Authors: Ed O'Connor
Acid Lullaby (33 page)
Sauerwine collected his papers and moved to an adjacent desk. Harrison tried to focus away the memories that were suddenly flooding back to him. He consoled himself with the thought that when they finally caught the bastard, he would make sure the custody sergeant vanished for half an hour so he could spend some quality time alone with him in the cell. He looked over at Jensen’s desk, still cluttered with her personal effects.
It was distracting him. Someone would have to clear it.
Underwood removed the protective blue police taping from Jack Harvey’s front door and unlocked it. He felt a certain sense of trepidation. It wasn’t merely the thought of what had happened in the house a few days previously that jarred with him. Nor was it to do with the terrible images of Rowena Harvey’s fate that his imagination was throwing up for his consideration. Moreover, it stemmed from the growing and uncomfortable sense that Jack was watching everything he did.
The stench of smoke still hadn’t left the house. Now, after nearly a week, the hallway smelt acrid, acidic. Underwood moved with care into Jack’s office. The forensic team had stripped most of the room; bagged and tagged all items of
interest. Underwood was unsure of exactly what he was seeking. He wondered whether Jack had concealed a strongbox or a safe somewhere around the house; somewhere that the forensic teams had missed.
Based on Mary Colson’s comments about the keys and on opening the box, Underwood had gradually come to the realization that the box of bad memories was real. It wasn’t just a psychologist’s trick. He had given the box a physical life based on Jack’s advice, burying photographs, CDs and other reminders of his previous life with Julia. Perhaps, Jack had done the same thing. One of the keys on Jack’s keyring looked like it would unlock a padlock. Underwood was convinced that Jack Harvey had a box of bad memories too; that it had a tangible, physical existence; and that it was still somewhere in the house.
But where?
He knew that the Scene-of-Crime team had been through the main house in great detail; seeking out tiny pieces of evidence, looking for DNA trace material. The fire had destroyed most of the contents of Jack’s office and the search teams had found only fragmentary remains of his patient records. Underwood decided to leave the office and downstairs rooms of the house. He knew that these would have been searched exhaustively and that Jack would not have placed any sensitive material in an easily accessible ground floor location.
He headed upstairs. The main bedroom smelt vaguely of Rowena Harvey’s perfume. He found it vaguely arousing. Underwood looked through the cupboards and drawers and checked the corners of the carpet for any loose areas. Finding nothing, he examined the bathroom. For no particular reason, Underwood found himself reading the labels of Rowena Harvey’s array of toiletries: cleansing lotion, daily moisturiser, shampoo. He was slightly disappointed to find a bottle of self-tanning lotion: he had always believed Rowena Harvey’s tan had been entirely natural.
The
killer
wants
Rowena
Harvey,
he
thought
to
himself,
the
killer
sat
in
Jack’s
consulting
room
staring
at
her
framed
photograph. He probably met her too, when he visited the
house.
The
killer
wants
her
sexually.
He
has
probably
already
raped
her.
Why
wasn’t
she
killed
with
the
others?
What
else
does
he
want
to
use
her
for?
He gave up on the bathroom and moved on. Searching the other three bedrooms and the loft space took Underwood just over an hour. Eventually he walked down to the Harveys’ kitchen and poured himself a glass of tap water. The view over the back of the house was impressive. The garden covered approximately an acre and was lined with thick clumps of dark green conifers. Underwood noticed that Jack had installed a water feature in the centre of the lawn since his last visit. It was a little waterfall effect, with water pumped from the mains supply, splashing over a neat rainbow of round stones. He looked around for the control switch. There seemed to be little point in powering a waterfall that no one was ever likely to see. Underwood realized that the switch had to be located in Jack’s shed.
He knew that the SOCO team had examined in the shed and found nothing of interest. He could see their evidence tag stapled to the wooden door as he approached across the lawn. The control for the waterfall was just behind the door on the right hand side. Underwood flicked it into the ‘off’ position and, stepping back outside, heard the feature babble to a halt. He absorbed the sights and smells of the garden, feeling a sudden rush of pity for the Harveys. There was the stone barbecue where Jack had sweated over steaks in the summer; there was the white plastic sun lounger where Rowena Harvey had given a veneer of authenticity to her chemical tan; there was the patio where they sat together and drank chilled glasses of Chardonnay in the evenings.
Underwood smiled as he remembered how Jack had cursed the cost of installing the patio. Rowena had insisted on rippled stones supplied by a company in Cumbria.
‘Cumbria,
for
Christ’s
sake!’
Jack
had
moaned
to
him.
‘It’s
not
like
we
don’t
have
rocks
down
here,
is
it?’
Underwood saw that Jack had used two of the leftover paving blocks in the area adjacent to his water feature. He
walked over. It didn’t look right. The plain grey blocks seemed incongruous with the coloured stones within the feature itself. He doubted whether Rowena would have approved of such a cumbersome arrangement. Underwood stood on one of the slabs and felt it move very slightly beneath him. He stepped off and crouched down to look. One of the two slabs was firmly secured into the soil, the other seemed to be sitting unevenly on something. He retrieved a spade from the side of the shed and levered the offending slab, shifting it a couple of inches to the left. Underwood inspected the space underneath. The slab had been resting on a padlocked metal box. He dragged the stone onto the lawn and, with a considerable effort, hauled the box out from the soil.
Underwood hurried back into the house with his prize. Sitting at the kitchen table, he checked the size of the padlock. There were two keys on Jack’s key ring that conceivably could have opened it. The second one did. Inside was an A4 manilla envelope and a significant amount of cash. Underwood flicked through the wad of money, estimating it amounted to about five thousand pounds. Then, trying to retain his focus, he withdrew the contents of the envelope.
