Chapter 42 Carter
CARTER
DCI Bird talks in her sleep.
She said things that didn’t make sense but made me worry.
I wonder if she knows.
My opinion of her has changed since she almost collapsed last night.
Seeing her like that—vulnerable—made me want to protect her.
She isn’t as tough as she pretends to be, and I like that I get to see a side of her nobody else does.
Curiosity got the better of me this morning.
I looked inside her bag to see what other pills she was taking and it looked like she had robbed a chemist. I recognized one of the drug names—it’s the same pills my mum takes, and they are not for migraines.
She isn’t who I thought she was but that’s okay.
I am not the man she thinks I am either.
I want to prove to her that I’m not as useless as she thinks.
And I’ve had an idea for how to do that.
Show some initiative.
Trust your instincts.
Follow your gut.
That’s what she said I should do so that’s what I’m doing.
It takes over an hour to navigate my way to The Manor.
Blackmoor National Park borders Hope Falls but the park is vast, over fifty miles of knotted single-track lanes, and The Manor is not easy to find.
It doesn’t appear on any map. The sun is just starting to rise when I arrive at the gated property surrounded by miles of nothing.
Nothing except wild and rugged countryside.
It looks like a posh prison. I press the buzzer and tell them who I am and why I am here before they ask.
There was something about the way Harrison Woolf reacted when we spoke about his daughter that has been bothering me ever since.
Bird says Gabriella can’t be involved because she’s locked up here, but I want to see for myself.
The gates open and I drive down a long, winding, tree-lined driveway.
There is an impressive—and slightly intimidating—building when I reach the end.
It reminds me of Downton Abbey and I’m half expecting to be greeted by a butler.
I park the squad car right outside the giant front doors—no doubt ruining the view—and hurry up the steps.
The doors open before I reach them to reveal a small woman dressed in white. Her name badge says INGRID.
“Can I help you?” she asks, sounding like she’d rather not. She has a clipped European accent, and a face as unfriendly as a closed door.
“I’m sorry to turn up so early like this, but I need to speak to one of your residents.”
“It’s six AM. Everyone is asleep. The day team haven’t even arrived for their shifts yet.”
“I’m afraid it’s a police matter and it’s urgent. I’m looking for Gabriella Woolf.”
Ingrid raises an eyebrow. “She’s very popular all of a sudden. You’d best follow me.”
She leads me through a grand entrance hall, up an impressive spiral staircase, and along a maze of corridors.
We stop outside a door and she takes out a giant set of keys that once again make me think of a prison.
The oversized and sturdy door looks exactly like all the others we have passed, but the sign on the front confirms I am in the right place.
Room Thirteen GAbrIELLA WOOLF
“You lock her in?” I ask.
“For her own safety,” Ingrid says, then adds, “And ours.”
While she jangles her keys trying to find the right one, I wonder what to expect on the other side of the door.
All I know about Gabriella is that she is eighteen and lives here.
I do not know why. As the door opens I start to doubt myself.
Coming here was going against a direct order from a superior officer.
Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do. The woman dressed in white finally opens the door and it’s too late to turn back now.
“Wait here while I wake her,” she says, disappearing inside.
I nod, remaining in the corridor. I look both ways and now the place reminds me of The Shining. The woman reappears sooner than I was expecting and makes me jump.
“She was already awake. You can come in.”
I step inside what could best be described as an extravagant hotel suite.
There is a beautifully decorated lounge with expensive-looking furniture and huge windows offering spectacular views of the grounds and the shadowy moors in the distance.
I can see a door leading to what looks like a designer bedroom, and everything about the place screams wealth and luxury.
This is not a prison. It is not what I was expecting at all, and neither is Gabriella Woolf.
In front of one of the enormous windows, a stunning young woman with pale skin and long black hair is sitting in front of an easel holding a paintbrush in her hand.
She doesn’t turn to look at me as I enter the room, instead she carries on painting as though I’m not here.
“Can she hear me?” I ask Ingrid.
“Oh yes. Nothing wrong with her ears. Gabriella hadn’t spoken a word for years before she joined us, but she’s making good progress since she moved in.”
“Hello, Gabriella. My name is Sergeant Luke Carter. I’m a policeman and I wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”
She doesn’t react at all, just stares at the canvas as though she didn’t hear a word. The watercolor painting is of Spyglass and it’s very good, the sort of work a professional artist might produce. I look around the room and see there are dozens more just like it.
“How long has she been here?” I ask Ingrid.
“Not sure, I’m not her primary care assistant. Six months or so, I think?”
“And why is she here?”
“Her parents felt like this was the best place for her.”
“But … what’s wrong with her?” I ask, given it looks like nothing is.
“Gabriella had a condition called selective mutism, but unlike the name suggests there was no choice involved. She didn’t choose not to speak, she couldn’t.
It’s a severe and complex childhood anxiety disorder.
Sometimes when a child experiences a trauma at a young age, they retreat inside themselves.
Gabriella was in a serious accident at the age of eight; she basically spent ten years locked inside her own mind.
Her parents decided to care for her at home after the accident, which in my view was a mistake.
She needed professional care to rehabilitate her mind as well as her body.
That said, Gabriella has made excellent progress since she moved in here.
She goes for supervised walks around the grounds, she’s eating three meals a day so is at a nice healthy weight, she enjoys painting and reading, and thanks to Mary, one of our specialist carers, she’s started to communicate. ”
That gets my attention. I stop staring at Gabriella and turn back to Ingrid.
“She can talk again?”
“She … whispers.”
“What?”
“Sometimes she whispers. What she says doesn’t always make sense, and she tends to only do it when Mary is here, but I’ve heard it with my own ears. Mary records her to keep track of her progress.”
“How often does she…”
“Whisper? Not often. It’s normally an emotional response that triggers it. We’re all hopeful that one day, Gabriella might talk again and be able to have a normal life. She’s fit and healthy in every other way, and as you can see, she’s a wonderful artist.”
“Like her mother,” I say, but the woman shrugs. “Can I ask her some questions?”
“Feel free to try, but I don’t think she can help you.”
I walk over to Gabriella and she is even more beautiful close-up.
“That’s a really good painting,” I say. My words sound patronizing but they are true, she is very talented. “Did it take long?”
She doesn’t even look up.
Ingrid stands behind us, as though on guard, and I know I need to be careful what I say. I notice that Gabriella has painted the word home in tiny letters at the bottom of the canvas.
“I met your father the other day and he mentioned you,” I tell her.
Again, no visible response.
“I met your mother too.”
She doesn’t even blink, just carries on painting as though I’m not here.
“Oh, look,” says Ingrid, staring out of the window. “There’s Mary now, just arriving for her shift. You might have more luck talking to her?”
It seems unlikely and I fear this trip was a complete waste of time.
I peer out of the window where Ingrid is pointing, and see another woman dressed in a white uniform crossing the gravel driveway and heading toward the main door.
But I recognize this woman and her name isn’t Mary.
It’s Eden Fox.