A Plea of Insanity (12 page)

‘You want me to keep this phone call a secret?’

Claire was tapping her foot on the floor in frustration. ‘Please. Can you just answer the question.’

‘Mrs Barclay was in her late sixties. Her doctor tells us she was not in good health. She was very nervy and needed pills to help her sleep. According to the pathologist she took too many, was a bit sick and breathed it in. She’d had a drink or two. She died. There isn’t anything odd about it.’

Aspiration? Of course there was
.

‘Her death is not being investigated as suspicious. It was simply an accident.’

She put the phone down and went home.

No sign of Grant. There was a football match on at the college. He would be getting muddy, in his strip, and in an hour or so downing his beer like a man. Claire fidgeted and channel-hopped through the entire TV network but sometimes it is not the programmes but our state of mind which makes us bored with the whole spectrum of entertainment.
We cannot be entertained.

Her mind was busy, frantically exploring possibilities.

Barclay walking. Walking. Peering into basement flats. Peeping Tom into kitchens and living rooms, hallways and bathrooms. Watching.

And then what?

Who knows?

Walking. Stalking.

She could do the same. She took her coat from the chair, shoved her key in the pocket and slammed the door behind her.

This was the time of year when the leaves make a noise as they die and fall, dry and crackle. The sky was a luminous navy, bright and speckled with stars, a crescent moon beaming down from the apex. Branches like bony fingers grasped at empty air and the sounds carried clearly through the stillness. TV, car radios, pub doors opening to chatter then closing again, the mournful, enquiring bark of a lone hound. A few walkers, like herself. Some traffic.

She crossed the road.

A Mercedes garage boasted its wares, each car on the forecourt carefully clamped. She walked on. A dark road led down to Festival Park, neon lights throwing up to the sky. The light changed subtly, the hues taking on the brittle depth of an October night. She walked on.

A couple, holding hands, chattering, the girl eager, the boy indulgent, passed by.

Behind her a car door slammed and she started, aware that whatever her eyes had seen, her thoughts had been of Barclay.

Out of town shopping precincts are hell to walk through if
you stray from the painted footprints. They deliberately make it hard for the pedestrian with cobbled slopes, walls in the centre of the road, no walkway but a wide sweep for the traffic.

She left Festival Park.

In a trance she stepped along a street of terraced houses and did as Jerome Barclay did, peered in, at families, old and young people, girls, boys, men, women.

All unconscious to the fact that she was watching them.

It could become a habit.

She turned to go home feeling detached from the entire human race.

Except one.

Barclay was getting under her skin
.

Grant was singing as she put her key in the front door.

They must have won.

Though she didn’t want to she knew she must summon Barclay again.

But, oh, how neat. It was not she who summoned Barclay but Barclay who presented to her, the very next morning. As though he had guessed at the timing. His mother had been dead for a week but he had gauged precisely the length of time between the event and her knowledge.

The call was put straight through, during the morning meeting, at which she had found herself tongue-tied, unable to voice her suspicion and so isolated from this new warm family circle because she was excluding them from her private thoughts. She had a secret.

Jerome’s thin, reedy voice followed the formal enquiry as to whether she would speak to a patient.

She knew it would be Barclay. He would do this, thrust and parry, parry and thrust
.

‘Doctor Roget.’

She confirmed.

Unnecessarily Barclay introduced himself. Then, ‘I don’t know whether you know but my poor mother passed away last week.’

The euphemism sounded an affectation.

‘One of the nurses here saw the funeral announcement in the paper.’ She didn’t offer her sympathy. She would not play that game.

‘It’s next week. Next Thursday.’

He was waiting for her to suggest an appointment.

She fell in. ‘Did you want to come in and discuss this?’

‘Yes.’ Said almost humbly. Was it possible she had been wrong about him – that he was experiencing grief over his
mother’s death?

‘I have a clinic tomorrow, Jerome. Come at three.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Roget.’

Again – said humbly.

