A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  For an answer she turned to the second photograph. Pouting into the camera, an over-the-shoulder shot, make-up heavy with winged eyeliner, hair tousled, and she appeared to be wearing nothing except a pair of enormous hooped earrings. You could just see the mound of her breasts, the photograph reaching almost down to her nipples.

  How had she been taken? CCTV from the Newcastle bus station showed her waiting for the bus, but she had not boarded. Presumably then the point of abduction had been at the station but out of sight of the cameras. The weather had been blustery and cold and Petra would have had a long walk at the other end. Her house was half a mile from the bus stop up a steep hill. Maybe it had been easy to persuade her into a nice warm car which would drive her all the way home. But instead she had been strangled with her school tie. Claire spent a while digesting the facts.

  She had dealt with a few sociopaths and psychopaths. Too many. Nothing, she felt, should surprise or shock her, so this disdainful disposal was hardly surprising. But it did show that Kobi hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions. Petra had not been raped and nothing was missing apart from the school bag. If Kobi had kept it, it had not been found when police had searched his house.

  Even without reading the detail and turning over the remaining photographs, she could almost predict the other three abductions, murders and method of disposing of the bodies. Careless. The serial psychopathic killer walks a tightrope. He wants recognition, for people to applaud or shrink in horror from his crimes. But he must balance that with the imperative need for anonymity. Once he’s been found the fun stops. The higher the profile of the crimes the harder the police and all their resources would spend searching for him so the greater the risk. But the greater the risk the more potent the adrenaline rush. And so he constantly veers between public awareness which he interprets as respect rather than revulsion and the need to remain anonymous.

  He wants people to find the bodies, feel fear over the killings and puzzle over his identity. And, like many killers, he wasn’t going to stop except by being caught. These people are mad and bad and the one thing no psychiatrist ever forgets is that they are a very real danger to society. Luckily they are very rare.

  She turned back to the notes.

  Only two months after Petra Gordano’s body had been found, when the police were searching for him, Kobi had killed again.

  Jodie Truss had been a little older than Petra. Fifteen. She attended school in another part of the Potteries, near Fenton. Her body had been found late the same night in Hanley Park, propped up against the wooden sign looking, so a member of the general public said later, ‘as though she’d had one too many’.

  After Jodie had come the two-year gap during which the police believed Marvel had been killed. Claire bypassed her for the moment and focused on the crimes Kobi had been convicted of.

  On a warm October day in 2014 Teresa Palmer, fourteen years old, a pupil and resident of Stone, a town almost ten miles south of Stoke-on-Trent, was walking from school to her home on the Walton estate, a distance of just over a mile. Claire knew Stone well. At one point, liking the atmosphere of the pretty market town which boasted a lovely high street as well as canal-side pubs and a weekly street market, she had considered buying a house there. But in the end she’d opted for Burslem and the Victorian home she and Grant had done up.

  Teresa had left school with a few friends and they had wandered down the high street but parted company at the bottom, two of the girls heading up the Lichfield Road. Teresa had continued on her own. And that was the last sighting of her – alive. The next time she had been seen it was a corpse dumped in a wheelie bin, found not by the police but by a horrified employee of the printer’s. She had been dropping a black plastic bin liner into the bin when she had seen long brown hair.

  In appearance Teresa was similar to the other two girls. Innocent schoolgirl to siren in three easy moves. The police had spent an extensive search of the area in and around Stone, combing the CCTV cameras along the high street as well as using ANPR to search for a likely car. But Kobi had outwitted them; they had found nothing.

  And so they had waited.

  And then had come the breakthrough. But again this had cost a young girl, fourteen years old, her life.

