A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘I … can.’ He sounded reluctant, as though it was being dragged out of him. ‘I don’t think it’ll help though. He always was difficult.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to her sisters.’

  ‘They were just kids.’

  ‘I’d still like to …’

  ‘Well, Clarice lives with her mum. You’ll have to get past Dixie to speak to her. And good luck with that one. She’s as overprotective as a mother hen.’

  ‘Sorrel?’

  ‘I do have a number for Sorrel.’

  She made a note of it.

  While she had him on the phone, she homed in on something that was missing from the police report. ‘Did Marvel have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh.’ It was a sigh of distress. ‘She would have loved to have had a boyfriend but I’m afraid Marvel wasn’t the most attractive of young women. They weren’t exactly queuing up.’

  ‘What about her school friends?’

  ‘Marvel was a bit of a loner.’ He sounded sad but something alerted her.

  ‘But that day she went shopping with friends?’

  ‘I don’t know who those friends were …’ Tom paused. The silence stretched so long Claire wondered if he was still there.

  ‘She said she was going shopping with friends.’ Claire remembered something from the original statements. ‘Karen and Lara?’

  ‘They weren’t her friends. And they weren’t with her that day. They just wanted to be part of the drama.’ Another pause. ‘I’m afraid Marvel didn’t always stick to the truth. She didn’t really have any friends.’ He paused before confessing, ‘I wasn’t always the best of fathers, Dr Roget.’

  She could have added to this. Who is? Certainly not my bloody father who abandoned me and my mother and left for France when I was just a baby. Leaving my mother to vent her spite on me. Claire could still hear the poisonous words. Monsieur Roget and the French Frog.

  ‘I want the truth,’ Marvel’s father said. ‘I want to know – for sure.’

  She assured Tom that she would do her very best to find it and got some assurance from him that he would speak to his son and try and persuade Shane to speak to her again. Claire was silent. Families are strange and this one certainly took the biscuit. DS Willard had used the word dysfunctional and maybe he wasn’t far wrong.

  However, somehow the sands had shifted. The more she dug into this strange family the more she wondered. What was the truth behind this dying man’s request? What were they all afraid of?

  THIRTY-SIX

  Saturday passed as planned with an exhausting run with Julia followed by a shower at the house Julia shared with her partner, Gina Aldi. While Julia was a GP and an old friend from medical school, Gina was an artist who painted and sculpted bizarre creations, hybrids of more than one animal, often using mythological creatures. Gina and Julia were always good company, full of laughs and interesting conversation. Claire avoided any talk of work. The day flashed by and Claire gave no thought to Ilsa Robinson, Marvel Trustrom or any of the people who had filled her working week.

  At ten p.m. she rose to leave, kissed them both and set off for home. Tomorrow would be a very different day.

  Sunday 13 October, 1 p.m.

  Grant had texted her that he’d booked Sunday lunch at The Swan with Two Necks, a gastropub recently refurbished, at Blackbrook, just outside Newcastle-under-Lyme, on the Nantwich Road.

  Grant’s van was already outside when she pulled up and through the window she could see Laura Steadman’s stiff back, Grant talking rapidly, hands waving, as though he was pleading with her.

  She pushed open the door.

  He rose to meet her while his mother still sat, back ramrod stiff. She managed a smile as Claire approached and the two women’s eyes met.

  ‘Mrs Steadman,’ Claire managed.

  Grant’s mother held out a thin hand. ‘Laura,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you, Claire.’

  There were plenty of subjects they could explore without abandoning polite conversation: the house Laura Steadman had just bought, the job she was returning to and so on. But there were many more that they had to avoid: Maisie’s illness and death, the bloodbath Grant had witnessed just days before.

  Luckily Laura Steadman was on her best behaviour.

  She was full of ideas for the house she’d just bought. ‘Isn’t it funny,’ she said, managing a tight smile. ‘You buy your perfect house and the first thing you do is start knocking it about.’ She eyed her son. ‘It needs another bathroom, Grant.’ And Claire could see exactly where this was heading. She knew who would be installing that bathroom. And then there would be other projects. Laura Steadman gave her a comfortable smile.

