A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’

  The truth was she’d already guessed it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday 7 October, 7.45 a.m.

  The morning drive brought a call on her car phone from DS Zed Willard trying to sound friendly, but actually she could tell he was chivvying her along. ‘Uh, just wondering how things were going with Kobi?’

  ‘I haven’t arranged to see him again,’ she said, compelled to add, ‘I’m getting nowhere with him, Zed. It’s a waste of time. He’s told me absolutely nothing and his wife insists he didn’t have anything to do with Marvel’s disappearance.’

  ‘And she’d know,’ he jeered.

  ‘If anyone does,’ she countered.

  He still persisted. ‘You couldn’t appeal to his conscience?’

  Had the situation not had at its heart a tragedy Claire might just have squeezed out a laugh. ‘Zed,’ she said, as gently as when she taught fourth-year medical students. ‘Psychopaths and sociopaths don’t have the full gamut of emotions. They experience anger but not fear, impatience and irritation but not the capacity for restraint. They certainly can’t experience guilt or sympathy or empathy. Unhappiness translates straight to anger. Fear makes them lash out. I can’t tap into Kobi’s conscience because he doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Oh.’ It came out as a frustrated sound. ‘So what can you appeal to?’

  ‘His vanity, his wanting to play along, to keep me interested enough to continue to visit him, a wish for entertainment.’

  ‘You can do this?’

  ‘I have to let him stew, but Zed, I’m not convinced it’ll lead to any solid facts about the disappearance of Marvel. He’s quite capable of making things up just to make sure I carry on visiting him.’

  ‘But he did it?’ Willard’s voice was just that little bit too eager.

  ‘I don’t know. If I have anything concrete to tell you I’ll be in touch. OK?’ She was as anxious to end the conversation as DS Willard was to prolong it. ‘I’m doing what I can behind the scenes, I promise. But for now I have nothing to add, nothing to help you.’

  ‘Maybe something’ll turn up,’ he said grumpily.

  ‘Maybe. And Zed, send me that list of the schools Kobi worked at when he was supply teaching.’

  ‘I’ll get around to it,’ he said, still not engaging. ‘But it goes on for ever. We’re talking six years here.’

  ‘It’ll be through an agency,’ she said. ‘They’ll have a record.’

  Driving into Greatbach, Claire’s mind moved back to her patients. Ilsa had been transferred on Friday to the clinic in Birmingham. Maybe she should simply wash her hands of the whole affair. But at least she understood now why John had been adamant he didn’t want his wife home. It seemed he was employing Grant to transform his home and, hopefully, through that, his marriage? There was a sort of twisted logic in all this. Well, good luck to the man though she doubted a home refurbishment would solve all of Ilsa and John Robinson’s problems.

  She was hardly distracted as she battled her way through a clinic of outpatients, all with their own troubling problems. Depression, anxiety, two ex-policemen, witnesses to a particularly gruesome crime, who now suffered from PTSD. At the end she dictated her letters while eating a sandwich and drinking strong coffee. Then she climbed up to the top floor to check on her inpatients.

  Three hours later she returned to her office and a note from Rita on her desk saying that Mr Jonah Kobi wanted to see her again. At the bottom she’d added a further note. He sounds desperate and says please do come!

  Maybe this time, she thought, he might give her something concrete about the case. She looked at her watch. It was four o’clock. Most of her work was finished. She could afford to visit him and then, maybe, take her bike out along the towpath. The afternoon was golden and the temperature as she left Greatbach unseasonably warm. It was her favourite time of year when all the colours on the trees seemed to brighten before they faded and the leaves fell.

  Kobi was already sitting down when she entered the visitors’ room. And he was looking thoughtful, almost pensive. Probably working out how to justify this summons. His eyes flickered as he thanked her for coming. Was she imagining it, was there a note of humility in his voice? Or was he acting? She sat down and placed her notebook in front of her, leaned back in the chair and regarded him steadily.