  Shelley Cantor was the last of Kobi’s victims. She was the one whose body had been weighted down and dropped in Westport Lake. Claire narrowed her eyes, alert to this. There had been some inept attempt at concealing the body with rocks placed in her school bag. There was another difference: Shelley Cantor was from Congleton, this time another market town but almost ten miles north of Stoke-on-Trent and in Cheshire. Another charming place standing on the River Dane with stories and legends of its own. Shelley had proved Kobi’s nemesis. The RSPB camera had captured images of him dragging a heavy and lumpy package to the water’s edge. And his car number plate was easily read. Then it was a matter of time. Half an hour actually, before Kobi was being bundled into the back of a police car and the rest was, as they say, history.

  Too late for Shelley, Teresa, Jodie and Petra.

  The photograph of Shelley told the same story as the other girls. Schoolgirl by day, siren by social media.

  Claire left Marvel’s profile until later. It was almost two o’clock. If she knew one fact about prisons it was that they lived by the clock. It would soon be time to meet Kobi.

  TEN

  Thursday 19 September, 3 p.m.

  Entering a prison gives you an instant sense of gloom, of freedom vanishing behind you, of natural light being extinguished. Every door opened is another one locked behind you, distancing you from the outside world. Claire was a visitor but it still gave her a feeling of dread. She hated the places. Hated the metallic clanking, the sounds of anger and frustration that spilled into the main areas. Noise everywhere and CCTV eyes watching all the time. She might be a visiting psychiatrist but even so there was no ducking the rules, no mistaking the authority of the prison officers, the ‘screws’ who watched her every move, searched her bag and put everything in a locker except a notebook, recording machine and a pen.

  Notices everywhere. No mobile phones. Nothing sharp … the list went on and on. So many things forbidden. Entering a prison is always the same. Security, locks and bolts, identity checks, communication between gate and nerve centre, accompanied by strange noises that are difficult to source or attribute to humans: groans and shrieks, shouts and screams. Untangling the noise from the echoes is impossible. And the inmates walking around either looking like bruisers or figures stepping out of a Lowry picture, stooped and old before their years. Even the younger ones. There is a strange uniformity about prisoners as there is about prison. A feeling of leaving the real world behind as indeed you are.

  A woman officer led her to the interview room, commenting, ‘I don’t envy you, Doctor. He’s a right cool customer, that one. You won’t ruffle his feathers.’ She spoke in a strong Potteries accent and was slim built but looked tough, wiry and strong and, at a guess, could give as good as she got. Her dark hair was scraped into a thin ponytail which swung as she walked. She held the door open. ‘I’ll go get him,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’

  Presumably she had some idea what the purpose of this visit was. She hadn’t asked. Claire sat down, opened her notebook, prepared to switch her recording device on and waited.

  Moments later she heard footsteps.

  He was standing in the doorway appraising her as she was him. She saw herself through his eyes. Nothing remarkable. Medium height, light-brown hair, straight and to the shoulders with a swept across fringe. Slim, bordering on thin, in cream trousers and a black shirt, pale face, just a hint of make-up – nothing heavy, a touch of mascara, a smear of foundation, pale lipstick. She knew what he was thinking. Plain. Not my type. No threat. No problem here. She could read it in his face, which visibly relaxed as he studied her and gave a mock flourishing Regency bow.

  It was a relief to know how far she was from his preferred type.

 
; The officer broke into their thoughts, urging him forwards. ‘Go on then, Kobi. Get in there. Give the doctor what she wants.’

  He strolled towards her, sitting down opposite, the table between them. His movements were controlled and neat, but his gait was slightly stiff as though he spent too much time in his cell, which didn’t surprise her. He would be a natural target, although in a Category C prison, surrounded by sex offenders, he was, arguably, safer here than in many other gaols. He held out his hand. Dry skin and a firm grip. ‘Dr Roget, I presume.’

  He rolled the ‘r’, emphasizing its French sound. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She had to dig deep to find the sarcasm in his voice. Superficially it sounded perfectly polite.

  As she had anticipated, Kobi was good looking but in a negative way. His features were small and neat, a thin, rosebud mouth, hazel eyes, a small, snub nose, a pale, smooth complexion. It wasn’t so much that he was good looking as that his looks were unremarkable, forgettable, with nothing out of order or dominant. It was a face which would be hard to recall, difficult to describe. Like her he was of medium height, medium build, with light-brown hair cut very short.

