‘OK. OK. I’m on my way. Just text me the address and postcode. Anyone there already? Good.’
He put his head round the door. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to go. It looks like there’s been an incident.’ He tried to smile. ‘Looks nasty,’ he said. Then repeated, ‘Sorry. I have to go.’
She managed a smile better than he had.
THIRTY-FOUR
When he’d gone, scuttling out of the room, as though the ‘incident’ depended on him getting there in seconds, she was left with the phrase Marvel’s mother had used to the police when describing her daughter. The Ugly Duckling. A familiar moniker. Used affectionately? Willard had spoken to Marvel’s mother and had wondered. So what had the sisters thought of her? Clarice and Sorrel had been eleven and twelve when their sister had gone missing and although DS Willard had claimed they had been upset at her disappearance, they too had described their sister as the odd one out. Dysfunctional was the word Willard had used when describing Marvel’s family. But he had kept this back from her. Why? If Kobi had murdered the girl what relevance could her family dynamics possibly have on her disappearance? Absorbed in the subject, she cleared her desk and put Marvel’s picture back, at its side the list of family members.
Her mother, Dixie, getting on with her life, trying to erase the fact that once she had had three daughters. Not just two.
Marvel’s father, Tom, the only one apparently anxious for the truth to come out. Presumably Yvonne, his new partner, wasn’t particularly interested in his former life except where it impacted on their current happiness.
Shane, her brother, eighteen at the time of his sister’s presumed murder. Not distracted by the marital disharmony he would possibly have had more insight into his sister than her parents. Teenagers who plug their ears with music are often blocking out something else, usually something unpleasant. She needed to speak to him to claw at the truth. But it was the same old problem. She had no powers to force him to attend an interview and she anticipated he would be reluctant. But she had to try. He might be able to help.
And then she thought about Kobi. The more she learned about Marvel Trustrom the less convinced she was that he had had anything to do with her disappearance. Maybe that was why Tom was so insistent on learning the truth. Maybe he wanted to exonerate his own family.
So whom did he suspect? His wife? His son? Surely not his daughters?
Feeling chilled, Claire shook her head. Surely not?
Sorrel and Clarice might hold some information, but the probability was that they were simply younger sisters, wrapped up in their own lives. They were nearer each other in age, Marvel the odd one out. But they might have seen something, heard something. Claire put her chin in her hand, half closed her eyes and thought. Kobi was too intelligent to fall into any trap. If he had murdered Marvel, he would only tell her if he had some reason for wanting to. Something to gain. And her gut feeling? DS Willard had painted a vivid picture of family life back then. It was an ugly picture, but it had thrown up another possibility. Maybe Marvel hadn’t been murdered by either Jonah Kobi or anyone else. Maybe she’d simply run away from an unhappy family.
A phone ringing somewhere down the corridor reminded her. She had a job to do, wards full of patients, fully booked clinics and urgent referrals arriving daily. She left her office and headed for the wards. The next three hours were spent reviewing treatments, interviewing patients and checking drugs charts.
It was nearly six when she returned to her office.
She’d left her bag in the locked bottom drawer of her locked office. As she drew it out she saw her mobile phone was flashing. Six missed calls – all from Grant. Worried and with a feeling of misgiving, she connected. ‘Grant? What is it?’
‘Mayhem,’ he said. ‘When I got back to Robinson’s place there was a scene like something out of a horror movie. Blood everywhere. Police. The wife came home, burst into the house and attacked her husband and friend Maggie with a knife.’ He still sounded shocked.
Not as shocked as she. It was as though all her fears had suddenly found a form.
‘Are they seriously hurt?’
‘I suspect Maggie more than John. They were taken away under a blue light. There’s blood everywhere. And the police, of course. Including your friend, the DS.’
So that had been the urgent call he had taken.
‘Where’s Ilsa?’
‘They took her away. Shit, Claire, she was in a right state. Like a mad thing.’ He remembered whom he was talking to and said, ‘Sorry. They said she was a patient of yours?’
