Текст книги "Scared to Live"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

Соавторы: Stephen Booth
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

29

When Fry looked down at the A6 that afternoon, she didn’t know what to expect. A stagecoach with four grey horses, or two of them drawing a landau. Maybe Dick Turpin on Black Bess. Who knew what went on in this area?

She passed the Lowthers’ car standing on the drive. A white Rover, nice and clean. A couple of years old, though, so it was probably time Mr Lowther had a new one.

Once she was sitting in the Lowthers’ conservatory, Fry lifted the photograph of Brian and Lindsay and their three children off the corner table. No pussyfooting around any more. Not at this point.

‘Luanne is a very attractive child, Mrs Lowther,’ she said.

‘Yes, isn’t she?’

‘She doesn’t look a bit like either of her parents, though. Her colouring is very dark.’

‘It happens. There’s no accounting for genes.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Fry. ‘But you can account for the genes in this case, can’t you? Luanne is definitely your daughter’s child?’

Henry Lowther had remained impassive so far, trying to smile politely, but not quite managing it. Mrs Lowther fidgeted, reluctant to answer. But Fry was prepared to wait.

‘No, she’s adopted,’ said Mrs Lowther at last.

‘Ah, finally,’ said Fry. ‘And this adoption was how you came to know Rose Shepherd, am I right?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘And the meeting in Matlock Bath on Saturday? Whose idea was that?’

The Lowthers looked at each other. ‘I suppose I suggested it to Lindsay,’ said Henry. ‘It was just a casual remark, really. “It would be nice to see Rose Shepherd again and say thank you, wouldn’t it?” Something like that. That was weeks ago. And Lindsay didn’t say anything at the time. But the idea must have taken root in her mind, because a few days later she spoke about organizing a meeting as if it was already a fait accompli.’

Mr Lowther’s self-conscious use of the French phrase made Fry think of Georgi Kotsev’s ciao and merci. But then, Georgi rightly took pride in his command of languages. How many could Henry Lowther hold a conversation in? Until now, he hadn’t even made a good fist of English. Not if you defined conversation as an exchange of information.

‘You’re going to have to be more forthcoming with us, sir.’

Lowther got up from his chair and moved restlessly around the conservatory. He was a big man – much too heavy round the waist, of course, but intimidating when he stood over you like that.

‘You have to realize that they went through a difficult experience together,’ he said. ‘The adoption process in Bulgaria wasn’t easy. Not at all what we expected. It was quite a shock to arrive at that orphanage. We had never seen anything like it.’

‘Tell us how it came about.’

‘I have some business contacts in Bulgaria,’ said Lowther. ‘They came over here a few years ago to talk about forming trade links, possibly even a joint venture. They were very impressed with our set-up, and we made sure they had a good time while they were here, of course. They invited me over to Bulgaria for a little jaunt in return for our hospitality.’

‘And did they show you a good time?’

‘Oh, there was some vodka, and a lot of red wine. We explored the country a little.’

‘Where did you go? Pleven?’

Lowther hesitated slightly. ‘Dounav.’

‘Vodka and red wine? Didn’t you drink any rakia?’

‘I tried it, but I’m not too fond of brandy.’

‘And Rose Shepherd?’

‘I was put in touch with her through one of my business contacts. He knew someone who’d used her services previously. The advantages of networking, you see. You can get hold of pretty much anything if you know the right people.’

‘Was it you who suggested the adoption to your daughter?’

‘I mentioned it as an option.’

‘I see.’

‘It worked quite well, in the end,’ said Mr Lowther defensively. ‘We were desperate for a girl – or at least, Lindsay was. But after Liam’s birth, the doctors told Lindsay and Brian they couldn’t have any more children. Adoption is such a chancy process in this country, and it takes so long. In any case, you can’t get babies to adopt here any more. And Lindsay didn’t want a child the same age as the boys. We’d read about orphanages in Eastern Europe where all these babies needed parents. Once Lindsay heard about that – well, you can imagine what she was like.’

‘Not really, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, it was all we could do to stop her catching the next flight to Romania. We knew there wouldn’t be any peace until she’d gone to look for herself. But we read up on it a bit – on the internet, you know. And we found that Bulgaria was the place to go these days. So that’s where we went. It seemed as simple as that, at first.’

‘You keep saying “we”.’

‘I couldn’t let Lindsay go out there on her own.’

‘No, but it might seem more natural for her husband to have gone with her.’