  Mothers, Claire thought viciously.

  Monday 14 October, 9 a.m.

  Monday swung round all too soon and Claire was on call the following weekend so she’d had the last of her carefree days – for a while.

  Ilsa was subdued according to the ward staff when she rang. John Robinson had been discharged from hospital, but Maggie had taken a turn for the worse, Zed Willard informed her, managing to keep any criticism, real or implied, out of his voice. She tried Shane’s number again and left a message but without much faith that he would ring back. Dixie said bluntly that she was ‘not keen’ for her to speak to Clarice and Sorrel didn’t answer her phone. Claire left another message, leaving her number and asking her to make contact.

  Reluctantly she returned to HMP Stafford.

  Kobi looked a bit flat, disappointed when she confronted him this time. It was as though the game was losing its appeal even to him. When she looked at him, he regarded her steadily back, but his eyes looked tired, his lids drooping. He’d lost that spark.

  Looking at him Claire realized how much she wanted an end to these visits.

  ‘Why don’t you just confess, Jonah, and be done with it? Let us all move on with our lives. Let Tom die in peace. Just tell me where she’s buried and I’ll leave you alone.’

  Kobi looked up. Even though he looked weary there was still a mocking light in his eyes and he shook his head from side to side. ‘How are you getting on with the family?’

  Claire could have responded in a number of ways.

  Not that well really.

  They don’t want to speak to me.

  They’re convinced you’re just playing a game …

  She said none of these and Kobi whined on. ‘Because I didn’t do it, Claire. How many more times? I’m serving time because I murdered four girls. Not five. They could never pin the fifth one on me. You need to look elsewhere for Marvel’s killer. I’ve given you enough hints.’

  ‘What do you actually know, Kobi?’

  ‘I’ve given you my answer.’ He stood up then and immediately Claire saw the face of one of the prison warders peering through the window. She smiled at him and he retreated but it was a reminder of how edgy the atmosphere surrounding Kobi was; even though he sat still as a sphinx she could feel malice emanating from him. How he wanted her to fail. It had become a personal battle. Only one would win.

  She pursued her point by trying to belittle him. ‘What do you actually know about Marvel’s family – apart from what you’ve read in the papers?’ And from the smug expression on Kobi’s face she knew he’d just swallowed the bait. He’d come alive and his face was plastered with the look of a psychopath who has just seen one of his little stories believed.

  His reply was smooth. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Only what I read in the press.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I told you, Claire, I can read between the lines.’

  She felt irritated. ‘This isn’t a competition, you know. You’ve actually told me nothing.’

  His smirk broadened, a tacit response: Isn’t it? ‘Her mother and “father”’ – he scratched the air with speech marks – ‘despaired of their Ugly Duckling, didn’t they?’

  This detail had not been in any of the press reports. He knew the phrase. How?

  ‘Her brother loathed her.’ Kobi’s smile curved. ‘Or did he?
’

  What was he implying? She kept her face rigid. Kobi waited for a moment before continuing. ‘And as for her baby sisters. Have you spoken to them yet? The little ballerinas.’

  She was being pulled along by the nose. Kobi was watching to see how far he could take her, with the little breadcrumbs he dropped along the way. She needed to regain control of this interview.

  ‘I think we’re diverting a little.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to find the girl’s body.’

  ‘That’s the object of all these visits,’ she said coldly. ‘Nothing else. My interest isn’t in you.’

  It didn’t ruffle Kobi. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you find your missing girl. You need to look closer to home.’ He put his face near to hers so she could see the flecks in his eyes and his expression changed. ‘I won’t be able to help you because I didn’t fucking well kill her.’ And as abruptly as a sudden summer downpour his voice changed to a smooth, chocolatey polite. ‘So naturally it follows that I didn’t bury her body.’

  Claire kept her voice steady. ‘This is a waste of time. You’re not going to help me.’

  ‘Only because I can’t,’ he crooned, sounding almost apologetic. But it didn’t quite make it. ‘However, I can help you in another way. Focus on the charm.’

