Claire made a hand gesture meant to indicate sympathy and understanding, waiting for the inevitable bitterness to creep in.
‘But they’re not dying,’ he finished.
‘No.’
She put her cup firmly back on the saucer and stood up.
‘When do you think you’ll get to see him?’
‘I have to wait for the prison’s permission as well as his,’ she explained and then paused. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘don’t get your hopes up. Even if he does agree to see me it doesn’t mean to say that he’ll give me any valid information. You understand that? If my assessment of his character is correct he’s just as likely to feed me misinformation.’
‘You’re my best hope. My only hope that you’ll find my girl.’ His voice now was thin, reedy, desperate.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, addressing them both while trying to ignore the raw appeal in Marvel’s father’s eyes.
Outside she switched her phone back on to a bright message from Grant. Any chance I can buy you a curry tonight?
She tapped out her response.
EIGHT
She’d told Grant she’d walk up to the local curry house. It was a pleasant walk through streets lined with various shops, some still open, others with steel shutters guarding them, many sporting For Sale notices or, even more optimistically, To Let. These days Burslem wasn’t a high crime area. Traffic was light and the evening pleasantly warm. The walk up to the India Cottage was a familiar one, the incline only a mild pull on her legs as she quickened her pace. While she walked, she thought. Rita had let her know that the visiting order had come through. Tomorrow, at three o’clock, she would be meeting Jonah Kobi and could begin to form her own opinion of him. In many ways she was excited by the challenge, even if at the same time she was realistic enough to acknowledge that the chances of Kobi confessing to her were slim, particularly at their first encounter. If anything, he would spin it out.
But for tonight, now, she was glad of the distraction. And whatever else she might say about Grant Steadman, he was certainly that.
He arrived a few minutes after her. Stood in the doorway, peering around, grinning and biting his lip before striding across the room, bending and kissing her on the lips, his own still cool from the evening air. Then he sat down opposite and couldn’t wait to deliver his news. ‘I’ve got a commission,’ he said. ‘My first.’
‘That’s great. Go on. Tell me more.’
‘A guy who owns a massive historic house in Cheshire. Wants a complete refurb. Says it’s too old fashioned and he has big plans for a fresh start.’
‘Really? Congratulations. Well done.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Let’s hope it’s the first of many. How did he hear about you?’
Grant looked cocky. ‘Word of mouth, I guess.’
Something compelled her to add, ‘Just make sure he isn’t stringing you along, Grant. Make sure he pays up.’
Grant looked a little hurt. ‘Gosh, Claire, don’t be such a pessimist. You don’t have to make me out to be a complete idiot, you know. Have some faith in me.’
She reached across the table to touch his hand. ‘Just warning you, that’s all. I’d hate to see you taken advantage of.’
Grant simply nodded, still frowning. He hadn’t forgiven her yet.
‘It’s the beginning of a future,’ he protested sulkily.
She smiled. And after the briefest of moments his face softened too into that well remembered grin.
‘Yeah.’ He squared his shoulders, leaning back in his chair. ‘It’ll take a lot of time, a lot of work, a lot of sourcing of materials. And I guess he won’t like all my ideas.’
‘Have you been round the house?’
‘A couple of times now. I’ve met him but it was only today that he confirmed I’ve got the job. I’ve been through costings with him and he’s agreed, advancing me enough money to get started.’
‘Wow. So what sort of look will you be going for?’
He spent the next few minutes describing a look that combined avant-garde with traditional, age with innovation, sculptures and pottery, fabrics and here and there some iconic antiques, pictures mixing Impressionism with tradition. ‘And,’ he added, still fizzing with the moment, ‘I’m really paying attention to the lighting.’
‘You’re going to be busy.’ She felt a tinge of chagrin. It all sounded so creative compared to her usual week of ward rounds, clinics and, from now on, prison visits.
He nodded. ‘Might have to outsource some of the work but I’ll oversee it all.’ He put his wine glass down. ‘And you? What’s new in the mental health world?’
She told him a little about her current task and Grant listened carefully, making few comments. ‘You mean you’ll have to visit him in prison?’
She nodded. ‘I’m going tomorrow. Prison is hardly foreign ground to me.’
He looked concerned. ‘Is it safe?’
She almost laughed. Prison officers, CCTV everywhere, panic buttons, locked doors. ‘Yeah.’
‘How many times will you have to go?’
‘As long as it takes to either find the girl’s body or be satisfied that Kobi’s just stringing me along and didn’t do it in the first place.’
‘Do you think he did?’
She reached across the table to touch his hand again, smiling now. ‘You should know me better than that.’
He was curious now. ‘Will you know as soon as you meet him? Some sort of instinct?’
She laughed. ‘I’m not a clairvoyant, you know. I won’t ever be sure if he’s telling me the truth. Sociopaths … psychopaths … are adept at deception.’
‘I couldn’t do your job,’ he said, and she raised her glass to him. ‘And I couldn’t do yours.’
They ordered hardly glancing at the familiar menu. Quite smoothly he introduced another subject. ‘So how’s your brother, Adam?’
‘Adam is getting married.’
‘Lovely,’ was Grant’s response. ‘When?’
