They parted at eleven, sauntering in different directions. Hanley is a hilly member of the five towns and it was downhill to a pay and display car park crowded with late-leaving theatregoers. The light was poor and she had parked in a far corner of the yard, right up against a chain link fence. But something must have registered.
One doesn’t examine one’s car for damage each time you return to it.
In the light of the lamp she could see there was a blistering around the bonnet, high on the right wing, over the wheel arch. An area as wide as a foot in places.
An acid splash.
She stared at it, working it out from the beginning, standing still until she had worked the first part out.
Barclay had turned his attention on to her now.
She began to panic. Vehicles were moving away. The car park was emptying fast. She must report this. She pulled out her mobile phone – then put it back. She couldn’t hang around for the police. She must get out of here. Fast. As she unlocked the car door she scanned the emptying yard, peered into the back seat.
Where was he?
She dropped into her seat, locked the door behind her, glancing down only long enough to put her key in the ignition and see the splash of acid on the floor. Her window must have been left slightly open.
Her hand shook. She couldn’t turn the key.
She allowed herself a swift check of the back seats, the floor, a glance in the rear view mirror.
Sometimes we are more frightened of what we can not see.
She finally started the engine, joined the irritated queue to get out and drove home eyeing the rear view mirror every few seconds. But how can you identify the anonymous headlights of a car?
She was even glad to see Grant stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.
She told nobody about the incident but buried it at the back of her mind where it lay, slimy and repellent, with the faint odour of something disgusting but not quite solid. Grant’s lifestyle had its advantages. He asked no questions but promised to drop the car off at the garage, get a quote for the work and arrange a hire car. So she offloaded her problem on to him and he took it on while she tried not to think that Barclay must have watched her, probably at the hospital, to know which car was hers before stalking her that night while she had been feasting at the Italian restaurant, with a friend, believing herself anonymous.
Had he known that Kristyna would tell her about the acid?
Instinctively she accepted the fact that this was her punishment for summoning his mother to the clinic to check up on him and for discharging him, refusing to enter into his game of ‘look how bad I can be’.
But rob an attention-seeking person of the attention and he quickly becomes frustrated.
She knew that at some point he would reappear at outpatients and she would have to face him. She could not refuse.
But the question that underlay her professional interest was: was he a danger to society?
Answer: She didn’t know.
She cupped her chin in her hand and stared at the emulsioned wall. How could anyone know until after an act had been committed? She was not God to peer into the future. And Barclay was perfectly capable of teasing her, letting her believe he was a danger when in reality he was not.
Ah yes, argued the voice of conflict from inside. But he is also capable of doing the exact opposite – encouraging you to believe he is not a danger when the converse is the truth.
How can you know?
Answer: you cannot.
She didn’t even really know whether he had revelled in the supervision order or resented it?
Later still she remembered something else Kristyna had mentioned and found another fear. Did he know where she lived?
Had he followed her home from the hospital?
Was her home safe?
In her worst fears she even recalled his interest in the arson case and wonderd how safe she was in her bed at night.
Because however we try to protect ourselves if someone wishes us harm we are not safe.
The phrase echoed around her skull.
We are not safe.
She was not safe. If Barclay had really decided to get to her she didn’t have a chance. The acid attack proved that. And that was its purpose. To show her how vulnerable she really was.
It all came down to the question. How dangerous was Barclay? How far would he go? What was his intent?
Look for the clues, Claire.
He had all the characteristics of a psychopath. He failed to make close relationships, despised any human being within his sphere.
Except his mother who was simply a means to an end. No – particularly his mother because he had complete control over her. Which led her to another realisation. If he had forbidden Cynthia to attend the clinic she would not have come. Had it been her threat then which had forced his hand? Had she then some power over him?
So – again the continual question – how dangerous was Barclay?
She tried to be professional, to study the question from all angles, knowing that Heidi was her guide through the tortuous mind of Jerome Barclay.