Lowther paced the length of the room. ‘It’s difficult for Brian. He has his job, and he can’t just take time off whenever he wants to. But I can organize my time however I like. I’ve got people I can delegate to. And my daughter came before my business, anyway. I was ready and willing to go to Bulgaria with her.’

‘And Rose Shepherd helped you arrange an adoption?’

‘She worked with the people at the orphanage.’

‘Oh, of course. The orphanage.’

He stopped pacing and stared out of the window at the traffic. His shoulders seemed to sag as he was forced to bring back the memories.

‘It was in a small town about thirty miles from Pleven. When we found the place, it was a rundown building with peeling paint, full of chipped wooden cots and thin mattresses. It was awful. Lindsay nearly cried when she saw outside. The thing I remember most is the smell of bleach – it was the first thing that hit us when we went in. But it got worse after that. We could see that the children all slept in cots, regardless of their age. And some of them looked to be more than four years old. We discovered that they were expected to share clothes, and even toothbrushes. Food seemed to be in short supply, too. It was so depressing. Personally, I would have turned round and come home immediately. But then there was Zlatka …’

‘Sorry? Did you say Zlatka?’

‘Lindsay and Brian decided to call her Luanne, but her Bulgarian name was Zlatka Shishkov. She was so small and frail, with big eyes and dark, wispy hair. No one could have resisted her.’

‘And that was the child the orphanage offered you?’

‘Not at first. There was another child they wanted us to take. A girl who was already past her third birthday then, yet she spoke no more than a few words of what the people at the orphanage called “baby Bulgarian”. She still wore nappies, too. Her records said that she’d been neglected by her mother for at least the first year of her life, and she had limited interaction with adults. So she didn’t develop all the normal emotional responses or social skills, you see. When anyone reached out to touch her, she flinched away. She was happy to have visitors, but only because it meant being out of her cot for a while. She had no idea who these strange people were that had come to see her.’

‘It was you and your daughter who visited the orphanage?’

‘Yes. When we went there, I was told that the children might not react to me well. Most Bulgarian orphanage workers are female, so the children had limited experience with men. And, of course, Zlatka had never known her father.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, the first time we saw Zlatka, we were in the director’s office, the only freshly painted room in the orphanage. A carer brought her in and put her down on a rug for us to look at her. Lindsay said afterwards that she instantly felt a sort of gaping emptiness in her stomach filling up with love. She said in that moment, she became Zlatka’s mother.’

Fry said nothing. She didn’t personally understand the urges being described.

‘I never questioned her about that,’ said Lowther, interpreting her sceptical expression. ‘There are some things we can’t understand about each other, we just have to take them on faith. That instinct was something I could never feel myself. But I didn’t doubt it in Lindsay. It was the most powerful emotion I’d ever seen in her. Stronger than when she had either of the boys. It doesn’t make sense, does it? But that was the way it was.’

He looked questioningly at his wife, who nodded slowly but didn’t speak.

‘There were some really bad times after that first occasion, you know,’ he said. ‘But Lindsay said she could always bring back the feeling of that moment she saw Zlatka. She said it was sometimes the only thing that stopped her from giving up.’

‘What do you mean by bad times, sir?’

Lowther didn’t seem to hear her, and she had to ask the question again. He stirred from the window, staring at her vaguely.

‘Oh, there were so many difficulties. Bulgarian adoptions require court approval – a notoriously slow process. It took months even to set a date for a hearing, and we were told that many adoptions required more than one hearing. Miss Shepherd was a great help, giving us advice all along the line, helping us to understand the rules, explaining all the bureaucracy. But at the first hearing, the judge refused our application. He said there were minor problems in the paperwork. We had to hire a Bulgarian attorney to correct the errors, then the court had to schedule another date. The process seemed to go on for ever. I remember there was a sort of prosecuting attorney, who was employed to point out legal problems. He was a tall man with black hair and broad shoulders, and he wore a bright red robe. We started to refer to him as Satan.’

‘All right. But this must have been, what – twelve months ago?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Luanne was six months old when we brought her out of Bulgaria.’

‘She’s been slow to develop in a lot of ways,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But that’s because of her background. When we got her, she could just about grasp a rattle, and her head still flopped about when we sat her up. She had no idea how to feed herself.’

‘The boys were much more advanced than that, so it was a bit of a shock for Lindsay,’ added her husband.