Rolf looked across, a finger stroking the point of his beard. ‘That wasn’t who I think it was, was it?’

She nodded.

‘What does he
want
?’

‘An appointment.’

Kristyna was perched on the arm of Rolf’s chair, almost leaning into him. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Maybe the looming appointment excused the fact that her ward round that morning was cursory. Perhaps she should have listened harder to what Nancy was saying, hesitated before discharging Kap Oseo, fought Marcus’s transfer to an open prison. He was no longer deemed a danger to the community at large or to himself. Her excuse was that her mind was fixed on Barclay, firmly focused on the appointment that stuck out in her mind, like a granite headstone. A psychiatrist who deals habitually with such oddities should not allow his or her mind to be distracted. The results are potentially too dangerous.

Let a tiger out of his cage and see what happens before you recapture him
.

She spent a restless night dreaming up all sorts of scenarios. That he would confess to something. Having killed his mother?

Unlikely.

People grow out of personality disorders. We normalise with age. Maybe he was, for the first time, experiencing real grief. But then he was equally likely to try and shock her by
telling her he was glad she was dead. Anything really. And this was the trouble. With Barclay, she knew nothing for certain.

And as he sat down opposite her, in neat dark suit and mourning tie, she still didn’t know what was going on so she let him take the cue.

‘Why did you feel you wanted to see me, Jerome?’

He crossed his legs, treated her to a cold stare. ‘I imagined you’d want to know how I’d react to my mother’s death.’

‘Well?’ She returned the coldness. She wasn’t going to help him. No clues.

‘I was the one who found her, you know.’ He spoke excitedly, truculently. Eyes bright, mouth shining wet.

She merely looked enquiringly, with a little lift of the eyebrows. The only way to expose the entrails of Barclay’s mind was to affect indifference. Psychopaths hate indifference, boredom. They hate it so much they will do anything to provoke some emotion – anger, fury, anxiety, fear.

‘I found her in the morning,’ he added, agitated now at her refusal to engage. ‘She’d been dead for hours. She was quite cold, you know. My own mother.’ He took a sly glance at her from underneath thick, dark lashes.

She put her head to one side in an attitude of concern.

‘I tried to wake her but I knew really.’ He let the sentence fade away into nothing.

‘Jerome, how do you feel about her death?’

‘Sad.’

She tried to search into his eyes, to read off what his involvement had been. Had he fed her the pills? Added alcohol to her drink? Contributed, somehow, to her demise and then exulted? Or was she wrong? Had he entered the bedroom to wake her, only to be horrified at her death and
then grieve?

She looked long and hard into his eyes and read – nothing.

Did you kill you mother?

His eyes mocked the silent question
.

She waited. They both waited but there was nothing more.

She tried to prompt him. ‘What will it mean to you?’

He thought about this one, tried to work it out. It took a long time. Minutes ticked past before he spoke. ‘Well – I shan’t have her at home, to look after me.’ He sensed this wasn’t good enough. ‘I’ll miss her company.’ He was struggling to find an appropriate response.

‘And what will you do now?’

He couldn’t resist a smirk
.

‘Well – she’s left everything to me, of course, so I thought I’d sell up.’

‘Do you mean the house – everything.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what will you do?’

‘Maybe travel a bit. That was one of the reasons why I thought I’d better come in and see you.’ Accompanied by an innocent stare. ‘You don’t have any objection to my being out of the country for a while, do you?’

His eyes were frank and open, wide, bland, staring. He was calling her bluff – and she had no other way open to her but to let him go.

He stood up then, taller than she, but not a physically threatening presence – until you read his eyes and the sheer, brittle mockery they held.

She watched the door swing behind him.

Let a tiger out of his cage and see what happens before you recapture him. Only then can you truly know whether he is a man-eater
.

