She was still in tears. ‘He’s not been reported missing. I didn’t think he was missing. I’d texted him three times but when he didn’t reply, I left it. Dylan drops out for a few days now and again. I didn’t think that much of it. Now I . . . now I’m scared he couldn’t reply.’
‘Tell me about him. What does he do? What’s his address? When did you last see him?’
‘He’s – he’s a script reader. For the movies. He works for himself, reading scripts that the studios send him. He’s got a major in film. He lives in Glendale, 900 East Lomita Avenue. I last saw him six days ago. I kept expecting him to call or text but he didn’t. So, I texted him. Three times.’
‘We’re going to need a photograph of Dylan to—’
‘I’ve emailed some. To the hotline address. You already have them. It’s Dylan. I know the shirt he’s wearing in the photograph. I bought it for him. It’s him.’
Salgado cupped his hand over the phone and told O’Neill to check the email. He watched as she did so, hearing the woman sobbing on the other side of the line and not being quite sure if he wanted it to be Dylan Hansen or not.
She was telling him how it wasn’t completely unusual for Dylan not to answer a text but that three was . . . He stopped listening as he saw O’Neill turn to face him, her mouth open until she composed herself enough to close it. ‘I think it’s him.’
An email alert popped up in front of Salgado and he clicked through it until there was a photograph filling the screen. Shit.
‘Mrs Hansen, where are you? We’re coming right over.’
CHAPTER 33
The State Hospital at Carstairs was Scotland’s highest security psychiatric hospital and a byword for the highly dangerous and mentally ill.
It was probably the most feared and misunderstood institution in the country. Even its location added to its fearsome mystique, hidden away on a windswept moor and far from the public gaze. It housed those deemed too dangerous for even a high-security prison – murderers, rapists and child killers – those who needed two members of staff for every prisoner, those who needed to be sedated just to keep others around them safe.
This was the environment that, seemingly, Matthew Marr had once been held in. This was the building that housed him and let him go. Except that they hadn’t had Marr, not by name at least.
Narey was there to meet Andrea Wallace, the hospital’s chief executive. No promises had been made but enough encouragement had been given for her to make the forty-minute drive south-east from Glasgow. Carstairs had procedures to follow and confidences to keep, but Wallace said she’d do what she could.
The drive across the moor had been in ever-falling darkness, and the nearer Narey got the more the gloom enveloped her, and the greater the sense of foreboding. It was only when she approached the perimeter that she was able to see the razor-wire fencing and then, finally, the largely anonymous but fortified entrance. The sole sign outside said little but said everything. The State Hospital.
She negotiated security at the gatehouse and waited while a massive green gate slid back to let her drive inside. Perhaps surprisingly, she’d never had the need to visit, and that probably explained the first-time nerves that she was acutely aware of.
A guard escorted her to a waiting area, saying that the chief executive would be with her shortly. Wallace had finished for the day but had agreed to wait behind to meet her, given the urgency of the situation.
Narey spent the wait idly trying to remember if any of the men or women she’d helped put away had ended up in here rather in mainstream prisons. The shimmering line between the dangerous and the criminally insane was a distinction she was glad she didn’t have to make.
Andrea Wallace was a short, neat woman in a black trouser suit, with blonde bobbed hair and a wide smile. She greeted Narey with a handshake and a wave of her arm for her to follow. They walked along a narrow corridor that had Narey wondering what would happen if there was someone coming the other way. Wallace seemed to read her mind.
‘Your first time here?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
Wallace nodded. ‘There’s a look. I’ve seen it many times. But, rest assured, the reality is different from whatever you’re likely to have heard. It’s a lot safer in here than it is out there.’
‘That’s good to know, but given how some places are out there, it might not be saying much.’
‘Maybe so. But we’re working on making the hospital safer all the time. We’re looking to reduce the number of patients, ideally down to around one hundred from the two hundred and fifty that we currently have. We’ll be moving more of them out to medium-security units, including all of the women.’
Wallace opened the door to her office and invited Narey inside. The room was neat and minimalist: white walls, a wooden desk, computer, phone and a solitary pot plant was all that was to be seen.
‘I’m not going to waste either of our time by going through the issues with us helping you on this. We both know them, and they’ve been discussed above my head and yours. And we’ve taken on board how serious the situation is that you’re dealing with. And a decision has been made.’
She opened a drawer to her right and produced a beige folder which she placed on the desk in front of her. She tapped it as she spoke.
‘We’ve taken into account what you’ve been able to tell us in terms of his possible age, location, time parameters, and the suggestion that we didn’t diagnose him as being dangerous enough to retain. I have to say, it wasn’t a lot to work with.’
Narey felt her heart sink.
‘We typically admit around thirty patients a year – that includes men and women. Most of those are with us for a prolonged period of time, many of them indefinitely. Those who can be readmitted to society on their own recognisance are always far fewer than we’d like. If we commit ourselves to saying a patient is safe to be released without supervision then we must be completely certain that decision won’t come back to bite us on the arse and, more importantly of course, endanger the public. As a result, it doesn’t happen either easily or often. So that, in this instance, has helped us narrow down the possibilities. Getting to the point, within the time period we are talking about and eliminating those who don’t fit the criteria or who have been readmitted here or elsewhere, it leaves just six men who fit the profile.’
‘Only six?’ Narey couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And you can be confident about that?’ She knew she was only making things difficult for herself, checking all the teeth on the gift horse that was being presented to her, but she had to be sure.
Wallace pursed her lips and didn’t seem at all impressed by the question.
‘I can be as confident about it as I can in the information you’ve given me, Inspector.’
She took the riposte on the chin, knowing she’d asked for it.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just more – better – than I’d hoped for. May I see the folder? I assume that’s the six men you’ve identified.’
Wallace nodded and pushed the folder across the desk. ‘It’s all in there. Their histories, staff appraisals, release dates. Take it with you and please, keep in touch. If we’ve messed up by letting someone go who has gone on to do the things you believe he has, then we need to learn from that, and we’ll need to be prepared to apologise for it.’