And Heidi was dead.
She wished that when she even thought the name, Heidi, she did not have this vision of her mentor, a gaping wound in her throat, swinging – ever so slowly and rhythmically – against the door, as steady and regular as a metronome.
Tick – tock – tick – tock. Back and forth, her mouth still moving. Directing her. ‘Questions, Claire. You must ask questions.’
But they must be oblique, subtle enough for him not to realise she was on to him.
She didn’t know how much the acid incident had upset her until three weeks later when she saw Barclay’s name on her outpatient list and began to shake. And she knew that she had lost the professional armour that should protect her. She had discharged him, flung him back into the world, like a fish with a torn mouth. She had wanted him to swim away into oblivion. So why had he come back?
For nothing particular, it seemed.
He chatted about the usual subjects, interpersonal relationships, work ethic, the way he viewed women and more specifically how he saw his mother, while she wanted to ask only one question. Why have you come back to see me?
His chatter was less than satisfactory.
‘Friends? Yeah.’ Today he was well-dressed in black jeans, a white T-shirt, an expensive-looking Oakley watch, black, suede trainers that looked brand new.
Had he been on a shoplifting spree or had he wangled extra money out of his mother?
Whatever – his hair was slicked back and he looked pale and a little tired.
‘I got mates,’ he said.
‘Tell me about them – your friends – the people you socialise with. What do you do with them? Go clubbing, down the pub?’
The subject of the spoilt car lay fallow between them.
He looked at her as though he pitied her. ‘You don’t know me very well, do you, Doctor Roget? I thought you understood a little bit more about me than that. Clubbing and pubbing isn’t exactly my scene.’
‘So what is your scene?’
‘I like to play records.’
‘Alone?’
‘Alone.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Surf the net.’
She wondered what websites he visited.
‘What are your interests, Jerome?’
He thought about that one. ‘I suppose what makes people tick.’
‘Tick?’
He merely smiled. That irritating, supercilious bend of the mouth.
‘So what do you do in the evenings?’
He moved his chair softly over the carpet towards her. ‘I like to go to the theatre,’ he said.
He was baiting her. That was why he had come. To draw her closer, burrow beneath her skin, like a scabious worm.
‘Anything else?’ It annoyed her that her throat was dry. Unable to manufacture saliva she wanted a glass of water. But to leave now would be interpreted as
a cop-out, the doctor backing down. But if she had heard the crack in her voice, so had he.
He simply studied her before adding, ‘And I like to walk.’
‘In the evenings? In the winter too?’
‘Best in the winter, Doctor Roget.’
‘Why?’
The eyes searched hers. ‘I thought you’d have worked that one out.’ A pause. Just long enough for her to summon up a faint smear of spit to moisten her tongue.
‘Because people leave their curtains open. They switch their lights on. And I can see in.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Plenty. People coming home to an empty house. Throwing their bags on the chair.’
She knew he was talking about women. Only women.
‘Coming out of the shower. Dripping wet. Drying themselves. Sitting on their settees, thinking no one’s watching. Talking to their friends on the phone. Watching television. Meeting in restaurants, eating, drinking, thinking no one is watching.’
That was when she understood. While Barclay was a free man no one was safe. As he had planned the acid attack over her car so he plotted other events, intimidations.
‘Why do you like watching women?’ she asked in a low voice.
If he said something – pathological – she could have him committed. She waited for him to fall into the trap.
She had a chance. Barclay was in a trance. Outside himself. Unconscious. His pupils were dilated, his tongue visible between his lips, a faint, pink show. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was excited.
But he was smart, in control. Too clever not to see she was setting traps. He came to. ‘I like people-watching,’ he said in the affected, social way folk do at parties, confessing to an odd habit which isn’t odd at all. ‘It’s quite a common pursuit, isn’t it, People Watching.’
‘Every time I think I have him he slips away. But one day …’ Heidi’s words.
