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Joe O’Loughlin taught me that being a psychologist does not involve hunches, gut-instinct, guesswork or premonitions. It is a science based upon observation and a century of empirical research into human behaviour.
I have chosen to work with the police because I want to understand why people commit crimes. What made a well-spoken university graduate studying urban preservation fly a passenger plane into the World Trade Center killing thousands of people? Why did the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, abduct and murder thirteen women, or a neonatal nurse inject air or insulin into the intravenous lines of newborn babies? Why did my brother, Elias, aged nineteen, sharpen a knife in our garden shed, before murdering my parents and twin sisters?
His actions explain most of my life choices. I became a psychologist because I wanted to stop such a tragedy happening to another family – to another child like me.
Carlson slips the vape into his pocket as I approach.
‘We found a survivor,’ he says. ‘Four miles offshore, clinging to an upturned RHIB. Those boats are supposed to be unsinkable, but this one looked like it had been chewed up and spat out by a kraken.’
‘A collision.’
‘Maybe. We haven’t talked to him. I don’t know if he can speak English.’
Across the road, news crews and broadcast vans have taken up a section of the parking area. Reporters are doing live crosses with the ‘Emergency’ sign in the background.
Carlson is still talking. ‘I’m hoping he can give us some names. None of the dead were carrying identity papers. The migrant camps in Calais are overcrowded and people are trying to cross before the weather turns cold.’
‘It was a full moon two nights ago,’ I say.
‘Another reason. Four hundred small boats have arrived since May. More than five thousand people. It can’t go on like this.’
Like what? I want to ask. Does he suggest we put up a ‘No Vacancies’ sign? We’re full. Try next door, or next year, or never.
Carlson takes off his glasses and cleans them with the end of his tie, blowing on each lens and holding them up against the fading light. ‘Did you find your friend?’
‘She’s been admitted for the night.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Should the police be involved?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘If there’s anything I can do,’ he says, but doesn’t finish the statement because he is unsure of what he’s offering. Instead, he calls after me. ‘We still need that statement.’
‘Tomorrow. First thing.’
I take a cab to the guest house. The driver, an older guy with a Pakistani accent, wants to talk to me about the bodies washed up on the beach.
‘I’ve been here thirty years, but I came the right way, you know.’
‘The right way?’
‘I came as a student. I studied. I worked. I applied to stay. I’m a citizen now. Married. Three children. Everybody has to wait their turn.’
‘Did you bring family members in?’ I ask.
‘My parents and my uncles and my two younger brothers.’
‘Did they wait their turn?’
He looks offended. ‘It was legal.’
The landlady at the guest house gives me a new room key and I quickly shower and change into fresh clothes – jeans and a sweatshirt and desert boots. I call Mitch Coates, who is house-sitting for us in Nottingham, looking after Evie’s dog, Poppy. Mitch is a freelance film editor and an odd-job man, who keeps my house from falling down around my ears.
‘How do you like the beach?’ he asks, seeing Evie’s name on the screen.