‘Do you know which station they’ve taken her to?’
‘No. And now I don’t know what to do. Truth is,’ he said, and she could hear the wobble in his voice, ‘I feel a bit shaky. Will they blame you? How the hell do you deal with stuff like this all the time?’
‘It’s a rare occurrence. And yes. They will blame me.’
‘I feel awful.’
And she sensed the subtext. ‘Is this a request to come home?’ Too late she realized she’d just used the “h” word.
‘You just read my mind.’
‘I’ll see you later. But I don’t know when.’
So was this how their relationship was to be resolved? Nothing more dramatic than a casual invitation and, almost imperceptibly, Grant would sidle back into her life?
Even now she could not be sure. Should she just allow their relationship to drift back into the groove?
Reluctantly she tried Zed Willard’s phone and got him on the fourth try. Understandably he sounded stressed when she finally connected. And thankfully he didn’t ask how she seemed to know about the drama at the Robinson’s house.
‘Ilsa Robinson is one of my patients,’ she said. ‘Or at least she was until a week ago when I discharged her.’ This provoked a long silence before he let rip.
‘And you didn’t realize she was a danger to her husband?’ He was snappy with her. Patently angry.
She saw where this was coming from. He’d seen the crime scene. ‘She was transferred from here to a private clinic in Birmingham.’ She was aware how weak this would sound. ‘I judged her not a danger to anyone.’
Zed Willard’s response leaked anger. ‘Well, she’s just stabbed her husband and a woman who was in the house at the time so it kind of depends on your definition of a danger. Her husband has minor injuries, but Maggie Levand was in a bad way by the time she got into the ambulance.’
Claire could only repeat lamely, ‘She wasn’t considered a danger.’
‘It’s fucking obvious she was.’ Any friendship between them was fast melting away.
‘Where is she now?’
‘Hanley,’ he said.
‘Prison is not the right place for her. I want to admit her back here as soon as possible. On the locked ward,’ she added as a sop.
‘I guess that’s your prerogative.’ And he ended the call.
But however logical the process of readmitting Ilsa to Greatbach it would take some time. Two doctors had to sign the form to place Ilsa under a section of the Mental Health Act. Then she could be transferred back to Greatbach. And then what? Ilsa’s future was even more uncertain now.
She picked up her car keys and let Rita know she was heading for Hanley police station. It would be hours before she was home. She only hoped Grant would hit it off with Simon Bracknell and his wife if they’d returned from their travels.
Her problems were compounding. And she was still no nearer learning anything about Marvel’s disappearance. It was still all guesswork.
THIRTY-FIVE
It was after nine that evening when she arrived back at Waterloo Road. She had spent some time waiting at the station for the second psychiatrist who had quickly agreed with her that Ilsa should be readmitted to Greatbach Secure Unit. When she and the other psychiatrist had spoken to her in the cell, she had initially appeared shocked and almost unaware of what she had done. But this could be a front. A way of wriggling out of a conviction fo
r GBH and a prison sentence. A desperate plea for ‘while the balance of her mind was disturbed’. Within minutes of Claire’s arrival Ilsa’s manner had changed. She appeared composed. And Claire decided she knew exactly what she’d done. In fact, as she watched Ilsa’s facial expressions, she wondered whether Ilsa had planned this all along. Her assumed innocence and now bland manner seemed to almost deny that the incident had even happened. There was no need to sedate her. Ilsa was perfectly calm. And so she would be interviewed in the morning. In the meantime, she would be transferred to a locked, single room, staff advised to watch over her carefully. And in the morning Claire would begin her assessment. As she left Greatbach Claire wondered. Was this an acute paranoiac episode or the result of an orchestrated setup? As she reached her car she stopped and wondered. In her way, was Ilsa as much of a psychopath as Jonah Kobi? Perhaps even more devious?