  And a steady, unflinching gaze. He hadn’t looked at her directly until he was sitting down when their eyes were level. She took a while to study his face. He was thinner than his mugshots but his eyes were clear and watchful, still appraising her. He showed no sign of nervousness but met her eyes without any facial expression, not even a flicker of his eyelashes. Which was, considering his past, disconcerting. If she sensed any emotion it was, possibly, fleeting amusement. Possibly even a hint of disappointment.

  He set his mouth in an accommodating smile and waited for her to open the conversation.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Kobi.’ Like him she kept her tone neutral and polite.

  His mouth twisted. ‘My pleasure.’

  She continued smoothly. ‘I know you already know who I am but just for formality’s sake I’m Dr Claire Roget, a forensic psychiatrist.’

  He gave a brief jerky nod this time. And then responded, ‘Roget.’ Again, he rolled her name around, pronouncing the ‘r’ like a native. ‘It’s French, isn’t it?’

  She narrowed her eyes. Did he realize he had gone straight to her Achilles heel? Identified the French Frog?

  She kept her mind focused and her aims clear. Rule one: set the parameters.

  ‘Would you prefer me to call you Jonah or Mr Kobi?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck what you call me.’ His voice was lazy now, disinterested and in spite of the curse, held no anger.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  He nodded then spoke in a smooth voice, his accent patrician, possibly affectedly so, considering his background. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You understand that the police believe you are responsible for the murder of a fifth victim?’

  A faint smile crossed his face. He leaned back and folded his arms in an attitude of utter disdain. ‘I understand this much, Dr Roget. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the girl whose body was never found’– he tossed his head – ‘I can’t remember her name …’

  She knew perfectly well Marvel Trustrom’s name was on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Her dad is sick and he wants me to tell him where I’ve hidden his daughter’s body assuming, of course, that I killed her in the first place.’

  She waited and let the silence extend.

  ‘You think I know where she’s buried and you think I might be persuaded to share that little secret’ – he wiggled his fingers at the childish words – ‘with you.’

  He kept his eyes trained on her face as he spoke, searching for her response before continuing. ‘I suppose, being a psychiatrist’ – again that mockery – ‘that you’ve formed your own opinion as to why, having come clean over four girls’ deaths, I’ve decided to keep this one to myself.’

  ‘I try not to form opinions, Mr Kobi, until I have all the relevant facts.’

  ‘Very wise, Claire.’ His words were a sick pat on the back.

  Again, she waited, sensing the enjoyment Kobi was deriving from the encounter.

  He smirked. ‘And you think I might tell all? Spill the beans?’

  ‘You might.’ Her tone remained affectedly disinterested.

  ‘Why? Why would I do that?’ He leaned in so she could smell coal tar soap and coconut shampoo. He had prepared for this meeting. ‘As a psychiatrist you must be really interested in motive?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you think because this girl’s father is dying that you might evoke pity in me?’

  She shook her head, keeping her eyes trained on his. The one thing she would avoid at all costs was to use pity as a reason for a late confession. If he had expressed sympathy for a dying man she would not have believed him. Kobi’s eyes were cold.

  She directed her full attention towards him. ‘How did you know that Marvel’s father is ill?’

  There was a lifting of the corners of his mouth. It was nothing like a smile. ‘The investigating officer, DS Willard, came in and told me himself. Nice of him.’

  ‘Right.’ She was angry now. Willard should have told her he’d mentioned this to Kobi. He’d had plenty of opportunity to share that particular piece of important information. It had given Kobi a head start, time to prepare. To suppress her crossness and regain her equilibrium she glanced down at her notes. ‘I want you to understand, Mr Kobi, I’m not here to unpick the court’s original verdict. You’ve been found guilty of four murders, all of them young girls. Anything you tell me will not influence an appeal, a reduction in sentence or the decision of the parole board. Neither will it cut any ice with the CPS.’

