6

The Warehouse wasn’t Bryant’s idea of a medical institution. With its stripped pine, metal, plate glass, it looked more like an arts centre, somewhere you’d be led through on a school outing. And the woman he’d spoken to on the phone the day before, Paz Alvarez, didn’t look like a manager. Dark-eyed, flamboyantly dressed, she was like a flamenco dancer or a fortune-teller. Bryant had told her that he wanted to talk about Frieda Klein and she was clearly suspicious. Reuben McGill was seeing a patient. He would have to wait.

Bryant waited in Paz’s office. When she talked on the phone, she seemed a different person, laughing, cajoling, ordering. Then she would hang up, look round, and her expression would darken. Bryant tried to make conversation. Did she know Frieda Klein? Of course. Had she known her long? A few years. Did she see her often? When she came into the clinic. Was that often? A shrug.

He gave up and looked around her office. There was a rug on the wall, small sculptures and metal ornaments on every surface. A man appeared in the doorway and looked at Paz, who nodded towards Bryant. Bryant stood up.

‘Dr McGill?’

‘Come through.’

Bryant followed McGill along a corridor and into a room that was simple and stark, with just an abstract print on the wall and two wooden chairs facing each other.

‘I thought there’d be a couch,’ said Bryant.

McGill didn’t smile, just gestured him to sit in one of the chairs and sat himself in the other. McGill didn’t look like Bryant’s idea of a senior doctor either. He was wearing walking boots, grey canvas trousers, a faded blue shirt. His thick, greying hair was swept back off his forehead. When people met police officers they were usually nervous or agitated. They could sometimes be confrontational. McGill said nothing and looked just a little bored.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Alexander Holland,’ Bryant began.

‘I knew him as Sandy,’ said McGill. ‘It sounds wrong hearing him called Alexander. I can’t believe that this has happened. It’s a terrible thing, especially for Frieda.’

‘You knew him?’ Bryant continued.

‘Yes, of course. I met him several years ago.’

‘Through Frieda Klein?’

‘That’s right. They were in a relationship, though that ended some time ago now.’

‘We’re looking into people who knew him well. Like Dr Klein.’

‘I’m confused. Can’t you talk to her directly?’

‘My boss is talking to her this afternoon. But your name came up.’

‘In what way?’

‘Frieda Klein is an analyst. But you were her analyst. How does that work?’

McGill looked amused in a way that Bryant didn’t like.

‘Work? It meant that she had sessions with me a few times a week. But this was all many years ago.’

‘I don’t know anything about this,’ said Bryant. ‘Is it usual to be analysed by someone who’s your friend?’

McGill made an impatient gesture. ‘If you’re training to be a therapist, you first have to be in therapy yourself.’

‘Why?’

McGill’s grim expression lightened slightly. ‘That’s a good question,’ he said. ‘Probably the main reason is that by the time you’ve had your own therapy, you’ve spent so much time and so much money, you’ll be a good, obedient therapist and you won’t ask awkward questions about the old masters or the efficacy of what we do. It’s also useful to deal with some of your own issues so they don’t get in the way when you start seeing patients.’ He frowned again. ‘We became friends later. I was her analyst, then I recruited her and then we became friends.’

‘And through her you met Alexander Holland.’

‘Yes.’

‘They were a couple.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then they broke up.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know why?’

McGill crossed his arms. Bryant felt he was being pushed away.

‘You must have friends.’

‘I’ve got a few.’

‘When their relationships break up, do you really know why?’

‘Usually. Maybe one of them had an affair or they argued too much or one of them got bored.’

‘Well, I don’t know why they broke up.’

‘Do you know who initiated it?’

McGill unfolded his arms. ‘Why do you need to know all this? You seem to be asking me about Frieda rather than Sandy.’

‘Holland was murdered. We want to know what was happening in his life.’

‘Frieda ended it.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘She’s her own woman. Maybe she felt trapped. I have no idea.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘What do you think? He wasn’t happy.’

‘How did he show that?’

McGill shrugged. ‘By not being happy. By complaining. By trying to get her to change her mind.’

‘Was he threatening? Or violent?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Did you talk to him after it ended?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Why?’

‘He may have seen me as a way of getting to Frieda.’

‘What was his demeanour?’

‘Demeanour?’ McGill smiled. ‘That’s a word only policemen and lawyers use. We’ve all been there. It’s the most hopeless thing in the world, trying to persuade someone to love you again.’

Bryant pulled a photocopy from his file and pushed it across the table. ‘What do you make of that?’

McGill stared at the sheet of paper that showed the column of dates and times that Sandy had written down under the initials ‘WH’. ‘Nothing.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption that “WH” means the Warehouse.’ McGill didn’t respond. ‘If so, can you think of what these dates and times refer to?’

‘No.’

‘For instance, they wouldn’t be the dates and times that Dr Klein works here?’

‘I’ll have to check that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bryant.

‘It would be easier if you simply asked Frieda.’

‘We’ll do that as well.’ He glanced down at his notebook, reminding himself. ‘One more thing. Does the name Miles Thornton mean anything to you?’

‘Yes.’ McGill was visibly wary. ‘He is a patient here. Or was.’

‘He’s been reported missing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he hasn’t turned up for his usual sessions.’

‘His sessions with Dr Klein?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why is that particularly worrying? Presumably lots of patients miss their sessions.’

‘What has this got to do with Sandy’s death?’

Bryant, who didn’t know the answer to that, waited impassively.

‘Miles Thornton is a particularly troubled young man. Perhaps we should never have taken him here – a hospital might have been more appropriate. He was in a psychiatric ward of a hospital for a bit and when he was released he felt we – Frieda in particular – had betrayed him. He could be violent, even psychotic at times. So when he disappeared …’ he gave another of his shrugs ‘… well, it was obviously worrying. It was our duty to report him missing.’

‘I see.’ Bryant stood up. ‘Let me know about that list, will you? I’ll leave it with you. Is there anyone else here I can talk to?’

‘You’ve met Paz. And there’s Jack Dargan, who was Frieda’s trainee. He works here now. But they’ll just say the same as me.’

Now it was Bryant’s turn to look disapproving. ‘We’ll be the judge of that.’

Jack Dargan was a brightly dressed young man. Bryant liked to be invisible: on or off duty, he wore clothes that were dark, muted and interchangeable. But the man who came into the room wore a thinly woven yellow cardigan over a royal blue T-shirt and baggy trousers that looked like pyjamas. Perhaps this was what therapists put on to see their patients. His hair was colourful as well, a tawny orange with a kind of wave running through it that he emphasized by pushing his hand into it whenever he was asked a question. There was a perpetual restlessness about him that made it hard for Bryant to concentrate fully on what he was saying – but it was clear that he was saying no. No, he didn’t know any details about Frieda Klein’s break-up with Alexander Holland; no, he had not met him after Frieda had ended things, except for a couple of brief glimpses (here, his eyes slid away from Bryant’s); and no, he had nothing to add to Reuben McGill’s statement about Miles Thornton.