She recalled the words and tone Ilsa had used. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt them. I was just upset and … ’
By the time she’d reached home Claire was mentally exhausted with exploring the seemingly endless possibilities. She finally unlocked her own front door and heard voices in the sitting room.
Bemused, she stood in the doorway. The three of them were sitting there like old pals. Grant spotted her first and grinned. ‘Just getting to know your colleague,’ he said, ‘and Marianne.’ They all looked as though they’d had a fine time of it. A half empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table and Grant had kicked his shoes off and was just rising from a prone position on the sofa. He met her eyes and perhaps read her warning.
This is my house.
And right now all she wanted was a shower, to put a dressing gown on and flop in front of whatever shit was on the TV.
She turned and left the room and heard the silence behind her.
She’d broken up the party.
She did feel better after a shower and lay on her bed in the towelling dressing gown. She didn’t want to go downstairs and make small talk.
She’d almost dropped off to sleep, still lying on top of her bed when she sensed Grant standing over her. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget how hard your job is.’
She looked up at him. ‘Well, you’ve had a shit day as well.’
‘Yeah …’ He dropped down beside her. ‘It was a shock. And I was glad to have some company. But at least I can’t be held responsible.’ He caught her look and added hastily, ‘Not that you are, of course.’ Doubt crept into his voice when he added, ‘Not really.’
‘Thanks for the vote of no confidence.’ But it was hard to stay cross with Grant, particularly when he nestled beside her, his stubble scratching her face. Grant always looked a rogue. She called him her pirate. But now he looked more like a recalcitrant Just William Brown. Ruffled dark hair, gleaming eyes, a swarthy complexion, almost Mediterranean and a muscular build which she felt as he put his arms around her and pulled her on to his chest, kissing her hair and murmuring something. If not sweet nothings something very similar and just as effective. She closed her eyes, beginning to block out the day’s dramas and smiled as she pictured him with an eye patch and bandana waving a cutlass.
Unfortunately Grant hadn’t quite finished with the subject. ‘When you rang and said you wanted John to ring you, I sort of sensed something was wrong. But …’ He drew his fingers through her hair. ‘I didn’t imagine anything like that.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ she said softly. ‘Neither did I.’
‘Hey. It isn’t your fault, Claire. It can’t be.’
‘Whatever,’ she responded, ‘I will be blamed.’
She closed her eyes. If anyone could wipe away the dramas of the day and the fear of what tomorrow could bring, Grant Steadman could. And his body next to hers through the night would make her feel safe, secure and loved. His arms tightened around her and then he moved away to look at her.
‘You do,’ he said, grinning, ‘look absolutely knackered.’
It was the last thing she remembered hearing before falling asleep.
Friday 11 October, 8.45 a.m.
The morning brought reality.
The assessment of Ilsa’s mental condition would not be just down to her. It would be a multi-disciplinary decision made by herself and another psychiatrist less involved than she had been, as well as Edward, the clinical psychologist, the nursing staff and other professionals who had had contact with Ilsa Robinson. Claire could already anticipate the result. Balance of mind unsound. Temporary insanity. Ilsa would get her way.
She spent more than an hour with her patient but at the end of it could not have put her hand on her heart and been certain that Ilsa was not deliberately vengeful but suffering from an extended delusion that her husband and her best friend were having an affair. Either was perfectly possible. But even if it was true and Ilsa had been perceptive rather than deluded, it still wouldn’t justify the knife attack. None of the clues were there: the knife had been to hand, in the kitchen. And either cleverly or otherwise Ilsa had seen the changes her husband was making to her home as another effort to exclude her. Claire left the room with the same feeling of dissatisfaction that she had felt on leaving Stafford Prison.
One decision was made. For the time being Ilsa could stay at Greatbach while the CPS, police, the courts and herself decided what to do with her.
