‘Can you let us in, please?’ Tibbot said.
‘Visiting’s over. Unless you’ve got an appointment, you can’t.’
Tibbot pursed his lips. ‘It’s important.’ I knew he didn’t want to identify himself as a policeman.
The man was becoming irritated. ‘Then make an appointment.’
‘We don’t have time.’
He went back to his match reports. ‘That’s your trouble,’ he replied.
‘We need to see him now.’
He refolded the paper. ‘Piss off or I’ll call security.’
We had already been frustrated today and this seemed our last chance. ‘Police,’ I said.
Tibbot stared at me.
‘What?’ the man in uniform blurted out, looking up from the page.
‘He’s police.’
I could see Tibbot mentally calculating the danger of admitting who he was. If we tried to slope off now, the man might well call the local station straight away and that would set a dangerous train in motion.
‘Are you? Show me your warrant card.’ He was suspicious.
Stony-faced, Tibbot drew out his warrant card. ‘Here,’ he said. He indicated a telephone on the wall inside the gatehouse. He had to brazen it out now. ‘So we would like to see Dr Larren. That must be connected to the office, yes?’
The man still looked wary, but he took the telephone from the wall. ‘What name?’ he asked.
‘Detective Sergeant Tibbot.’
The man stabbed the single button on the telephone. Tibbot kept that stony look on his face. I tried to catch his eye, to let him know that I was sorry, but he stared straight ahead. ‘Police here to see Dr Larren. All right,’ the man mumbled into the receiver. ‘Asking him,’ he said to us.
I looked across to the house. ‘What kind of hospital is it?’ I said. Perhaps Rachel had been a patient here, and for some reason Larren had taken her car to keep in trust. That seemed strange, though.
The man in white stared at me. ‘Psychiatric.’
I gazed up at the wide building. I had never seen one before. It seemed so ordinary.
We waited a minute before the telephone squawked again. ‘He wants to know what it’s about,’ the man said, the receiver still by his chin.
Tibbot was annoyed, and I was sure much of the anger was for me. ‘Tell him it’s about a car he received in 1950. Police business.’
The man narrowed his eyes. ‘About a car he received in 1950. Yeah. I don’t know.’ We waited again.
‘You know what kind of people are in these places?’ Tibbot asked under his breath. ‘You know it’s not just for the sick now? There are… others.’ He looked at me to see if I understood.
I did. It was what was detailed on that samizdat leaflet that I had found beside Liberation Square. The commitment to provide healthcare for everyone, including those with mental illnesses, had suited the government in a way that was never made public but was whispered about. It was something else we had borrowed from the Soviet Union: dissident intellectuals – and sometimes trades unionists or general troublemakers – were dumped in places like this and doped up until their words died on their tongues. The hospitals had become an extension of the political process. The Communists had told us from the beginning that everything would soon be political, but we hadn’t fully understood them. We had thought it meant that the structures of society would be moulded to serve the public. We were – I was – beginning to understand that it meant that they would be bent to serve the requirements of politicians.
Eventually the telephone rang and the man in white put it to his ear. ‘All right.’ He placed the handset back in its cradle and looked us up and down, rubbing his palms over his hips. ‘What’s all this about a car?’ he asked.
‘I think you have to do as you’ve been instructed,’ Tibbot replied, pointing to the telephone.
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll take you up.’
He unlocked the gate and led us up a long and winding gravel path to the twin-winged house. A very large ground-floor window on the left glared out light into the country evening. It held a number of faces staring out, hardly moving, while the corresponding window on the right showed only a smattering of faded furniture. Both were barred. With a clanking of locks from inside, the front door opened for us.
‘They’re to see Dr Larren,’ the gatekeeper told a heavy-set man wearing an identical uniform, before returning to his post.
The new man told us to follow him, closing and securing the door with a key from a large bunch hanging on his belt. He smelled like he hadn’t washed in a long time. ‘This way,’ he said.
We passed a heavy-looking door with a panel of wire-strengthened glass. It gave access to a corridor into the left-hand wing of the house. Next to it a security guard sat filling in some forms. The security was obviously tight, but still a thought arose: if Rachel had once been detained here, if her mind was unstable, could Lorelei have died under her hand?
We climbed a wide oak staircase scored with deep welts and approached a door of intricately carved wood, upon which the orderly thumped with his fist. From somewhere behind it, a voice told us to enter and we did so to find a short man in his shirtsleeves peering at us from behind a glass desk. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Larren. I’m sorry I said I was busy, but there’s a lot to do right now. If I can help you, I will. You said something about a car?’
Tibbot showed him his warrant card. There was no use hiding it now. ‘You were given a car two years ago. Well, you took one, anyhow.’
‘I’m sorry, but no. No, I didn’t.’
‘Police records say you received a Sunbeam. Registration YXA 998.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Detective Sergeant, that’s not my car.’ He poured a glass of water and drank.
‘We’re trying to find the woman who owned it before you. Her name is Rachel Burton. Is she a patient?’
‘No. We don’t have any patient by that name.’
‘You’re certain?’ Tibbot asked.
‘Yes. We have fewer than forty patients. I know them all personally. I make a point of it. Only eight or nine have arrived in the past few years and she isn’t one of them.’
‘Could she have been here for a short time?’
‘Even then I would have known her.’
‘This is a most important enquiry.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I can’t help you.’
‘Could you ask your staff?’
He looked amused. ‘I’m afraid they would tell you the same thing.’
‘You can’t be certain of that.’
‘But I can, officer.’
‘Dr Larren…’
It was ridiculous and I could see no point going on with it. The man wasn’t going to tell us anything. ‘Look,’ I said to Tibbot. ‘Let’s leave this and just go. Please.’
Tibbot seemed frustrated. He checked his notebook, although it must only have been to give him a chance to gather his thoughts. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The registration records must be a mistake. Thank you for your time.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help.’ Larren picked up a pen and returned to some papers on his desk.
Tibbot followed me out of the room and we were met by the orderly, who was waiting to escort us out of the building. As we went, I noticed how thin the staircase carpet was – little more than threads.
I turned to the orderly. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask Dr Larren to do something.’ He looked at me with little interest. ‘Could you give a message to my cousin?’
His shoes were canvass, despite the cold and the fact that he seemingly had to tramp along country lanes to the hospital. ‘Who’s your cousin?’ he replied.
‘Rachel Burton.’
He glanced at the corridor to the other wing. ‘All right.’
I felt a jolt of adrenalin but managed to stay composed. ‘Just say Jane was sorry she couldn’t stay. I’m feeling ill.’