Lock Me In

Mae looked up from the documents. ‘OK. And?’

She gave him a look. ‘You could have told me, you know.’

‘Told you what?’

‘Her phobia. Why you wanted me to change into plain clothes.’

‘OK. Well,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘not everyone’s as well-versed in mental health as you are.’ Back in 2006, if he’d suggested DS Heath wear plain clothes because a uniform was a known trigger for a vulnerable witness, he’d never have heard the end of it.

But Kit was still looking distracted. ‘Maddening though, isn’t it? I mean, I know it’s none of my business what happened when she was little but, even in the book, there’s no mention of the trauma.’

‘Trauma?’

‘Yeah. The cause of the disorder she’s got.’

‘I think he just couldn’t work it out?’

She shrugged, but the nonchalance was forced, hiding something. ‘Just – frustrating. I mean, this is an extreme thing, DID. It gets diagnosed like, practically never, and when it does … well, they say the mind can do literally anything, but there’s going to be a bloody good reason for it to do that.’

Mae squinted. ‘You really have got that degree, haven’t you?’

But she waved it away. ‘What I’m saying is, the trauma you’d have to experience for something that extreme to happen would have to be chronic, for one thing, and fuck-off massive, for another. But he never even offers a guess. Do we even know if she knew her father, for example?’

‘Christine had been single for a long time. That’s all I know.’

‘See, that’s waaaay suspicious, isn’t it? Surely there has to be some context about her dad? Early years with him, or something. And I get that Cox had to anonymize it,’ she said, holding up her hand to pre-empt the next thing that Mae was going to say, ‘but it just seems like a massive missing piece. I mean, there’s the mention of these scars of hers but it says that was because of an accident, right? I mean, I’m no expert but I don’t think a one-off accident is going to be enough to cause something as serious as a dissociative disorder.’

Mae had noticed it too, way back when. The other cases in the book were fleshed out, the abuse or trauma that triggered the disorder in the first place forming part of the story. As per the title, they were stories of successful treatment. The book had been funded by a charity, so the message was fairly consistent: funding + excellent care = positive outcomes. The exception was the part dealing with Ellie, which was just a snapshot of the middle of her story, the few months she’d spent under Cox’s care. There was no background, and no happy ending.

‘Guess maybe he wanted to talk about the treatment part of it? To be honest it wasn’t exactly the focus of our investigation.’

Kit seemed to take offence for half a second before delivering a hearty smack on the arm. ‘I’m just interested.’ Then, ‘Maybe I should ask him.’

‘I’m going to assume you’re joking,’ he said, before remembering something. ‘You’d be wasting your time anyway.’

‘Because?’

‘It was something Lucy Arden told us – Jodie’s mum,’ he explained. ‘Apparently Jodie had asked him for copies of his research, a few weeks before she disappeared. He had transcripts done from the audio recordings of Ellie’s sessions, all her medical notes, loads of data, but he lost it.’

Eyebrows up, incredulous. ‘Lost it? How did he manage that?’

‘Apparently. He was still using floppies. Useless things. Lost your data all the time.’

Kit retracted her chin. ‘What the hell is a floppy?’

Mae rolled his eyes in reply. Kids. He turned back to his screen.

Kit was staring ahead now, through him.

‘What?’ Mae asked.

She shook herself and looked at him. ‘Just doesn’t … I don’t know.’ She mimed cogs with her fingers, not quite meshing. ‘Doesn’t fit. He spends all that time with her, recording her, everything, then the whole lot disappears? It’s fishy.’

‘Be that as it may. It’s her own business, not our remit.’

Kit dropped her hands, reddening very slightly.

‘I know. I’m just interested.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You going to get that?’ she asked him, raising a finger towards the desk phone.

Mae laughed and shook his head, then took the call he could see was from the switchboard.

‘DS Mae, Mr Jupp on the line. Says he’s returning your call about visiting a boatyard.’

15. (#ulink_60b60176-0070-5211-bab2-275b6762b370)

Mae (#ulink_60b60176-0070-5211-bab2-275b6762b370)

Jupp’s boatyard was only a couple of miles away, so Mae borrowed one of the force pushbikes. It was late afternoon, the light was sparse through a heavy ceiling of cloud. Spotting the marina entrance, he swung a leg over the crossbar and sailed it standing on one pedal, then hopped down and secured it in a single practised movement against a lamppost.

Mae had discovered the wharf earlier that summer, when he’d talked Bear into a walk along the towpath. He’d pointed out where he’d dealt with a burglary at one of the warehouses that backed straight onto the river, and he’d seen the boats on the towpath that extended from the yard. That was back when it had been warm enough for the residents to still be sitting out on their decks as the sun went down, drinking and barbequing. Different story now, at the arse-end of November. He smelled the smoke of the little log burners they used, the diesel emissions. There was the rumble of generators, punctuated by the honking of a pair of Canada geese. Scraps of laughter from outside a nearby pub lifted and cracked in the air.

He took the steps built into the sloping wall down to where a shabby prefab cube of an office sat precariously levelled on bricks. He knocked and went in. Cheap, functional furniture was laden with papers, notes scribbled on envelopes, and a jumble of polystyrene cups. Behind the desk, a fat guy in a shirt made for a thinner one.

Mae put out a hand. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mae. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Jupp,’ the man said. He was puffy and goutish, the kind of clean-shaver who should have considered a beard. Waving a hand vaguely behind him, he said, ‘My yard.’ Strong Bristol accent. He didn’t get up, and only shook the hand reluctantly when it became clear Mae wasn’t going to put it away unshaken.

Jupp listened while Mae gave him the basics, then rummaged in a drawer and brought out a key. ‘Take you down to his boat, shall I?’

Standing, Jupp was short enough for Mae to see the shiny top of his head, lit up with the reflection of the flickering single-bar strip light. Then again, everyone was short, to Mae.

Outside, a half-hearted drizzle had started to fall, blown across them by a brisk wind. A tang of lager and used nappies was emanating from three overfilled wheelie bins. They stopped at a gate where Jupp paused to key in the code, angling his thickly padded shoulders to block Mae’s view of the keypad. Mae saw it anyway: 2580, all four numbers in a vertical line down the middle. Nice one, Mae thought: unbreakable. The gate buzzed and clunked open.

They went down the sloping pontoon towards the water, Jupp confirming on the way that he hadn’t seen Matt since the morning of the day before.

‘Said he was going to go down to the pump-out.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Mile or so.’ Jupp indicated with his arm: downriver, east.

‘Did you see him go?’

Jupp shrugged. ‘Nope. But he came back, didn’t he? Must have come back last night on the big tide. Boat was in place when I did my patrol.’

‘But you haven’t seen him today?’

‘It’s not a prison.’ Jupp eyed Mae with obvious dislike as they approached the bottom of the slope. ‘They come and go as they please. Lot of us boaters just want leaving alone, tell the truth, not so keen on people coming round, poking their noses—’