“No. He wanted to see her on her own. He said that she’d be less inhibited without me and that was how he always worked, in any case – on a one-to-one basis with the patients. But I insisted that he saw me afterwards, to give me a reasonable account of his diagnosis. His name is Dr Bertolasso.”
“Oh, yes. As it happens, I’ve met him myself. He was very helpful with a case that I was working on last year. He was working at Birmingham University then.”
Edmund was plainly annoyed by this revelation. He shrugged.
“I’m glad that you found him so amenable. Don’t ask me to explain the terms of his employment – he may hold several jobs, for all I know. I noticed last time Krystyna went there that the more eminent staff were the ones who only showed up occasionally. More than one iron in the fire, no doubt.”
“What was his diagnosis? A brief summary will do – I don’t want to ask you to betray any specific confidences.”
“You can be quite sure that I wouldn’t. She was my wife, after all,” said Edmund sanctimoniously. “He agreed that she was depressed – he hardly needed his string of fancy qualifications to be able to tell me that. He also said that she was suffering from acute anxiety. Apparently the two conditions – depression and anxiety – are not the same, though they’re often related. Depression can sometimes exist without anxiety and vice versa. He said that the anxiety might prove harder to treat than the depression and that medication – for both – was the only option, as she’d already had electric shock treatment. Apparently, they can’t repeat that.”
Tim nodded. Although he had no training in psychiatry, he was an enthusiastic student of psychology, and knew that what Edmund Baker was saying had the ring of authenticity.
“Did he give her a prescription while you were there?”
“Yes; and afterwards we collected it from the pharmacy at the hospital. I was keen for her to start the treatment as soon as possible.”
“May I see the drugs?”
“They’re still in my car. I’ll get them for you when you leave. She didn’t take any of them. There wasn’t time.”
“Was Mrs Baker with you when you talked to Dr Bertolasso?”
“No. As I’ve said, I wanted to see him on my own. Krystyna waited in the anteroom outside his office.”
“Did you discuss his diagnosis when you began the drive home?”
“No. She was quite unreachable. I tried talking to her about general things – the weather, what we might have for supper – but she barely answered me. At first she just stared straight ahead of her; then she turned her head away, so I couldn’t see her expression, and looked out of the window.”
“Did she say anything at all during the journey?”
“Nothing beyond some mechanical ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers to my comments. I’d given up trying to engage with her long before we reached Holbeach.”
“Would you say that there was an atmosphere in the car?”
“I don’t really know what you mean by that. The situation was quite tense, I suppose, as you may imagine, under the circumstances. We didn’t have a row as such, but the barrier between us was as great as if there had been one, if you see what I mean.”
“I do see,” said Tim, sadly. There was a pause. He was aware that Edmund Baker was scrutinising him and he pulled himself together. Their situations were not comparable; he must not make the mistake of identifying with the man before him.
“I know that this is painful for you,” he continued more briskly, “but can you tell me what happened when you reached the level crossing?”
“Of course.” There was a curious flatness to Edmund Baker’s tone which made Tim think again of the statement that he had provided to the Holbeach police. Perhaps it was his way of coping with grief.
“We were approaching the crossing, but some way off, when the lights started flashing. There were two vehicles ahead of us. The first of these, a small car, could definitely have got through, but its driver was cautious and halted. The other vehicle was a lorry – not a juggernaut, just a local delivery lorry. I think that it was carrying builders’ materials. Of course it had to stop as well, as did we.”
“Did you or Mrs Baker say anything to each other at that point?”
“I think I may have made some exclamation of annoyance. As I’ve explained, I wanted to get her home and started on the medication. I’m pretty sure that she didn’t respond.”
“And then she just got out of the car?”
“Yes.”
“Were her movements hasty or panicky, or did she just get out as usual?”
“The latter. But it was still an odd thing to do. She had no reason to get out that I knew of.”
“You’re quite sure of that, sir?”
“What are you implying? Yes, quite sure.” The last words were uttered with some emphasis.
“And then she walked up to the crossing – or did she run?”
“She walked – she was walking quickly, but not running.”
“And you just sat in the car and watched her?”
“Yes, at first. I wasn’t really watching her – I was just shocked for a moment, totally surprised by her behaviour. Surprised into a kind of temporary inertia. I couldn’t see her once she had rounded the near side of the lorry.”
“What did you think she was going to do?”
“I really had no idea. But then I heard the train coming and I was suddenly very scared of what she might do . . . what she might intend to do.”
“So then you got out of the car yourself. Did you run towards her?”
“I ran towards where I thought she was. I had to approach her from the other side of the lorry. When I drew level with the cab, I could see her on the other side of the small car – it was a little Fiesta. She was almost at the barrier. I ran towards her and she ducked under it.” He closed his eyes, though his voice remained curiously flat. “There was nothing that I could have done.”
“So you didn’t touch her?”
“I reached out towards her, but she was already through the barrier.”