Now back to the Marvel situation. Claire was anxious to find out whether there was any truth behind Kobi’s hints that the family was involved in Marvel’s fate. So reluctantly she contacted Tom again. He sounded weak and exhausted, his voice thin and reedy. And she felt guilty for breaking her lack of news. ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she said, ‘Mr Kobi still denies having any knowledge of your daughter’s disappearance.’
‘Murder,’ he corrected. ‘My daughter was murdered – I believe,’ he added. ‘I just want the truth to come out. I want her body found.’ His voice was soft and weak and he paused between words as though the very effort of speaking was tiring. He sounded breathless, gasping for air like a goldfish. She could hear Yvonne murmur something in the background.
His words combined with the desperation in his voice alerted her to something. Exactly what was he asking for? His request wasn’t that she find Kobi guilty of his daughter’s murder. He was asking her to find her body.
Tucking that fact away, she spoke calmly. ‘Well, Mr Kobi isn’t playing ball, at the moment,’ she said. ‘He isn’t telling me anything, so far.’ She paused, knowing she could use his plea to her advantage. ‘I wonder if you might persuade other family members to speak to me about the day your daughter went missing.’
‘Why?’
She had her answer ready. ‘I’m trying to surprise Kobi with facts that weren’t published. If we can find something to show that he had insider knowledge it might persuade him into a confession.’
‘But we spent hours with the police then.’ His voice had changed. He now sounded panicky.
‘Yes,’ she soothed, ‘and I’ve studied the police records in detail. But there might be some minor detail that one of you remembers. I need to present Kobi with something that wasn’t in the public domain. I need to catch him out, Tom, knock him off balance if I’m to get anywhere.’
There was a long pause. ‘Have you explained to him that I am dying? Have you told him I don’t have long to live?’ Now he was sounding appealing, beseeching her to … Do what? Reason with Kobi? Appeal to his better self? Squeeze out a confession? She frowned and tried to reason with him.
‘I’ve explained all that, Tom. There isn’t much point appealing to his better nature. He doesn’t have one. He’s only going to confess to your daughter’s murder if he has something to gain by it.’ She didn’t add: And if he actually killed her in the first place.
‘Has he given you any detail about my daughter’s abduction?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Trustrom.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ He’d run out of energy, all fight drained away like sand in an hourglass.
> ‘I want to speak to your son and daughters.’
He didn’t like that. ‘Sorrel and Clarice were just kids. They probably hardly remember Marvel.’
‘They weren’t that young. I think it’s worth a try.’
His voice became peevish, squeaky and high-pitched. ‘And Shane? You want to speak to Shane?’
‘Of course.’ She kept her voice calm. ‘He was that bit older, wasn’t he? A teenager.’
‘This is wasting time. Time I don’t have.’ His voice was squeaky now.
‘I’m doing all I can, Tom, and will continue to do my best.’
Something in her had changed. She couldn’t put her finger on it but even she could hear something dubious in her voice, something she didn’t quite understand. She was on a cake-walk, doubts tilting her perspective.
She battled her way through the afternoon clinic before heading back to her office. She had an hour spare. She’d rung the ward and there were no issues. Ilsa was settled on the new drug regime. Edward Reakin was with her now. She would receive his report after the weekend. Salena Urbi was currently interviewing relatives of another patient and Simon Bracknell was in Hanley on a domiciliary visit to a patient with deteriorating schizophrenia.
Shane Trustrom was positively hostile when she spoke to him. ‘I heard you’d been harassing our family,’ he said. ‘Just because my dad has a weird death wish. My sister’s dead. She probably died within an hour of being abducted by that psycho. I don’t want anything to do with this mad, pointless investigation. You’ll get nothing from it.’ And he slammed the phone down. She stared at it for a moment or two. She hadn’t exactly expected willing cooperation, but in his voice she had heard something more like fright. A squeaky panic.
She rang Tom again to see if he held any influence over his son.
‘What was his response?’
‘Not very helpful, I’m afraid.’
He sounded unsurprised.
‘Would you have a word with him?’
A Game of Minds Page 20