  Did she want to play this by asking, noun or verb?

  As though he was playing a game of charades, he dropped in another clue. ‘The silver bracelet?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ His pseudo-mysterious tone was annoying her while she recognized the way of a sociopath, to tease and lay out a false trail of breadcrumbs, giggle as they watched when someone stumbled after it. She wasn’t going to get caught by this, so she continued in the same cold, bored, disinterested voice. ‘The silver bracelet you possibly stole from her?’

  Kobi sank back into his chair, looking satisfied. ‘I don’t do trophies,’ he said. ‘I don’t steal the cheap little trinkets these girls adorn themselves with. It really isn’t my scene. And if you’d done your homework, Claire,’ he admonished, ‘you’d know that.’

  ‘Petra’s school bag?’

  He looked annoyed. ‘No. That must have been someone else. I told you, I don’t collect pencils and stuff.’

  She badly wanted to rattle him. ‘There’s always a first time, Kobi.’

  He just laughed. A dry, desiccated sound. ‘You know what, Claire?’

  She didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘I really enjoy our little sparring sessions.’

  ‘I’m not here for your enjoyment, Kobi.’

  Kobi laughed again. This time a high-pitched, hysterical giggle while he rocked and held his sides as though to prevent splitting them.

  What must he have been like as a teacher, Claire wondered, with those bold eyes and sharp intelligence. He could have been … inspirational. Or mocking, belittling, cruel. His pupils would never know which ‘sir’ they had for the day. But then teenage girls are naturally drawn to danger.

  On her way out she chatted to one of the prison warders. ‘How often does his wife visit?’

  ‘Often as she can,’ he said. ‘Most weeks.’

  ‘How do they seem to get on?’

  ‘Plenty to talk about. They sit in a huddle laughing, joking, though what they’ve got to joke about I ain’t quite sure.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  As soon as she’d left the prison, she rang Zed Willard. ‘I’m getting nothing out of him,’ she said. ‘He continues to deny that he had anything to do with Marvel. I’m going to pursue other avenues.’ Mentally she added, If I can.

  There was a brief silence while DS Willard recovered his voice. When he spoke he sounded disappointed. ‘That’s a pity.’

  In spite of herself she couldn’t not ask the question: ‘Do you know anything about the charm bracelet?’

  ‘Uum. Yes. I think there was mention that the reason she’d headed off for Hanley in such shitty weather was to buy a charm for her bracelet. I don’t think much importance was attached to it.’

  ‘Silver?’

  ‘I suppose so. In fact, now I remember CCTV showed her buying something from a jeweller’s in one of the stalls on the ground floor of the Potteries Shopping Centre.’

  She was going to have to drag this out of him. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ he said waspishly. ‘We left that detail out of the press.’

  But again, somehow, Kobi had known. How?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Grant had commented once that she was like a terrier, unable to let go of something that was puzzling her.

  This, he would have said, was a perfect illustration.

  She tried Shane again, but he was still adamant he would not speak to her and she had no authority to force him, although she felt his resolve weakening. There were pauses between his words and somehow she knew he was frowning. She also knew she would get to him at some point.

  Sorrel Trustrom, in contrast, was only too anxious to spill the beans on her sister.

  Sorrel worked in a beauty parlour. It was a smart establishment offering everything from Botox to derma fillers plus nail extensions and anything else that might just possibly make a woman look more attractive.

  She agreed to speak to Claire between clients, around five o’clock.

  At four thirty she set off for ‘Sorrel & Yvonne’s’, heading for Cellarhead crossroads, the point where the city of Stoke-on-Trent concedes defeat to the Staffordshire Moorlands. Once famous for having a pub on each of its four corners, these days it is a betwixt and between sort of place, with odd collections of isolated terraces of tiny cottages, one pub currently an Indian restaurant, another still derelict and Sorrel and Yvonne had turned a third into their beauty parlour. They had made a very clever business choice. The old pub was accessible from Leek, the moorlands and the city, only a few miles from Hanley. But out here they had large premises, probably bought for a song, plenty of parking and business rates would be low, the Moorlands Council intent on preserving the surrounds and encouraging businesses. Like ‘Sorrel & Yvonne’s’. And, Claire reflected as she locked her car, old pubs are about as cheap a building as you can find.