“Thank you, sir. I apologise again for putting you through this. I understand that the woman in the car was unable to corroborate your version of events?”
“So I believe. She told the police that she could see what was going to happen and simply hid her face in her hands.”
“The lorry driver couldn’t confirm the details, either. He said that he had been reading his newspaper.”
“I believe that that is what he said. I wasn’t looking at him. There is no reason to doubt that he is telling the truth, though, is there?”
“No reason at all, sir. But, as neither he nor the lady driver saw what happened in Mrs Baker’s final moments, we may have to rely on your account.”
“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”
Tim gave him an appraising look.
“None that I am aware of, as yet,” he said. “I’m very grateful for sparing me so much time, Mr Baker. I’ve nearly finished now; there’s just one more thing. Again, forgive my insensitivity: when you came home, did you find a note from your wife?”
“A note? What sort of note? Oh, you mean some kind of farewell . . . no, nothing like that. Nothing at all.”
“Thank you. If you could show me the medication that Dr Bertolasso prescribed, I shall leave you in peace.”
“Certainly. It’s in the car. I’ll go and get it.”
On the spur of the moment, Tim said: “I’d like to accompany you, sir, if that’s OK?”
Edmund Baker shrugged.
“I suppose so,” he said. “It’s parked in the back alley; you’ll have to come through the kitchen.”
Tim followed him out of the room. Edmund Baker paused before he opened the door at the end of the hall corridor.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he
said. “About the mess, I mean.”
They entered a rectangular room which was dominated by a large, old-fashioned range. The rest of the kitchen had been modernised. The walls were lined with double rows of white cupboards, and an ‘island’ had been built in the middle of the floor. It was topped with an oval work surface into which a double sink had been fitted. Both sinks and all of the surfaces in the room were piled high with dirty pans and crockery. The twin steel waste-bins that stood on either side of the island were overflowing with rubbish. The chairs were festooned with sour-smelling dishcloths and tea-towels. The floor was covered with food debris, some of it ancient and rotting.
“This way,” said Edmund over his shoulder. “Be careful when you’re walking through the garden. It’s a brick path and it gets slippery.”
The rear garden was long and narrow, but of a good size. Several apple trees were growing at some distance from the house. There was a vegetable garden, which appeared to have been recently dug over, and some fruit bushes. There was less evidence of the neglect and decay that permeated the rest of the house.
A 1930s brick garage stood at the far end of the garden. A short path led from it to a five-barred gate, which was padlocked. Edmund Baker unlocked it and led Tim out into the street. His car was parked in front of the gate, half on the pavement and half off it, just as the cars on the main road had been parked. It was an ancient, rusting Saab. Tim doubted that it would pass an MOT, but challenging the car’s roadworthiness was not why he was there. Not at the moment, anyway. It might prove a useful way of curtailing Edmund’s activities later if there seemed to be any foundation in the suspicions raised by the boy on the bicycle.
“You don’t garage the car, then, sir?” he said conversationally, as Edmund unlocked the driver’s door and thrust his upper body awkwardly into the car in order to release the lock on one of the rear doors.
“I used to. Unfortunately, the garage is full of my archaeological equipment now. I don’t like leaving the car on the street.” Edmund emerged from the car and opened the rear-side far door. Tim looked in and saw that a large green box had been wedged onto the back seat. On top of it was a thick white paper package fastened with sellotape. There was a picture of a flagon on the side of it. Edmund grabbed hold of the package and handed it to Tim.
“This is what Dr Bertolasso prescribed. As you can see, Krystyna never opened it.”
Tim took the package. “May I keep this, for the moment?” he asked.
“Certainly. You can keep it for good, as far as I’m concerned. I won’t have any use for it.”
“I will send you a receipt for the package.” Tim peered into the car. “That’s an impressive-looking box you have there. I’m surprised you managed to get it into the vehicle. Is it something to do with your work?”
The expression that crossed Edmund Baker’s face was hard to define. It could have been one of peevishness, but, if Tim had been pushed for an opinion, he would have said that Edmund was afraid of something. His reply, when it came, was hesitant.
“Yes, in a way. It’s more connected with my hobby than my work – but the two are intertwined. The box contains some papers that I’ve borrowed from the Archaeological Society.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs Tarrant mentioned something about it when we interviewed her yesterday.”
“Alex? Why have you been talking about me to Alex?” Edmund’s reaction was decidedly panicky, but masked with a veneer of irritation. His voice had risen angrily.
“The conversation was not principally about you, Mr Baker. We asked Mrs Tarrant to describe her movements of yesterday when we were investigating a break-in at her flat. She happened to mention that she met you yesterday morning.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that she told me about the burglary now. I’m sorry; I didn’t really take in what she was saying when we spoke.”
“That’s perfectly understandable – you’ve had plenty to think about besides her problems. So Mrs Tarrant has been in touch with you today?”
“I phoned her this morning, in response to several calls that she made to me yesterday.”