  Kobi smirked. ‘Not a lot in it for me then?’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘So why should I help?’

  This was the quandary she’d prepared for. Focusing on Marvel’s father’s plight would be a pointless argument. You can’t appeal to an emotion a person can’t feel. But Kobi would sniff out a lie and sense any insincerity on her part. She might gain ground by using the fact that he had a new wife. She tucked that card up her sleeve. Curiosity and boredom are useful tools and Kobi had plenty of both here as well as time to reflect.

  Watching Kobi, she wasn’t getting the impression that he was hugely anxious to flaunt his crimes. He was icily calm as he faced her. Quite in control as she gave her next prompt.

  ‘Do you want to say anything about Marvel Trustrom?’

  He clicked his fingers in mock recognition. ‘Of course. That’s her name.’

  She gave a slow nod and he continued with his play act.

  ‘Trustrom. It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was getting irritated with this polite version of cat and mouse.

  ‘I’ve noticed that Marvel’s murder appears quite different from the others. Why do you think that is?’

  His eyes flicked up to hers. ‘Possibly because I didn’t kill her?’

  So that was the game he was playing. He was going to string this one out for as long as he could – without giving anything away – while she probed. ‘Tell me what you know about her disappearance.’

  He wasn’t fooled. ‘Only what I’ve read in the papers, Claire.’ The skip to her Christian name felt like an ice cold barb as he continued smoothly. ‘I think she was from some little place just outside Biddulph, wasn’t she?’ His tone was that of idle curiosity.

  Claire mimicked his tone. ‘I believe so.’ Then she moved on to probe. ‘How did all this start, Mr Kobi?’

  He smirked. ‘You’ve really got time for all this? Going right back to the beginning?’

  ‘Your parents?’

  This time he laughed out loud. ‘Rejected me? No. They were too stupid to do anything quite as interesting as that.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Jack?’ Again, he shook his head.

  ‘So when did it all begin?’

  This time he folded his arms behind his he
ad while he watched her. ‘You already know, don’t you?’

  ‘Refresh me.’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, speaking as casually as if she had asked him whether he wanted red wine or white, ‘that the tendency must always have been there.’

  She waited and caught the first scent of anger.

  ‘To want to have power over someone who had belittled me.’

  ‘So that was the beginning?’

  Slowly he nodded. ‘Yes. When that little bitch …’

  She supplied the name. ‘Miranda Pullen.’

  ‘When she made that totally spurious allegation. I didn’t even fancy her. She was just someone with such a big head she was convinced she was irresistible. And she wasn’t. Far from it. Disgusting little—’

  She stopped the rant. ‘But Miranda wasn’t your first victim, was she?’

  ‘I toyed with the idea.’ Interesting that his response to that jibe was defensive.

  She was perfectly aware that Kobi was enjoying this little trip down memory lane. Showing off. DS Willard owed her a stiff drink subjecting her to this. But she ploughed on. ‘I take it the four girls whose murders you were convicted of were all killed for the same reason?’

  ‘Silly little girls. Arrogant creatures posing in that ridiculous way on social media.’ He almost spat the words out. But she couldn’t resist a little skip of joy. She’d provoked him, burrowed into his skin like a tick. That little spit of emotion had slipped out instinctively. He hadn’t been able to suppress it.

  Like a dropped stitch in knitting, she picked up on the word. ‘Silly?’ She knew she would proceed along this path, maybe putting in the odd slick of mud for him to slip on but never letting Jonah Kobi forget why she was really here. ‘In what way were they silly, Jonah? Because they were frightened?’

  He batted away her query. ‘Girls of that age,’ he said disdainfully, ‘are all pathetic, thinking every male on the planet fancies them.’

  She took up his comment. ‘Whether they were like that or not they didn’t have the chance to develop into women, find careers, a partner, maybe have children.’