the most. No one hated her disease more than she did.
‘And if you think she wasn’t grateful to be loved, you’re wrong, Kelly. If there was one phrase she used more than any other, it was “I’m so lucky.” She said it all the time. We’d just be having dinner or something and she’d touch my hand and say, “I’m so lucky.” She used to say it about you, too. She felt terrible that she missed so much of your growing up. She did everything she could to fight this disease and in the end it just beat her, that’s all. Your mother had tremendous courage – and loyalty – to last as long as she did.’
‘God,’ Kelly said. She sounded like she had a cold now, nose all stuffed up. ‘I wish I was half as compassionate as you. Now I’ve gone and ruined your shirt.’
‘I wasn’t going to wear this one anyway.’
He handed her a box of Kleenex and she plucked out a handful.
‘I gotta go wash my face,’ she said. ‘I look like Medea.’
Cardinal wasn’t sure who Medea was. Nor was he at all sure about the comforting things he had just told his daughter. What do I know about anything? he thought. I didn’t even see this coming. I’m worse than the mayor. Nearly thirty years together, and I don’t see that the woman I love is on the verge of killing herself?
Prompted by that very question, Cardinal had the previous day driven into town to talk to Catherine’s psychiatrist.
He had met Frederick Bell a couple of times during Catherine’s last stay in hospital. They had not talked long enough for Cardinal to form much more than an impression of intelligence and competence. But Catherine had been delighted to discover him because, unlike most psychiatrists, Bell was a talk therapist as well as a prescriber of drugs. He was also a specialist in depression who had written books on the subject.
His office was in his house, an Edwardian monstrosity of red brick located on Randall Street, just behind the cathedral. Previous owners included a member of parliament and a man who went on to become a minor media baron. With its turrets and gingerbread, not to mention its elaborate garden and wrought-iron fence, the house dominated the neighbourhood.
Cardinal was met at the door by Mrs Bell, a friendly woman in her fifties, who was on her way out. When Cardinal introduced himself, she said, ‘Oh, Detective Cardinal, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re not here in any official capacity, are you?’
‘No, no. My wife was a patient of your husband’s and –’
‘Of course, of course. You’re bound to have questions.’
She went off to find her husband, and Cardinal looked around at his surroundings. Polished hardwood, oak panelling and mouldings – and that was just the waiting area. He was about to sit down in one of a row of chairs when a door swung open and Dr Bell was there, bigger than Cardinal remembered him, well over six feet, with a curly brown beard, grey at the jaw line, and a pleasant English accent that Cardinal knew was neither extremely posh nor working class.
He took Cardinal’s hand in both of his and shook it. ‘Detective Cardinal, let me say again, I’m so terribly sorry about Catherine. You have my deepest, deepest sympathy. Come in, come in.’
Except for a vast desk and the lack of a television, they might have been in someone’s living room. Bookshelves, crammed to the ceiling with medical and psychology texts, journals and binders, covered all four walls. Plump leather chairs, battered and far from matching, were set at conversational angles. And of course, there was a couch – a comfortable, home-style sofa, not the severe, geometric kind you saw in movies featuring psychiatrists.
At the doctor’s urging, Cardinal took a seat on the couch.
‘Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Thanks, I’m fine. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.’
‘Oh, no. It’s the least I can do,’ Dr Bell said. He hitched his corduroy trousers before sitting in one of the leather chairs. He was wearing an Irish wool sweater and didn’t look at all like a medical man. A college professor, Cardinal thought, or perhaps a violinist.
‘I imagine you’re asking yourself how it is you didn’t see this coming,’ Bell said, expressing exactly what had been running through Cardinal’s mind.
‘Yes,’ Cardinal said. ‘That pretty much sums it up.’
‘You’re not alone. Here I am, someone with whom Catherine has been discussing her emotional life in detail for nearly a year, and I didn’t see it coming.’
He sat back and shook his woolly head. Cardinal was reminded of an Airedale. After a moment the doctor said softly, ‘Obviously, I would have admitted her if I had.’
‘But isn’t it unusual?’ Cardinal said. ‘To have a patient who keeps coming to see you, but doesn’t mention that she’s planning to … Why would anyone continue seeing a therapist they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, confide in?’
‘She did confide in me. Catherine was no stranger to suicidal thoughts. Now don’t get me wrong, she gave no indication of any imminent plan. But certainly we discussed her feelings about suicide. Part of her was horrified by the idea, part of her found it very attractive – as I’m sure you know.’
Cardinal nodded. ‘It’s one of the first things she told me about herself, before we were married.’
‘Honesty was one of Catherine’s strengths,’ Bell said. ‘She often said she would rather die than go through another major depression – and not just to spare herself, I hasten to add. Like most people who suffer from depression, she hated the fact that it made life so difficult for people she loved. I’d be surprised if she hadn’t expressed this to you over the years.’
‘Many times,’ Cardinal said, and felt something collapse inside him. The room went blurry, and the doctor handed him a box of Kleenex.
After a few moments, Dr Bell knit his brows and leaned forward in his chair. ‘You couldn’t have done anything, you know. Please let me set your mind at rest on that point. It’s quite common for people who commit suicide to give no sign of their intention.’
‘I know. She wasn’t giving away objects that were precious to her or anything like that.’
‘No. None of the classic signs. Nor is there a previous attempt in her medical records, although there is plenty of suicidal ideation. But what we do have is an ongoing, decades-long battle with clinical depression, part of her bipolar disorder. The statistics are indisputable: people who suffer from manic depression are the most likely to kill themselves, bar none. There is no other group of people more likely. God, I almost sound like I know what I’m talking about, don’t I?’ Dr Bell held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Something like this, well, it makes you feel pretty incompetent.’
‘I’m sure it’s not your fault,’ Cardinal said. He didn’t know what he was doing here. Had he really come to listen to this rumpled Englishman talk about statistics and probabilities? Clearly, I’m the one who sees her every day, he thought. I’m the one who’s known her longest. I’m the one who didn’t pay
