A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  She manoeuvred the car into a tight parking space and sat for a while, trying to puzzle it all out, going over Kobi’s words and she knew why they’d chilled her. She could see the photograph of Marvel Trustrom as clearly as if it was in her hand. Not the photo of her in school uniform, hair neatly plaited, face scrubbed, or her Facebook picture. Not even the picture that had been given to the press, but one of the pictures her parents had given the police and had been kept back by them. Long, red, gold hair, soft and straight, gleaming, freshly shampooed and straightened. Marvel Trustrom’s one claim to beauty.

  Claire released her seat belt, climbed out, locked the car and walked through the arch into her other world, the inside world of a secure psychiatric unit.

  As soon as she reached her office she took another look at it. It was just as she – and Kobi – had remembered it. She could almost smell coconut shampoo.

  She bounded up the stairs. This coming weekend, Grant was helping his mother to move back down to Cornwall and so, she promised herself, she would go on a long bike ride. Out in the Peak District, somewhere really challenging, with long, steep climbs. She would ride until she was exhausted and then she would drive home and drop into a bathtub filled to the brim with expensive and fragrant skin-softening products, glass of champagne in her hand. The weather forecast was perfect. Cool but dry and not too windy. Nothing to slow her down.

  She reached the locked ward and keyed in the code, changed on a monthly basis, and headed straight for Ilsa’s room. Any decisions she presented would need to be reinforced by facts and interviews. She peeped through the window. Ilsa was huddled on the floor, knees up, back against the corner, eyes staring at nothing. Claire watched her for a while before she entered her room. Ilsa started and pressed herself harder into the corner. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  Claire didn’t answer and knew it all depended on ‘dangerousness’. To herself or other people.

  Ilsa had a son of eight years old. She couldn’t send her home and put the child in danger. Was there a cure? An absolutely certain cure?

  No. She would always be a risk.

  Claire spent almost an hour interviewing her and at the end felt convinced Ilsa had planned the entire assault, relying that Claire’s testimony of mental illness would protect her from a criminal charge.

  On her way out she spoke to Astrid who was in charge of the locked ward. ‘Keep a watch on Ilsa. She’s in a strange state.’

  Astrid’s take on her patients was notoriously hard. ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes. Keep a close watch on her.’

  Astrid nodded. She was an experienced nurse who had worked for years at Broadmoor. She knew what the words ‘close watch’ meant.

  They spent the next two hours discussing various other patients on the ward, altering medication where necessary and then Claire had to dictate some letters. It was almost seven o’clock when her mobile phone bleeped a message. I can cook dinner for you if you like. Eight thirty OK? G X

  She typed back. Brilliant. I’m knackered and rapidly approaching terminal starvation. See you later. C X

  So this was the relationship they were falling back into, easy, comfortable, undemanding. Here today, gone tomorrow. Nothing too heavy and no real commitment. Someone there for her as she was for him. And as she locked her office door behind her she acknowledged this could be what she wanted. She looked forward to arriving home.

  FORTY

  Wednesday 16 October, 8.15 a.m.

  She needed to meet up with Shane Trustrom. He’d promised to get in touch, but she didn’t want to wait any longer. She added it to her morning’s list.

  With all the challenges at work and the added complication now of Ilsa’s case, she wondered why her heart was skipping. And then she remembered.

  Last night, after a delicious dinner of poached salmon, watercress sauce and fresh vegetables she and Grant had shared a bottle of wine and talked.

  Grant had a deep voice, slow, steady and sexy, expressive dark eyes with long lashes and what he said he meant. There was no duplicity in him. His manners were almost blunt. You could trust him. He was an anchor. This was why his sister had relied on him during her years of illness and his mother would continue to do so. He was – in spite of his roguish looks – dependable. With him she could confide her doubts about Ilsa’s integrity and her misgivings about Jonah Kobi. ‘He tosses me around as though I was a kitten’s plaything and I still don’t know whether he had anything to do with the disappearance of Marvel Trustrom.’

  He’d laughed and his arm had pulled her towards him on the sofa. ‘And I always thought as a psychiatrist you’d have an instinct for when people were trying to pull the wool over your eyes.’

  She’d shaken her head. ‘I wish,’ she’d said. Adding, ‘Psychiatry is a minefield.’ He’d kissed away any more words and she knew Grant Steadman would always turn his back on anything he found unpleasant.

  In return he’d confided in her where his plans lay. His mother was heading back down to Cornwall. ‘I expect,’ he’d said ruefully, ‘she’ll want me going up and down the M5 because a tap’s sprung a leak or something.’

  Her response of, ‘Well, she is your mum,’ had earned her a quick, questioning look. As they’d talked Claire had realized how much she’d missed these quiet evenings when they chatted, polishing off a bottle of wine and spending the night together.

  The conversation had turned then to Grant’s future plans. The police had closed off the Robinson home as it was a crime scene and there was little chance of it being released any time soon which put paid to the home interior Grant had been designing. It was possible John Robinson would entirely abandon his plans to revamp the family home. Everything was in limbo. The court case would take some time to put together, the outcome uncertain. In the meantime, Ilsa would be confined at Greatbach and Grant was … unemployed. And now her heart had stopped skipping because she had the odd feeling that ill luck might just follow her boyfriend around. Some people were like that. Just when it appeared they were riding the crest of a wave a tsunami would come along and sweep them under again.