Mrs Lowther smiled sadly. ‘Luanne’s eighteen months old now, and she babbles to herself all the time, but she has difficulty forming words, even “mummy” and “daddy”. She tends to repeat the last word of anything that people say to her. She’s very restless physically, isn’t she, Henry?’

‘She certainly is. And she can be very emotional, too – she laughs and cries almost at the same time.’

‘And she’s still having trouble sleeping through the night, I believe, sir?’ said Fry.

Lowther hesitated. ‘Oh?’

‘Your son-in-law said that’s why Luanne was staying here on the night of the fire, to give Lindsay a bit of respite.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Lowther. ‘Luanne is still suffering from separation anxiety. Lindsay and Brian should have learned how to let her cry before now, but they couldn’t. It’s always a difficult thing to do, of course. As a parent, you can’t ignore your child when it’s calling for you.’

Fry wasn’t impressed. Henry Lowther didn’t look like a man who’d get up in the middle of the night to attend to a crying baby, but she might be misjudging him.

‘So explain to me again how you came to meet with Rose Shepherd in Matlock Bath last weekend.’

‘Oh, that was a mistake. I ought to have known it was a mistake from the start. But Lindsay seized on the idea so eagerly, you see. She wanted to say thank you to Miss Shepherd for helping her to get Luanne. I told Lindsay that she should be thankful for what she had and put all the stuff in Bulgaria behind her. But it became almost an obsession with her. You know what women can be like. Well, that was what our daughter was like, anyway. Once she got an idea into her head, it couldn’t be shifted.’

‘So you set up a meeting?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have had some way of getting in touch with Miss Shepherd, then.’

‘There was an email address. It was one of those free web-based accounts where you don’t have to give any details of your identity to sign up. You only have to provide a name, but you can make that up. Everyone does it.’

‘I see. Well, we’d like that email address, please, sir.’

‘I’ll find it for you. You know, I don’t think she can have checked her email very often. It took her some weeks to reply to my message. In fact, I suspected she wasn’t going to respond at all. I thought she must have changed her email account, or died even. I didn’t know, at the time.’

‘You weren’t aware that Miss Shepherd was living nearby?’

Lowther laughed. ‘No, that was the amazing thing. But she didn’t know Britain very well, so this might have been the first place she thought of. Ironic, isn’t it? I was stunned when she suggested meeting in Matlock Bath. In my own mind, I’d been thinking of a city somewhere, maybe even London. The anonymity of crowds, you know. But apparently she didn’t travel very far once she got into that house at Foxlow.’

‘She told you where she lived, then? Was that information in her email, or did she tell you when you met her in the Riber Tea Rooms?’

‘Neither,’ said Lowther. ‘No, she didn’t give away anything like that. I read about the house in Foxlow in the papers, and then saw it on the TV news. As I said, I was stunned. To think Miss Shepherd was only a few miles away from us. Do you think it was deliberate on her part, to move into Derbyshire?’

‘We don’t know. But there are a lot of things we don’t know about Rose Shepherd.’

‘I can’t help you very much, I’m afraid. She didn’t share any information about her private life.’

‘Talking about sharing information – Mr Lowther, why didn’t you come forward and tell us you knew Rose Shepherd when you heard the news about her death?’

‘Why? Good God, don’t you think we’ve been a bit too busy with our own concerns to pay attention to the news? The last four days have been a complete blur.’ Lowther started to go red in the face as he warmed to the subject. ‘Our lives have been turned upside down by the fire, you know. We’ve been backwards and forwards to the hospital and the mortuary, visiting Brian, identifying the bodies of our daughter and our grandchildren, making statements to the police, taking calls from our family and friends, fending off the press, doing our best to look after Brian and Luanne. Not to mention John. My wife has been exhausted with it all. She’s cried herself to sleep every night. And you think we’ve just been sitting around watching TV?’

‘All right.’

Fry waited for him to calm down. Perhaps she’d been a bit unreasonable. But after the experience with Darren Turnbull, this silence about Rose Shepherd on the part of the public was starting to feel like a conspiracy.

‘Besides,’ said Lowther, ‘nothing happened at our meeting. Nothing of any significance.’

‘You just made small talk?’

‘It was all a bit awkward, really. Once we’d said what we’d gone to say, there was nothing else to talk about. After a while, Miss Shepherd gave Lindsay a gift for Luanne, then she left. She seemed quite nervous, glad to get away.’

‘This gift, sir …?’

‘A sort of wooden toy.’

‘A dinosaur?’

‘Yes. I believe so.’

