The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  Waiting for the coffee to cool, he said, ‘If there’s anything else interesting, this is where we’ll probably find it,’ and unlocked the drawer.

  Inside there was nothing but a beige manila folder, the inside pocket stuffed with papers. The coffee for the moment forgotten, they pushed the mugs to one side and Kate pulled in a chair beside Dalgliesh. The papers were almost entirely copies of press cuttings, at the top an article from a Sunday broadsheet dated February 1995. The heading was stark: Killed Because She Was Too Pretty. Underneath, taking half the page, was a photograph of a young girl. It looked like a school photograph. The fair hair had been carefully brushed and tied with a bow to one side, and the white cotton blouse, looking pristine clean, was open at the neck and worn with a dark blue tunic. The child had indeed been pretty. Even simply posed and with no particular skill in lighting, the stark photograph conveyed something of the frank confidence, the openness to life and the vulnerability of childhood. As Kate stared at it, the image seemed to disintegrate into dust and became a meaningless blur, then refocused again.

  Beneath the image the reporter, eschewing the worst of hyperbole or outrage, had been content to let the story speak for itself. Today in the Crown Court, Shirley Beale, aged twelve years and eight months, pleaded guilty to the murder of her nine-year-old sister, Lucy. She strangled Lucy with her school tie, then bashed in the face she hated until it was unrecognisable. All she has said, either at the time of the arrest or since, is that she did it because Lucy was too pretty. Beale will be sent to a secure children’s unit until she can be transferred at seventeen to a young offenders’ institution. Silford Green, a quiet East London suburb, has become a place of horror. Full report on page five. Sophie Langton writes on page 12 – ‘What Makes Children Kill?’

  Dalgliesh turned over the cutting. Beneath it, clipped to a plain sheet of paper, was a photograph. The same uniform, the same white blouse, only this time with a school tie, the face turned to the camera with a look Kate remembered from her own school photographs, resentful, a little nervous, participating in a small annual rite of passage, unwillingly but resigned. It was an oddly adult face, and it was one they knew.

  Dalgliesh took up his magnifying glass again, studied the picture, then handed the glass to Kate. The distinctive features were there, the high forehead, the slightly protuberant eyes, the small precise mouth with the full upper lip, an unremarkable face which it was now impossible to see as innocent or childish. The eyes stared into the camera as inexpressive as the dots which formed the image, the lower lip seeming fuller now in adulthood but with the same suggestion of a petulant obstinacy. As Kate stared, her mind superimposed a very different picture: a child’s face smashed into blood and broken bone, fair hair caked in blood. It hadn’t been a case for the Met and with a guilty plea there had been no trial, but the murder stirred old memories for her and, she thought, for Dalgliesh.

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Sharon Bateman. I wonder how Gradwyn managed to get hold of this. It’s odd they were able to publish it. Restrictions must have been lifted.’

  It wasn’t the only thing Rhoda had managed to get hold of. Her research had obviously started since her first visit to the Manor, and it had been thorough. The first cutting was followed by others. Former neighbours had been voluble, both in expressing horror and spilling out information about the family. There were pictures of the small terraced house in which the children had lived with their mother and grandmother. At the time of the murder the parents were divorced, their father having walked out two years previously. Neighbours still living in the street reported that the marriage had been turbulent but there had been no trouble with the children, no police or social workers round or anything like that. Lucy was the pretty one, no doubt about it, but the girls had seemed to get on all right. Shirley was the quiet one, a bit surly, not exactly a friendly child. Their memories, obviously influenced by the horror of what had happened, suggested the child had always been the odd one out. They reported sounds of quarrels, shouting and occasional blows before the parents parted but the children had always seemed properly cared for. The grandmother saw to that. There had been a succession of lodgers after the father left – some obviously boyfriends of the mother, although this was reported with tact – and one or two students looking for cheap accommodation, none of whom stayed long.

