‘You think she’s counting on them not arriving in time, so she can get away with not mentioning that she’s been in therapy for several weeks?’
‘I think that’s exactly what she’s doing. And trying to convince me that she’s co-operating and improving is her backup plan.’
‘Let’s say the BAS do find out and want you to certify her fit. Is that something you would be happy doing?’
‘To be honest, I’m not close enough to a diagnosis to be able to say she shouldn’t take up a new job. And would it be fair of me to stand in her way? She’s obviously perfectly capable of fulfilling her current role.’
‘This South Georgia post sounds very different to an office job in Cambridge.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not sure that’s for me to say.’
Torquil gives a deep sigh. ‘We can’t cure them all, Joe.’
‘I know.’
‘Still doing the Tuesday pro bono work?’
Joe inclines his head.
‘You can be stretched too thin you know.’
‘I’m coping.’
‘Really?’
Joe opens his mouth to say that he’s fine and thinks better of it. ‘The break-in knocked me back,’ he admits. ‘I can’t be in my flat without checking Ezzy Sheeran isn’t in one of the cupboards or under the table. Forget sleeping. I barricade myself into my bedroom with any number of alarms and booby traps and I still can’t manage more than an hour or two.’
‘Still having the dreams?’
Joe doesn’t need to ask which dreams. ‘Not sure they’ll ever stop,’ he says.
‘They might. If your mum and her squad find a dead body. Or apprehend a live one. Any news?’
Joe shakes his head. ‘None. The girl you all saw at the crematorium – probably just coincidence.’
‘And the police are convinced it was a man called Shane who entered your flat?’
‘There’s no doubt. Two uniforms saw him drop the knife. The prints match those in my flat. It was definitely Shane.’
‘The same Shane who’s the prime suspect in the murder of Bella Barnes?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Why would a homeless man called Shane break into your flat at night?’
‘Very good question. The only thing I can think of is he knows about the work I do with the homeless and has a problem he thinks I can help with. Maybe he didn’t mean any harm, he just wanted to talk to me.’
Torquil’s heavy ginger eyebrows rise. ‘And is this what your mother thinks?’
‘My mother thinks he’s on a mission to rid the city of the scourge of rough sleepers, and is targeting me because I’m known to be someone who helps them. She thinks I narrowly escaped being stabbed in my sleep. Which, to be fair, is what happened to Bella.’
‘And they still haven’t found him?’
‘Every rough sleeper knows him, but no one knows where he comes from, where he beds down, how he can be found.’ Joe sighs. ‘I tell you, Torq, the man’s a ghost.’
47
Felicity
The Rosemary Clinic on the ring road around Cambridge takes extremely good care of its patients. The sofas in the reception area are clean and comfortable and the coffee table has a perfect fan of lifestyle magazines. A side table is stocked with hot coffee, artisan biscuits and eight different kinds of tea, not one of them Tetley.
Felicity has been at the clinic for the past hour and a half. She has peed into a small plastic jar, had her upper arm squeezed by a blood pressure machine and her heart has been monitored. She has been weighed and measured, and an electronic machine has told her the exact proportions of bone, fat and muscle in her body. A nurse has given her a fitness test that she has passed with flying colours and now, for the last twenty minutes, she has been with the doctor. It has all gone exactly to plan.
The only tricky moment came when he questioned the number of scars on her body, but seemed satisfied by her account of missing her footing and sliding down some ice, studded with razor-sharp pieces of scree.
‘South Georgia?’ he says now. ‘Not a place I know anything about.’
‘Cold and remote,’ she tells him. ‘But crucially important to how we learn about the polar regions.’
He smiles, and looks interested, although she suspects he isn’t really.
‘Well, I can’t see a problem,’ he says. ‘It will take a few days for the tests to come back, but I can have a report to you within a couple of weeks. Copy to your GP, of course.’
‘Perfect,’ she says. She has not given the name of her new GP to the clinic yet and will not do so until reminded. Every day’s delay will help.
After she is done, she drives to Joe’s office for her Tuesday evening appointment. The buzzer sounds to indicate the front door has been unlocked. She doesn’t hear Joe’s voice, but the door latch has opened, and she knows her way up. The stairs are carpeted, and she makes no sound as she climbs. At the top, the internal doors to Joe’s flat, and to his consulting room, are open. As she steps into the room she can see him at the window, resting his forehead against the glass. He looks weary and terribly sad, and she knows she has intruded upon something private. For a second, she thinks about retracing her footsteps, but knows she won’t get away with it.
‘Hi,’ she says, instead.
His reaction is instant and terrifying. He leaps around, grabs a paperweight from the desk and raises his arm as though to throw it.
‘Jesus, I’m so sorry.’ His arm falls to his side.
It would be hard to say which of them is the more startled. Joe is trembling. His face has turned ashen and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.
‘Joe, are you OK?’ Felicity ventures.
He slumps into a chair. ‘I didn’t hear you come up.’ He can’t look at her.
‘I think someone else buzzed me in,’ she replies. ‘I’m really sorry.’
He holds up a hand to stop her apologising. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Sit down.’
She sits, nervously.
‘A couple of months ago,’ he says. ‘I was attacked by a patient. A very disturbed, very sick young woman.’
She waits, knowing there is more to come.
‘When you first came to see me, it was my first day back from convalescence. A lot of people thought I wasn’t ready. Maybe they were right.’
He seems to be thinking for a moment and then lifts the flap of his shirt. She sees the ugly raised scar, six inches long, running diagonally across his abdomen.
‘Oh my God,’ she says.
Joe forces a smile, as though to soften the impact of what she is seeing. It doesn’t work. ‘Not so long ago, someone broke into my flat at night, while I was asleep,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t her, but it shook me up. When you took me by surprise just now I panicked. I’m sorry, it was very unprofessional of me.’
‘Please don’t mention it again. But, and I’m sorry if this sounds impertinent, are you getting help?’
This time his smile looks less forced. ‘I have a friend who acts as my supervisor for my own caseload and a therapist for more personal stuff. And then there’s my mother, who you met last time you came. She can’t resist being helpful.’