Poppet

Carrier Bags

WHEN CAFFERY THINKS about it, he can’t imagine how Isaac has survived a cold October night with nowhere to stay. The patients receive an allowance while they’re on the unit and, according to AJ, Isaac had saved a lot of cash; nevertheless Caffery reckons he’d struggle to get a room. A confused schizophrenic would be shown the ‘no vacancies’ sign, no matter how much cash he had on him. An image comes: a warm bed, food. Someone helping Handel? AJ mentioned power cuts in the unit that coincided with each episode; it’s hard to believe that a patient would have the kind of access to pull that off on his own.

Someone else involved. Caffery parks the idea in the corner of his head. He’ll come back to it later.

He stands in the room at the Avonmere Hotel, absorbing it all. It’s just big enough to squeeze in a single bed, a bedside cabinet, chest of drawers and wardrobe. The curtains are thin; the carpet, a hardwearing cord, looks as if it has been cleaned recently. Everything is neat, well ordered: the bed is made, there is no clothing on view except for a pair of slippers. The chest of drawers is piled high with magazines. Caffrey flicks through them: What Hi-Fi, Computing, Computer Weekly, two Maplin catalogues, and one from Screwfix. There is no TV in the room, just an iPod docking station.

Caffery opens the bedside cabinet and takes out a brown pharmacy bottle. Seroxat – it’s in Handel’s name. He shows it to Hurst and gives it a shake to demonstrate it’s empty.

Hurst spreads his hands wide. ‘Don’t look at me – speak to the mental-health team.’

‘Yeah, we’ve got a department like that in the police. The SEP unit.’

‘What?’

‘Someone Else’s Problem.’

Hurst narrows his eyes. He’s beyond disgruntled now. ‘I don’t get a cop’s salary,’ he says. ‘No early retirement and a pension either – index-linked or otherwise.’

Caffery puts the pill bottle back in the cabinet. He checks under the bed, pushing his hand up between the slats and the mattress. He runs his fingertips along the top of the curtain rail and then across the empty coat hangers in the wardrobe, making them clatter. He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for – he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, except to prove a point to Hurst. How many people like Handel slip through the net, he wonders. In places like this it’s probably a daily occurrence.

He stops. In the bottom of Handel’s wardrobe is a stack of folded carrier bags. He squats down and presses his hand against them. They’re all from Wickes. A hardware store is not the most reassuring place for someone like Handel to be shopping – particularly in the context of what he did to his parents.

Caffery pulls the bags out and carefully shakes each one. They are all empty, except for the fifth, which contains a receipt for the iPod dock and the box it came in – now empty.

‘Most of our clients spend their allowances on sweets and crisps.’

‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they spend it on,’ Caffery says drily. ‘Mind if I keep this?’

‘He might want it for the guarantee.’

Caffery gives him a long look.

Eventually Hurst shrugs. ‘Be my guest.’