Claire shared the thought. But one day I shall ensnare you.
Now she was the one who stared back boldly.
And it was for Barclay to take up the challenge.
Claire gave a bland smile. Such a useful facial expression to cover up a whole host of reactions. Shock. Fear. Unease. And sneaking in on the wings of these a superiority which Barclay recognised. His eyes widened in surprise as he stared back at her.
She took advantage of the moment. ‘How do you get on with your mother, Jerome?’
The mouth closed. The pupils shrunk. On the arms of the chair his hands clenched.
‘We get on fine, Doctor Roget. How do you get on with yours?’
‘Equally fine,’ she said easily but sensed that he would have picked up on the sudden tightness of her own hand.
It was all a game.
His eyes flickered. He would save this up and use it later.
‘So when do you want to see me again?’
She didn’t.
‘I don’t think I need to,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Not ever?’
‘No.’
‘No follow up?’
‘No,’ she said again.
For the second time she had thrown down the gauntlet, the challenge. How would he respond this time?
He walked deliberately to the door, turned just as deliberately and ran his index finger lightly across his throat.
She watched, mesmerised, as the door swung closed behind him.
How little of himself he gave away. How clever he was.
It was all so well-covered – just beneath the surface, hidden from view. And yet it was there, as subtle and elusive as a butterfly fluttering behind a muslin curtain.
And was her response tinged – only a very little – with admiration?
Long after he had gone she breathed in the faint scent of him. Coal tar soap. It reminded her of her childhood, the happy time before she had a brother, creeping out of bed across a cool carpet, to prop the door open with books, Treasure Island, Moby Dick, Anne of Green Gables, Pollyanna, and listen to her mother’s fingers dancing over the piano keys to play Schubert and Chopin, Beethoven and Dvorak.
But the feeling of happiness, that wonderful colourwash that all was well with the world, was gone. For ever. Destroyed.
After Adam had been born her mother had stopped playing the piano – even though she had begged her to. Something of that happiness had vanished and never ever returned. It had gone for ever.
So – back to the problem. How dangerous was Barclay?
That was when she began to understand the nature of what had spooked Heidi Faro, the reason why she had kept the supervision order up on Barclay for years, keeping it closely, and warily, like a python. Keep a tight rein on its tail, the dangerous bit, or it will wrap itself around you, crush all life from you.
Heidi had been afraid that if she relaxed the supervision order Barclay would kill.
Maybe he had.
She had been the one to uncork the bottle, let the evil genie out.
What now?
Chapter Seven
It took her less than a day to work out how she could penetrate Barclay’s armour.
She looked up Sadie Whittaker’s address and drew a blank. Undeterred, she found that of her parents and contacted them. Naturally, once they’d found out who she was they weren’t too helpful. All they would give her was a mobile phone number which gave her no clue as to where in the country Sadie Whittaker had settled.
It took four tries to finally track her down and find out she was living in the garden city of Letchworth.
Sadie had put miles between her and her one-time boyfriend.
And she didn’t sound at all pleased to learn that he was still around and that Claire was the psychiatrist in charge of him. The last thing she wanted was to meet up. Claire tried to persuade her.
Eventually Sadie capitulated but she still didn’t want Claire to come to her house. It was a stalemate until Claire suggested she take the train down to London and meet her at a hotel in Leicester Square in a week’s time.
From newspaper articles she had a vague idea what Barclay’s ex looked like but Sadie had changed. Into a pale, slim girl with a chill resolve and an odd sort of detachment from life. A woman who could fade into the background, with her neat, dull clothes, pale brown hair, eyes not quite brown, not quite grey, yet not hazel which never quite focused on you. She was a woman of negatives. Not positives. Claire realised this as soon as she saw her enter the room, scan its occupants and meander towards the bar.
It was hard to figure out just why Barclay had homed in on her.
Claire approached, ordered them both a Diet Coke and they settled into a quiet corner of the room, sinking into soft, leather armchairs.