Afterwards she could recognise that this had been the turning point, the time when Barclay had ‘gone underground’, stopped playing the part of an errant patient humbly presenting for treatment to a concerned psychiatrist, and started to expose his true colours. The game had changed. The rules had changed. Later she would understand more and even excuse the tangled mess which she misinterpreted, bleating that her attention had been deflected. Events became more complicated – a double helix of characters, a twist of malevolence and intent.

Cynthia Barclay was buried. No more was said.

It was almost a month later, during the pre-Christmas frenzy of shopping, eating, parties and hangovers, this chaos that our lives become to celebrate a Christian feast in the most un-Christian ways. Hangovers and lateness had became the norm so when Kristyna Gale failed to turn up for a Wednesday meeting not one of them turned a hair. In fact later they would remember cringingly that they had smirked at each other as they had waited. Rolf smothered a giggle as he tried her mobile.

‘Switched off,’ he said when he’d dumped a joky message about ‘indulging at the pub last night’.

Only the shorter psychiatric nurse, Dawn, looked concerned. ‘Funny she didn’t ring in. Not like her.’

‘Probably too hung-over.’

Something – not complete enough to be an instinct or an advance warning – made Claire ask an idle question.

‘Does she live with a boyfriend?’

‘
Girlfriend
,’ Rolf said meaningfully. ‘Didn’t you know she’s gay?’

‘No.’

‘She lives with an older woman called Roxy who works for local government. Roxy was in an unhappy marriage when she and Kristyna kind of hooked up through a gay website and that was it. Roxy left her husband, she and Kristyna moved in together and that, as they say,’ said with an expansive wave, ‘was that. They’ve been an item for a couple of years and seem happy.’

Everybody has somebody
.

Right on cue the telephone rang.

Rolf reached for it. ‘I bet that’ll be Kristyna now, mobile battery flat and she’s got a puncture.’

There was an inevitable wait while the switchboard put an outside call through then they all heard the voice of panic, of desperation that Rolf was getting a blast of. They watched his face change from concern through deep frown to worried puzzlement and finally settle into lined anxiety. They listened to his suggestion to the person on the phone that maybe she’d crashed out somewhere then a forceful rejoinder – almost a scream – that they all heard perfectly clearly.  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘Then – staying with a friend?’

Another vehement denial.

They froze with apprehension. Something bad was happening.

Finally Rolf covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Looks like Kristyna’s gone missing. I don’t suppose –?’

One by one they shook their heads. But there was a variety of possible explanations. Christmas is a time of heightened awareness about personal relationships. An uncertainty can magnify under the contrast of consumer celebration and private evaluation and thought. This is the time when we ponder whether our lives really are as neat and right as they appear for the rest of the year. These were
veins of thoughts that ran through Claire’s mind.

Nothing sinister. Not then
.

But it was the beginning of the nightmare. Wednesday, December the 10th. A date which would grow in significance. A date they would prefer to erase.

Coincidentally or not the following morning’s post delivered a handwritten card from Barclay, addressed ‘To all at Greatbach’, postmarked Dijon, with a picture of the mairie on the front and a jaunty message inside.

‘Hi, everyone. Back for Christmas. Having a great time, Jerome.’ And in brackets, ‘(Barclay – patient)’ as though it was all part of the joke and a PS ‘Hope you’re not worrying about me.’

Claire read it through and realised he had begun to fade from her mind.

During the last month she had, at last, started to concentrate properly on her job without the distraction of Heidi’s murder. She no longer looked around her office with an apprehensive stare, obsessively searching for some residue of the assault. Heidi had been murdered. Gulio, strange man as he was, was in prison, serving a life sentence for the crime. Admittedly her personal life was not quite so neat and tidy. Grant was still at home but she had grown used to him being there. She would not oust him. Privately she admitted he suited her. He, the homemaker, she the career woman. He was happy, humming and decorating the terraced house, planning various projects.

She had bought him a book on decorating for Christmas and a year’s subscription for a magazine about interior design. She had enrolled him on a day’s course with Jocasta Innes learning about different paint effects.