  To add to the downward turn of mood her clinic that afternoon seemed full of alcoholics and drug abusers, each one with their own pet reason for straying from the path of good and true. One thing about these people with addiction problems was that they were inventive with their excuses. They dragged in damaged childhoods, abusive parents, boring upbringings which had resulted in a thirst for excitement, overly religious parents, strict Catholic teachings, parents with addiction problems themselves, broken marriages, sick children, pressures of work. The list could go on and on and on. And by the end of it Claire was mentally exhausted. She wanted to ring Shane but put it off until she had checked on Ilsa.

  She found Ilsa alert, watchful and wary, sitting in a chair, staring out of the window as though she was planning an escape. Claire spent some time explaining the court process to her and informing her that she would be detained under a section of the Mental Health Act until it was decided what should be done with her.

  Ilsa listened without responding. It made any assessment very hard to read. Ilsa was watching her.

  Then her face changed and she lunged forward. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Your fault.’ Claire felt her nails rake down her cheek, tasted the blood. She struggled to her feet and stumbled out of the room. Not the first time she had been assaulted by a patient and it would not be the last. One can remove all sharp objects or anything that could be used in a suicide attempt. But you can’t remove a patient’s fingernails.

  After speaking to the staff to make sure they knew Ilsa should be locked into her room and attended always by two members of staff as well as having her scratches tended by the nurses with antiseptic, she left Greatbach in reflective mood.

  She wanted to go home. Take a bath and think. Read a book, watch TV. She couldn’t face chasing Shane Trustrom up.

  But the day’s challenges were not over yet.

  Annoyingly S
imon’s car was slewed across the drive forcing her to overlap the pavement as Grant’s was pulled up tight towards the front door. She let herself into what sounded like a battle zone.

  Simon and Marianne were having a noisy quarrel in the kitchen. Marianne was screaming. Simon’s voice was low and subdued. This is not working, she thought angrily.

  Grant was hunched up on the sofa. He watched her enter without a word but she’d noticed the door had been tight shut and the sound on the television louder than usual. He managed a grin before rolling his eyes heavenwards.

  FORTY-ONE

  Thursday 17 October, 2.30 p.m.

  It was all right saying speak to Shane but what if Shane didn’t want to speak to her? He’d promised he would get back to her with a time and date when they could meet but so far there had been no contact.

  She left another message urging him to get in touch. And at last, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Shane Trustrom did ring back and this time seemed more willing to talk. Almost friendly. He began with a blunt question. ‘Do you know yet what happened to my sister?’ There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘No.’

  On the other end of the line there was silence. She could almost hear rusty cogs of thought processes whirring around desperately trying to find their notch. Finally he sighed. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I can come to your place or you can come here if you like.’

  Her relief was great. ‘I’ll come to you,’ she said.

  He gave her an address in Stone and she arranged to visit him on the following afternoon. She felt there was no time to waste. Tom was dying and her curiosity was compounding.

  Her surprise visit later that afternoon was John Robinson. He had lost weight since she had last seen him and was looking gaunt and unhappy. He began by apologizing for simply dropping in. ‘I was upstairs visiting Ilsa,’ he said, a broken man. ‘She tried to hit me. I don’t understand what’s happened. What has happened? Why has she changed so much?’

  It was hard to explain to a lay person when it didn’t really make sense even to her. ‘She’s going through a psychotic episode,’ she said. ‘Which means that she has ideas which seem real … to her.’

  ‘So when will she be well enough to come home?’

  ‘That’s for the courts and myself to decide. Hopefully when she seems safe.’

  ‘But when will that be?’

  She simply shook her head. He waited for a while then asked, ‘Can I be honest with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m frightened to have her home. I’m ashamed to say this but if you’d seen her face when she … And Augustus. I can’t risk him being hurt. She could kill him. And you can’t guarantee that she won’t do something like that again, can you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m not short of money. I’ll be generous towards her. I can pay for her care, for supervision if that’s what’s necessary. She won’t lose out. But I’m frightened of her. I don’t feel I’ll ever be able to relax in her company. I don’t know what to do.’

  She felt a flood of sympathy. ‘Considering the assault on you and Mrs Levand, I don’t think your wife returning to the family home in the near future is currently an option. The courts will decide.’

  ‘But you’ll play your part.’

  ‘Yes. And how is Maggie Levand?’

  ‘Struggling. Still in hospital having breathing problems. The knife punctured her lung.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His face hardened. ‘You’re the one who let her loose,’ he accused. ‘You let her go.’

  She didn’t want to say this but she had to. ‘It is possible that your refusal to have her home contributed in some way to her paranoia and conviction that you and Maggie were having an affair.’

  He looked at her steadily without a visible response. She tried to reassure him. ‘Until Ilsa’s future is decided by the courts she will remain here. But at some point she will be free, Mr Robinson.’

  Robinson said nothing but slowly shook his head. As he left, she could feel his wash of dissatisfaction.