“She said that by mistake she’d allowed you to keep the key to the Archaeological Society’s archive. Was the call about that?”
“Yes. It was an oversight. I didn’t mean to keep the key. Alex was making a great fuss about it. Strictly speaking, she shouldn’t have let me have it, but if the trustees had found out they wouldn’t have minded. I am well known to them. Anyway, to put her mind at rest, I said that I would post it to her.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Mr Baker, for all your help. Once again, I’m sorry that I had to intrude on your grief. There is one other thing: are you planning on going away in the near future?”
“Of course not. There is the funeral to organise – and my work to do. It’s a very busy time of year at work for me, actually.”
“Quite. But if you should change your plans, I’d be grateful if you’d let us know – just in case we need to talk to you again.”
“Very well. Although I have absolutely no more information that could be of use to you.”
“That’s probably true, sir. But it’s surprising how often people recollect things of importance later, in cases of this kind.”
“Suicides, you mean?”
“Yes, suicides. And sudden deaths of all kinds. Goodbye, sir.” Tim held out his hand. Edmund Baker took it, more forcefully than when they had first met, and pumped it up and down a couple of times, without speaking. Tim smiled at him and walked to the top of the short street. He turned briefly at the corner. Edmund Baker was still standing on the pavement, apparently lost to his surroundings, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Once back in his own car, Tim opened the package. Inside were two oblong boxes. He saw that one of them contained sleeping tablets, the other a course of Librium. He inspected the leaflet inside the box. It was a fairly low dosage. He would need to check with Dr Bertolasso, but it did not seem to him to be the kind of treatment that would be prescribed to someone who was acutely depressed and on the verge of being sectioned.
Chapter Forty-One
When Tom Tarrant had said that he didn’t want to annoy the police by making them send a copper to fetch him, he evidently had not realised that there was a close professional connection between Detective Inspector Tim Yates and Detective Constable Andy Carstairs; in fact, he seemed to have assumed that they worked in entirely different divisions and hardly entered each other’s orbits at all. This may have been because he had failed to recognise that, although the Padgett brothers were children, they were facing serious criminal charges. He apparently thought that Andy Carstairs, even if he were a plain clothes policeman, was employed as a sort of youth worker whose role approximated in some way to that of a community constable.
This was Andy’s own interpretation when he met Tom Tarrant and Marie Krakowska at the children’s home that morning. He himself had been there for almost an hour and was eagerly awaiting their arrival so that he could pass on a request from Tim Yates.
“Mr Tarrant,” said Andy, “Thank you for getting here so early. And you, too, Ms Krakowska. I understand that the Padgett brothers have to have some kind of routine medical examination and that we won’t be able to question them immediately after breakfast, as we had hoped. I apologise that you had to get up so early, therefore. However, I do have a favour to ask on behalf of DI Yates; if you agree to help, your early start won’t have been wasted.”
“DI Yates?” said Tom. He looked astonished. “Do you work together, then?”
“Yes, sir. There aren’t many detectives working in the South Lincolnshire force. Our crime rates don’t warrant it, I’m pleased to say. Do you know DI Yates?”
“I met him for the first time yesterday evening. He was introduced to my wife recently when he was conducting an enquiry that involved one of her colleagues, so it was he she telephoned when she foun
d that our flat had been broken into.”
“Indeed?” said Andy. “He didn’t mention it, but it probably explains why he has asked me to request your help. There’s a boy living here who witnessed an accident at a railway crossing yesterday – it was a fatality – and DI Yates would like you to help me to question him about it.”
“I’m assuming that the boy is considered to be vulnerable?”
“I believe so; I believe that he may also be unreliable, which is one of the reasons why we need professional help.”
“Marie is the child psychologist. She’ll probably get a better account from him than I can; but I should warn you that neither of us has a built-in lie detector. As I’m sure you’re aware, some of the children here come from appalling backgrounds: homes where being able to lie well is an essential survival technique. And despite the best efforts of their carers, cared-for children don’t get the individual attention that children brought up in stable homes receive. If they find themselves the centre of attention, they may therefore – shall we say – embroider the truth? Just to keep their place in the limelight for as long as possible.”
“Please do not encourage the detective constable to judge this boy prematurely, Tom,” said Marie frostily. She turned an exaggerated smile upon Andy, her blue eyes fierce. Andy reflected that she was that rare thing in his experience, an attractive large lady. “I shall be happy to help you, DC Carstairs. Do you know the name of the boy?”
Andy opened a thin cardboard file and consulted the notes inside it.
“His name is Lyle Scott. Do you know him?”
Tom Tarrant rolled his eyes heavenwards. “We’ll be lucky if . . .”
“Tom, please,” Marie Krakowska cut in again. “We know all of the children here, DC Carstairs. Lyle is one of the more challenged ones, but I believe that his heart is in the right place.”
Andy looked at Tom Tarrant again. It was difficult to read the expression on his face. However, it was clear that he would not cross Marie again.
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