Moriarty Returns a Letter (18 page)

If she was still suffering from a mental condition and that was the reason she had committed her crimes, then she would be committed now to a facility for treatment, for an indefinite period that would probably turn out to be life.

But if she was no longer suffering from such a condition—if it could be irrefutably proven that the condition was the cause of her criminal acts and the condition was gone and could not return—then all bets were off. No one in an official capacity would be certain exactly what to do. It was not just a medical question; it was a legal one as well.

It was not unusual, of course, for an accused to claim repentance, to express regret, to undergo a miraculous conversion in the holding cell in the hope of gaining an advantage in sentencing. More often than not it was likely to be a sham, in Dr. Miner’s opinion.

But Darla Rennie had not attempted a plea of temporary insanity. She had simply pled to the Crown’s charges. No defense, no plea for any considerations at sentencing. Nothing at all. And that was unusual.

So much so that Dr. Miner had tried a little experiment—a test of her state of mind.

His office had a waiting room, much like the waiting room in any doctor’s office—an upholstered sitting bench and a couple of chairs, indoor plants in the corners, old magazines on a coffee table, and, sometimes, copies of more-or-less recent daily papers.

Because the individuals Dr. Miner evaluated were in criminal custody, this room had a locking door and there were guards on staff, one at the front desk, and others available when needed. But aside from that, there wasn’t much to keep someone in who was determined to get out. Even the evaluation room itself had a window to the outside world, with a view of trees, and an open gate, and the road—a view of freedom for the taking.

So on the first day that she was there, Dr. Miner had extended an unstated invitation to Darla Rennie to escape. After first arranging with a guard to be stationed out of sight down the corridor, the doctor had exited the evaluation room into the corridor, leaving the door visibly unlocked, and then he’d gone back into the adjoining room to watch through the mirror and see what Darla would do.

He watched as she turned her head toward the door. Then she looked out the window, at the trees stirring in the breeze, and then back at the unlatched door again.

And then she had remained seated, exactly where she was.

He tried another variation on it the following day, and again she ignored the opportunity.

So today he would do the last of those tests.

She was in the room now, reading today’s
The Daily Sun
. And now he was about to go in and tell her that today was the last day of her evaluation. That he had completed all the tests and observations that were possible, that in his professional judgment she was perfectly sane and (though this would be a lie) probably had always been so—and that he would notify the correctional authority of that finding.

Which meant, he knew, and he knew she did as well, that upon leaving the mental evaluation facility she would be taken to Broadmoor, to begin a very long prison sentence.

It was hard to imagine this young woman as a murderer. Dr. Miner had made sure there were no sharp or pointed objects around, not in the waiting room, and not even in plain sight in his own office, just in case. Even so, it was hard to imagine.

But could she kill with a glance? Probably. Or more likely, a man would do his own self in, looking into those emerald green eyes and thinking there might be something there for him.

Dr. Miner didn’t think that. He had been married thirty-five years, he was comfortably overweight and balding, he had gotten over the fantasies of office affairs long ago, and he knew how young women looked at him—or, rather, through him. He was not someone to be fooled on that score any longer.

He did, however, want to go on
Oprah.

Dr. Miner took the brain images down from the wall now and put them into the case folder with his other documented findings.

He opened the door to the waiting room and looked in.

And then, in a panic, he dashed from the waiting room into the corridor.

Darla Rennie was gone.

Dr. Miner ran to the back door and looked out—no one in sight.

He ran back down to the front desk. The guard there initiated the alarm, and then they both ran out to the front gate.

No luck. The guard at the gate hadn’t seen anyone, and he said so, as he hastily stuffed his lunch and sports paper under his chair.

The guard rang Scotland Yard to let them know.

Dr. Miner trudged back to his waiting room.

On the coffee table was today’s
The Daily Sun,
open to the celebrity gossip pages.

The doctor was too discouraged to even look at it. His own visions of fame were rapidly fading. Instead of appearing on
Oprah,
he’d more likely get grilled in the media for letting a murderer loose.

