first thing Caffery does is get the three grand spend for a forensic post-mortem OK’d by the scientific investigations coordinator, then he calls the coroner’s office to put a snatch on Zelda’s body, stop it going to burial. She’s still in the mortuary at Flax Bourton where all the post-mortems are done now the hospitals in the area have closed down their facilities. He gets put through to his old friend Beatrice Foxton, the on-call Home Office pathologist. He’s lucky she didn’t do the original PM – he’d be embarrassed to ask her to do it again – nevertheless, she’s still a little uncomfortable about it. Firstly the conclusion on the current PM – heart attack secondary to obesity – is a new syndrome which is only just finding its way to death certificates. Secondly she hasn’t seen the deceased yet and is concerned the incision to open the body might be the one used for ordinary hospital PMs which can interfere with the neck area she’d want to examine. But Beatrice promises to do her best, and to make Zelda a priority.

Next he sends one of the civilian investigators out in the van to get the hard copies of the Isaac Handel case from the archive. It’s going to take most of the day, so in the meantime he studies the case outline in the HOLMES database. Then he puts in phone calls to a couple of the force’s old warhorses who’ve been around long enough to remember the Upton Farm killings. They fill in the details Caffery wouldn’t find in HOLMES. They’re not pretty.

As he works, Misty’s eyes seem to follow him. Every time he looks up from his desk, it’s as if she’s saying, What about me? Have you forgotten me? He almost holds a hand up to deflect the glare of her attention. He’d turn her to face the wall if he didn’t think that would be worse.

He checks his blank phone screen, wondering whether to call Flea. He starts to compose a text message, but thinks better of it, pockets the phone and sits for a while swinging his hands at his sides, not sure what to do with himself. If this thing ever gets resolved it will be on Flea’s terms, and in her own good time.

Irritated now, he pulls on his coat, heads down the stairs to the car park and gets in the car. It feels good to be moving. It feels good to be thinking about something else. Even Isaac Handel – a teenage psycho who killed both his parents and did unspeakable things to their bodies.

He drives out through the west Bristol suburbs wondering how much faith one should put in the mental-health and justice systems in the UK. The answer is, of course, that one can never be one hundred per cent confident. How often does a person secretly torment fellow patients? And how often does someone like that get away with it? Even get released from the facility, unchecked and unmonitored?

Ordinarily, Caffery would ride roughshod over anyone who had the nerve to ask for a favour then slap conditions on it. But, strangely, he likes AJ. Besides, after what Caffery’s heard he’s happy not to go to Beechway unit, and instead to go directly to Isaac Handel. At the very least, he wants to be sure Handel’s sticking to the terms of his discharge. To find out who’s keeping track of his movements.

His supported-living placement is the Avonmere Hotel, overlooking the muddy riverbanks. Caffery pulls up outside a little after midday. The exterior is fitted out to look like a standard B&B, though the sign in the sitting-room window probably always reads ‘no vacancies’. Caffery knows places like this. The clientele won’t look much like visiting businessmen or tourists, either. In fact they’ll all be addicts and s37/41 discharges.

No one stops Caffery walking in or peering into rooms. The ground-floor accommodation is set up for group socializing – a sitting room, dining room and games/TV room; the upper floors are probably divided into bedsits. He finds a door marked ‘Office’ at the end of the hall and opens it. Still no one has stopped him. The manager is with a client, but one glance at Caffery in suit and tie, and he bends to the client and murmurs, ‘Can we finish this later?’

The client swivels in Caffery’s direction, his movements slow and slightly jerky. His eyes don’t seem to register anything, but he shoots to his feet so fast he nearly topples over.

‘No rush, mate,’ the manager says.

The guy nods three times, looking at his feet. Bringing his hand up to the crown of his head, he swats his hair with the palm of his hand, smoothing it forward so that it lies flat on his forehead. Caffery stands to one side, holding the door open. The guy lumbers out, not making eye contact. Caffery waits until he’s gone before showing his warrant card.

‘Detective Inspector Jack Caffery.’

‘Yes,’ the manager says. ‘Been looking forward to meeting you.’ He must be in his late thirties, but his face has a childlike quality that is heightened, paradoxically, by his baldness. He has shaved what little of his hair remains, giving him the appearance of an ageing cherub. He wears a black stud in his right ear and a Celtic-knot steel ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Behind his desk is a poster of The Smiths, Glastonbury 1984. He offers his hand.

‘Bill Hurst.’

Caffery shakes his hand. Notices that as soon as he releases it, Hurst brings his hand straight to the back of his neck.

‘I’m here to speak to Isaac Handel.’

‘Yes – yes.’ Hurst stands awkwardly – scratching his neck – avoiding meeting Caffery’s eyes. ‘Yes, you did say.’

‘So? Is there somewhere private I can chat to him?’

‘Thing is …’ he begins sheepishly. ‘About Isaac …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing.’

‘What is?’

‘He’s kind of not here at the moment.’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Not here.’