  ‘What did you want to see me about? You’d better not be messing me around.’ She’d meant to sound firm but not quite so snappy, and he looked surprised, jerked out of his complacency. He didn’t answer straight away but licked his lips, wondering whether to speak.

  ‘Kobi?’

  Much of his arrogance had melted away. He looked genuinely troubled. ‘I don’t know how to convince you,’ he said. ‘But you’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Convince me of what?’

  He met her eyes then. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said. And then with urgency, he continued, ‘It has none of the hallmarks of my work. Claire, surely you can see that? Why should I take the rap for someone else’s crime?’

  He was sounding convincing. She needed to test him with an idea she had.

  ‘OK,’ she said finally, ‘let’s talk about the years after you’d left the school at Macclesfield.’

  Kobi looked puzzled. He couldn’t work out why she was taking this route instead of pressing him. And, unable to see where this was heading, he was also wary, his eyes flicking around the small, empty room.

  Nothing to see there, Kobi.

  ‘If, as you say, you are innocent of the abduction of Marvel Trustrom, there was more than a two-year gap between the murder of Jodie Truss, and Teresa Palmer.’

  ‘I told you. I did some travelling.’

  ‘But you returned to work.’ She spoke with assurance, as though she knew this for certain. Damn Willard. Get me that list.

  ‘I did some supply work.’ This was dragged out with reluctance.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Around the place.’

  This was a new sensation – Kobi on the hop.

  She’d touched on something he hadn’t wanted to share.

  ‘Can you give me a list?’

  He shook his head, frowning. ‘I can’t remember everywhere. Schools around the Potteries – mainly.’ He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  Oh, Mr Kobi, she thought. I’m treading on your corns, aren’t I?

  ‘OK.’ She stood up as though to go. ‘I can easily find out.’

  ‘You haven’t even asked me why I wanted to see you – what I had to tell you.’

  ‘OK. Go on.’

  ‘You spoke to Jess.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The silence between them extended. Kobi licked his lips.

  ‘You’re worried she might have told me something?’

  He gave a quick jerk of his head.

  ‘I did find her interesting to talk to. And, of course, Miranda too.’

  And then he burst out. ‘Couldn’t stand the posh little madams,’ he said. ‘Fucking cunts the lot of them.’

  She didn’t enter the discussion but continued smoothly, ‘But when you were found innocent of misconduct you didn’t leave the Macclesfield school straight away. You stayed on for another year. Why?’

  ‘That’s obvious. If I’d gone straight away the allegation would have followed me. I’d never have got another job however desperate they were for a history teacher.’

  ‘You must have resented the “posh little madams” even more.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Finally leaving in 2010.’

  His eyes flickered. He was wondering where all this was leading.

  ‘So you were supply teaching at the time when Marvel went missing.’

  ‘You’re not listening.’ He banged the table. ‘I said I was travelling.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Why do you keep coming back to that?’

  ‘Because that’s my remit. The only reason I’m here at all.’

  He sc
ooped in a long breath and sat back, looking drained.

  She watched him and wondered. What was going on inside that twisted little brain of his?

  She carried on, noting that this was still an area he didn’t want her to explore. ‘Wouldn’t you like it to be known that you’d hoodwinked the police for all these years?’

  He was smiling now, back on track, sure enough of his ground to mock her. ‘You’re trying to appeal to my vanity. Oh, Claire. You’ll have to be more subtle than that.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’ She flapped her hand. ‘Look, Kobi, I have more than enough work to do. If you can’t help me find out what happened to this poor girl then I’m wasting my time again, aren’t I?’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘I did ask you here for a reason.’

  She waited.

  He leaned forward, speaking earnestly. ‘I know these girls, Dr Roget.’ He’d reverted to rolling his ‘r’s’ and rubbing in her French connection. He must have noted how it made her wince and was using it as a barb. She swallowed while he continued, speaking earnestly. ‘I understand the way their mind works. The tricks they play. The lies they tell, the way they give you the come on just before the fuck off.’

