Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
I couldn’t work out whether Wrigley was pleased or not with the reveal of my informant, but he was intrigued enough to agree to me heading over to the Lindridge Psychiatric Unit, an NHS establishment on the outskirts of Leeds City Centre.
I’d called ahead and asked whether Dave Beardsley was on shift, and for once, I had some good luck.
Which was why I was now pulling up in the car park, the rather gloomy stone building looking in a sad state of repair, although not to the extent of the Pigeon Loft, as there was no scaffolding to hold it up.
The gardens had a hint of being tended, the remnants of bulbs sallowing back into the soil, and a few trees had still managed to blossom, the only colours on a grim canvas.
There were a couple of benches positioned there in some attempt to make the grounds appeal, but they’d been placed in parts that would never get the sun.
I wasn’t sure how anyone could make this building any more appealing. If the external features were lacking, then internally it was a soul sucking attempt at bringing joy into a place that had to prioritise containment over comfort.
Prison height fencing surrounded the grounds, the entrance secured with electric gates and a rottweiler of a receptionist, which was a stereotype for a reason.
I was let into a small, locked vestibule, the smell of cleaning fluid, microwaved food and stale air cloying.
Windows here wouldn’t full open, mere gaps to allow air to pass, people contained here for their own security, and maybe that of others.
There were many jobs I knew I’d never be able to do. Working in a place like this was one. Daniel Fletcher had in the past worked with patients in such units, and it could’ve been a career pathway open to me – clinical psychology – but I had other motivations for being in the police.
I handed over my personal items, just as I would do in a prison, everything on me being locked away before I was allowed in, the sticker badge I was given displaying an image of a person that looked nothing like me.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been in such a place, nor was it likely to be the last, however much I hoped it would be. At one point, when I was sixteen, my mother was a patient in a facility such as this.
They were all very similar.
I was taken past the staff station, situated behind a glass-fronted hub with an observation point where nurses were constantly watching, emergency alarms at the ready, to an interview space, a small room just off the main corridor, situated behind fobbed double doors that were designed to open slowly to deter anyone who was likely to make a run for it.
The receptionist said very little as she let me into the room, a sterile area with a couple of laminated posters around de-escalation strategies and a box of tissues. The walls were painted a soft yellow, the only thing that stopped the room from feeling as sterile as an operating theatre.
I was left alone for a few minutes, not offered a drink because my presence was clearly an inconvenience as it was without any extra politeness.
The door closed, locked and I heard nothing.
It was clearly soundproofed, probably used for therapy as well as for meetings like this.
I was well aware that I couldn’t get out without a fob, and if I shouted for help, no one would hear me.
I hoped like hell that the receptionist passed on the message to Dave Beardsley that I was here, otherwise I’d be making good use of the panic button.
We institutionalise both criminals and those people who are a risk to themselves, locking them up, one set for the good of society, the other for good of themselves.
Research showed that confining neuro-diverse individuals had a further detrimental impact on their mental health, and being locked in this room now, with no way out other than to press a panic button and hope that someone came quickly, I could understand why.
I was tapping on the table – fixed to the floor, or course, just like in an interview room in a police station, when the door clicked open and a jolly looking man with a big beard and a big belly entered the room.
I stood up, glad of a reason to move, and held my hand out to who I assumed was Dave Beardsley.
“Thank you for seeing me at short notice.”
He nodded, giving my hand a brief shake. “Not a problem. I may have a to leave you at little notice – we have a patient who’s not having a good day and we’re slightly short staffed, as usual. How can I help you?”
I wondered what would happen if he did need to rush off, if I’d be trapped in here for longer. My breath came in shorter bursts. I remembered the sea when I was child, staring out at it on a grey day, unable to tell where the horizon was.
Calm seas. Calm breaths.
“If you have to go, how would I get out?”
Dave nodded. “Ah. We’ll leave the room together and I’ll take you to reception. I won’t leave you here.”
“Thank you. Sorry about that – I don’t like being locked in places.”
“Understandable. Most people don’t. It’s the fear of being forgotten that’s at the root of it, but maybe you know that.” He sat himself down, his body sinking into the chair. “But you’re not here for a psychology lesson.”
“I have a master’s in criminology so you think I’d be able to work myself out better.”
“Maybe it’s because you know your stuff that it’s harder.
The more we know, the more we realise we don’t know; the more you understand, the harder it is for you to give yourself grace to be imperfect.
” He lay his hands on the table, arms relaxed and I understood why he’d been working here for so long.
Fifteen years if I remembered correctly.
A long time in one place. A long time in one industry.
