I’m desperate to ask the policeman who keeps checking on me whether Rawlins is still on night shift – and therefore on her way home for a well-deserved sleep ? but I don’t need more people thinking I’m a total nut. So I cross my fingers and pray inwardly that she has, then I lie down on the narrow bunk and close my eyes.
Given how much I’ve slept recently, I should have expected not to drop off easily. I can’t force my mind to quieten down and I keep turning Salib’s letter over and over in my head. Destroying it might mean that I end up in a jail cell for the next decade. It’s almost ironic – jail should be an agoraphobic’s dream destination. I try counting sheep, I practise my normally helpful meditation techniques and I do everything I can to will myself to sleep. Nothing works. The harder I try, the more awake and frustrated I become.
I’m not sure how much time passes before the door opens and Hartman beckons me out. I debate whether to appeal to him; after all, my knowledge of his pet name had to come from somewhere. He gives me such a wide berth, though, that it seems easier to keep my mouth shut. He takes me back to the same interrogation room where Andrew Brown is waiting.
‘They have no real evidence to hold you on,’ he explains cheerfully. ‘It’s all circumstantial so I can’t see any reason why they will keep you once the twelve hours’ detention time is up. It’ll be helpful if you can get the doctor on your side.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’
‘Just be yourself.’
My Dreamlands adventures aside, I’m hardly practised at meeting new people and winning them over. Even when I wasn’t trapped in my home, I found small talk difficult. I sigh and tell myself that if I can stand up to someone genuinely evil like the Mayor, then I can answer a few bloody questions.
When the doctor strolls in, I’m disappointed that I don’t recognise her. Along with Miller, I’ve met so many mental health specialists that you’d think I could count on seeing one who knew I wasn’t making up my agoraphobia.
She gives me a genial smile and sits down. ‘How are you feeling, Zoe?’ she asks in a faintly patronising manner, after introducing herself as Doctor Pat.
I bite my tongue to avoid snapping that I’m locked up and a murder suspect so I’m feeling pretty sodding crap and instead just murmur, ‘Fine.’
‘Take me through your agoraphobia. How did it start and what triggered its hold on you?’
Making a snap decision, I lie through my teeth. It’s not as if she’s going to believe me about the dreams. I need to prove it to Rawlins – and the only way I can do that is by entering her subconscious. This doctor can’t help me with that. The only thing she’s likely to do is send me off to the nearest loony bin. I spin a story based on an old contact I used to have on an internet forum, supplanting my experiences for theirs.
Dr Pat nods as I speak. She tilts her head to one side but I can tell she’s not really listening; she’s already made up her own mind about me. ‘And can you explain to me about your dreams?’ she asks, once I’ve finished.
‘You mean because I told Sergeant Rawlins I could see what people dreamed? I, um, made that up. I don’t know why. I just panicked. She thinks I murdered Salib and Miller and I didn’t.’ There’s a note of hysteria in my voice. ‘I just didn’t.’
‘I see.’ Dr Pat folds her hands together. ‘And do you have dreams that seem real, Zoe? Voices in your head telling you what to do?’
Good grief. ‘No,’ I say flatly.
We continue in this vein for some time. I can see that Dr Pat is getting frustrated because I’m not giving her the answers she wants to hear. When she’s finally had enough, she stands up and pushes back her chair.
‘I think that’s enough for now,’ she says briskly.
For now? I force a smile. ‘Thank you for your time. What happens next?’
‘I will look over my notes and make a recommendation to the police.’
It’s obvious from her expression that she’s not going to tell me what that recommendation will be. She holds out her hand and I stare at it for a moment, then make a decision. I reach out and shake it. Her grip is limp, which makes me dislike her even more.
‘The police have agreed to release you for now,’ Brown states, looking satisfied. ‘As long as you agree to come back for further questioning tomorrow morning.’
That could work in my favour. I nod slowly. ‘I can do that.’
‘If you try to leave town, it’ll end badly.’
I meet the solicitor’s eyes. Clearly that has happened to him before. ‘I won’t abscond,’ I say. ‘I don’t have anywhere to abscond to.’
He beams. ‘Brilliant. Don’t worry, I’m sure all this will be sorted out in no time.’
Chapter Fifteen
The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers.
Amelia Earhart