  Rhoda Gradwyn had somehow or other got hold of the postmortem report. Death had been by strangulation and the injuries to the face, which had destroyed the eyes and broken the nose, were inflicted after death. Gradwyn had also traced and interviewed one of the police officers concerned with the case. There had been no mystery. Death had occurred at about three thirty on a Saturday afternoon when the grandmother, then aged sixty-nine, had gone to a local hall to play bingo. It was not unusual for the children to be left alone. The murder had been discovered when the grandmother returned home at six o’clock. Lucy’s body was on the floor of the kitchen in which the family mostly lived, and Shirley was upstairs asleep in her bed. She had made no attempt to wash her sister’s blood from her hands and arms. Her fingerprints were on the weapon, an old flat iron which was used as a doorstop, and she had admitted killing her sister with no more emotion than if she had confessed to leaving her briefly alone.

  Kate and Dalgliesh sat for a moment in silence. Kate knew that their thoughts ran in parallel. This discovery was a complication which would influence both their perception of Sharon as a suspect – how could it fail to? – and the conduct of the investigation. She saw it now as fraught with procedural pitfalls. Both victims had been strangled; that fact might prove irrelevant, but it was still a fact. Sharon Bateman – and they would continue to use that name – wouldn’t be living in the community if the authorities hadn’t seen her as no longer a threat. To that extent, wasn’t she entitled to be regarded as one of the suspects, no more likely to be guilty than any of the others? And who else knew? Had Chandler-Powell been told? Had Sharon confided in anyone at the Manor and, if so, in whom? Had Rhoda Gradwyn suspected Sharon’s identity from the first and was that why she had stayed on? Had she threatened exposure and, if so, had Sharon, or perhaps someone else who knew the truth, taken steps to stop her? And if they arrested someone else, wouldn’t the very presence of a convicted murderer at the Manor influence the Crown Prosecution Service in deciding whether the case would stand up in court? The thoughts seemed to tumble in her mind but she didn’t voice them. With Dalgliesh she was always careful not to state the obvious.

  Now Dalgliesh said, ‘This year we’ve had the separation of functions in the Home Office but I think I’ve got the changes more or less clear in my mind. Since May the new Ministry of Justice became responsible for the National Offender Management Service and the probation officers who undertake the supervision are now called offender managers. Sharon will certainly have one. I’ll have to check that I’ve got the facts right, but my understanding is that an offender has to spend at least four trouble-free years in the community before the supervision is lifted but the licence remains in force for life so that a lifer is eligible to be recalled at any point.’

  Kate said, ‘But surely Sharon has a legal obligation to inform her PO that she’s become involved, even if innocent, in a case of murder?’

  ‘Certainly she should have done, but if she hasn’t, the National Offender Management Service will learn about it tomorrow when the news breaks. Sharon should also have told them about her change of job. Whether or not she has been in touch with her supervisor, it’s certainly my responsibility to inform the probation service and theirs to provide a report for the Ministry of Justice. It’s the probation service not the police who must handle the information and make decisions on a need-to-know basis.’

  Kate said, ‘So we say and do nothing until Sharon’s supervisor takes over? But don’t we need to interview her again? This alters her status in the investigation.’

  ‘Obviously it’s important for the supervising officer to be present when we do question Sharon, and
I’d like that to be tomorrow if possible. Sunday isn’t the best day to get this set up, but I can probably get in touch with the supervising officer through the duty officer at the Ministry of Justice. I’ll phone Benton. I need to have Sharon watched but it has to be done with complete discretion. While I get this set up, could you continue looking through the files here? I’ll phone from the dining room downstairs. It may take some time.’

  Left alone, Kate settled again to the files. She knew that Dalgliesh had left her so that she could be undisturbed and it would indeed have been difficult to sort conscientiously through the remaining boxes without listening to what he was saying.