  And she was aware that she had seen the other side of Ilsa now. The violent, unpredictable side her patient had kept carefully hidden behind her veil of anxiety and depression.

  She had failed John Robinson, she had failed Maggie Levand, and now it looked as though she was going to fail Tom Trustrom in his quest to find his daughter’s body. And she’d misunderstood Kobi, who was shadow dancing behind her, mocking her, imitating her moves and adapting them to his own devices, dropping little hints that may or may not mean something.

  Rita had left a note on her desk telling her that Yvonne, Tom’s partner, had left a message asking her to phone back. Wearily she picked up the phone and immediately heard the distress in the woman’s voice. ‘He’s deteriorated, Dr Roget. I don’t think he’ll last much longer. I wondered if you’d got anywhere in the search for his daughter?’

  ‘Not really,’ Claire said. ‘I’m afraid Jonah Kobi isn’t being very helpful.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment in her voice was painful. Yvonne’s next words were a whisper. ‘What if it isn’t him?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What if it isn’t Mr Kobi but …?’

  The doubt Claire had so far suppressed surfaced and caused a physical thump on the chest. She tried to steady her voice. ‘That’s something we may have to consider.’

  As well as, she added silently, the possibility that Tom might have had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. Maybe even her murder. The entire case had turned full circle and hadn’t stopped spinning yet.

  FORTY-TWO

  Friday 18 October, 4 p.m.

  Shane Trustrom lived in a pretty Victorian terraced house overlooking the railway in the small town of Stone. It was a town which had clung on to its high street and weekly open-air market as well as a monthly farmers’ market. In days gone by it had had a thriving shoe industry and today it boasted not only the Trent and Mersey canal but also its own famous brewery, Joules, friend of a million hangovers.

  She parked against the railings and knocked on the door. Shane was tall and thin with a stooped posture and a troubled expression. His breathing was quick and shallow with puffs of exhalation. He was only twenty-four but already balding. He looked more than ten years older, the weight of the world – or possibly his past – resting on his shoulders. Which surprised her. Was it his father’s impending death which was causing him so much anxiety, his sister’s disappearance, or was there something else? Guilt perhaps? His face was deeply scored and his pale eyes, as he shook her hand, looked evasive. He dropped his gaze quickly. Too late. She’d already read them.

  He kept her on the step. ‘I really didn’t want to do this,’ he said. ‘Dig it all up again.’

  ‘It’s your father’s request which has resurrected your sister’s disappearance. Not the police nor some prurient interest of my own.’

  His head flicked up. ‘Disappearance,’ he queried. ‘Are you telling me you don’t even think she’s dead?’

  ‘There’s no evidence,’ she reminded him.

  ‘And if she is dead you have doubts that Jonah Kobi murdered her?’ He sounded incredulous – or worried.

  She managed a watery smile. ‘Mr Trustrom,’ she said, ‘I take nothing for granted.’ She tried to make light of it. ‘In my work I’ve learned to doubt everything.’

  ‘Doubt everything.’ It was a soft, uncertain echo.

  ‘OK.’ He held up his hand, fending her off. Looked up and down the street. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, holding the door open wide.

  She followed him into a kitchen/living room which encompassed almost the entire ground floor of the property. At some point in the past walls had been knocked through and this large open space created. In a Victorian terrace it was a surprise, as though one had stepped out of one era and into another. The kitchen end was modern with cream units and dark granite tops. At the far end bifold doors overlooked the gar
den which was an unimaginative rectangle of grass edged with a high wooden fence.

  Marvel’s brother indicated a chair by the table. ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Yeah. That’d be nice.’

  So they sat around the table and set their mugs on tiny drinks mats. The house was pristine, so clean and tidy it bordered on sterile. There was no sign of the baby; no bottles, sterilizer or infant paraphernalia. Neither were there family photographs.

  Shane saw her looking around. ‘My wife, Kristal,’ he said with pride, ‘she likes the place tidy.’

  Claire nodded, hoping to him it signified approval but really she was reflecting how little warmth the house had as though it held itself together tightly, worried that secrets might leak out. She felt a sudden lust for Grant’s shoes scattered around the place, the scent of woodsmoke and aftershave, deodorant and meals cooked and eaten, the clutter that went with two people personalizing their house so it felt like a home. This place felt sucked in as though it was not even breathing.

  Shane was watching her enquiringly, perhaps still waiting for her approval.

  ‘I don’t know what you think I can …’ He stopped.

  ‘You need to tell me things,’ she said. ‘Anything that links to the time when you last saw your sister. Think back to that day.’

  ‘I don’t have to think very hard,’ he said, looking stricken. ‘I can remember every single minute of that damned day.’

  ‘You were a teenager when your sister vanished.’

  ‘Eighteen.’ He hesitated before speaking. ‘Let me get this straight, Dr Roget,’ he said. ‘Your role is to get Jonah Kobi, convicted killer of four women. Schoolgirls,’ he corrected, ‘to admit to a fifth, the murder of my sister?’ He held his breath while he waited for her response. ‘It would sit nicely on his shoulders, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not if he didn’t do it.’