“You sound like my old tutor, Daniel Fletcher.”
His eyebrows shot to the top of his head. “Ah, Dr Fletcher. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”
“You know him?” I felt a sudden rush of affection for the man who’d managed to coax me down from metaphorical ledges when I didn’t think I should be studying criminology.
“I did. He used to do a bit of private work here, you know, when we were short of a clinical psychologist he’d cover a few shifts and take on a small case load, maybe two patients a week.
” Dave smiled. “He was a nice bloke, typical doctor though. Thought he knew best in all cases, but then they’re all like that, aren’t they? ”
“I suppose so. I’m here to find out a bit more about a patient who was in here twice, Charlie Mason. He was treated here the first time, eleven years ago, and readmitted two and half years ago. Do you - ”
“Remember him?” he interrupted me. Charlie? Of course I do. I like to think I remember most of the patients, not all, but you certainly remember the ones who returned.”
“Why did he end up being admitted?”
Dave sighed, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling, not in frustration or irritation, but as if he had questions of his own he needed answers to at some point.
“He had a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder – bipolar type – and ADHD. Charlie had been a bit of a lost boy. He was one of eight kids brought up in a chaotic household, with a father who was physically abusive, and I suspect, sexually abusive to his daughters. Charlie struggled at school, he acted out, brought a knife in one day because some other kids were threatening him, and he ended up being kicked out. He was meant to attend a pupil referral unit, but used to bunk off and I don’t think anyone knew where he was, or cared really, as long as he wasn’t causing any bother.
“He ended up being arrested after he caused a motorway to be closed because he was walking along it. While he was being held he was significantly distressed, showing signs of paranoia and then psychosis, so he was sectioned and held here under the mental health act for eighteen months. I think when he was here it was the happiest time of his life. They have to review an order after the initial six months; we all thought Charlie would be discharged at that point, but the week before it was due, he had another massive episode; that was one of the worst nights of my life. He took one of the other patients hostage for twelve hours, a young girl called Kelly-Anne and refused to let her out. After that, he was detained for another twelve months. A few of the nurses who worked here thought he’d done it on purpose to be kept here. ”
None of this was in the file that I’d eventually seen. There was very little victimology in it, the conclusion categorically that it had been a case of mistaken identity.
“Were there any other incidents like that?”
“Oh, aye,” Dave nodded. “Usually when his social worker commented on how well he was doing, or one of the doctors praised him. I’m not convinced it was chosen or if there was some deep-rooted trauma.
I suspected he might’ve been sexually abused when he was younger, and part of the grooming process was around praise, that the interaction was suggested to be a reward for Charlie’s good behaviour and by interaction, I mean abuse. ”
“Charlie never disclosed anything though?” I was impressed with how well Dave remembered him.
“Not to my knowledge, although your old professor might know more seeing as he treated him after the hostage incident. I do wonder whether he spoke to Kelly-Anne though, although she didn’t know which way was up at first.”
“Why did Charlie return here?”
“Psychosis. He managed to get an entire tower block of people evacuated without any alarms because he was convinced the gestapo were in the walls. He called the gestapo rats though, which is what I think got people moving, and then he threatened to fly like a bomb from the top floor. He was using heroin at the time and other substances – he was very different the second time he came in here.”
Dave hugged himself, reminding me of a teddy bear.
“Was he ready to be discharged?”
“No. Not at all. He should’ve done another twelve months.
I’d have put my mother’s engagement ring on the first thing he’d do when he got out was to go and score, and that’s exactly what he did.
There was only one reason he’d be near the Wheatsheaf – there’s only one reason why anyone goes near it.
Someone must be getting a pay off somewhere, because the bloody thing needs shutting down or setting on fire.
” He checked his phone, tapping at it to respond.
“Member of staff needs to go home – sick kid.”
“Just one more question – did you know of anyone who would’ve deliberately targeted him? He sounded like he was hard work.”
Dave thought for a moment. “He was, at times, but for the most of it he was a good kid. Even that with Kelly-Anne, she still worshipped him – he was her best friend while she was in here, but he had other friends too. I think it was why he liked being in here so much – he was accepted.”
“But the second time he didn’t fight to stay in?”
“No,” Dave stood up. “He wanted heroin more than he wanted to be in here. Sad ending really. He was let down as a kid by the system, so I suppose what happened was inevitable. You always knew he wasn’t going to live a long life, and what life he did have wasn’t happy.
Maybe it was for the best, although we shouldn’t say such things, should we? ”
I stood as well, not sure whether I agreed with him. “We shouldn’t; but I think I’m starting to understand what you mean.”