A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Can you remember anything different about that day?’

  Sorrel’s eyes flickered. She scooped in a long, slow breath. ‘Not really …’ she began before adding, ‘I just wondered where she’d got the tenner from.’

  ‘Pocket money?’

  Sorrel shook her head. ‘It wasn’t that,’ she said firmly. ‘Someone gave it to her.’

  Claire stiffened. It was the first hint that something else was different about this case.

  ‘Any idea who?’

  Sorrel shook her head. ‘No. I did puzzle about that.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see it had anything to do with it.’ She looked preoccupied as she finished. ‘And then, of course, it was all put down to Kobi so I just forgot about it.’ The look she gave Claire was very straight. ‘It was him – wasn’t it? Kobi, I mean.’

  ‘We don’t know. He hasn’t confessed to it.’ She decided to put the cat amongst the pigeons. ‘In fact, he denies it.’

  ‘Pooh. And if you believe that …’

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?’

  ‘No.’

  Claire left a card and Sorrel promised to contact her if she remembered anything else that might have a bearing on her sister’s disappearance. But as Claire drove away she felt sure Sorrel would not be ringing any time soon.

  The encounter had left her sad. Not to care whether your sister was alive or dead seemed dreadful to her until she recalled how she had felt about Adam, her half-brother, whom she had resented enough to want to stuff a pillow over his face. Thank God she hadn’t. She would have been labelled a child killer. No medical school would have wanted her with such a record. It had happened in her mind and gone no further. At least Sorrel hadn’t gone that far or rather she hadn’t admitted to going that far.

  Little by little, fact by fact, she was learning about the missing girl. Sorrel had painted a vivid picture of her. A misfit, quarrelsome, difficult. And Claire supplied the rest: unhappy, the odd one out. The Ugly Duckling.

  So her brother had been gated from school for smoking pot. Was that what Kobi had meant by those dark hints about Shane? As well as the suggestion that Tom was not Marvel’s father. But if he wasn’t why was he so desperate for her body to be found?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  She realized she had no idea what was really in Tom’s mind. And Shane? What did he have to do with it? Did the entire family have something to hide? But why hide any of it? They weren’t even under suspicion. Or were they? The police investigation had been sloppy. Zed Willard was loyal to the Force but even he was admitting this. And she wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t wondering, after all these years, whether his theory had been misguided.

  So, she thought, she needed to look at motive. Why would all these people do their best to mislead her? Kobi for entertainment, and now to the list did she have to add Tom and Shane?

  In the morning, she vowed, the first thing she would do would be to comb through Kobi’s work record. Then she needed to cross reference that with details of Marvel’s life and schooling. There was something there, she was convinced of it. A little thread that she just needed to pull.

  And now there was Shane’s relationship with his sister. She put her head in her hands. To make any sort of assessment she needed to talk to Shane to decide for herself. And so far he wasn’t playing. And as for Tom, he hadn’t even hinted that he wasn’t Marvel’s father.

  She parked her car, unlocked her front door and let herself in.

  It was only then that she realized that though she could hear muted music from the top floor there was no Grant in evidence. He must have left. And then she understood. Coming and going would always be what suited him.

  And maybe it suited her too.

  Tuesday 15 October, 11 a.m.

  She found Astrid sitting at the nurses’ station, leafing through the drugs charts. She looked up as Claire approached. ‘You all right, Dr Roget?’

  Claire settled into the chair at the nurse’s side. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m good. How’s Ilsa?’

  ‘Ominously quiet,’ the nurse said. ‘How are her two victims?’

  ‘I think her husband’s home, but the woman is still in hospital as far as I know.’ She settled down in a chair. ‘I never would have thought Ilsa would turn so quickly from victim to villain. She hid it well.’

  Astrid was quiet for a moment, then she said, ‘She’s manipulative. But you really think she planned it ahead?’