  Half an hour later she heard Dalgliesh’s foot on the stairs. Coming in, he said, ‘That was rather quicker than I feared. There were the general hoops to be jumped through but I got the supervising probation officer in the end. A Mrs Madeleine Rayner. Fortunately she lives in London and I caught her just as she was leaving for a family lunch. She’ll come to Wareham tomorrow by an early train and I’ll arrange for Benton to meet her and bring her straight to the Old Police Cottage. If possible I want her visit to be unnoticed. She seems convinced that Sharon needs no particular supervision and isn’t a danger, but the sooner she leaves the Manor the better.’

  Kate asked, ‘Are you thinking of going back to Dorset now, sir?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing to be done about Sharon until Mrs Rayner arrives tomorrow. We’ll go on to Droughton and clear up the matter of the car. We’ll take the copy of the will, the file about Sharon and the article on plagiarism, but I think that’s all, unless you’ve found anything else relevant.’

  Kate said, ‘Nothing that’s new to us, sir. There’s an article about the huge losses suffered by the Lloyd’s Names in the early 1990s. Miss Cressett told us that Sir Nicholas was among them and was forced to sell Cheverell Manor. The best pictures were apparently sold separately. There’s a picture of the Manor and one of Sir Nicholas. The article isn’t particularly kind to the Names but I can’t see it as a possible motive for murder. We know that Helena Cressett wasn’t especially anxious to have Miss Gradwyn under her roof. Shall I put this article with the rest of the papers?’

  ‘Yes, I think we should have anything she wrote which relates to the Manor. But I agree. The article on the Names is hardly a credible motive for anything more dangerous than a cool reception when Miss Gradwyn arrived. I’ve been looking through the box of correspondence with her agent. It seems she was thinking of cutting down on the journalism and writing a biography. It might be helpful to see her agent, but that can wait. Anyway, add any relevant letters, will you, Kate, and we’ll need to write a list for Macklefield of what we’ve taken, but that can be done later.’

  He took a large exhibit bag from his case and got the papers together while Kate went to the kitchen and washed up the mug and toothbrush holder, quickly checking that anything she had disturbed was now back in its place. Rejoining Dalgliesh, she sensed that he had liked the house, that he had been tempted to revisit the rooftop, that it was in this unencumbered seclusion that he, too, could happily live and work. But it was with relief that she stood again in Absolution Alley and watched in silence as he closed and double locked the door.

  2

  Benton thought it unlikely that Robin Boyton would be an early riser and it was after ten before he and DC Warren set off to walk to Rose Cottage. The cottage, like the adjoining one occupied by the Westhalls, was stone walled under a slate roof. There was a garage to the left with standing for a car, and in front a small garden, mostly of low shrubs, cut by a narrow strip of crazy paving. The porch was covered with strong intertwined boughs, and a few tight and browning buds and a single pink rose in full bloom explained the name of the cottage. DC Warren pressed the brightly polished bell to the right of the door but it was a full minute before Benton detected footfalls followed by the rasp of bolts being drawn and the click of the raised latch. The door was opened wide and Robin Boyton stood before them, unmoving and seeming deliberately to block their entrance. There was a moment of uneasy silence before he stood aside and said, ‘You’d better come in. I’m in the kitchen.’

  They entered a small square hall, unfurnished except for an oak bench next to uncarpeted wooden stairs. The door to the left was open and the glimpse of easy chairs, a sofa, a polished circular table and what looked like a range of watercolours on the far wall suggested that this was the sitting room. They followed Boyton through the open door to the right. The room stretched the length of the cottage and was full of light. At the garden end was the kitchen with a double sink, a green Aga, a central working surface, and a dining area with an oak rectangular table and six chairs. Against the wall facing the door a large dresser with cupboards held a miscellany of jugs, mugs and plates while the space under the front window had been furnished with a coffee table and four low chairs, all old and none matching.

  Taking control, Benton introduced DC Warren and himself, then moved towards the table. He said, ‘Shall we sit here?’ and seated himself with his back to the garden. He said, ‘Perhaps you would sit opposite, Mr Boyton,’ leaving Boyton no choice but to take the facing chair with the light from the windows full on his face.