That detail confirmed, Fry decided to try a different tack.

‘What about a man called Simon Nichols? Did you have any dealings with him, Mr Lowther?’

‘Nichols? No, the name means nothing to me. Who is he?’

‘Somebody else Miss Shepherd was in contact with.’

Lowther screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘I always had the impression she had an associate of some kind. Perhaps more than one.’

‘Did she never mention any names? What about Simcho Nikolov?’

‘No, no. She was very careful, you know.’

‘Not careful enough, in the end.’

He grimaced. ‘I think she must have lost touch during these last few months. It’s easy to lose contact with the real world when you cut yourself off like that. Poor Miss Shepherd.’

‘I don’t really understand why Brian and Lindsay were so desperate to adopt,’ said Fry.

‘As I said, Lindsay really, really wanted a girl. It was so important to her.’

‘But, still – they could have waited a bit longer, couldn’t they?’

Lowther coughed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, as I said … there was a problem. About three years ago, Brian had mumps. When you get them as an adult, it’s a very serious condition. It can cause infertility.’

‘And that’s what happened to your son-in-law?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you aware of any problems in your daughter’s marriage?’

‘Problems?’

‘Between Lindsay and Brian. Had they been having arguments recently?’

‘Most married couples do have disagreements,’ said Lowther stiffly. ‘As I said, we all went through a bad period during the adoption, which put a bit of pressure on everybody. Tensions spill over now and then. But recently …?’

He looked at his wife, who seemed even more reluctant. ‘If they had problems, then it was a personal matter between themselves. Young women don’t tell their mothers everything these days, I’m afraid.’

‘Mr and Mrs Lowther, where is your son-in-law?’

Neither of them answered her, and she began to get angry.

‘And your granddaughter? She isn’t here today. So where is she? Where are Brian and Luanne?’

The Lowthers looked at each other again.

‘We don’t know.’

Fry’s mobile rang, and she saw from the display that the call was from Gavin Murfin.

‘Excuse me a moment.’

She stepped outside on to the terrace to take the call, while the Lowthers sat and watched her.

‘Diane, you’ll want to know this straightaway,’ said Murfin. ‘I persuaded someone in West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries into John Lowther’s spell there.’

‘Well done, Gavin.’

‘Well, I didn’t have time myself. So that’s another favour I’ll have to repay.’

‘Did they turn anything up?’

‘I got a call a few minutes ago. They say John Lowther was a psychiatric patient in Leeds for three months. That’s why he had to leave his job.’

‘Did you go to Matlock to speak to him?’

‘I’m at his apartment now. But John’s not home. And the neighbours say they haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Fry. ‘The Lowthers are really, really going to love me.’

Moira Lowther was in her garden when Fry returned to the house. Perhaps she went out there to escape from the plants. When she heard what Fry wanted to talk about now, she sat down unsteadily in one of the chairs set out on the decking.

‘John is psychotic, not a psychopath,’ she said. ‘There’s a big difference.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Her husband stepped out of the sliding doors from the conservatory, and stood next to his wife, his jaw stiff with emotion.

‘People don’t understand that they’re entirely different things,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘Psychosis isn’t characterized by a tendency to violence towards others. They’re a risk to themselves, but no one else. Psychotics aren’t manipulative either, the way psychopaths are. But how many people do you think register that difference? To them, it’s all the same.’

Her husband leaned forward to put in his own comment. ‘But then, we’re talking about the sort of person who can’t distinguish a paedophile from a paediatrician. It’s sheer ignorance. Some people wallow in it.’

Mrs Lowther looked up at Fry. ‘So our son is psychotic,’ she repeated. ‘Not a psychopath.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘Actually, yes. I do.’

Moira Lowther looked at her differently then. Letting your own emotions come through was normally a sign of weakness in this job. But Fry realized it might actually help with the Lowthers. An unrelentingly professional approach wasn’t always the best thing, after all.

‘Tell me about it, then,’ she said.

‘We will, if you like,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But you should talk to his specialist. Dr Sinclair can explain it a lot better than we can. You might say that we’re too biased. Too emotionally involved.’

Fry opened her mouth to comment, but changed her mind. That was another thing she didn’t like – people predicting exactly what she was going to say.

30

Fry hadn’t realized there were loft apartments in Matlock. They certainly hadn’t reached Edendale yet. But John Lowther’s home was on the fourth floor of a converted mill complex on The Cliff, high above Matlock Green, overlooking a conservation area. Lifts had been installed, and an entry system with coded access from the communal areas.