  ‘I think so,’ Claire said quietly. ‘I think all that business about claiming her husband was controlling and trying to belittle her was part of the act. We have no evidence he was like that. In fact, if you look at it objectively the evidence all points the other way. He was doing up the house, making everything good for when she was discharged. And I don’t believe she thought he was having an affair with her friend. We have no evidence that she was psychotic which means we have to keep at the back of our minds another explanation for the assault. My current instinct is that this was a deliberate criminal offence.’ She smiled at the nurse. ‘Having said that her barrister will move heaven and earth to claim she was suffering from anxiety and depression and I’ll be hard pushed to go against that.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘She’ll be returned to our care long term. She won’t go to prison. It isn’t the right decision but it’s what’ll happen.’

  And the nurse nodded.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to her and explain the due process.’

  But Ilsa was asleep. Looking as innocent as a baby. Claire watched her for a moment, speaking her name softly but it was obvious Ilsa was not going to rouse.

  Late morning, without much hope, she tried Marvel’s brother again. Surprisingly he responded to her call and didn’t hang up when she introduced herself, though, as before, he was hostile. If anything, even more so.

  ‘I wish you would just leave us all alone,’ he said. ‘This is bordering on harassment.’

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ she said, speaking calmly. ‘I’m a psychiatrist who has been asked to grant your father’s wish that your sister’s body be recovered, so when he dies, which I am assured, is not far off, they can be buried together, father and daughter.’

  Shane snorted. ‘Father and daughter,’ he derided.

  ‘He wants the truth.’

  ‘And what exactly do you think my contribution might be?’ There was something wary in his voice.

  ‘I don’t know, Shane. I suppose I’m hoping you might go over your sister’s movements on that last Saturday?’

  His response was a hostile silence before answering, ‘And what good do you think that’ll do?’

  She decided to show her card. ‘I’m not convinced Kobi is responsible for your sister’s disappearance.’

  There was a long silence followed by a cynical grunt. ‘So he’s managing to fool you, is he? I thought you were a psychiatrist, someone with insight.’

  She kept her cool. ‘Psychiatry is a lot more than just insight, Shane.’

  And then he caved in. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  She kept her voice steady. ‘Get what, Shane?’

  ‘Why would he want to be buried with her? Why is he really so insistent that he wants the truth? Dad and Marvel. They couldn’t stand each other. If you’d seen them together you’d have realized that within minutes. He hated the way she sometimes looked, the way she behaved, the clothes she wore, the make-up she slapped on with a trowel, the skirts too short, blouses unbuttoned, T-shirts halfway up her chest. He hated everything about her. He hated her. So why this obsession with being buried with her?’

  ‘Guilt for not …?’ She’d meant to say, ‘loving her’, but Shane got there first.

  ‘He was glad to have her off the scene. Called her a slut. Mum and Dad. They were embarrassed by her. The rows, the fallings out. She made the house a battle zone. Mum doesn’t want Marvel resurrected. Marvel stole from us. She couldn’
t be trusted. She was just about anybody’s. But no one wanted her. Guys gave her a wide berth.’ And then his voice stopped abruptly.

  ‘Maybe your father’s remorseful and wants to make it up to her.’

  That drew another snort. ‘Or maybe he just wants to pretend that our family was one big happy set of people. I don’t know.’ His voice was bitter and angry.

  ‘When did you last see your dad?’

  ‘Last week. I go to see him as a duty. I sit there. Yvonne watches, making her own contribution. I’ve nothing to say to him. We’re OK, Dad and I – as long as we don’t spend more than half an hour in each other’s company and don’t really say anything. Truth is …’ he couldn’t seem to stop this from spilling out, ‘… we don’t trust each other.’

  Claire heard and was thoughtful. Something deep and dark was opening up right under her feet.

  ‘Did he mention my efforts to have Jonah Kobi confess to your sister’s murder?’

  ‘He touched on it.’

  ‘Did you discuss it?’ She wished she could have seen his face as he responded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it mean anything to you? Do you feel the same urge to find your sister’s body and convict her killer?’

