The Things You Didn't See(53)
Holly couldn’t help seeing the photos as a badly shuffled deck of cards – with Daniel’s photo as the joker in the pack. ‘Why do you hate him so much?’ she asked.
Alfie fell silent, the anger around him evaporated and sadness took over. Stronger, harder to control, she felt him buckle under its weight as he tried to locate his fury, where he felt happier. Then he pointed to a photo she hadn’t noticed before: an old family picture, dog-eared at the corners but lovingly straightened and pinned to the board. It showed a toddler taking early steps. She was reaching out as she walked, gummy-mouthed, but with the most gorgeous mass of black hair springing around her sweet face. Behind her, a pretty black woman was poised to support her daughter, her face lit with happiness at the special moment that the camera had captured.
‘Because my wife was one of his clients.’
The door to Clive’s office was open. He acknowledged her with a warm smile. ‘Afternoon, Holly. Everything okay?’
She took the seat opposite him, and folded her arms on his desk, desperate for some clarity. ‘I want you to explain to me, how can someone fire a gun in their sleep?’
‘Ah, so you’ve heard the news too?’ Clive said. ‘Well, the legal definition is non-insane automatism, when someone has no conscious knowledge of their actions.’ He was wearing a slightly smarter jacket than usual, in brown tweed, but it was still baggy at the elbows and his red-and-yellow-striped school-style tie had what looked like a toothpaste stain. Behind his round glasses, his eyes were bright with intelligence and understanding. ‘Sleepwalkers have been known to commit violent attacks – there are several documented cases – but whether that’s happened here would need to be assessed.’
‘Oh.’ Holly appraised him anew: not only did he look smarter, there was an energy about him. ‘Will you be doing that?’
‘Hector Hawke has been remanded into custody and it’s likely court will ask for a medical report. I’m the duty psychiatrist for the court. So, Holly, does this bring you some peace?’
She almost flinched, it was so far from the sensations she was feeling. ‘Why would it?’
‘Because yesterday you were worried that the police weren’t doing their jobs. They obviously were.’
Holly wished she could find peace, but her synaesthesia wouldn’t let her be. First it had told her this wasn’t a suicide attempt, now she wasn’t convinced by Hector’s sleepwalking explanation. She felt that the only way to control her senses, and to find relief, was to find answers.
‘Clive, you’re right: this case really has interested me. I was thinking sleep disorders may be what I choose to focus on for my final case study. I’d like to know more about it.’
‘That seems a good idea. If Hector Hawke’s report comes my way, you could shadow me. Would you like that?’
What could she say, but yes?
DAY 7
FRIDAY 7 NOVEMBER
25
Cassandra
I don’t want Daniel to leave me, especially after what’s happened, but he has to go to work. I’m still trying to make sense of Dad’s confession when the phone makes me jump.
‘Miss Hawke?’
The voice is unfamiliar, plummy and exaggerating every vowel and consonant. I’m immediately wary.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Rupert Jackson, your father’s solicitor. As you probably know, your father has been remanded to custody. I’ve got a slot on Monday for a hearing, so I’ll be asking the court to bail him so he can attend the necessary sleep tests. It’ll be damned awkward if they have to take him to hospital in a prison van, cuffed to an officer. I can rely on you to attend, to support his bail application? I don’t think I have a hope in hell without you.’
Even if he was asleep, he’s still guilty of shooting you and he was prepared to let everyone think you’d tried to kill yourself. ‘No, I won’t be there.’
‘Hmm, your father thought you’d say that. The old boy wants to talk to you, wants you to go to Norwich Prison today. A visiting order is waiting at the gate.’
Norwich Prison. To see that bastard. I remember him sleepwalking, moving around the house at night, him walking in the woods in only pyjamas. But loading a gun, firing it, and all while asleep . . . I don’t believe it’s possible. ‘No. I won’t do it. He shot my mum – he could have killed her.’
‘Miss Hawke, if I may? Your parents have been married for a long time. I’ve met a lot of cold-hearted men who hurt their wives and, believe me, I don’t think your father is one of them. A man like him doesn’t belong in prison. He’d be best at home with you. Please go and see him. He’s on the hospital wing at Norwich Prison.’
‘Why isn’t he on a normal wing?’ He didn’t seem ill to me when I saw him marching out of your hospital room. He’s strong and fit – even the stroke didn’t slow him down.
‘He’s a good three decades older than the average inmate and he had a stroke last year, plus there’s the strain he’s under. Oh yes, he gave me a message to pass on. Could you take in a suit for him to wear in court? And some money for cigarettes.’
Norwich Prison is ugly.
A Victorian building, surviving sibling of the workhouse and asylum. Tall walls made from brick the colour of burning coal, an outsize doorway wedged into a daunting portcullis. How many people have walked through here, abandoning faith or hope? I ring the bell and a small door opens within the massive one, like the entry to some hellish wonderland. Only there’s no white rabbit behind it, but a burly man with a shaved head, wearing a white shirt with service epaulettes.