Yes, some of the original features had been retained in the conversion, but not too many. Enough to make ‘period character’ a selling point, probably. Judging by Lowther’s place, the interiors had been given a very modern feel. This was open-plan living – a walkthrough from a study hall to the kitchen under exposed roof timbers and diagonal supports. The apartment was all chrome and glass, pastel shades and a tiny dining table set for two, looking as if it ought to be standing in an intimate corner of a fashionable restaurant. One problem, though. There was a high central ceiling, but if you wanted to walk close to the walls and look out of the windows, you’d better be a midget, or not mind a few bruises. The pitch of the roof was steep. Really steep.

Fry stood in the middle of the living area and checked out the doors off the hallway. Two bedrooms, even. It was all wasted on a single man, which John Lowther plainly was. She guessed he hadn’t chosen the décor himself, either.

‘There’s nothing of immediate interest,’ said Murfin. ‘But we did find a bottle of tablets on his bedside table. Orphenadrine.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s probably not important.’

‘No …’

Fry began to move away, then stopped and came back.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Murfin.

‘That phrase – “it’s probably not important”. Those sound like famous last words to me. You’d better check it out, Gavin.’

‘OK, if you think so.’

She had a feeling about this apartment. There was something she couldn’t see. Inside any home, there were public places and private places. In the rooms where strangers might be expected to intrude, the contents were carefully chosen to present an image: highbrow books, artwork, the collection of expensive porcelain. But take a peek into the bedroom on your way to the loo, and you might find the truth behind the façade – the trashy novels, the S&M gear, the Prozac on the bedside table. Or in this case, perhaps, the Orphenadrine.

Fry wondered what lurked behind the foliage in a house full of plants, what a conservatory stuffed with fuchsias and tree ferns ought to be telling her. On the way down to Matlock, she’d phoned in and asked them to check the details of Luanne’s adoption with the authorities in Bulgaria. A link might emerge, or an inconsistency.

Cooper walked in clutching a bottle of Buxton Spring water, as if he was taking a break at home in his own sitting room.

‘What are you thinking about, Diane?’ he asked.

‘Henry Lowther.’

‘Not pleasant thoughts, judging by your expression.’

‘I was just wondering …’

‘Don’t keep it to yourself, then.’

‘Well, Brian Mullen said the reason Luanne wasn’t in the house at Darwin Street on the night of the fire was because she was staying at her grandparents’. She wasn’t sleeping through the night, and the Lowthers had taken the child to give him and Lindsay a rest, to let them get a night’s sleep. That’s what he said.’

‘Sounds fair enough.’

‘Mr Lowther didn’t seem to know that, though.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Oh, I might be mistaken,’ said Fry. ‘It was only an impression, because of the way he hesitated when I mentioned it. And that was my own fault – I prompted him with Mullen’s version of events, instead of asking him outright. I didn’t think it was important at the time, you see.’

‘Probably it isn’t.’

‘I expect you’re right. Brian and Luanne were the only two members of the family who weren’t at home when the fire started. But it must have been by chance, mustn’t it?’

‘So where do we go from here, Diane?’ asked Cooper.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘What leads do we have that can be followed up?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘Have we got any clues at all?’

‘No.’

Cooper tipped the last of the water into his mouth and tossed the empty bottle into a bin.

‘We’re really getting on top of this enquiry, then,’ he said.

Fry didn’t react. Let him think she was mellowing with age, if he wanted to. Or that she just didn’t care any more.

‘You know, John Lowther reminded me a bit of that story you told me,’ she said.

Cooper looked round. ‘Story?’

‘The one about the woman who lived in a cottage near your farm when you were a child.’

‘Old Annie?’ said Cooper. ‘Well, I can’t see the similarity myself.’

‘You said she didn’t speak to anyone for weeks on end, then talked far too much when she was in company. As if she had to prove that she could still hold a conversation.’

Cooper looked surprised. ‘Yes, I did say that.’

‘Also, you mentioned finding her frightening. A slightly hysterical tone to her voice, you said. That’s what John Lowther reminded me of.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Well, there’s a job for you to do, Ben. I’ll call ahead and get the interview cleared with the hospital.’

‘Hospital?’

Fry explained to him. As Cooper prepared to leave, she listened to the silence of the apartment, well insulated and far enough away from the main road to deaden the sounds of traffic.