He went into his office and shut the door behind him. He sat down behind his desk and put his face in his hands, waiting for Scotland Yard to call and his dreams of glory to be over.

Several moments went by.

And then Dr. Miner heard a sound from an adjacent room—something bumped, in the storage room on the other side of his office wall.

He raised his head out of his hands.

Could it be? Had Darla Rennie returned?

That room was kept locked, and it was still locked when he had looked for her in the corridor. But it was not a heavy lock. She could have picked it and gotten in, and locked it from the inside.

Or she might have been hidden somewhere outside and then come back into that room, now that Dr. Miner thought of it—because this was the room where they stored the clothes and few personal belongings that patients were allowed to have with them when they arrived.

Dr. Miner left his office and went into the corridor. He tried the latch on the storage room door. It was still locked.

Perhaps he had been imagining things. It might have been wishful thinking.

But he had a key, and he used it. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The room was silent—and dark.

He stepped inside and looked for the light switch.

It took him just one second too long to find it.

19

To get out of London, Reggie and Laura took the M5, as crowded and urban as any motorway in England.

Twenty minutes later they downsized slightly onto the M30. And then, two hours farther out, they turned off onto the scenic route through Dartmoor.

They drove for some fifteen minutes on a two-lane road, past farmland, hedges, and meadows. And then, with the air getting cold and the day getting late, Laura said:

“Are you sure this is the route?”

“Yes,” said Reggie.

“Perhaps we should find someone to ask?”

“We have a map,” said Reggie.

“Well, yes, but—”

“And I have complete faith in your ability to read it.”

“I don’t. Nor in yours while you’re driving.”

“Well, I suppose, if we see a petrol station, we should fuel up anyway. But I haven’t seen one in the last ten miles—”

“There’s one,” said Laura, “straight ahead.”

There was, indeed. And it was really about time; who knew how long it would be before there would be another?

“Last facility for twenty miles, it says,” remarked Laura, looking ahead at the station’s road sign.

Reggie pulled in.

It was a self-service,
UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
, according to the placard in front. There was no attendant at the pump, but there was a convenience store, and a garage and tow truck in the back.

Laura went into the store for a consult on the map, and Reggie was about to fuel the car up when an attendant, late twenties, came out from inside the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy blue rag.

“I can help you with that!” he shouted.

“No need!” Reggie shouted back, but the attendant came over anyway.

“They can be tricky, sometimes,” he said.

“I think I’ve got the hang of it,” said Reggie. “Done it once or twice before.”

The attendant studied Reggie’s style of holding a petrol nozzle in a tank, and nodded sagely, as though he agreed that Reggie might just possess the requisite skill.

And then he began to walk a 360 around the car.

“Had one of these, once,” volunteered the attendant.

Reggie nodded.

“The carburetor can be finicky,” said the attendant.

“This one’s fine,” said Reggie.

“Got her loaded up for a trip, do you?”

Reggie glanced over. The attendant was peering through the glass into the car.

“Nice interior,” said the attendant.

“It came with the vehicle,” said Reggie, hanging up the fueling nozzle.

“You pay inside,” said the attendant. “If you like, I can give your car a once-over in the garage while you’re doing that. The inspection’s free. Have it done in a jif. Your tires look a little low.”

“No, thanks,” said Reggie. “The tires are fine.”

Reggie made sure the Jag was locked, and then he went inside to pay. He joined Laura inside the convenience store, where she was finishing up a chat with the clerk. She had the map out, and bags of spicy crisps and juice from the store.

“They have an annoying attendant here,” said Reggie.

“It’s good we stopped, then,” she said, handing Reggie one of the bags of crisps. “You know how you get when you’re hungry.”

Reggie and Laura got back in the Jag and pulled out onto the road.

In the rearview mirror, Reggie could see the attendant standing in front of the garage, still wiping his hands with the greasy rag as he watched them drive away.

They continued on the two-lane road, through rolling, rocky hills, passing the occasional sheep and wild ponies, but seeing few cars on the road.

