Page 53 of The Unforgiven

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “So we know that Neil wasn’t at Alexandra’s, but he wasn’t anywhere near Chelsea either.”

“It’s not concrete as the pictures from your informant aren’t timestamped. But we have two images, the same people in them, the same style box that matches the crime report, and a van with these two muppets near it. That’s a lot of explaining to do.” Nick sat back. “And look — Craig’s holding a crowbar in that.” He zoomed in even more. “Classic ‘I’m about to nick shit’ behaviour. If Neil was trying to stop him, he picked a hell of a time.”

My voice was quiet. “So he lied to protect Craig. Lied to protect himself.”

Nick nodded. “Which makes him an arsehole rather than a murderer.”

Two men in the wrong place at the wrong time doing something wrong, but neither of them were murderers.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The drive from Manchester to Leeds was not one of my favourites. I didn’t like motorway driving which made the thought of ever being sent to traffic a full-on nightmare. The M62 on an Easter Monday was no more pleasant than any other day, except there were slightly fewer lorries. But my ears still popped, and I still drove past the farm in the middle of the motorway wondering just how stubborn you’d have to be to still live there.

I couldn’t work out whether Wrigley was pleased or not with the reveal of my informant, but he was intrigued enough to agree to me heading over to the Lindridge Psychiatric Unit, an NHS establishment on the outskirts of Leeds City Centre. I’d called ahead and asked whether Dave Beardsley was on shift, and for once, I had some good luck.

Which was why I was now pulling up in the car park, the rather gloomy stone building looking in a sad state of repair, although not to the extent of the Pigeon Loft, as there was no scaffolding to hold it up.

The gardens had a hint of being tended, the remnants of bulbs sallowing back into the soil, and a few trees had stillmanaged to blossom, the only colours on a grim canvas. There were a couple of benches positioned there in some attempt to make the grounds appeal, but they’d been placed in parts that would never get the sun.

I wasn’t sure how anyone could make this building any more appealing. If the external features were lacking, then internally it was a soul sucking attempt at bringing joy into a place that had to prioritise containment over comfort.

Prison height fencing surrounded the grounds, the entrance secured with electric gates and a rottweiler of a receptionist, which was a stereotype for a reason. I was let into a small, locked vestibule, the smell of cleaning fluid, microwaved food and stale air cloying. Windows here wouldn’t full open, mere gaps to allow air to pass, people contained here for their own security, and maybe that of others.

There were many jobs I knew I’d never be able to do. Working in a place like this was one. Daniel Fletcher had in the past worked with patients in such units, and it could’ve been a career pathway open to me – clinical psychology – but I had other motivations for being in the police.

I handed over my personal items, just as I would do in a prison, everything on me being locked away before I was allowed in, the sticker badge I was given displaying an image of a person that looked nothing like me.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been in such a place, nor was it likely to be the last, however much I hoped it would be. At one point, when I was sixteen, my mother was a patient in a facility such as this.

They were all very similar.

I was taken past the staff station, situated behind a glass-fronted hub with an observation point where nurses were constantly watching, emergency alarms at the ready, to an interview space, a small room just off the main corridor, situatedbehind fobbed double doors that were designed to open slowly to deter anyone who was likely to make a run for it.

The receptionist said very little as she let me into the room, a sterile area with a couple of laminated posters around de-escalation strategies and a box of tissues. The walls were painted a soft yellow, the only thing that stopped the room from feeling as sterile as an operating theatre.

I was left alone for a few minutes, not offered a drink because my presence was clearly an inconvenience as it was without any extra politeness. The door closed, locked and I heard nothing. It was clearly soundproofed, probably used for therapy as well as for meetings like this. I was well aware that I couldn’t get out without a fob, and if I shouted for help, no one would hear me.

I hoped like hell that the receptionist passed on the message to Dave Beardsley that I was here, otherwise I’d be making good use of the panic button.

We institutionalise both criminals and those people who are a risk to themselves, locking them up, one set for the good of society, the other for good of themselves. Research showed that confining neuro-diverse individuals had a further detrimental impact on their mental health, and being locked in this room now, with no way out other than to press a panic button and hope that someone came quickly, I could understand why.

I was tapping on the table – fixed to the floor, or course, just like in an interview room in a police station, when the door clicked open and a jolly looking man with a big beard and a big belly entered the room.

I stood up, glad of a reason to move, and held my hand out to who I assumed was Dave Beardsley.

“Thank you for seeing me at short notice.”

He nodded, giving my hand a brief shake. “Not a problem. I may have a to leave you at little notice – we have a patient who’snot having a good day and we’re slightly short staffed, as usual. How can I help you?”

I wondered what would happen if he did need to rush off, if I’d be trapped in here for longer. My breath came in shorter bursts. I remembered the sea when I was child, staring out at it on a grey day, unable to tell where the horizon was.

Calm seas. Calm breaths.

“If you have to go, how would I get out?”

Dave nodded. “Ah. We’ll leave the room together and I’ll take you to reception. I won’t leave you here.”

“Thank you. Sorry about that – I don’t like being locked in places.”