  ‘So you did know Marvel?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to catch me like that, Madame Roget. But think of it this way.’ There was an urgency in his voice accompanied by a frown and rapid blinking as the words spilled out of him. ‘I’m actually sick of all this speculation that I murdered this fucking girl. I never met her so I didn’t even know her. But she’s not like those other girls. You’re looking in the wrong place. And think of it this way. Because I know I’m innocent I’ve got the sense to look elsewhere. That’s why I tell you, search in her family. They’re hiding something. I know this because I’ve been a killer myself. I’ve squeezed the life out of these little hussies. I know how someone feels when they plot and plan and know what they’ve done, just waiting for the headlines to hit, the panic to spread like a moorland fire.’ His eyes were shining, his lips wet. ‘Take my advice. Look into Marvel Trustrom’s family. If you won’t listen to me there’s no point your coming here at all. It’s all wasted time. You wanted a lead. I’m giving you one. Handing it to you on a plate. I know these things. I am a killer. I know how killers work.’

  She was silent, absorbing his words and the passion that lay behind them. How did he know Marvel’s family were hiding something? Yet this felt real and genuine. But it was weird, as though she and Kobi were working on the same side.

  She waited but there was no more. He had said all he was going to say. She picked up her bag and gave him a last opportunity, doubts creeping through her mind like a virus, as she watched his shoulders tense. At least she could interpret this one. He didn’t want her to go. Not yet. She was providing him with sport, entertainment. Drinking up the barren hours.

  He waited until her hand was on the door handle. ‘There is something else,’ he said quietly. ‘Something I can prove. Something tangible.’

  She turned, the challenge in her eyes. ‘Look at any of the articles about Marvel,’ he urged. ‘Then read between the lines. That family,’ he said, ‘was dysfunctional. I know they’re hiding something.’

  ‘Where did you get this from?’

  ‘I read,’ he said, ‘between the lines. Look at the parents, the brother, the sisters.’ And then, disconcertingly, he giggled. ‘You have to admit it,’ he said, ‘you’re intrigued. I have you on a string.’

  She turned and faced him. ‘Can you give me any hard evidence that you had nothing to do with Marvel’s disappearance?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, like where you were that rainy November day when Marvel went missing?’

  ‘I just told you. I can’t actually remember. I was probably travelling. It’s a long time ago,’ He waited. ‘The police will have asked me. It’ll be in my statement.’

  ‘Stop handing out vague hints. If you have something then tell me. Otherwise …’

  ‘OK,’ he said, holding his hand up. ‘OK. I’m a teacher. I know these girls. I can read them like the veins on the back of my hand. I never met Marvel. I’ve only read about her but because I knew this would be pinned on me I read everything I could about her. And because I kill girls …’ He said this as casually as if he had confessed he smoked the odd cigarette or drank a glass or two of wine a day. ‘Because I kill girls – of a certain type – I could see into the crime and the person who perpetrated it. It’s a family crime.’ His eyes were bold. ‘It’s not me. It’s not a crime of hatred. You should know that. I discarded those girls’ bodies because I wanted them and their peer group to be afraid.’

  Watching his face, Claire felt this was the truth. But if it wasn’t him then it was someone else. Kobi could be right it could be someone in the family. She stared at him for a little while, wishing she could divine whether he was lying cleverly or telling the truth, actually trying to help her. But her training had warned her. The character of someone with a severe personality disorder is set for life as is an optimistic nature or pessimism. People do not change. They simply grow older. And in the wake of that their crimes diminish because they grow lazy.

  ‘What have you got to lose,’ he urged softly, creeping under her skin with his words, ‘by talking to them? With your skills you should be able to suss out lies from the truth and work out what really happened to the poor, little, fat girl.’

  Perhaps it was the phrase or possibly it was his tone but something alerted Claire. She looked hard at him but read nothing except a pasted-on, bland, almost innocent expression.

  Kobi continued smiling, his head on one side as he watched her. How she wanted to displace that smile. Claw it away from his face. As it was, she used the only weapon she had. ‘I thought your wife was rather interesting,’ she dropped in casually.

