A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  His expression became even more disdainful. And then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his face almost touching hers, his expression fiery and earnest. ‘And what sort of women would they have made, do you think, Dr Roget? Gossips, nosey, spiteful, little bitches manufacturing lies about men.’

  ‘Is that your opinion of women?’

  ‘Nearly all.’ His gaze on her was steady and appraising.

  She changed tack. ‘Who have been the women in your life?’

  His face screwed into a sneer. ‘Have you really got time for all that?’ He wafted his hand around. ‘You really want to play the hereditary game?’

  ‘This isn’t a game.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  She responded calmly. ‘The women in your life?’

  ‘We-ell …’ He was stringing this along, pretending to think. ‘My mother was ordinary. Very ordinary. She was boring.’ He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head. ‘She wasn’t good at anything. Her conversation was dull. She wasn’t even a good cook.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  Kobi gave a deliberate yawn. ‘I have absolutely no bloody idea. In fact, I couldn’t give a fuck about any woman, in my life or otherwise.’

  That, she suspected, was an untruth, spoken to put her off the scent. He had a wife.

  ‘Your sister-in-law,’ she said. ‘Your ex-wife’s little sister, Chloe?’

  No response. ‘You seem to have her trust and affection.’ She paused before plunging back in. ‘And then, of course, there is your wife of …’ She pretended to consult her notebook. ‘Two years?’

  She saw the flash in his eyes and hoarded the fact, squirrelling it away like a secret treasure.

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘What about my father?’ He was looking guarded now, apparently surprised at the question.

  Finally. ‘He married my mother, didn’t he, stupid bastard?’

  ‘Do you hear from him?’

  His response was a sneering, ‘No.’

  ‘Was there anyone you were close to as a child?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘I really can’t remember. What’s that got to do with the purpose of your visit anyway? What’ll that tell you?’

  Claire affected a nonchalant tone. ‘Well, you never know where something will lead, do you?’

  Kobi sat back, watched her and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Softly at first, but she knew he would gradually increase the noise and tempo. Just to annoy her.

  She smiled at him and picked up her bag. This provoked Kobi into blurting out, ‘I didn’t kill her, you know. It wasn’t me. That’s why it’s different.’

  She took a moment to study his face then nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well, we’ll leave it at that for today, shall we?’

  As she gestured to the warder and watched Kobi being led away, she knew this would be a battle. He reached the door and turned around, gave her a challenging stare, a slightly disapproving shake of his head, and then he was gone.

  ELEVEN

  Friday 20 September, 8.20 a.m.

  As she drove into Greatbach the next morning her mind was still sifting through the interview. While displaying little concern at most of her questions she had definitely found some weak points. The anger which he felt towards the girl who had made the original complaint against him had spread to encompass many of her contemporaries. And while there had not been a flicker of emotion when she had mentioned his ex-wife or her sister he had definitely shied away from reference to his current wife. As interesting as the question why had she married him was the follow on: why on earth had he married her? Had she appealed to his narcissism? Apart from these two chinks he was just as she had anticipated.

  But if he wasn’t guilty and Marvel was dead, someone else must have killed her. And Zed Willard was right. The chance of there being a second killer of a schoolgirl in this area and in that particular time frame was remote. Maybe she needed to look at this from another perspective. Rather than focus her attention on Kobi perhaps it would be a good idea to turn the spotlight on the victim. She had been a teenager. Fourteen. Was it possible she had absconded? Had the quarrelsome family Tom had inadvertently described persuaded her to leave? Could she still be alive? Could this be why her body had never been found? Or was it because Kobi wanted to keep them all guessing? Until they found a body they couldn’t be certain of the girl’s fate.

  The questions would continue to frustrate her. As she turned into the car park her thoughts turned back to another subject that vexed her: Grant, always hovering on the edge of her mind. She’d already sensed his mother’s rivalry and dislike of her – at a chance encounter at a restaurant and then at his sister’s funeral – which was understandable. And his mother would win, replacing his sister in that she would become increasingly needy, demanding his presence and attention, perhaps laying down conditions, because buried deep in Grant’s character was a sense of guilt and inadequacy, as though Maisie’s illness been his fault rather than a result of his mother and father’s genetic code. Maisie had been cursed while he had not. He would always be burdened with the feeling that he had not done enough for his family. And this guilt was so much part of him, buried so deep in his character that she could never release him from that curse which had been implanted when his father had walked out on his wife, son and very sick daughter, mirroring the exit of her own father. Perhaps this was why they had such a strong bond. A shared experience. She parked the car, climbed out into a bright, damp day, locked up and crossed the courtyard. What to do next? How does one fight a personality who feels such a heavy burden of guilt? She blew her cheeks out in frustration and entered the code to open the door. Some problems had no easy answers. Just like her patients and colleagues, who were waiting.

  Ilsa Robinson being just one of them. She thought carefully about this outwardly beautiful, troubled woman and wondered why she did not feel more sympathy for her plight. Ilsa was now claiming that her incapacitating anxiety and depression were a result of having a controlling, manipulative husband. Claire had met him on more than one occasion and had caught no hint of that. But it is hard for an outsider to make a judgement on a marriage and John Robinson could be smart enough to conceal any hint of pathological behaviour. Ilsa was also now claiming that her husband was having an affair with her best friend, Maggie, and wanted rid of her. She also claimed that he was trying to alienate her from her eight-year-old son.

