‘But the guidelines.’
His eyes glistened with intense feeling. ‘Bugger the guidelines, Claire. They don’t allow for real life. Discharge Mavis and she’ll make another attempt and another and another until she succeeds.’
‘Her eighty-fourth.’
‘Believe me. She’s simply not capable of life on the outside.’
She broached the subject then of Marcus Bourne, told Rolf her instincts. His smile extended as he listened but he didn’t say anything until she’d exhausted her thoughts. ‘He’s dangerous all right but not the worst. He’d been clean right up until the Haloperidol loosened his grip. If he stays off unpredictable trips I think his chances of reoffending are pretty slim. He’s just a pottery worker, you know. Just a simple guy.’
She nodded.
‘If you want to meet a really nasty psychopath just wait until you’ve met Jerome Barclay. Now there’s one who’s capable of some dark deeds.’
‘Tell me more.’
Rolf smiled, the gold tooth making him look a maverick. ‘You’ll meet him,’ he promised. ‘Make your own judgement. Unless I’m very much mistaken you’ll meet him this afternoon in clinic. He’s under a fairly close supervision order. Organised by your predecessor.’ Fairweather’s brown eyes were deadly serious.
She wanted to ask him more then about Heidi. But before she could question him further the door had opened and he had jumped to his feet.
‘Kristyna.’
A slim blonde girl somewhere in her twenties wearing baggy cargo pants, a khaki long-sleeved T-shirt and a broad smile burst in, gave them all a wide smile and headed straight for the coffee pot. She poured herself a mug of coffee, took a deep swig and crossed the room towards Claire. ‘Hi,’ she said warmly, stretching out her hand. ‘You must be Claire Roget. I’m so glad you …’ She looked defiantly round the room, ‘had the guts to take up the post. I’m Kristyna. One of the Community Psychiatric Nurses here. We’ll be working together.’
She waved her mug. ‘One of my weaknesses, I’m afraid. Can I pour you some?’
Claire took an instant liking to the nurse. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had one.’
Then in burst Siôna Edwards and Claire could smell the alcohol on him as he poured himself a black coffee. He turned and stared at her completely unabashed.
‘Doctor Roget, I presume.’ There was a note of truculence – of challenge in his voice. She had met it before, resentment against a doctor, a female at that. Inwardly she sighed. She could deal with this.
She shook hands.
Two other psychiatric nurses joined them before Rolf took command. ‘Right – anyone else should be here?’
‘No – I think that’s it. Apologies from Dawn. Dentist. Just a check-up but with appointments so tight she didn’t want to put it off.’
‘First of all the introductions. I think you all know Claire, Doctor Roget, taken over from Heidi.’
Claire searched the rim of faces but the returning expressions were bland. She could almost have convinced herself that Heidi had left to take up another post had it not been for a certain wariness in them all and Kristyna’s words. But the bluntness of the psychiatric nurse endeared her to her. And something in the pale eyes told her a hideous truth – that Heidi never had left Greatbach – alive. Not all of her anyway. Parts of her were still here, on her consulting room walls, not quite hidden by the many coats of paint.
Edwards, Kristyna, Rolf and the others were watching her expectantly. Waiting for her to open the meeting so she outlined her clinic yesterday and her plans for the remainder of the day then invited them to continue.
Siôna Edwards told her that Harry Sowerby was settling down with the highest dose of Lithium they were allowed to give him. ‘Bit of a shame, really,’ he said. ‘Like pricking a balloon. He gets that deflated when he realises what he’s done. Don’t know what’s worse, really, in bipolar disorders, the ups or the downs.’
‘Both as bad as each other,’ Kristyna returned, pouring herself a second coffee, gold bangles jingling on the slim wrists. She winked at Claire. ‘But the ups are more fun. Scandalous. I bet he said something about you being a natural blonde, Claire.’
They both giggled.
The comment sparked off a brief discussion, peppered with amusing ancedotes about manic depressives during which Claire studied Kristyna closely, taking in the smooth, olive-toned skin, the white, even teeth, her mannerisms, the throwing back of her head when laughing, the twitch of her shoulders as she talked, the animated way her hands seemed to shape words, something confident, inviting, almost provocative in her manner. There was a glimpse of midriff between her top and the trousers which were low-slung. Her hair was dragged back in a swinging sixties ponytail and she had pretty little lapis lazuli pins in her earlobes, gold studs in the curl at the top of the ear, another stud on the left side of her nose. She was sitting with her legs apart, her feet encased in leather cowboy boots, tapping in time to some secret rhythm. She gave Claire another of her wide grins which Claire returned. Then she cleared her throat.
‘I’ve only got one concern,’ she said. ‘It’s Nancy Gold.’
It was as though a shudder rippled through the room which Claire could not understand, as though the name touched a raw nerve.
She waited. Someone, surely, would fill her in.
That someone was, unexpectedly, Siôna.
‘Nancy is a tragedy,’ he said slowly. ‘Twenty-three years old. She killed her baby. Held him under bath water. Then hid the body for six months in the airing cupboard. In the old days,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘she’d have been hanged for infanticide.’
Claire looked from one face to another.