‘Next March.’
‘Nice.’ And then with a cheeky look in her direction, he threw down a challenge. ‘You want to enter the lions’ den on your own, Claire, or might you need a man on your arm? Some moral support?’ He looked around at the other diners before returning his focus on her with an affectation of sheer innocence. ‘Nothing worse than attending a wedding on your own.’
All she could do was smile, shake her head and change the subject, asking when his mother would be moving back down to Cornwall. Grant answered her questions but both knew there was a subtext. Would he be at his mother’s beck and call as he had been at his sister’s? Popping down to Cornwall when his mother, this time, needed a picture hanging? Would a desperate plea from her result in yet another disappearance with no explanation? Looking at his face, still animated from his news, she read underlying doubts and guessed that her face reflected the same. Grant had always been able to read her mind but wisely he said nothing; neither did she and they veered back to the other subject which was occupying her mind. The waiters placed their food on the table and Grant asked why DS Zed Willard was taking such a personal interest in this.
‘He had to break the news to the first victim’s parents and then hear about the other girls’ murders, knowing it was the same person. It’s stayed with him so he really wants to convict Kobi of this fifth crime. Mop up an unsolved murder case and maybe part of him wants to grant a dying man his last wish. Having failed to prevent the subsequent murders he may even feel a bit responsible.’
‘Sounds like this Willard chap has a bit of a conscience?’ Grant was thoughtful.
‘Yes, he does.’
‘Hmm.’ Grant speared a piece of lamb balti. ‘The girl’s dad really is dying then?’
She nodded and kept her voice low. ‘Not much doubt about that. I would say he’s got a couple of weeks. Not much more. Not by the look of him. The trouble is Willard seems to think I have magic powers, which I don’t. He thinks by asking the right questions and interpreting the re
sponses that I’ll be able to squeeze the truth out of Kobi. And it isn’t just for Marvel’s father. It’s for him too. An unsolved murder is an embarrassment to the police. It was convenient to park it in Kobi’s garage. But it isn’t necessarily the truth. Willard wants this tied up. He thinks I can do it.’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘Because I am, Grant. Looking at Kobi’s profile, he’s a devious sod. Intelligent and he’s kept schtum for years.’ She stopped. ‘Why? Why would Kobi confess to all the crimes but deny this one, hide the body too? He won’t get any time off his sentence. If Kobi murdered Marvel Trustrom he stepped out of his usual MO and then stepped right back into it for the last two murders. Killers don’t usually alter their MO. They sometimes escalate – a sexual predator might become a rapist who might then become a killer. An assault might become a murder, but then they don’t slide back to their original ways.’
‘Were the girls raped?’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘Oh.’ He looked relieved.
‘And another thing. I’ve read pages of court transcripts. He was fond of “boasting” about his crimes. Part of the satisfaction he felt was watching the parents of the murdered girls squirming. Few of them stayed for the whole trial. His words and attitude were as harrowing as was the cynical, careless dumping of the bodies.’
Grant was silent and as she watched his face cloud over Claire reflected. For all his piratical looks, Grant was tender-hearted. While she had learnt to accept the vagaries and variations of mental diagnoses he had no experience of it. His dark eyes were troubled and sad.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Claire. I think you’re amazing.’
Perhaps it was at that point that she realized how easily they’d fallen back into their old relationship. It was like a pas de deux. He had been waiting in the wings to lift her, to support her, for her to soar like Baby in Dirty Dancing held aloft by Patrick Swayze.
They finished their meal, arguing amicably about the bill. Grant wanted to pay up but Claire insisted on fifty-fifty.
And somehow Grant sensed that this night she wanted to be alone. He gave her a lift back and they parted with a chaste kiss on the driveway. Simon’s car was there but no lights were on. The entire scenario felt strange. She turned and waved him off but he’d already reversed out and was heading down the road. Would it always be like this? she wondered. A strange relationship, somehow out of kilter? A train that had missed its rails. Something lost that could not be retrieved?
She put her key in the door and turned it.
NINE
Thursday 19 September, 8.50 a.m.
The day began full of surprises. And for the first time she wondered why Kobi was serving his sentence at HMP Stafford. Stafford was a Category C prison, mostly housing sex offenders. Was Kobi being classed as a sex offender? Before she visited him she wanted the full story so rang DS Zed Willard to ask him.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I forgot to tell you.’
‘Forgot?’
‘Two years ago Kobi got married so they moved him closer to his wife.’
‘Married? Wife?’
On the other end of the line, Zed groaned. ‘There are some headcases around.’
‘Obviously.’
She picked up the picture of Kobi again. He wasn’t an unattractive man facially. But who, in their right mind, would marry a lifer and killer of four schoolgirls, who tossed their bodies out of the car as though they were no more than a discarded sweet paper? However, it was a subject she had often mused about. One day, she vowed, she would write a paper on the reasons why a woman might marry a “lifer”.
‘Tell me more.’
‘A woman called Jessica had been writing to him almost from the moment he was convicted. The friendship sort of …’ He hesitated. ‘Progressed.’
‘Right.’
‘And two years ago they got married. He got permission to be moved nearer to her so she could visit.’
