footprints, while the Tarr Steps car park was tarmac, and had therefore yielded few samples for comparison. What little trace evidence they did have was more tantalizing than helpful.
Only the notes made the connection certain.
You don’t love her
.
You don’t love him
.
He thought of Pete Knox’s mother wailing in the car park and understood the depth of her despairing cry:
What does it mean?
*
Jonas pointed at the wall behind Kate Gulliver and asked, ‘Is that new?’
Kate Gulliver was surprised. Until now, this session had been like all their others – difficult and mostly silent. Most clients were tough at first, but slowly opened up until they gained some level of comfort in this strange new context. After a few sessions, she was used to those clients coming in, sitting down and picking up exactly where they’d left off the week before – shedding their reserve as they warmed to their examination of self. After a while, many of them enjoyed it. They found themselves fascinating.
Not so Jonas Holly. He seemed to be as interested in himself as he was in everything else – which was not at all.
Usually.
Now she turned to follow his finger and pushed her dark hair behind one ear. It was a habit she’d once cultivated to appear girlish but couldn’t break now, even though she was closer to forty than thirty.
Jonas was pointing at the small cross-stitched sampler over her desk. SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME .
‘No, it’s been there for years,’ she said.
He dropped his hand back on to the armrest where it usually waited, ready to propel himself off the chair at the end of the hour.
Kate wondered why he’d brought it up. ‘What do you think of it?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ said Jonas, too fast for it to be true.
‘Have you only just noticed it?’
He shrugged.
‘Interesting,’ she mused.
He said nothing, so she went on, ‘That you’ve never noticed it before, but suddenly not only do you notice it, but you feel strongly enough to ask me about it.’
He shrugged again.
Kate Gulliver had seen more of Jonas Holly’s silent shrugs than she cared to count.
Although it was her job to work him out, she
couldn’t
work him out. Struggling through the aftermath of his wife’s death with Jonas had been one of the toughest things she’d ever done as a psychologist. Sometimes she got the feeling that he hadn’t progressed one iota from their very first session. The memory of that session was still branded on her consciousness – the way the sadness rippling around him was almost tangible, while he sat numb at its centre, like a black hole. She had treated many police and services personnel in her time – men and women who had seen terrible things,
done
terrible things – but she remembered that first session with Jonas Holly vividly – that feeling that reaching out to help
him
might instead suck
her
inexorably into his compressed misery. The whole experience had left her off-kilter and depressed. Afterwards she’d sought out her own therapist and had agreed that it would be best to keep a more-than-professional distance from the tall young policeman with the bottomless eyes.
So she’d gone through the motions with Jonas. No, no! That wasn’t true … She knew her stuff. She did her best. But she wanted nothing more than to be able to tick the box marked ‘Fit to return to duty’ and never see him again. The fact that she occasionally suspected that he might be going through the motions with her in return was something she didn’t want to examine too closely.
And yet here he was – eight months into their work – clearly disturbed by the sampler her grandmother had stitched as a girl.
‘What is it that bothers you about it?’
Instead of shrugging, Jonas shifted in his seat. Another first – usually he was as still as a summer pond.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, when he clearly did.
That was good though. It was an admission that it
did
bother him,
Only the notes made the connection certain.
You don’t love her
.
You don’t love him
.
He thought of Pete Knox’s mother wailing in the car park and understood the depth of her despairing cry:
What does it mean?
*
Jonas pointed at the wall behind Kate Gulliver and asked, ‘Is that new?’
Kate Gulliver was surprised. Until now, this session had been like all their others – difficult and mostly silent. Most clients were tough at first, but slowly opened up until they gained some level of comfort in this strange new context. After a few sessions, she was used to those clients coming in, sitting down and picking up exactly where they’d left off the week before – shedding their reserve as they warmed to their examination of self. After a while, many of them enjoyed it. They found themselves fascinating.
Not so Jonas Holly. He seemed to be as interested in himself as he was in everything else – which was not at all.
Usually.
Now she turned to follow his finger and pushed her dark hair behind one ear. It was a habit she’d once cultivated to appear girlish but couldn’t break now, even though she was closer to forty than thirty.
Jonas was pointing at the small cross-stitched sampler over her desk. SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME .
‘No, it’s been there for years,’ she said.
He dropped his hand back on to the armrest where it usually waited, ready to propel himself off the chair at the end of the hour.
Kate wondered why he’d brought it up. ‘What do you think of it?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ said Jonas, too fast for it to be true.
‘Have you only just noticed it?’
He shrugged.
‘Interesting,’ she mused.
He said nothing, so she went on, ‘That you’ve never noticed it before, but suddenly not only do you notice it, but you feel strongly enough to ask me about it.’
He shrugged again.
Kate Gulliver had seen more of Jonas Holly’s silent shrugs than she cared to count.
Although it was her job to work him out, she
couldn’t
work him out. Struggling through the aftermath of his wife’s death with Jonas had been one of the toughest things she’d ever done as a psychologist. Sometimes she got the feeling that he hadn’t progressed one iota from their very first session. The memory of that session was still branded on her consciousness – the way the sadness rippling around him was almost tangible, while he sat numb at its centre, like a black hole. She had treated many police and services personnel in her time – men and women who had seen terrible things,
done
terrible things – but she remembered that first session with Jonas Holly vividly – that feeling that reaching out to help
him
might instead suck
her
inexorably into his compressed misery. The whole experience had left her off-kilter and depressed. Afterwards she’d sought out her own therapist and had agreed that it would be best to keep a more-than-professional distance from the tall young policeman with the bottomless eyes.
So she’d gone through the motions with Jonas. No, no! That wasn’t true … She knew her stuff. She did her best. But she wanted nothing more than to be able to tick the box marked ‘Fit to return to duty’ and never see him again. The fact that she occasionally suspected that he might be going through the motions with her in return was something she didn’t want to examine too closely.
And yet here he was – eight months into their work – clearly disturbed by the sampler her grandmother had stitched as a girl.
‘What is it that bothers you about it?’
Instead of shrugging, Jonas shifted in his seat. Another first – usually he was as still as a summer pond.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, when he clearly did.
That was good though. It was an admission that it
did
bother him,
Similar Books