‘Thank God infanticide is dealt with differently these days. Enlightenment has shone forgiveness on women who kill their own children.’
‘Steady steady,’ Siôna said.
Claire met his eyes and waited. For Nancy even to be here there must be more.
‘He was only ten months old, ‘Siôna said. ‘His name was George. The post mortem showed up bruises on his chest from where the little chap had struggled against her.’ A swell of sympathy rippled around the room.
‘I take it there was no doubt it was Nancy. It’s more usual for …’
She had been about to say, the father – or the stepfather.
‘That’s why she’s here,’ Kristyna said softly, ‘rather than in prison. When the police confronted her with the PM findings she confessed.’
‘Oh?’ Claire was no nearer understanding.
‘It was her motive,’ Siôna explained. ‘She said she’d had it explained to her when she’d gone into the church. She was devoted to her boyfriend – a nasty, psychopathic piece of work named Hove Watson. She claimed that the statue of the Virgin Mary told her that the only way she would keep her man was to destroy her child. That he would come between them. Initially she was sent to prison but she attempted suicide and then kept going berserk, saying she’d only done what she was told and screaming to be with this germ of a man. Some women,’ he said.
And what was that supposed to mean?
‘Was this germ of a man the child’s father?’
‘Probably.’
No one spoke and yet words and thoughts were still flying around because Rolf spoke next.
‘And yet,’ he said. ‘There is something so – untouched – almost virginal about her. It’s as though … She’s been in for four years now and we’re no nearer knowing what’s going on in that pretty head of hers.’
Siôna cleared his throat noisily.
‘So what’s your concern today, Kristyna?’
‘It’s hard to say. The ward staff spoke to me about her. She keeps slipping away. Disappearing off the ward, using the telephone. They think she has a secret. I don’t know what it is. She isn’t due for an assessment yet but there’s something changed about her. Something –. Just meet her, Claire,’ she pleaded. ‘You’ll know what I mean then.’
Alrea
dy Claire knew that Kristyna’s professional judgement was one she would learn to rely on. ‘OK, Kristyna, I will. I may not have time today but tomorrow. I’d like to spend some time with her.’
Rolf spoke up. ‘And I wonder if you’d go and see Kap.’
Everyone groaned.
‘What’s wrong this time?’ Siôna sounded gruff.
Rolf explained to Claire. ‘He’s a pothead, Rastafarian guy. Very very paranoid. Like some days he won’t come out of the corner. A result of years of smoking de ganja man.’
They all laughed.
‘So what’s your specific concern?’
‘He lunged at one of the nurses with a knife last night. It was only an ordinary table knife but it unnerved us. It’s the first time he’s ever been really violent. It came out of the blue, took us by surprise.’
‘Did he have an explanation?’
‘The usual. Someone was out to get him. That he wasn’t safe. That blood had flowed. That he would have to pay the price.’
Heidi, she thought suddenly. It was true – in fact a graphic description. Blood had flowed. Arterial blood is under huge pressure. Slice through an artery and it sprays everywhere. Like a power pressure hose.
No one else seemed to have made the connection. They were all still smiling.
Denial?
She joined them to smile too. ‘I’ll talk to him later,’ she promised. ‘He may need…’
‘Sedation,’ they all chimed in.
Her clinic this afternoon was full of routine NHS work, anxiety, agorophobia, depression, schizophrenics, manic depressives. Bread and butter stuff really until late in the afternoon she recognised the next name, Jerome Barclay. And according to her screen he had already arrived and been waiting for almost half an hour. He had arrived early. She flicked open his notes and read just one of Heidi’s resumés.
Initially it was hard to see exactly why Barclay was being so closely observed. Five years ago he had apparently committed a violent offence against his mother who had subsequently refused to press charges or to submit to any medico-legal examination. But she had been admitted to hospital with injuries to her face – a depressed fracture of the zygomatic arch, a broken jaw, displaced teeth and a minor head injury which had apparently resulted from a fall backwards. It didn’t exactly need a degree in forensic pathology to work out that she had been hit from the front, hard enough to cause broken bones of the face, and had subsequently fallen backwards with some force.
But her story had changed to having walked into a door and falling backwards. She said she had been drinking. And although blood alcohol levels were low – consistent with nothing more than a glass of wine – she had flatly refused to press charges against her son, had denied he was even in the house at the time and said it was lucky he had turned up later or else she might not have had hospital treatment. This in spite of a neighbour having heard mother and son rowing.
Heidi had interviewed Barclay who had backed up his mother’s fable and nothing had been done. No charges had been pressed.
But a year or two later a girlfriend, Sadie Whittaker, had also accused him of serious assault. She too had been badly injured by being run over with a car which Barclay had been driving. Later, like Barclay’s mother, she too had retracted her initial statement which had claimed that Barclay had driven deliberately, glassy-eyed, towards her.
She now said it had been an accident, that she had stepped in front of his car following a row and that he couldn’t possibly have seen her. There had been no witnesses. The incident had happened late at night in a quiet, unlit road near where Ms Whittaker had lived so it had been her word against his.
Once again the initial charge had been withdrawn.