  He was still under some strong emotion, whether grief, fear or perhaps a mixture of both, and looked as if he hadn’t slept. His skin was drab, the forehead beaded with sweat, and the blue eyes darkly shrouded. But he had recently shaved and Benton detected a confusion of smells – soap, aftershave and, when Boyton spoke, a trace of alcohol on his breath. He had managed in the short time since his arrival to make the room look untidy and dirty. The draining board was piled with food-encrusted plates and smeared glasses and the sink held a couple of saucepans, while his long black coat hanging over the back of a chair, a pair of muddy trainers near the French window and open newspapers strewn on the coffee table completed the air of general dishevelment, a room temporarily occupied but without pleasure.

  Looking at Boyton, Benton thought that his was a face that would always be memorable; the strong waves of yellow hair falling without artifice over the forehead, the remarkable eyes, the strong perfect curve of the lips. But it wasn’t beauty which could withstand tiredness, sickness or fear. Already there were signs of incipient decadence in a draining of vitality, the pouches under the eyes, a slackness of the muscles round the mouth. But, if he had fortified himself for the ordeal, when he spoke it was without slurring.

  Now, turning, he gestured towards the stove and said, ‘Coffee? Tea? I haven’t had breakfast. In fact, I can’t remember when I last ate, but I mustn’t waste police time. Or would a mug of coffee count as bribery and corruption?’

  Benton said, ‘Are you saying you aren’t fit to be questioned?’

  ‘I’m as fit as I’m likely to be, given the circumstances. I expect you take murder in your stride, Sergeant – it was Sergeant, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith and Detective Constable Warren.’

  ‘The rest of us find murder distressing, especially when the victim is a friend, but of course you’re only doing your job, an excuse these days for practically anything. I expect you want to take down my particulars – that sounds indecent – my full name and address, if the Westhalls haven’t already provided it. I had a flat but I had to give it up – a little difficulty with the landlord about the rent – so I’m lodging with my business partner in his house in Maida Vale.’

  He gave his address and watched while Constable Warren wrote it down, his huge hand moving with deliberation over the notebook.

  Benton asked, ‘And what job do you do, Mr Boyton?’

  ‘You can put me down as an actor. I have an Equity card and from time to time, given the opportunity, I act. I’m also what you might call an entrepreneur. I get ideas. Some of them work and some of them don’t. When I’m not acting and have no bright ideas, I get help from my friends. And if that fails, I look to a benevolent government for what is laughingly called the job-seeker’s allowance.’ />
  Benton asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve rented the cottage. I’ve paid for it. I’m on holiday. That’s what I’m doing here.’

  ‘But why at this time? December can’t be the most propitious month for a holiday.’

  The blue eyes fixed on Benton’s. ‘I could ask you what you’re doing here. I look more at home than you do, Sergeant. The voice so very English, the face so very – well – Indian. Still, it must have helped you to get taken on. It can’t be easy, the job you’ve chosen – not easy for your colleagues, I mean. One disrespectful or disobliging word about your colour and they’d find themselves sacked or hauled up before one of those race-relations tribunals. Hardly part of the police-canteen culture, are you? Not one of the boys. Can’t be easy to cope with.’

  Malcolm Warren looked up and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as if deploring one more example of the propensity of people in a hole to go on digging, then returned to his notebook, his hand again moving slowly across the page.

  Benton said calmly, ‘Will you answer my question, please? I’ll put it differently. Why are you here at this particular time?’

  ‘Because Miss Gradwyn asked me to come. She booked in for an operation which would be life-changing for her, and she wanted to have a friend here to join her for her week’s convalescence. I come to this cottage fairly regularly, as no doubt my cousins have told you. It was probably because the assistant surgeon, Marcus, is my cousin and I recommended the Manor that Rhoda came here. Anyway, she said she needed me, so I came. Does that answer your question?’