‘He has a cut-off column to symbolise a life cut short.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know if it’s because the Father of Communism is interred here, or if it’s just somewhere quiet and out of the way, but in the sixties and seventies there were so many spies meeting at Karl Marx’s grave, MI5 had a permanent detail observing it.’
‘That’s how you know it so well?’
‘The Highgate detail was a rite of passage,’ Locke said. ‘Somewhere to test your mettle. The cemetery, particularly the West Cemetery, is unnerving enough as it is at night, but throw in some armed KGB assets and it was a genuinely scary task.’
‘What do you want, Alastor?’ Poe said.
‘I am a man not without considerable influence,’ he replied.
‘You don’t have to remind me of this; I still smell of fish.’ Poe held up his scarred hands. ‘And some of those dorsal fins cut through my gloves.’
Locke nodded. Point taken.
‘Nonetheless, I will not wield the power of the state to avenge my daughter-in-law’s death,’ he said. He stopped staring at Karl Marx’s tomb and turned to face Poe. He took a breath and added, ‘But Iwillwield you.’
‘I don’t know how to beat him, Alastor,’ Poe said.
‘If not you, who?’
‘I don’t know how to beat him,’ Poe repeated. ‘Even Tilly is struggling with his profile.’
‘Alice liked you, Poe. She said you were a forward-thinking dinosaur. I think it was a compliment.’ He smiled. ‘You reminded her of Sylvester Stallone’s character inThe Demolition Man.’
Poe had got so used to thinking of her as Mathers he’d almost forgotten her first name was Alice. ‘I haven’t seen it,’ he said.
‘Neither have I,’ Locke said. He sighed and added, ‘What a pair we make, Washington. Two analogues, trying their best to navigate an increasingly digital world.’
‘I have Tilly to help me.’
‘And I had Alice.’
‘I don’t know how to think like him,’ Poe said. The fuel that burned in Ezekiel Puck’s engine seemed to be a mixture of cruelty and sadism. Throw in some revenge and a sprinkling of spite and you had a psyche that was beyond Poe’s understanding. Beyond his reach. He simply couldn’t bend his mind that far. But then he thought, perhaps he didn’t have to. Not when he knew someone equally as twisted and damaged. ‘I don’t know how to think like him, Alastor, but I know someone who might.’
‘Oh?’
‘But I will need some help.’
‘What do you require of me, Sergeant Poe?’ ‘You can get me in to see Clara Lang.’
And Locke said, ‘Consider it done.’
Chapter 73
The tomb of Karl Marx wasn’t the only listed building Poe had had dealings with recently. The other one was Moulsford. The high-security psychiatric hospital near Harrogate that treated Doctor Clara Lang was Grade II listed. It hadn’t been called a hospital when the Victorians had built it, of course. The era that practised corpse medicine (the skull of a young woman mixed with treacle was believed to cure epilepsy) and sent eight-year-olds up chimneys didn’t shirk when it came to naming things. Back then it had been called the Moulsford Asylum for Criminal Lunatics.
It was an ivy-clad, red-brick building. A central block with two wings of three storeys on either side. It had a steeply pitched roof and ornate gables. Its landscaped grounds were extensive. There was even a lake. Lots of willow trees. Low-risk patients enjoyed the sun. Staff took cheeky cigarette breaks. Gardeners gardened and deliverymen delivered. The tranquillity reminded Poe of Highgate’s West Cemetery. It was an echo of a different time. A peek into the past.
Poe had been trying to see Doctor Lang for weeks, but all his requests had been rebuffed. That was unusual. Moulsford usually bent over backwards to accommodate him. Poe was part of her treatment.Shared experiences.But the last couple of times he’d called, he’d been told it was impossible. That there’d been an incident. There were always incidents when it came to Clara Lang, but Moulsford was a high-security psychiatric hospital – incidents were the currency they dealt in.
Poe hadn’t liked going above their heads. It felt like he’d been tattling. When Locke had called to give him the go-ahead, he’d told Poe there would be conditions. That was OK. Poe was used to conditions when it came to Clara Lang. She was Moulsford’s most dangerous patient. She was one of thecountry’smost dangerous patients. She was so dangerous an entire wing had been allocated to her care. Before that, it had been used as an administrative wing – now it had more security than Broadmoor.
It wasn’t that Clara Lang was inherently bad. But there were two sides to her. One light, one dark. The light side – theClara Langside – was a professional trauma therapist. A quiet, studious woman. The kind of woman who’d step over insects. Who’d take in injured birds and cry when they died. The dark side – theBethany Bowmanside – was Clara’s guardian angel. If you hurt Clara, if you threatened Clara, if you even looked at Clara the wrong way, you met Bethany. And you really didn’t want to meet Bethany. Because Bethany did bad things.Verybad things. She had an extraordinary capacity for violence and was completely uninhibited when it came to finding things to use as weapons.
Dissociative identity disorder, they called it. Two or more personalities that routinely take control of an individual’s behaviour. In layperson’s terms, she had a split personality. Bethany and Clara. Poe had met both the previous year. Bethany had caused Poe’s PTSD. Clara was treating it. It was complex.
Poe parked in his usual spot and made his way through security. He was asked to take a seat in the foyer. As he always did when he was waiting for Clara’s doctors, Poe read the ‘Reasons for Admission’ poster from the nineteenth century. He had read it several times. Sometimes it made him laugh. Today he wasn’t in the mood. Most of the reasons seemed to be excuses for men to get rid of their wives or disobedient daughters: Novel reading; Disagreeing with husband; Nymphomania; Imaginary female trouble. Others were unisex, but equallybonkers. Deranged masturbation, whatever that was. Probably the opposite of another reason for admission –Suppressedmasturbation. Masturbation for thirty years seemed self-explanatory. Treatments included bloodletting and purging, lobotomy, leeching, static electricity and cold-water therapy.
In the twenty-first century, Moulsford practised things like psychotherapy and counselling. Cognitive and dialectical therapy. They prescribed modern medicines and they had the most up-to-date equipment. They even had a permanent collection of art created by the patients.