It contained a collection of notes scrawled in Jack’s handwriting, and two pages that seemed to have been photocopied from an encyclopaedia.
Underwood read the notes first of all.
‘Session 1: Home. 3rd February 2002. Patient arrived late. Physical condition scruffy and unkempt. When I asked why his clothes were so filthy he replied that he had been gardening. He seemed to find this very amusing. Also appeared to resent my questions. Answers were guarded and often abrasive. Showed no interest in discussing his family of career history. Inability to concentrate, physical lethargy, defensive attitude are indicative of some form of narcotic addiction.’
Underwood read on. The notes seemed surprisingly general
to him. They seemed to be the basis for a more detailed analysis. He wondered if Jack was sending regular, more detailed reports on his client to a third party. There were no names either, he mused, nothing specific. Odd.
‘Session 2: Home.
13th
February
2002.
Patient’s
physical
appearance
has
deteriorated
over
the
past
week.
Wore
same
clothes
as
in
previous
consultation
and
gave
the
strong
impression
that
he
hadn’t
changed
in
the
intervening
days.
Arrived
late.
He
is
still
reluctant
to
discuss
details
of
his
problem.
When
questioned
on
drug
dependency,
patient
burst
into
hysterical
laughter.
I
was
unable
to
get
any
sense
out
of
him
for
approximately
five
minutes.
Seems
to
have
little
sense
of
self
or
of
the
consequences
of
his
actions.
Towards
the
end
of
the
session,
patient
lost
all
engagement
with
me
and
began
to
describe
a
strange
list
of
images
that
seem
to
have
religious
overtones.’
‘Session
3:
Home.
23rd
February
2002.
Physical
appear
ance
shocking.
Patient
was
unshaven
and
filthy.
Excrement
smeared
down
back
of
his
trousers.
When
questioned
about
his
physical
condition,
patient
replied
that
he
was
“of
the
earth”
and
launched
into
a
stream
of
expletives.
Appears
to
be
unable
to
cope
with
reality.
I
asked
him
if
he
wanted
medical
help
and
he
laughed
at me. Patient appeared to be in the afterglow of a hallu
cinogenic
trance:
he
claimed
that
there
were
lights
in
the
back
of
his
head
that
“chased
him
around
the
house”
and
that
there
were
“demons
everywhere”.
Patient
continually
drank
from
a
plastic
bottle
that
appeared
to
contain
urine.
More
worryingly,
he
seemed
fascinated
by
the
idea
of
decapitation.
He
asked
me,
as
a
doctor,
what
I
thought
would
be
the
optimal
method.
Judging
by
the
total
disintegration
of
his
personality
and
apparent
self-
destructive
tendencies,
I
assumed
this
indicated
suicidal
tendencies:
the
removal
of
the
head
being
often
equated
with
the
excision
of
the
problem
or
the
erasure
of
the
hated
personality. When I asked if he had thought about
killing
himself,
patient
giggled
and
replied
“no,
just
you”.
Some
of
the
hallucinatory
and
physical
symptoms
appear
consistent
with
abuse
of
Lysergic
Acid
Diethylamide.
Recommend
hospitalization
before
patient
inflicts
damage
on
himself
or
on
other
people.’
‘Session
4.
Home.
5th
March
2002.
Physical
appearance
has
improved.
Patient
appeared
cleaner
and
had
changed
clothes
since
our
previous
meeting.
He
seemed
more
responsive
to
questioning.
He
revealed
that
he
believes
he
is
becoming
an
incarnation
of
a
Hindu
god.
Presumably,
this
is
a
retreat
into
some
childhood
fantasy
picked
up
during
time
in
India.
He
refuses
to
answer
to
his
name
and
responds
only
to
the
name
“Soma”.
This
is
apparently
the
deity
he
believes
that
he
is
becoming.
I
asked
him
if
his
transformation
had
a
purpose.
I
also
asked
him
if
he
was
trying
to
become
a
God
so
as
to
restore
the
life
of
his
mother:
who
can
turn
back
time
except
God?
etc.
He
called
me
a
“fucking
charlatan”.
He
said
that
I
could
not
be
“Brihaspati”
if
I
asked
such
idiotic
questions.
(I
later
learned
that
the
character
“Brihaspati”
was
the
sage
of
the
gods
in
Hindu
legend.)
Patient
then
launched
into
a
long
and
complex
account
of
his
transformation.
He
said
he
had
been
“forged
at
the
churning
of
the
ocean”,
that
he
had
“distilled
the
elixir
of
immortality”
and
that
he
would
be
the
“sire
of
the
lunar
race”.
Obviously,
there
seems
to
be
little
logical
base
for
his
thinking
and
I
imagined
it
to
be
the
product
of
whatever
drugs
he
had
ingested
during
the
previous
twenty-four
hours.
Patient
also
began
to
ask
me
a
series
of
questions
about
my
wife.
He
became
especially
excited
when
he
learned
her
name
was
Rowena.
I
left
the
room
briefly
to
get
a
glass
of
water.
When
I
returned,
I
found
that
the
patient
had
taken
down
a
picture
of
Rowena
from
above
my
desk
and
was
kneeling
on
the
carpet
masturbating
over
it.
When
I
reprimanded
him,
he
rolled
onto
his
back
and
giggled
hysterically. The sessions are unproductive. The patient
needs
to
be
hospitalized
and
have
an
intensive
course
of
addiction
therapy.’
‘Session
5.
Home/YXH.
15th
March
2002.
Patient
did
not
arrive
for
scheduled
appointment.
Called
his
home
and
mobile
number
and
received
no
reply.
Fearing
he
had
injured
himself
I visited.’