Secretly she had even begun to scan estate agents’ windows and look at more ambitious properties in need of
renovation. Maybe after Christmas they would move. It would make Grant happy. They should make a healthy profit on this house. They could buy another property, do it up and sell it. It was the one area Grant found fulfilling. Well then – let him do it. The night before she had tousled his hair and dropped a kiss onto the top of his head, stroking his neck until he had turned and kissed her with a gentle, ‘Hey.’

Her tolerance had turned to affection.

Yes – things had changed for the better.

Two days later the police called at Greatbach.

They had heard nothing from Kristyna despite numerous phone calls to both her mobile and her landline. They had connected with a distraught Roxy twice and, dreading this, none of them had rung her. They had their excuses. They had been busy with seasonal admissions. Christmas may be portrayed as a time of family, harmony and happiness but it is a bad time for depressives and the lonely. And there is a group of people who, happy throughout the entire year, have a terrible tether to the Festive season. They are those who have lost a child, a husband, a mother or son during Christmas and the time of year fills them with remembered dread. Every year when the tinsel is hung and the battery Santas start gyrating and singing their tinny carols these people are tipped into depression, suicide and self-harm and the most isolating type of loneliness. After all – the world merrily closes down and shuts its doors on unhappiness so these people congregate wherever a door is propped open: churches, pubs, hospitals.

The police arrived at four o’clock on a dull afternoon. It was Friday, the 12th of December, another date to stand
out like March the 17th, the date Heidi had died.

They arrived at an inconvenient time, halfway through Claire’s inpatient ward round. She had called in an obstetrician to examine Nancy Gold and he was with her just as a pair of burly shoulders blocked out the light in the little porthole window in the door.

You sense when something looms to darken a room – or a day – or an innocent moment you are not entitled to.

Claire left the obstetrician to attend to the door in an attitude of impatience.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you Doctor Roget?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m a police officer.’ He flashed a card. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about a colleague of yours, Kristyna Gale?’

A pointed glance behind her to emphasise that this was not a good moment.

The policeman was, however, implacable.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘if you can wait – just a few minutes.’

Doctor Crane, the obstetrician, had finished his examination of a very smug Nancy. ‘Everything seems to be fine,’ he said, putting away the Sonic Aid with which he had broadcast the baby’s heartbeat, to the squealing delight of Nancy. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

Claire’s head jerked round.
For you to murder,
child-woman
?

The obstetrician was calm. ‘I don’t know without doing a scan – and there’s no indication for that.’ He flicked the clasps of his case. ‘We don’t want to harm the infant.’ His blue eyes searched across, found Claire’s with a tired acceptance of the world as it is.

Only when they were safely outside the door did he
voice his concern, speaking for both of them. ‘The baby will have to be made a ward of court,’ he said quietly. ‘Either Nancy is supervised all the time she is in attendance or the baby is taken away from her at birth.’

Claire felt a flash of sympathy. ‘That’s a cruel …’

‘I
heard
that baby’s heartbeat,’ Doctor Crane said curtly. ‘It is a living thing. It has the right to remain so.’

‘When is it due?’

‘Middle of March, I should say.’ He glanced around. ‘Best you keep her here until she goes into labour.’

Claire sensed a movement behind her and knew too late that Nancy’s curious little face was filling the porthole window.

Doctor Crane walked briskly away up the corridor and Claire turned reluctantly to her side. The policeman was hovering. He flashed the card again at her and this time she read it. Detective Constable Peter Martin. An ordinary looking guy, tall, brown hair, brown eyes, smart jeans, sweat shirt. Nothing remarkable about him except an inherent honesty about his face.

‘So – what can I do for you?’

‘We’re looking into the disappearance of Kristyna Gale.’

‘Disappearance?’ It seemed too strong a word. ‘Has she disappeared?’

‘Well, we don’t know where she is. I understand she hasn’t been seen at work for more than a week and her partner reports her as missing, which is out of character. How would you put it?’

