Page 88 of No Safe Place

Sunday | Afternoon

Field

Andy was pulling his T-shirt back on, after Young had examined his torso and back for any other injuries.

From the meek character his housemates described, Field had expected Andrew Levey to be short and slight-framed. But he had to be at least six foot three, and he dwarfed the custody sergeant. He was broad-shouldered, and he wasn’t just naturally big, Field was sure he must go to the gym daily.

Earlier Riley had called him a “fucking unit”. He was cheerful – glad that on a day of desk duty, the case had found its way to the station.

Field was standing in the corner of the sterile medical examination room, as Young packed away her equipment and samples.

If the cut to Andy’s arm was the self-inflicted injury from the night of Sam’s attack, Young’s testimony would be crucial evidence.

Andrew ducked his head and looked down at his shoes as he was cuffed again, thanking Young as he was led out of the room.

‘Okay,’ Young said, stiffly. ‘Shall we go over my thoughts in your office?’

They walked through the station in awkward silence, a few of the team raising a hand to wave at Young as they passed. Field had a knot of dread in her stomach. It reminded her of walking to the headmaster’s office, knowing you were in for a bollocking.

Once the door was shut, Field turned round to face her, and saw Young had her arms crossed, a pissed-off expression on her face.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she hissed.

Field appreciated that she wasn’t yelling.

‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ She made sure to look Young in the eyes. ‘But I’m sorry. For how I spoke to you at the Volly – I really am.’

‘You know it’s not me you should be apologising to.’ Young’s shoulders dropped and she sighed, flopping into the chair opposite Field’s desk. ‘I spoke to Toby – and before you fly off the handle, I called him. He told me about last night.’

Field’s face was hot. She’d delivered terrible news to hundreds, maybe thousands, of people, but the thought of facing her son was making her squirm.

‘He’s okay, you know,’ Young said.

‘That’s good. I’ll apologise to him tonight. We haven’t had an argument since he was—’

Young shook her head. ‘I don’t mean about the row.’

Field took a beat.

‘I mean he’s okay , Liz. You don’t need to torture yourself worrying about him, not anymore.’

Hearing it out loud – it was such an instant, visceral relief. To Field’s horror, she felt tears spring into her eyes.

‘I fucking hate it when you call me Liz,’ she said, pressing her index fingers into her tear ducts.

‘Would you prefer Elizabeth ?’ Young asked, grinning.

Field snorted.

They were going to be okay. Young didn’t hold a grudge. She said life was too short, after spending hers dealing with dead and dying people.

Young rolled her eyes, and held up her notebook. ‘Right, can we get on with this, please?’

‘Oh shit, your date with the hot plasterer,’ Field said, still sniffing. ‘Weren’t you going to the cinema?’

‘Sunday roast.’ Young laughed. ‘And I can still make it, if we get a move on.’

She pulled up a photo of Andy’s wound on the camera, and zoomed in. ‘It’s not a defensive injury, in my opinion. It’s too deep, for starters. But also, with a defensive injury, he would be moving his arm, so it’d be more erratic. This is a clean line.’

‘So could it be self-inflicted?’ Field asked, leaning in to look at the small screen.

Young shook her head. ‘Typically, a self-inflicted wound starts near the wrist, and then the knife moves towards the body.’ She mimed her closed fist moving from her wrist towards her elbow.

Field’s eyebrows raised. ‘Typically?’

‘Well, in the cases where a self-inflicted wound goes towards the wrist, they don’t tend to be this deep.

And you’d see hesitation marks here—’ She pointed to the crease of the elbow.

‘Also, if they start deep, they get shallower near the wrist.’ Young mimed again.

Elbow to wrist, flicking up towards the end.

‘People doing this action tend to want to avoid the vein – consciously or sub-consciously.’

‘And you’re saying Andrew Levey’s wound was—’

‘Inflicted from elbow towards the wrist and got deeper .’

Field rubbed her forehead, which was sticky with sweat. ‘You think Andy was stabbed?’

‘It veered to the right at the end, so I’d say if it was someone else, they were standing opposite him and they were left-handed. I’d say it was a downward, sweeping motion, which is very different to the stab to the abdomen, which was the first injury to Sam and David.

‘But could Andy have done that to himself, as a sort of alibi?’ Field asked.

‘Sure.’ Young shrugged. ‘Without the knife, it’s hard to say. Have you found one?’

It was yet another thing that was making Field feel uneasy. ‘No. Not among his possessions in Brighton, anyway.’

‘Well, there’s not much else I can give you from a single knife wound that’s partially healed,’ Young said, with a hopeful shrug.

‘Go on,’ Field said. ‘Get out of here. Knock him dead.’

They both cringed at her choice of words.

Young gathered up her things. ‘Well you know, I could be wrong. There are always exceptions; can’t take anything for gospel, yada yada. I’ll send you my report first thing tomorrow.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘Any time,’ Young said.

Before Young could open the door, Field caught her in a quick firm hug.

‘It’ll all be fine,’ Young said under her breath, before Field let her go.

Field hesitated before dialling, reluctant to ask the petulant doctor for help. However, part of being a good DCI was knowing when you were in over your head.

His mobile only rang twice before Maxwell answered. ‘What?’

‘Hi – Dr Maxwell, it’s DCI Field—’

‘Is this about Callum?’ Maxwell snapped. ‘I’m telling you, it’s time to leave the guy alone.’

‘It’s not Callum,’ Field said quickly. ‘I need your advice. As in, your medical opinion.’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Field spun in her desk chair and looked out of the window. The sky was stained orange, pink clouds hanging in the air, no breeze to move them.

‘I’ve got a suspect in custody,’ she went on. ‘He fled London, he has links to the victims, and we found blood in his house.’

She could hear Maxwell’s breathing, but he didn’t speak. He was waiting for her to get to her point. The doctor was probably used to people getting things wrong. Walking onto his ward, making assumptions. It was exactly what she was trying not to do.

‘The suspect has—’ she double-checked her notes ‘—harm OCD. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that is. He’s distressed, and I don’t want to make him more anxious, but this is critical—’

She heard a familiar grinding squeak from a desk chair on the other end of the line.

‘Harm OCD stems from a person’s fear that they will do something awful. For example, a new mother is on a train platform and, for a split second, she imagines pushing the pram off the edge, in front of the train.’

Field blinked. When Toby was born, she sometimes imagined stepping onto a bus, leaving the pram behind at the bus stop. She’d always known she’d never do it.

‘People with this form of OCD aren’t able to dismiss these intrusions as we might,’ Maxwell went on. ‘So, the new mother starts to avoid train stations. Soon she’s avoiding roads, and bridges. The more she worries about the intrusive thoughts, the more frequent and disturbing they become.’

‘Okay,’ Field said, slowly. ‘I’m following.’

‘Harm OCD stems from people’s desire not to cause injury.’ Maxwell’s tone was firm, like he was talking to an idiot. Field used that voice on new recruits.

‘So, harm OCD doesn’t lead people to actually hurt anyone?’ she proffered.

‘No,’ Maxwell said quietly. ‘If they hurt anyone, it’s usually themselves.’