Sadie gave a vague smile as Claire introduced herself more fully. Her gaze slid past her and roamed the room as though wondering whether Barclay was somewhere around.
‘I didn’t want to meet you,’ she confessed quickly. ‘I want to put it all behind me.’
‘I do understand,’ Claire said, in accepted psychiatrist’s empathic talk. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you to come unless I’d felt it was necessary – important.’
Sadie’s eyebrows rose.
‘I don’t understand Jerome,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether he is a danger to the wider community or not. I hoped you might give me some insight.’
Sadie’s response was a cynical ‘Humph,’ and her lips tightened.
‘How did you meet?’ It seemed as good a starting point as any.
Sadie drew in a tired, reluctant breath. ‘At a club. My boyfriend had dumped me a month or two earlier. I was out, getting pie-eyed with my mates. I lost my balance and toppled against the bar. And suddenly – there he was. Catching me before I hit the floor.’ She gave a hint of a smile. ‘I can’t say I remember much about that first night except somehow – I don’t know how so it’s no use your asking me – we ended up together in the back of a taxi. I didn’t feel threatened,’ she added.
Claire met her eyes
.
‘You’re right,’ Sadie admitted. ‘I didn’t feel anything. I was too pissed.’
‘So? When you sobered up?’
Sadie looked almost ashamed. ‘We were back at my flat,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I woke up quite late the next morning and he was staring out of the window.’
Claire waited.
‘He said something about it being a busy road. My flat was at Cobridge by some traffic lights but convenient for Hanley. I did have a flatmate.’ Her face was a blank. ‘But she was going to Australia anyway. She had a job to go to.’ Sadie went pale then red. ‘I feel such a fool,’ she said suddenly. ‘I should have realised.’ Her voice tailed off and Claire knew that she was going to learn something.
‘You should have realised what?’
Sadie’s eyes held something dark, something frightened, something unsavoury. Her pupils contracted.
‘What?’ Claire prompted the girl gently.
‘You won’t mention the fact that you’ve seen me?’ There was an urgency in her voice.
‘No – I promise.’
‘It was all there in his lovemaking.’ She moved her head violently shaking away the memory. ‘No. Who am I kidding? It wasn’t lovemaking. It was –’ Her eyes almost bounced off Claire in one, short stare. ‘He enjoys inflicting pain, Doctor Roget. He likes to be in control and he likes you frightened. The sex act means nothing to him unless it involves terror.’ She put her hand on Claire’s arm, giving her words emphasis. ‘I don’t want you to underestimate this. I don’t just mean he’s rough. I mean he whispers.’
Claire waited.
Sadie’s face changed as she whispered, stroking the words backwards and forwards as though with the edge of a blade. ‘I could hurt you. I could cut a slice of these thighs. I could puncture your throat. I could kill you. I could rape you. I can make you scream and then stop you screaming. Do you know how much blood is contained in that pale body of yours? Just think, Sadie, of all the things I could do without anyone knowing. I used to tell myself he was kidding. Then occasionally he would do something and every time we were together I would be waiting. Usually something quite small. A hard pinch of the nipple, a sudden movement. It wasn’t the pinch or the thump in itself. I began to realise that over the weeks we were together. It was simply that he knew he was able to make people frightened, that he had power over them to manipulate their thoughts, to control the dark rooms of the mind that normally you shut away behind locked doors. He seemed to know what to do, what to say, to exert the most control. He is very insidious.’ She lifted the Coke glass to her lips. The slices of lemon and ice cubes bumped around as her hands shook. ‘Sometimes I would think I would pretend to be more frightened than I was but he knew. He knew. And then I didn’t need to pretend any more. I knew something was coming. I knew I was going to get hurt one day and yet I couldn’t pull away. It was like a snake holding you in its gaze. You know you should move – get out of the way – but you don’t. You just stand there and wait and it bites you.’
A Plea of Insanity Page 10