Claire could almost hear the police gnashing their teeth with frustration. There was such underlying brutality in both assaults and yet no conviction.
She scanned quickly through the rest of the notes. There were other misdemeanors since youth. Most of his earlier criminal charges had been minor theft from shops, garage forecourts, some casual theft of money from his work and more specifically a couple of forged cheques from his mother’s bank account. She was a widow, Barclay’s father having died when he was ten years old.
It was difficult to see why there was such a close supervision order on him. Heidi had spoken to Barclay every month and he was the one patient Rolf Fairweather had singled out to warn her against. Claire was very curious as she pressed the buzzer to call Barclay through.
She waited for a minute, two minutes. He should have been here by now. The waiting room was only feet away. And he would already know the way. This was hardly his first attendance. She was just wondering whether she should call him in again or if the computer was wrong and that he had not arrived when he sauntered in, without knocking.
She noted it as deliberate dominance – typical sociopathic behaviour. A kind of one-upmanship. Marking his territory and status like an animal peeing against a tree.
She stayed seated.
He was an unremarkable-looking guy – of medium height, around five nine, five ten, medium build, slightly pale skin, medium brown hair, cut neat and short. He was wearing loose-fitting grey Chinos and a cream sweater, sleeves rolled up to expose sinewy forearms, and he smelt vaguely of cinammon as though he’d just drunk a cappuccino. He gave her a brief smile as she introduced herself. His eye contact was good. Forthright and confident. Possibly arrogant.
Which fitted.
It was time to get to know him.
He watched her warily.
‘I already know a little about you, Jerome, from a brief glance through Doctor Faro’s notes.’
He gave her an almost shy smile. She had meant to explain that he need not give all his past medical history but he interrupted her. ‘What do you know – exactly?’
‘I know that you are the subject of a supervision order in the community. I know that you have been convicted of a string of minor offences – robbery, forging cheques. I know that your mother suffered injuries a few years ago but no charges were ever pressed and I know too that your girlfriend suffered similar ill-fortune.’
She knew these types. It was better not to mince words but to set out clear parameters in the early days. Not to let them believe that they had fooled you.
Barclay blinked.
‘Because of Doctor Faro’s death it’s been more than three months since anyone has seen you. Perhaps you could fill me in on what you’ve been doing.’
‘Some work.’ His voice was pleasant and that, combined with his shy, rather diffident smile made her wonder about him. Her hand wandered away from the panic button.
‘What sort of work?’
‘Office work – through an agency.’
‘Full time?’
‘Nah. Just when I want to go in.’ Another smile. ‘Don’t want to overdo it, do I, doc?’
‘So you go in when you feel like it.’ Another black mark. ‘And you’re living where?’
‘With my mum. I’ve got a sort of self-contained flat there. Over the garage. My own kitchen and bathroom but my mum does most of the cooking.’
‘She’s a good cook?’
It was only making conversation but something crossed his face. Anger. A flame lit the dark eyes, flickered, flared and was suppressed. She noticed he didn’t answer the question.
‘So …’ She was suddenly at a loss. It was tempting to assume that everything in the garden was rosy. That Mr Barclay had finally learned the error of his ways and was going straight. Personality disorder was something you grew out of – eventually. Perhaps he had reached this point but Heidi had not recognised it. Or maybe. Just maybe he was simply being clever.
‘You manage all right for money?’ she floundered.
An amused smile. ‘I manage. Thank you.’
‘Your job pays well?’
‘Enough.’
‘You mother helps you out?’
‘Don’t you think that that’s between my mother and myself?’ Said almo
st gently, in a soft voice. She bent over the notes so he couldn’t read her face.
Time to ruffle your feathers, Barclay, and see what’s really going on.
She wrote something down on his notes: part time job, goes in when he feels like it.
‘Have you committed any offences in the last few months? You know we will check with the police,’ she added.
The nice smile was back again. ‘No need for that. I’m clean.’
‘Good.’
She put her pen down on the desk. ‘Have there been any times when you’ve been tempted to commit an offence?’
He shook his head – almost ruefully.
‘Why is that, Jerome, do you think?’
He blinked as though genuinely puzzled. ‘I expect I’ve grown out of my evil ways.’ Said with mockery.
‘Do you regret the cheque fraud and other offences?’ She deliberately left the sentence to hang, ambiguously. Let him read what he liked into it.
She only wanted him to admit to the offences. Remorse would have been an unexpected bonus. It should have been easy for him to have affected remorse.
He leaned forward. ‘If you want the truth, Doctor Roget – regret? No.’ His eyes met hers, unblinking. ‘If I had attacked my mother – well it might have been because she was – she could be – the most unco-operative of women. And as for Sadie – well.’
She was beginning to understand why Rolf, Siôna and Kristyna had alerted her to Barclay. Even amongst psychopaths he was King, displaying a complete disregard for the rules that existed between psychiatrist and patient – or client. And she began to realise that this consultation, like probably all the others, was nothing but a game to him, a game which he was beginning to find boring and tedious. He even smothered a yawn.
Again she tried to flush him out.
‘If you needed money? If the office job came to an end? What would you do?’
A Plea of Insanity Page 4