  Apart from a miniscule shrinking of his pupils, Kobi did not react.

  ‘I often wonder,’ she mused, ‘just what it is that persuades a woman to marry a man she has no hope of having any sort of normal relationship with.’ She waited for the words to take effect, for the anger to catch fire. For him to defend his virility.

  But Kobi simply smiled. ‘It’s an interesting point to ponder,’ he said steadily. ‘I daresay you could write a thesis on it.’

  How could he possibly know that?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  She left the prison with conflicting emotions, questions buzzing around in her head – just as Kobi had wanted. But she had to admit it: Kobi pointing the finger at Marvel’s family opened up new possibilities. Ones she hadn’t even considered; neither had the police.

  He could still be playing with her but the fact that she’d spent some time with Jessica had rattled him. She sighed. Who knew with Kobi? She sat in the car, the prison walls looming in front of her until, frowning, she rang DS Willard, already anticipating his response.

  At first, he was evasive when she asked her question. Had they considered any possibility other than Marvel’s disappearance being down to Kobi? Had they investigated the family? Fully?

  He almost exploded. ‘Honestly?’ She heard the ring of defence and waited.

  ‘No. We linked it straight away to the other two schoolgirl deaths.’

  She hung up on Willard.

  The trouble was, apart from Tom, she had no access to the girl’s family; Marvel’s mother had already displayed her reluctance to get involved.

  Cancelling her bike ride, she returned to Greatbach.

  Back in her office she opened the file and dragged her finger down the names, reading her own scanty notes.

  Mother: Dixie, moving on with her new life, anxious to put it all behind her. Sisters: Sorrel and Clarice, kids when their sister had gone missing. Both in their late teens now. Brother: Shane, married and with a small baby.

  Take six years away from them and Shane would have been eighteen, Sorrel twelve, Clarice eleven. A young family who had lost their oldest sister. And that was the correct word.
Lost. Marvel was lost.

  So where should she start? Try sticking a pin in, she thought sourly, wishing she’d never been dragged into this unholy mess. What had started out as a help to a dying man was somehow turning into a police investigation.

  Claire recalled Dixie’s words with their hint of something. Special … little … girl. What had she meant by that phrase? That Tom had loved Marvel more than the two younger girls? Strangely enough, recalling the tone of Dixie’s voice Claire didn’t think so. Resentment? Irony? Claire wasn’t sure. Had she sat across from Marvel’s mother she could have read her body language, observed each twitch of her facial muscles. But a phone conversation left her with no clues. In that way, she reflected, the phone is a blunt instrument without the accompanying body language and facial expression. The thought was persistent. Was it only because Tom was dying that he wanted this ‘closure’? Or was it something to do with the exposure of the real truth? So what about Dixie? There had been a hint of bitterness when she had spoken about her daughter’s uncertain fate in relation to the other families’ tragedies. And … was she imagining it … was her recall playing tricks? Had Dixie sounded almost apprehensive that her daughter would be found? How could that be – unless someone in the family was involved? And not Kobi at all?

  The obvious answer was to try her again. Speak to her. See her. Watch her.

  She fingered her phone.

  Dixie Trustrom listened without comment while Claire explained that her daughter’s fate was still uncertain and that Kobi was refusing to cooperate. And then in a tight voice Marvel’s mother responded. Calmer this time. Perhaps having been taken by surprise before now she had had time to prepare herself. ‘My daughter is dead. I believe Jonah Kobi killed her and the fact that he’s never confessed nor told us where her body lies is some sort of malicious, twisted game with him.’

  ‘I realize that, but while we have no proof I am keeping an open mind. I’m hoping,’ Claire added, ‘that something will give him away. Some small detail, perhaps.’ She waited.

  Dixie’s voice rose. ‘I must say I didn’t think you’d wring a confession out of him whatever your qualifications. We appealed to him while the court case was going on. We attended court every day. We sent endless messages. We were desperate to find her.’