  Claire walked slowly along the corridor, trying to put her thoughts in order and work out where the truth lay. John Robinson, notwithstanding his wealth, had struck her as stolid, unimaginative and anything but a lothario.

  For now, she shelved that particular problem and returned to the one that was taking up permanent residence at the back of her mind. Kobi.

  In her office, hoping to see light through the fug, she closed the door firmly – most staff could interpret this wish to be alone – sat at her desk and flipped over the two photographs of Marvel Trustrom before placing them alongside the eight pictures of the other four girls. As with the others there were two photographs, one of Marvel in her school uniform and the other taken from Marvel’s social media, her supposedly glamorous image. And immediately she could see what was wrong. Whereas the other girls all had dual personalities, innocent schoolgirl and siren, the school picture showed a plain, pudding face staring out at her and the social media picture was not much different. No make-up could disguise Marvel’s plainness. Unlike the other girls, Marvel had no talent with make-up. And rather than look confident, her expression was pleading. Even in two photographs the difference between Marvel and the other four girls was marked. She fumbled in the file and brought out two more pictures which Zed Willard had held together with a paper clip, a note pinned to them.

  The family gave us these pictures taken a month or so before Marvel vanished. We didn’t release them to the press.

  Claire smiled. In these pictures someone had cut and blow-dried Marvel’s one claim to
beauty. Thick, red-gold hair to her shoulders. It was not quite enough to make her beautiful, but it was, at least, something.

  She placed all the pictures side by side. And the longer she stared at them the more her flesh began to crawl with a hundred centipede feet, the instinct that this was not Kobi’s work. The feeling spread from the tingling in her toes to an awareness of every single hair on her scalp.

  Wrong.

  Kobi had given her some sort of distorted explanation for his crimes. He felt mocked by these sexually precocious, attractive, budding young women. Staring down at the plump face that appeared from the photograph, Claire knew Marvel would not have provoked this feeling, the very reason behind Kobi’s murders. And the more she stared at the five different faces, the more Marvel stood out as different.

  The police would have wanted Kobi to be guilty of this crime and he would have enjoyed stringing them along either with vague hints or at least avoiding denial. But what was the real story?

  Questions bubbled up in her mind, one after the other.

  Was that the real reason why her father was so anxious to learn his daughter’s fate, because he too sensed that the truth had not been unearthed? She thought back to her meeting with Tom. Was there an element of guilt there? She studied the photographs again, trying to divine some clue. There was an appeal in the girl who stared out. Was it an appeal to be liked? To be loved? By her family? Tom had described feeling cooped up in the house. The girls had been quarrelling. So how had the rest of Marvel’s family, her mother, sisters, brother felt about that last day? So far she’d had no access to them and Dixie Trustrom did not appear to share her ex-husband’s ambition to discover her daughter’s fate. The questions kept coming. Why not? And what about the rest of her family? Did they not want to learn her fate? Again: if not why not? Was it really because they were all trying to ‘put it behind them’ and ‘move on with their lives’? Or was there another reason? Were they afraid to speak to her because they worried that when she lifted stones she might find something unpleasant underneath? Did they have something to hide? Claire felt her mouth twist. Everyone has something they want to hide. As with Kobi, Claire had no right of access to Marvel’s parents, brother or sisters. She couldn’t force them to cooperate. But she knew this case would gnaw at her, because now she’d got involved she wanted to know the truth just as much as Tom Trustrom or DS Zed Willard.

  Unfortunately her instinct was that this case might well prove unsatisfying. Even if the answer did lie with Kobi, he was perfectly capable of holding out and she had no other leads. Like a bluebottle in the bedroom thoughts buzzed around, distracting her, until, in desperation, she picked up the phone and rang DS Willard.

  But he didn’t pick up and she didn’t bother leaving a message. She wasn’t sure what message she’d have left anyway.

  Psychiatric units are busy places, unquiet, bustling with both staff and patients, and Greatbach was no exception. The staff, in general, battle on with obstacles, some thrown at them by the government who aren’t slow at snatching an opportunity. One of the latest directives the psychiatric services had received was to reduce the number of suicides. Claire had read the manifesto, all 140 pages of it, and her response had been how? Did the government not believe they were doing all they possibly could to prevent this tragedy? All the same a meeting was scheduled for later this morning and she was expected to attend. As she pushed open the door to the conference room she could feel resentment bubbling up.

  Every year people of all ages decide they would prefer to die than to live and that is an unshakeable fact. What can a government manifesto do to alter this? Particularly when mental health services were the paupers of the NHS. Some interventions could help, but for others the depression was too deeply embedded. Many of these tragic cases had never consulted a doctor but had concealed their morbid wish from even their nearest and dearest. How many times had Claire heard the refrain from bereaved families: I didn’t realize … Some ‘suicides’ were unhappy accidents. Unintentional, the traditional ‘cry for help’.