‘That’s what I thought you said. So where, kind of, is he?’

‘Ummmmm … not a hundred per cent sure, to tell you the truth.’

‘When I phoned, you said I could speak to him.’

‘Yes – I thought he’d have come back by then. You’ve got to understand, this isn’t a secure hostel. Clients are required to sleep here, but they’re free to go wherever they want during the day as long as they’re not breaking any restrictions in their discharge papers.’

Caffery takes a moment to rein in his impatience. He counts to ten in his head. ‘OK, OK. Let’s start from the beginning – when did you last see him?’

Hurst begins to fidget. ‘Ummmm …’

‘Come on, spit it out – this morning?’ Hurst doesn’t answer. He scratches his neck harder. ‘Jesus!’ Caffery exhales. ‘Yesterday?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think so?’

‘It’s not a perfect system. I’m short-staffed, just had two phone calls from people calling in sick. It’s the uncertainty about what the government wants to do to our jobs.’

‘Fantastic. Outstanding.’ Caffery shakes his head, weary. The more he sees, the more he’s wondering why Handel was ever released into a flimsy place like this. ‘He must have slept somewhere last night?’

Hurst shrugs.

‘You’ve reported him missing?’

‘This morning. The Community Mental Health Team will take it from here.’

He still can’t look Caffery in the eye. Christ, what a spectacular jerk this guy is.

‘Anyone here he talked to? Anyone who might point me in the right direction?’

‘Not really – Handel was a bit of a lone wolf from what I saw of him. Didn’t talk to anyone that I saw, just listened to his iPod, kept himself to himself.’

‘And he was compliant?’

‘Mostly. A bit agitated. He was always playing “All Souls’ Day” on his iPod. You know?’ He gives Caffery a faintly hopeful look. ‘The Ataris? Best pop punk to come out of the States in decades?’

Caffery sighs. Shakes his head.

‘It’s only a day,’ Hurst protests. ‘Not that long.’

‘You know how lame that sounds? Even as it’s coming out of your mouth, a part of you must be thinking: this is lay-ayme.’

Hurst dips his head. ‘Point taken.’

‘When’s his depot due?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

Two days before the antipsychotic depot injection is due. From the little Caffery knows about mental illness, Handel’s stability will disintegrate rapidly if that appointment is missed.

‘I need to see his room.’

Hurst’s eyes widen a fraction. ‘Awww, mate, I’m sorry – I can’t allow that. Everything in this place is based on trust – the staff’s trust for the clients and the clients’ trust in the staff. I can’t go letting you into someone’s room without a really, really good reason.’

‘He’s on an s47 conditional discharge – and staying in the hostel every night was one of those conditions. He’s not complying, which is a criminal act, dah de dah. I won’t patronize you by reciting the spiel, you’ve been here before, you know the drill. Rooms are upstairs, aren’t they?’ Caffery is already out of his chair. ‘Maybe I’ll just knock on every door till I find the right one.’

He is out of the room before Hurst has time to make it around to the other side of his desk. The manager catches up with him in the hall. He’s breathing hard.

‘OK,’ he hisses. ‘All right – but can we please keep it low key?’

‘After you,’ Caffery says.

Hurst edges past him. ‘Low key – yeah?’ he repeats.

‘Of course.’

Caffery follows him up the stairs to the first floor. Two doors open within seconds of each other; the first tenant steps on to the landing – strung out, the front of his sweatshirt stained, his trousers hanging half mast. When he sees Caffery he makes a quick U-turn back into his room. The second door slams shut before Caffery can get a look at the occupant.

All of the rooms are secured with Yale locks. As Hurst pulls out the key to the door of number five, he seems to be having misgivings.

He turns his back to the room and raises both hands. ‘I don’t know, man. I should probably wait till I get the all-clear from the mental-health team.’

Legally, Caffery can’t go in without an invitation, but it will take time and useless paperwork to obtain a warrant. He fixes the manager with a stare. ‘Aren’t you curious what Handel did that got him locked up for fifteen years?’

‘No – and I don’t want to know.’ Hurst’s ears flush red. ‘We’re not given details on patients’ mental health, just guidance on what to look for in case they become unstable. We’re here to rehabilitate, not judge.’

Caffery leans back against the handrail. He examines the cherubic face from the pale, shining forehead to the dimpled chin. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t know the nuts and bolts of how your “clients” end up in the system. Sadly, I do know. And in Handel’s case let’s just put it this way – ‘sick’ isn’t even ballpark.’

Hurst fingers the bunch of keys attached to the key reel on his belt, but he’s still undecided.

‘And that was when he was only a kid,’ Caffery continues. ‘I don’t think any of us know what he’s capable of as an adult. A paranoid schizophrenic, out on licence, missing for twenty-four hours?’

Hurst’s eyes fix on the door number, and a pink patch of colour spreads from his ears to the dome of his head.

‘And you have only just reported him missing?’

‘OK, OK,’ he mutters, dragging the keys from his belt. ‘I can manage without the lecture.’