  ‘No. For God’s sake. Let sleeping dogs lie.’

  There was a long silence while she absorbed this, wondering if she had imagined that note of fright in his voice?

  ‘After all this time I don’t think I’m bothered about her skeleton.’ There was a real gravelly bitterness in his voice now.

  ‘And do you think Kobi is responsible?’

  ‘Put it like this,’ Shane said, ‘it would suit us all.’

  Which didn’t answer her question.

  ‘What about you, Shane. How did you get on with her?’

  ‘I didn’t hate her. I felt sorry for her. She was so pathetic. So desperate to be loved that …’ Again, he stopped dead. The silence stretched and then he caved in. ‘Maybe it’s time the truth came out. I will come to the hospital if you like. I’ll let you know when I can speak to you.’

  And she had to be content with that.

  To try and actually move forward in this frustrating morass of rumination she started to read through Kobi’s work record as a supply teacher. She cross-referenced them against Marvel’s schooling.

  And there it was in black and white. Just two days at a comprehensive school in Biddulph, filling in for a teacher’s absence in 2013. Marvel had been a pupil at the very same school.

  She was about to pick up the phone when she read the note Willard had attached to the front:

  He didn’t teach her. He taught the older pupils and had no contact with year nine. Also, she didn’t take history.

  Typical, she thought disgustedly. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere.

  She could almost sense that he was thumbing his nose at her for her ‘cleverness’.

  It didn’t improve her mood that Kobi was asking to speak to her again.

  THIRTY-NINE

  She would have refused this time but now she had ammunition, something to fire back at Kobi, and he wouldn’t be pleased that she was learning facts independent of the ones he wanted to feed her.

  Until he looked up Kobi had seemed terminally bored. He also looked tired and depressed, shoulders sagging, facial expression lacking affect. Prison was ageing him.

  She watched him through the window and realized. This wasn’t a game to him anymore. He was actually worried that she would find the truth. Possibly he had even lost his cue and was unsure how to play this. She entered the room and sat down.

  His eyes narrowed. He sensed she knew something.

  But he held back, eyes fixed on her as he tried to read her mind. Then he leaned back in his chair, put his hands flat on the table, palms down, and spoke. ‘So?’

  ‘You taught at Marvel’s school.’

  He blinked.

  She fed him the lie. ‘You taught Marvel.’

  He stirred, ran his tongue over his lips. She sensed relief. So that was it. And she was wrong. ‘I didn’t,’ he said slowly, ‘actually teach her, though I believe I was in the same school for a couple of days, I think. Clap clap,’ he said, irony spilling out, ‘for your detective work. Well done you. May I ask how you came by this knowledge?’

  ‘It was all there,’ she said, ‘in the notes.’ As she watched him she sensed that there was another small detail he was worried she might learn.

  She pressed forward. ‘You saw her at school?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ His voice was casual now. Comfortable.

  ‘But you knew details about her family. Perhaps from a schoolfriend?’

  ‘From the newspaper,’ he corrected.

  Inwardly she acknowledged. That was not it.

  They waited, skirting round each other like boxers in the ring. ‘Kobi, why did you ask to see me today?’

  He leaned back and folded his arms behind his head, casual now and disdainful. ‘Curiosity perhaps?’

  That was not it either. He wanted to drop another little breadcrumb.

  ‘You mentioned a charm from a silver bracelet.’

  He put his finger on his chin and pretended to look puzzled. ‘Did I?’ It was a hackneyed impression of confusion.

  Something erupted in her as the faces of the dead girls flashed across her mind. ‘You brutally killed …’

  He held his hand up in a stop sign. ‘I didn’t brutally kill them,’ he said. ‘I simply extinguished their far too bright lights. Their deaths weren’t brutal.’

  ‘Their loss was to their families. They would have grown up, perhaps had children of their own. You robbed their mothers, fathers, siblings, friends. Put fear into countless schoolgirls.’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘A lesson. No more.’