  The meeting dragged on with a few objectives set but Claire felt weighted down with pessimism that any one of them would prevent even one determined suicide bid.

  Meetings. The day was filled with them.

  Five p.m. was the time they had set for the multi-disciplinary case conference on Ilsa Robinson to review her approaching discharge. As she surveyed the people around the table, Claire wondered if any of them shared her doubts about this case. Salena met her eyes and grinned, her dark eyes sparkling as she touched her hijab and pulled it across her mouth. Simon didn’t look too happy and yet his wife should be with him soon. Next to him was Edward Reakin, their clinical psychologist. Edward was a tall, prematurely stooped man in his mid-forties with a balding pate. He had had his own demon to deal with when his wife had blatantly flaunted an affair. Edward had never got over it and had confided in Claire that he would never trust a woman again – except her. After the Grant Steadman business she had not even tried to dissuade him. He smiled at her across the table, that sad, slightly hesitant smile as though he did not expect it to be returned. He did not realize how much he was valued. As a psychologist he often shed new light on their cases. Whereas a psychiatrist focuses on the sick mind, Edward’s priority was behavioural. He watched and listened. Salena and Simon were already sitting down as Claire poured herself a beaker of water and settled into her seat.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Shall we look into Ilsa’s problems? Edward?’

  He sat back in his chair, relaxed and thoughtful. ‘I don’t see that any of our cognitive behavioural therapy has helped.’ He hesitated, looking round the room, and she caught that frisson of doubt. ‘It seems as though’ – he looked around apologetically – ‘she is resistant to our therapies so there’s not a lot of point in keeping her here. We have to stick to the criteria, Claire. She’s passed the acute stage of her episode. Her medication’s kicked in. At the moment she doesn’t appear be a danger to herself or to the wider public.’

  It was interesting, his use of that word, resistant.

  ‘It’s her husband who isn’t helping,’ Simon said quietly. ‘Every time he visits she deteriorates but at some point we are going to have to let her go. I mean, where else can she go but home?’

  Claire felt herself tense up.

  Salena shrugged. ‘I can’t see Mr Robinson putting in any real effort to make things better. He tries but he seems almost … afraid of her. I’ve interviewed him on four occasions. His suggestion is that she returns to the clinic in Birmingham for a month or so before going home.’

  Inwardly Claire sighed. Ilsa’s case was proving unsatisfactory, the end result sliding away from them like an eel in a river. ‘I’ll speak to him,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask Rita to make an appointment.’

  Edward spoke up next. ‘She’s worse than she was. When I went in earlier she was squatting down in the corner. It looked as though she was terrified.’ Again, Claire wondered why the emphasis was on that word and why his grey eyes looked troubled.

  ‘Is she psychotic?’Claire looked around the table at her colleagues for an answer but they all shook their heads before she answered for them. ‘I’ve had no evidence she is.’ She followed that up with: ‘Have you found her delusional, Edward? Paranoid?’

  ‘Possibly all those,’ Edward said quietly. ‘But possibly not. She’s not fitting into any of our neat little boxes – unless she’s very manipulative and pulling the wool over all our eyes.’

  She couldn’t help smiling with the rest of them. ‘Well, that was unhelpful.’

  Salena offered an explanation – of sorts. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she doesn’t really want to go home. Maybe she’s frightened to go home.’

  They all digested her suggestion, their faces dubious.

  ‘Last time I spoke to her,’ Edward said, ‘she begged me not to send her home. She said she was frightened what might happen.’

  Both Simon and Salena nodded. ‘We go
t the impression that she wants to go home but for some reason she’s apprehensive.’

  ‘Apprehensive?’ Claire echoed. ‘Why?’

  Edward Reakin frowned. ‘Her husband? Some inner demon?’

  She smiled. ‘Are we descending into spook talk? Or do we think that John Robinson is an abusive husband?’

  ‘I’ve asked her that,’ Salena said. ‘She says he’s controlling.’

  ‘To what extent?’

  Salena shook her head. ‘That was the point at which she chose not to answer.’

  They were all thoughtful. They were perfectly aware that psychiatric illness could appear supernatural, that anxiety and depression could translate into psychosis, which in turn could make it seem as though a person was inhabited by a demon. We are most afraid of something we can neither see nor understand. And mental illness is, most of the time, invisible.

  Afterwards they might analyse their light comments, sift through all that had been said, but at that time their way forward appeared unclear.

  They discussed a few more patients but none was as concerning or as puzzling as Ilsa, who remained in Claire’s mind. When the meeting had broken up Edward stayed behind. ‘So how are you getting on with your tame murdering psychopath?’

  She gave a long sigh. ‘It’s going to be a long haul, if I get anything out of him at all. He’s not going to play ball. He’ll mess me around until he’s bored with the game.’

  ‘You mean he’s denying the fifth murder?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘he is. To get anything out of him is going to take time.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Time the girl’s father might not have.’

  ‘I could really do with speaking to the other members of Marvel’s family to study the family dynamics.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, almost laughing. ‘I just feel if I get to understand this girl I might be able to use it for or against Jonah Kobi.’