No Way to Say Goodbye
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Jack Keyse is looking for the truth about what happened to his vanished lover. He works at a maximum security asylum, and he uses his professional contacts to get close to those who might be responsible. At the same time he seeks forgetfulness in the chaos of his dissolute life. He comes to discover and take vengeance but when at last he finds out the truth the challenge is to live with that knowledge.
in life slipping away, on her own, waiting and you not letting her live her life. It’s hard to forgive that, Jack — your carelessness.” As I sat staring back at her, she turned and gestured. There was a movement behind her, and her husband Ray emerged through the drinkers by the bar to stand next to her. A thickset, balding man, he nodded to me warily, two little girls twisted in the grip of each hand where he held them tightly. He had probably been there all along. Catherine buttoned her coat
over again by CID and his van, a works Ford with rust-dimpled sides, was taken apart. Forensic Serology had examined it, looking for blood staining and had found none. It was vacuumed out and the cement and brick dust lodging in all the cracks was filtered and checked for fibres, but there was no recovered clothing from Rachel to check these finds against. Kress made no further admissions to the police, although he continued to toy with his questioners, hinting at his involvement with Rachel, and
tucked into a small metal cash box balanced on her knee. “It helps us to continue our work,” she murmured. The medium sat facing me smiling; her hair in the lamp light shone gold through the grey. I felt disgusted at myself for being weak-minded enough to be there, yet compelled to go through with it. I took my place in front of her. She had loosened her scarf and I could see a pendant on a chain around her neck in the shape of a heart. “Please be at ease, Mr Keyse. You have never consulted a
The Muslim patients were carefully noted and some were segregated because the other patients had begun to attack them. Security was stepped up. The paranoiacs breathed new life and fed off the malign energies that had been released. I remember Halliday particularly, a young man who had killed his girlfriend in a seaside town four years before. He had attempted to mummify her body according to ancient Egyptian practices, the techniques of which he had gleaned and adapted from history books. His
when casting through his notes, looking at old letterheads when I realised that this expensive place built on a Victorian core was the same institution where he had started as an inpatient before his index offence nearly thirty years before. Now the “epileptics colony” was called “Ravens View Mental Health Facility” and the old Victorian blocks of the original place had undergone a corporate remodelling. Yet it was the very institution where he had stabbed another patient all that time ago. This