‘The probation order contained a condition that I receive medical treatment.’ I forced out the words.
He looked at me seriously. ‘Did you? Receive treatment?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was helpful?’ He leaned forward towards me across the table, frowning slightly. I could almost believe he was concerned, that it was my feelings he was considering, not the paperwork involved in getting my medical records released before he charged me.
‘I suppose so.’ I hesitated, teasing him, making him wait for the information he really wanted, then continued, unemotional, as if I were presenting a report to a case conference at the unit. ‘I saw a consultant psychiatrist as an outpatient. I still see him every month. I attended some classes – relaxation, yoga. The doctor thought it might help if I went away from the area for a while. I followed his advice and took a holiday. Occasionally a community psychiatric nurse comes to the house. We talk about how best to manage my condition.’
‘Which is?’ His voice tailed off delicately, but I knew he wouldn’t let it go.
‘I have a bipolar disorder.’
He continued to look at me and still the question hung between us.
‘Mood swings.’ I paused again. ‘Manic depressive tendencies.’ I knew there were only words, but they hurt. I carried them round with me like a wound. Manic depression is what real crazies have, like the mad woman on the bus.
‘But treatable, surely?’
‘With medication,’ I said. ‘Really it’s almost miraculous.’
I held my breath and waited for a question which didn’t come.
‘Do they know what causes it?’ As if he were genuinely and objectively interested.
‘There’s probably a genetic factor.’ Bad blood, I thought. I expect my mother was mad too. That would explain a lot. I added, ‘In my case it seems to have been triggered by stress.’ I breathed regularly as Lisa, the community nurse, had taught me. ‘Breathe through the fear,’ she’d said. Then I looked straight at him. ‘The incident at the secure unit, where I was working. It took longer than I’d expected to get over it.’ I was proud that my voice stayed strong, though Nicky was in my head, smiling.
‘I know,’ he said kindly. ‘A bad business.’
We looked at each other for a moment in silence.
‘This medication… You have been taking it regularly?’
Sod it, I thought. He’s been talking to Jess.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I mean, why wouldn’t I? Some days I forget, but mostly yeah, of course I take it.’
I had stopped in Morocco. The prescription had run out and I couldn’t face the hassle of finding an English-speaking doctor to renew it. Then there’d been the experience at the palmery and I’d thought, If this is madness, give me more of it. I’d felt alive. I’d thought, I don’t want a bland, twilight world. I can put up with the lows if I can get these highs. I’d thought I was cured. I’d survived for more than twenty years without drugs. I didn’t need them.
‘We can check,’ he said mildly.
The thin-lipped woman was looking at me as if I were an unpredictable dog who should be wearing a muzzle. I had an almost overwhelming urge to live up to her prejudice and smack her. I ignored Farrier’s comment and leaned back in my chair. My hands were clasped together on the table. They were bloodless and white.
‘I could use some coffee.’ Farrier nodded towards the sergeant.
She got up reluctantly and left the room.
‘Tell me about Thomas Mariner,’ he said later, when the DS had returned with a tray and the tape machine was listening again.
The coffee came in polystyrene cups and, although it wasn’t as nasty as I’d expected, it had an aftertaste of plastic. Miles had brought biscuits. I dipped a digestive into the hot liquid and nibbled it. It was delicious, sweet and nutty, and for that moment it was more important to enjoy it than to answer the question. Farrier seemed to understand that, because he waited patiently.
‘Why were you visiting Thomas Mariner?’ he prompted at last.
I didn’t really want to tell him. It wasn’t anything to do with confidentiality. It wasn’t as if I had a professional reputation to think of. I’d lost that when I stuck a pair of scissors in a homeless lad’s arm. It’s just that in my experience it’s usually safer to keep the police in the dark. The more you tell them, the more ammunition you give them for later. Information which might seem harmless at the time comes back to haunt you. Then I looked up at Farrier and suddenly I’d had enough of being there. I just wanted to get out. I wanted to be home, sitting on the sofa in Jess’s front room, drinking cocoa and watching a crappy soap on the television.
‘It was work, sort of,’ I said.
‘Social work?’
‘Not really.’
And then I told him. I didn’t go into details about my relationship with Philip, but I gave him the rest – the letter from Stuart Howdon, the funeral at Wintry-law, the commission to trace Philip’s illegitimate son. He wrote it all down. Occasionally he interrupted to ask for details, gently, so at the time I didn’t realize he wanted to test the consistency of my story.
‘Where was the solicitor’s office?’
‘Morpeth, that street opposite the library.’
‘And the date of the funeral?’
‘It was 3 June. A Thursday.’
He seemed satisfied, jotted down a scribbled note, then looked up at me again.
‘How did you find the boy?’
By that time I felt light-headed through having talked so much. I don’t like being the centre of attention. Showing off has never really been my thing. Sitting there with both of them staring at me made me feel strange. I wanted to put my hands over my eyes and pretend I was on my own.
‘Go on,’ Farrier said kindly. ‘Take your time.’
So I explained about talking to Thomas’s grandmother, and Kay Laing, and going to the hostel in Whitley Bay. I didn’t tell him the lies I’d told to get through the doors. Like I said, that sort of thing can come back to get you. And I didn’t mention Ronnie Laing. I’m not sure why.
‘Dan Meech, one of the residential workers in the hostel, gave me Thomas’s new address.’ I looked up at Farrier bleakly. ‘I thought I’d been really clever. A brilliant piece of investigation.’
‘You should consider a career with the police.’ Of course he didn’t mean it.
‘Do you think I could have caused his death. Indirectly, I mean? I didn’t set out to. But could I have stirred something up with my poking around?’
He smiled again. He had a lovely smile. I wondered if he was a father, if his kids knew how lucky they were. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t think so for a minute.’
‘Do you believe me, then?’
‘Well, it’s a helluva story to make up.’ He stood up and beckoned for Miles to follow him. ‘Wait there for a tick.’ At the door he gave a bit of a wink. ‘We won’t be long.’
The uniformed policewoman who came in to sit with me brought more coffee and a plateful of biscuits. I think they were probably Farrier’s idea too. He was longer than I expected and I was starting to feel twitchy again when he came back in. I half stood in my seat, thinking they’d let me go immediately, but he returned to his chair on the other side of the table. He looked troubled, slightly puzzled. It could have been an act, but I didn’t think so. Miles wasn’t with him and he asked the policewoman to stay. She must have given her name for the machine but I don’t remember.
‘Is there anything about that story you’d like to change?’ he asked.
‘No.’ I didn’t get any sense of danger. I was tired. My concentration had gone.
‘I’ve just spoken to Mr Howdon. That letter he sent, asking you to meet him after the funeral, did you keep it?’
I’d had it with me when I went to Wintrylaw. I’d shown it to Howdon in his office, as a proof of identification, before he started explaining about Philip, but afterwards he had held on to it. I felt exhausted, too tired to explain all that, so I just shook my head.