Claire felt her face tighten into a frown. ‘Surely there’s some other explanation.’

DC Martin looked around anxiously. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, a bit more private than a corridor?’

She felt an odd reluctance to admit this policeman to her
private office. The taint had only recently been cleansed, the ghost laid to rest. She didn’t want him there to resurrect spectres.

There were plenty of visitors’ interview rooms spare. She led him to one, small, square, soulless. He didn’t seem to notice.

‘There are a few pointers,’ he said when he had settled into a saggy, vinyl covered armchair, ‘which give us cause for concern.’

Claire raised her eyebrows politely. ‘Such as?’

‘Kristyna’s mother has ME,’ DC Martin said. ‘Kristyna was in the habit of ringing her every day to check how she was. For her not to ring for two nights is most unusual.’

Claire waited.

‘Her sister is going through a divorce. She has two small children who are a bit of a handful. Kristyna usually babysits once or twice a week to let her have a night out with friends. Only up the pub. Nothing special. She was due to babysit last night and didn’t turn up.’

How little we know about people
.

‘Roxy, her partner, says she’s never ever done this before, gone AWOL. They hadn’t had a row or anything. All her clothes except the ones she was wearing – her work clothes – are hanging in the wardrobe. No money has been taken out of her account and her passport’s in the drawer. There’s been no word from her since Tuesday evening when she left here. You see my point, Doctor Roget. I take it there’s been no trouble at work?’

‘No – no trouble at all.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘I can’t remember. Sometime on the Tuesday, I suppose. The first I knew she was missing was when she failed to turn up for the Wednesday morning meeting.’

‘And how did she seem on the Tuesday?’

‘Normal.’

The policeman looked bored, as though he’d expected something better from her.

She tried. ‘She was talking about her Christmas presents, sending off for something for her mum, I think. I can’t remember. Have you no clues?’

‘Not really. There is one thing that strikes me,’ DC Martin said. ‘I don’t know if you remember but Tuesday started off very cold but dry. Later in the day clouds came over and it poured with rain.’

Claire was puzzled. ‘So what’s that got to do with it?’

‘She worked here all day, last seen in the afternoon. Her car was in for service so she’d walked to work, a distance of over two miles. That morning she’d worn a heavy winter coat – not a mac. If she had walked all the way home her coat would have been soaked.’

‘So why didn’t she ask someone for a lift – or call a taxi?’

‘Maybe she did,’ DC Martin said meaningfully.

Claire worked it out. The police would have contacted local taxi firms. So – a lift.

‘Thousands of people go missing every year, don’t they,’ she said anxiously, searching for some explanation. ‘Most of those have not come to a bad end, have they?’

The policeman shook his head. ‘Quite the contrary. Most of those people want to disappear, are anxious, in fact, not to be found.’

‘Well maybe she found the job, her partner, her mother, her sister … maybe she found it all a bit much.’

‘Maybe,’ said the policeman.

But she knew what she was doing, struggling to convince herself that Kristyna Gale was somewhere, safe and sound and perfectly well. The obstacle was that she wasn’t
even sure she believed it herself.

DC Martin cleared his throat, a sure sign he was about to say something unpalatable. ‘You get a feel for these disappearances, Doctor Roget, and I have a bad feeling about this one.’ Another scraping of the throat. ‘Some very odd people are inpatients here. Outpatients too.’

She believed he was about to mention Barclay and his mother. ‘Are you suggesting a patient?’

But he skated away.

‘We’re exploring all avenues, Doctor,’ the policeman said flatly. ‘There was a murder here earlier this year and that did turn out to be a patient. Patients and their families frequent this area.’

She felt bound to defend. ‘You can’t extend the illness of our patients to their families.’

The policeman blinked. ‘I can only suggest that you all take extreme care.’

It was on her tongue to mention Barclay. But implicating him in his mother’s death was one thing – dragging him forward when a member of staff had gone missing was another. Besides – he was out of the country.