Laura had the window down, her hair was undone with wind, glinting red and gold in the sun as they sped along, and for a while Reggie forgot any notion of someday soon trading his car in for something more practical.

Just then the first raindrops began to splat on the windshield—individually at first, then in teams, and then, as Laura gave up and rolled up her window, in a torrent.

No matter. A bit of rain on a country drive. That’s what country drives and rain were for. So that you could tell the difference between that and lying on a sunny beach in the South Seas.

And then—so far along into the national park that they weren’t even passing sheep anymore, and with not a farmhouse or cottage in sight—Reggie felt just the slightest rotating vibration from the passenger side of the car.

And then a faint sound to accompany it, in aggravating rhythm.

And he knew immediately what it had to be, even before Laura said anything—but he just couldn’t believe it, because he had bought a complete new set of tires just two weeks before, in preparation.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “We have a flat.”

Reggie pulled the car to the side of road—at least to the extent possible. The water had carved out a muddy little stream, and it wasn’t possible to get completely clear of the narrow road without dropping the front wheel into that gully.

Reggie started to get out of the car.

“It’s pouring buckets,” said Laura. “Let’s just call the Automobile Association.”

She picked up her mobile and tried.

No reception. Reggie tried with his, with the same result.

“Well, here we are then,” he said. “I’m sure this won’t take a minute.”

“I’ll help,” said Laura.

“No need,” said Reggie. “I’ve got it.”

Reggie got out of the car and into the rain; he opened the boot, and dug beneath the packed-in luggage to find the compartment that enclosed the spare. He began to search for the spanner and jack, which were buried underneath all the luggage. Rain poured in all the while.

And then, with the afternoon growing very late, headlights appeared on the road behind them.

A large vehicle slowed and pulled over.

It was the tow truck from the petrol station.

Reggie stood up from trying to get the tools out of the boot. He turned and saw the garage attendant he had spoken to earlier get out of the truck.

The man walked over to Reggie, but he didn’t bring his tools with him.

“Little trouble on the road, mate?”

“As you can see,” said Reggie.

“Hmm,” said the man. He made no move to take a closer look, or to do much of anything. He just stood there, studying Reggie, and the open boot of the Jaguar, and the general situation as though he had never seen anyone with a flat tire before.

“So,” he said after a moment. “A big-time London barrister, are you then?”

“Why do you say that?” said Reggie.

The man looked caught off guard, just for an instant, by that obvious question. And then he said, “I know London barrister luggage when I see it.”

Reggie didn’t buy that explanation. But at the moment, he didn’t much care.

“Can you change it for us?”

The man shrugged. “Looks complicated,” he said. “Might be it needs to go back to the shop.”

“It’s just a flat,” said Reggie.

“Never know what might come up,” said the garageman. “A lot easier to do in town.”

Reggie reached for his wallet. He knew he was going to be charged a premium. Probably the garage attendant intended to make a week’s salary here and now. Under the circumstances, Reggie was willing to pay it, if it would get them under way any quicker.

“There’s a spare in the boot, and I know it’s a good one. I’ll move the luggage myself so you can get at it. How much to change the tire right here?” he said.

“Not in London now, are you? These are the moors, you know.”

“Look,” said Reggie. “It’s a simple question.”

“Not in a court, either, unless courts have changed their appearance since I was last in one.”

Reggie guessed that probably had not been too long ago and by “in one” the fellow probably meant standing in the dock.

“Can you change this tire or not?” said Reggie.

“Well now, there’s the question of what I can do, and then there’s the question of what I will do. What I will do is what I’ve already said: crank your vehicle up onto the flatbed for you, and drive both you and this lovely woman, who it appears to me has shown great patience with you, into the next town, where you can both go to the pub and get a nice serving of fish-and-chips—and quite honestly, she looks hungry to me, mate, if you don’t mind me saying so—while the garage fixes your vehicle. I’ll even come in and hoist one with you and the lady; the first round is on me.”