  ‘I intend to speak to some of your ex-pupils,’ Claire said.

  This lit a fire in his eyes and he responded quickly. ‘They won’t be able to tell you anything.’ He pursued the point. ‘Why my ex-pupils? There must be hundreds of them. I don’t see what you can learn from any of them.’

  Claire smiled sweetly. ‘One never knows until one tries.’

  He was breathing hard as he responded. ‘The girls I taught in the private schools are probably all married by now, living in detached houses and driving fast cars.’ He even put his hands up as though wrapped round a steering wheel turning a sharp corner. ‘And the rest will be following their various boringly similar paths. You want to waste precious time interviewing all the girls in all the schools I taught at when they won’t take you a single millimetre nearer to learning where this fucking girl’s body is.’ He slapped the desk with both hands. It was a loud, startling sound. ‘I didn’t personally know any of the girls I killed. So what’s the point of wasting time?’ He couldn’t resist adding the barb, ‘Time Tom Trustrom doesn’t really have.’

  Claire didn’t react which goaded Kobi further. ‘If you need to find her rotting corpse before her Daddy dies. And if you don’t mind me saying, as Tom Trustrom has been “dying”’ – he wiggled his fingers in mock exclamation marks now, chortling as he did so – ‘an awfully long time, you need to look wider afield.’

  ‘Where?’

  Kobi paused. Then: ‘Why not try Miranda Pullen?’

  She knew he was diverting her but listened anyway.

  ‘She’s as good as anyone at a tissue of lies, probably married to some wealthy guy by now. And while you’re at it fish out some of her best buddies. See what they thought of me.’ He folded his arms, confident and relaxed. ‘Truth is they fancied the pants off me, but I wasn’t interested in their clumsy, adolescent little tricks. As a psychiatrist you can surely see that these girls wanted my attention. Well, they got it – or some of them did.’

  ‘At least Miranda made good money out of it.’ Claire closed her notebook and yawned, not bothering to suppress it. ‘Actually,’ she said, returning the notebook to her bag, ‘I’ve already had a chat with your old friend Miranda
Pullen. I’m not sure she has anything more helpful to add than you do.’

  He smiled and held out his hands. ‘She had lovely hair,’ he said. ‘Did you notice from the photograph? Very soft.’ He stroked the desk. ‘Red gold. Quite beautiful. Different from her “siblings”. I imagine it smelt’ – he gave a noisy sniff – ‘of coconut shampoo. It was by far’ – he slid his eyes up to meet hers – ‘her best feature.’ Then he frowned. ‘Correction. Her only good feature.’

  She knew exactly what he was doing, goading her.

  ‘If you have anything concrete to tell me,’ she said, ‘let the prison guards know and I will come back, otherwise I shan’t be coming again.’

  She picked up her notebook and headed for the door. She was almost there when Kobi whispered, ‘So I’ll be seeing you then, Claire.’

  ‘I doubt it. Goodbye, Kobi,’ she said.

  He glared at her, eyes hot with hatred as she knocked on the door and was let out.

  She could still feel the heat of his hostility as she walked down the corridor behind the prison warder.

  She joined the D road and a queue of traffic. The M6 must be diverting the flow between Junctions 15 and 16. Another accident? She tapped her steering wheel in frustration. These prison visits were taking up too much time, diverting her from her work at Greatbach.

  At last, after crawling along for forty-five minutes she arrived back and, not for the first time, reflected what an ugly building it was: Victorian, forbidding and it always appeared dark, in the shade, which was perhaps an analogy for the dramas that happened inside. The modern wing, which accommodated mainly outpatients and offices, was at the back of the building so one was presented with the nineteenth-century facade, reached through a grey arch which could seem as though you were entering another world. A grim, cruel, unenlightened world where Victorian attitudes and misunderstandings of mental illness prevailed. But actually it was not so. That was an illusion.