Chapter 132

Doctor Lang studied Poe with unwavering attention, her eyes locked on his like a magnet. She stayed like that for thirty seconds. No one likes being put under the microscope and he squirmed in his seat accordingly.

‘How long have you felt this way?' she said eventually.

‘You don't believe me,' Poe said.

‘That's because it's not believable, Washington. It isn't real; it's just a figment of your imagination.' She sighed, then added, ‘Look, this isn't a sectionable delusion, Washington, as I don't believe you present a danger to yourself or others. But you are very ill. I'm going to recommend you take some time off, and when you return to work I think your employers need to find a more suitable role for a man of your talents and . . . disposition.'

Poe nodded as if he had expected her to say this. ‘Look around,' he said. ‘Does any of this look right to you?'

Doctor Lang frowned a little. ‘What do you mean? I don't understand.'

‘Have you ever seen a doctor's office like this?'

‘I told you, it's not mine,' she replied. She glanced around, humouring him. ‘Like I said earlier, it's being refurbished; hence it's a bit barer than it would normally be. Other than that, it looks perfectly normal.'

‘Does it?' Poe asked.

‘It does.'

‘There's a massive table between us, Doctor Lang. You're an experienced therapist; is it considered good practice to have a table this size between you and the patient?'

‘Of course not, but as I've told you, this isn't my off—'

‘In fact, another word for this desk might be "barrier".'

Doctor Lang's brow furrowed.

‘I'm sure there's a—'

‘And have you noticed how heavy these chairs are? They're not bolted down, but I know I'm not strong enough to pick one up and throw it.'

‘This is a psychiatric hospital, Washington,' she said, on surer footing. ‘Occasionally patients get upset. Heavy furniture, the big desk, this is all about staff and patient safety.'

‘And I'm sure that's exactly what they have on the secure wards,' Poe said. ‘Except, according to you, we're not on a secure ward, we're on an administrative wing.'

She frowned a bit more. ‘I'm sure there's an explanation. Perhaps it's occasionally used to treat patients.'

Poe nodded. ‘OK then,' he said. ‘Think about this: in the four hours we've been here, tea and biscuits have been brought in three times.'

‘We have been doing a lot of talking.'

‘But did you notice that the tea has always been lukewarm? Warm enough to drink, but nowhere near hot enough to scald if thrown.'

‘That's absurd.'

‘The drinks came in disposable cups and the biscuits were served on a paper plate. Sugar lumps, so we didn't need a spoon. Hell, even your file's treasury clips are made of plastic, not metal.'

Doctor Lang didn't respond.

‘And now consider me,' Poe continued.

‘You?'

‘When I first sat down, you said you didn't have a pen. You asked to borrow mine and I told you I'd forgotten to bring one. You asked if it was unusual for a police officer to be without a pen. And I said I'm—'

‘—An unusual police officer,' she cut in. ‘It was only a couple of hours ago, Washington.'

‘Thing is, Doctor Lang, I wasn't allowed to bring in a pen. I don't have a pen, you don't have a pen, and when you looked in the desk drawers to borrow a pen, what did you find?'

‘There weren't any,' she mumbled.

‘Are you allowed to carry pens on the high-security wards, Doctor Lang?'

‘No.'

‘And why not?'

‘Because they can be used as weapons.'

‘Because they can be used as weapons,' Poe agreed. ‘As can spectacles, which is why I don't have my reading glasses with me. I have no keys, not even my wallet.'

‘Your wallet . . . ?'

‘Sharpened credit cards, Doctor Lang. In fact, if you look around this room you'll see there's nothing that could potentially be used as a weapon.'

‘That still doesn't mean—'

Poe knew people would be gathering on the other side of the door, ready to rush in if needed. ‘One final question before we move on,' he said. ‘You've worked on secure wards for years?'

‘I have.'

‘Then you'll know what the number-one cause of non-natural inpatient deaths is.'

‘Suicide,' she said automatically.

‘Now, tell me what you're wearing.'

‘What I'm wearing?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's a dress.'

‘Describe it, please.'

‘I really don't see where this is going, Washington.'

‘Humour me,' Poe said.

She looked down at her green dress. It was sleeveless, sturdily quilted and made of Cordura, a material ten times stronger than denim. It was tear-proof, fire-proof and so thick it couldn't be folded or rolled into cords. The blood drained from her face as she understood the relevance.

‘Yes, that is a noose-proof anti-suicide smock, Doctor Lang,' Poe said gently. ‘Now do you understand?'

Tears welled up in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and nodded. ‘I'm not a therapist here, am I?' she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

‘No, Doctor Lang, you're not,' Poe said. ‘You're a patient.'