‘We’ve got to find John Lowther,’ she said. ‘He could be a lot more dangerous than Brian Mullen.’

Fry dialled the number of the bungalow in Darley Dale, where she had been only half an hour before.

‘Mrs Lowther, where would your son go? What place might he be heading for right now?’

She could picture the Lowthers looking at each other, deciding what answer to give. Fry half expected the phone to be handed to the husband, but it was Moira who spoke.

‘When John wants to be alone, he likes to go up to the Heights of Abraham.’

* * *

An hour later, Dr Alexander Sinclair took off his white coat and put on a suit jacket, transforming himself from a clinical psychologist into a business executive. He sat down at his desk, opened a file and put on his glasses.

‘You appreciate this is very exceptional, Detective Constable.’

‘The circumstances are exceptional, too,’ said Cooper. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you for this information otherwise.’

‘Yes, so I’ve been persuaded by your senior officers. I’m only agreeing to this conversation on the understanding that I’m acting in the interests of my patient, and no further.’

Sinclair peered over the top of his glasses, a mannerism that Cooper hated. It made him look like a disapproving schoolteacher.

‘We’re extremely concerned for Mr Lowther’s safety,’ he said. ‘Not to mention the safety of others that he might come into contact with.’

‘Very well. There are some specific details of this patient’s history that I can’t go into, but I can answer general questions about his condition, which might help you.’

‘Well, we already know that John Lowther spent three months in a psychiatric unit in Leeds.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Was he sectioned?’

‘No, he admitted himself voluntarily, following a series of psychotic episodes.’

‘What sort of episodes?’

‘Mr Lowther was experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations.’

‘Auditory –?’

‘He heard voices,’ said Sinclair impatiently. ‘And “visual” means he was seeing things.’

‘Thank you.’

He sighed and looked down at the file. ‘At the time, Mr Lowther appeared to be suffering hallucinations of increasing frequency and severity. Admitting himself to the unit was a very sensible decision on his part. He had good insight at that point, so he knew that he was ill.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean by insight, Doctor.’

The glasses came off, making Sinclair human again for a few moments. His eyes were pale blue. He was probably capable of projecting a reassuring bedside manner, when he thought it was necessary.

‘One puzzling feature of psychosis is that the affected individual doesn’t recognize the strange or bizarre nature of his own experiences. Even in the case of acute psychosis, a patient might be unaware that his hallucinations and delusions are in any way unrealistic.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘However, the level of insight can vary from one case to another. There can be quite good insight in some instances. Of course, this makes the psychotic experience even more terrifying. It means, you see, that the sufferer knows exactly what’s going on. To put it bluntly, he knows he shouldn’t be seeing demons and angels, or hearing voices – but he sees and hears them nevertheless. He can’t stop himself. Try to imagine being aware that you’re not in control of your own mind any more. You’d have to accept that some of your everyday perceptions are real, but others are illusory.’

‘It’s difficult to put myself in that position.’

‘Of course it is. Believe me, when a patient is aware that he’s losing control of his own thoughts, it strikes to the very core of self-belief, and can have an extremely destructive effect on his relationship with the world around him. It undermines the concept of identity, you see. I can imagine nothing more devastating, or more terrifying.’

Sinclair put his glasses back on and peered at his visitor, assessing his reaction. Cooper was surprised by his sudden departure from the script, or rather from the notes in his file. For a few seconds, he’d spoken with real conviction. It struck Cooper that Alexander Sinclair had actually seen this happen to people he knew well – not just patients, but friends or family. Perhaps that was why he’d agreed to talk, despite the constraints of confidentiality.

‘Can you tell me what John Lowther’s auditory and visual hallucinations consisted of? Is it possible to say?’

‘In general. He heard voices that commented on his behaviour, and told him to do certain things. That’s why he admitted himself. He was frightened of what the voices might make him do, and he wanted us to stop them.’

‘And did you?’

Sinclair smiled. ‘Psychosis is only a symptom of mental illness, Detective Constable. The subsequent diagnosis was bipolar disorder. Mr Lowther was treated with anti-psychotic drugs until the episodes receded, and then we adjusted his medication until he was stable enough to be discharged.’

‘So the medication made the voices go away?’

‘Well …’

Cooper watched him hesitate.

‘But only as long as he kept taking the tablets?’ he said.

‘Of course. Anti-psychotic drugs work by changing the activity of chemicals that transmit messages in the brain. It’s very important to take the medication regularly, and at the prescribed doses.’