  Sorrel was a sharp-eyed girl, with enhanced red hair and, unlike her missing sister, a petite figure. She was wearing a white overall and a trowel load of make-up.

  As expected, she was perfection itself, stick thin with impossible breasts, a flawless complexion, spray tan, huge eyelashes which almost seemed to glue her eyes together and teeth as white as icebergs. She greeted Claire in the way that a woman who is confident of her beauty greets a lesser being.

  ‘Hello there.’ Her voice matched the rest of her, a sort of cutesy, high-pitched sound with only the softest of Potteries accents. ‘You don’t look like a psychiatrist.’

  Claire laughed. It wasn’t the first time this had been said to her. ‘How should I look, Sorrel? Thick black glasses and tied back hair?’

  Give Sorrel Trustrom her due. She giggled, put her hand over her mouth and led the way into a small back room, shelves stacked with products. ‘You don’t mind coming in here, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  They both sat down on fold-up chairs.

  Sorrel leaned forward giving a good view of ample cleavage and a waft of strong perfume.

  ‘I don’t know why this is all being raked up.’ She tossed her head. ‘It was years ago.’

  Claire let Sorrel ask the question. ‘So tell me exactly what your involvement is?’

  ‘You know your dad’s ill?’

  Sorrel nodded and dabbed at her eye without dislodging the lashes or smearing the mascara. ‘Yeah. He’s very poorly.’

  Which was one way of looking at it, Claire thought. Like most doctors she disliked the use of euphemisms when applied to illness. It muddied the waters.

  ‘And you possibly know that he is anxious to find your sister’s body.’

  At which point Sorrel Trustrom showed her true character,
fluttering her eyelashes as she gave Claire a very challenging and direct look. ‘We don’t actually know there is a body, do we?’

  Claire could have applauded her. She was right.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But the assumption is—’

  Sorrel interrupted her. ‘That’s what it is, Dr Roget. An assumption.’

  Claire changed her words. ‘The police have asked me to interview Jonah Kobi who—’

  ‘I know who Kobi is. The teacher turned serial killer. But we don’t know he …’ She then changed the track of her words. ‘You didn’t know my sister. I did. She was an absolute bitch.’

  Claire blinked but did not interrupt.

  ‘She nicked my stuff. Stole my perfume, pinched money out of my money box. Took my jewellery. Nothing was safe. She just took it. And if I said anything she’d simply beat me up. She was a cow. A big, fat, ugly cow.’

  Claire took a moment to absorb the words. ‘You were how old when she …?’

  Sorrel anticipated her question. ‘Twelve. I was twelve when Marvel disappeared. She bullied me practically every day of my life. She was a horror.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s dead then?’

  Sorrel picked at a fingernail. ‘To be honest I don’t care whether she’s alive or dead. I don’t care if her body is unburied. I don’t care who killed her. It doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘But it does to your dad.’

  Sorrel shrugged her dainty shoulders. ‘So he says.’

  ‘Tell me about the last day you saw her. That Saturday when she was last seen.’

  Sorrel half closed her black-outlined eyes, the lids a pale beige gold. ‘She looked ridiculous,’ she said. ‘She was wearing a tight, black, leather skirt, very short. Her waist bulged over the top of it. She had on a really low-cut sweater. She looked like a tart. She stank of my perfume …’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Charlie. I used to love the stuff and she’d obviously used it. Smelt like she’d had a bath in it. When I told her she wasn’t to use it she slapped me really hard. I went to Mum crying and Mum just took no notice. I think she was fed up with the lot of us. Shane had just been gated from school. He’d been smoking pot. When Marvel came downstairs looking like something the dog’s sicked up she just couldn’t be bothered to argue with her. Marvel got away with a lot basically because we couldn’t be bothered.’