‘You might have told me he was married.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘I will need to speak to her.’
‘OK. I’ll send through her contact details.’
‘After I’ve interviewed Kobi,’ she emphasized. ‘I’m seeing him later today. I need to prepare my interview.’
‘Sorry about that,’ he said again. ‘I bet you have enough to do.’
She bit back the obvious retort. ‘Listen, Zed.’ She used his name awkwardly. ‘I’m very unlikely to unearth anything in the first interview but in the event that I do I will keep you up to date.’
He managed a small chuckle. ‘Thanks.’
She looked at the papers on her desk and the number of unopened emails as well as the pile of letters Rita, her secretary, had left for her to sign. Besides reviewing some parole appeals she had ward work to carry out. It wasn’t fair to expect the registrar to manage the entire workload.
She rang the ward and was reassured there was nothing they couldn’t manage and spent the next two hours working through papers and responding to emails. She was totally immersed and quite unconscious of the passage of time. By midday she was ready to start planning her approach to Kobi. She massaged her shoulders which were tensed up and opened the file at the point she had marked.
She needed to learn everything she could about Kobi before she met him. Each tiny splinter of fact was a potential weapon which could pierce his armour. She was sure that Kobi, just as she was preparing to interview him, would be preparing ways to deflect her interest while at the same time keeping her visiting until he was bored. He would mislead her, inwardly laughing as he did so. But there are rules to psychiatry, well-trodden paths to follow and Claire intended to follow them to the letter.
Step 1: Listen
Step 2: Tag
Step 3: Question
Step 4: Confront
Step 5: Solve
Step 6: Approve
She was pretty sure she’d get as far as step three, but after that …?
She would be in freefall.
What intrigued and continued to intrigue her was if he had killed Marvel why had he broken up his pattern only to return subsequently to his usual MO? Only one logical possibility presented itself. Was it possible that this crime had a different motive from the other four? Had Marvel’s death been an impulse rather than a structured plan? Had he acted without planning, without stalking, without thinking? Acted out of character?
She was doubtful. Because the strange thing is that if you dig deep enough into a damaged mind you usually unearth some bizarre logic in the perpetrator’s actions. We might not follow their reasoning but there is a trigger, some crazy reason why they acted as they did that one anomalous time. Once you followed them down this particular rabbit hole you had a key in your hand which could possibly unlock their psyche.
Walk along the railway tracks and you will reach your destination.
So as, yet again, she opened Kobi’s file, she was searching for specifics. Little pointers, clues. She spent some time studying the photograph on the front. He stared into the camera, jaw tight, brown hair neatly, almost militarily, cut. A thin mouth and an expression that mocked the photographer and anyone else who cared to look. He looked perfectly composed, ordinary enough, someone you would not notice if you passed them in the street. Not really any clue as to his character.
Which was probably why the girls had suspected nothing. They had climbed voluntarily into his car even as the papers were running the headline ‘Schoolgirl Killer’.
She turned the page and read again Zed Willard’s brief descriptions of the court cases for the four girls Kobi had been convicted of killing: Petra Gordano, Jodie Truss, Teresa Palmer and Shelley Cantor. When Zed had first drawn her in to the case, her initial thought had been that these murders would have a primarily sexual background, but in none of the cases was there any mention of sexual activity. Their clothes had been undisturbed – except for the school tie.
She spre
ad the pictures of the four girls across her desk, leaving Marvel’s photograph face down. She wanted to focus on certainties before posing questions. The police had issued two photographs of each girl, one in the school uniform she had been abducted in and the second, very different picture, had been lifted from their social media profiles. In each case it was hard to believe that the two pictures were of the same girls.
Petra Gordano, the first victim, had been killed in 2012. She was thirteen years old, the youngest of Kobi’s victims. This was the girl whose death DS Zed Willard had broken to her parents, something which had obviously stayed with him ever since.
The first school photo showed a cleanly scrubbed little girl with dark hair and dark eyes staring earnestly into the camera, her hair plaited neatly behind her back. She looked a sweet child. Innocent.
Claire picked up the post-mortem report next. Facial injuries, broken nose, fractured zygomatic arch consistent with a punch and a slap before she was strangled. Her body had been found at the back of the bus depot, which had no working CCTV, the day after she disappeared. There had been little attempt to hide it. It hadn’t been wrapped or covered but discarded as carelessly as a cigarette butt and covered with rubbish. The place of disposal as well as the fact that she had lain there overnight must have torn her parents apart, a final insult to their daughter.
Petra had still been dressed in her school uniform, knickers and underwear not disturbed. Her school bag had never been found.
Method of abduction? Petra went to school in Newcastle-under-Lyme and caught the school bus home on most days back to Knypersley where she lived. But on Tuesdays she had hockey practice and had to catch the ordinary bus so she was always later home, which was why the alarm hadn’t been raised for a few hours … and which led Claire to wonder. Had Kobi stalked her? Watched her, learnt her habits? If he had selected her, why her? Claire picked up the photograph again. Apart from the fact that she looked half Italian with a sallow complexion and dark hair, there appeared nothing particularly remarkable about her.
A Game of Minds Page 6
