The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  Riley looked bored. ‘I don’t know, do I? I mean, I haven’t got a baby.’ She paused. ‘Any more.’

  Thank God.

  ‘What were you going to do with the baby?’

  Riley stared at her. More confusion. ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes. Do. In the end. Keep her for ever? Have her for a test period then give her back?’ Claire raised her voice a little, challenging her patient. ‘What were you going to do with her?’

  Riley was not stupid but she was stumped by this question. Again, she didn’t know how to answer it. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  ‘I … I think,’ she said finally, ‘that I just wanted to try it out.’

  Like a test drive?

  Claire could have felt angry but that was not her job. Her job was to explore what Riley was likely to do next. Where the danger lay. And advise to prevent further harm.

  ‘What were you going to do with her when you got bored with her?’ she asked. This was the question she needed answering. This was the point of today’s interview. How far did Riley’s disdain for anyone else’s feelings go? Would Imogen have ended up in a black plastic sack outside a charity shop? Would she have been dumped in a wheelie bin? Left on the side of the road? Abandoned?

  Riley shrugged; her eyes flickered away.

  Half an hour later, the interview was over. Time to make her assessment. Claire knew what the criminal justice system was like. She couldn’t say that Riley should be incarcerated for the rest of her life. She probably wouldn’t abduct a baby again. At least, that was Claire’s judgement. But Riley would commit other offences that might have more serious consequences. Trouble was who knew what these might be?

  She wrote her report knowing Riley Finch would go free. Free to do whatever. The law was not a sledgehammer.

  The diagnosis here wasn’t the problem. That was the easy bit. Riley Finch was a sociopath. A psychopath. Treatment wouldn’t work. She might grow out of it – or become less of a danger to the general public. But Riley didn’t really need a custodial sentence. It would achieve nothing. Her psychopathy was part of who and what she was, just as her red hair and sprinkling of freckles was also part of who she was. In her mind, she had done nothing wrong. Simply borrowed a baby. And it had been given back. No lasting harm done.

  Her real fury was vented towards ‘the friend’ who had collected ‘ten fucking grand’.

  Claire dictated her report knowing that, however she worded it, Riley would be discharged. And there would be no custodial sentence. She would be free to commit whatever felon she felt like.

  Claire left the ward.

  FIVE

  Wednesday, 17 June, 2.45 p.m.

  Back in her office, a Post-it note in Rita’s writing had been stuck to the front of her diary.

  I’ve made an appointment for Heather Krimble on Friday. You had a gap in your clinic and a cancellation. I rang her and she’s confirmed. R. X

  So she had Arthur Connolly, Riley Finch and now another to add to her motley collection. Heather Krimble, whom she would soon be meeting. In another two days, she would be tackling this almighty mess. She upgraded it to a dangerous mess for Mr Charles Tissot. There were plenty of warnings here that everything about this case had shifting sands. It might not be quite as straightforward as it had seemed. The GP hadn’t referred her patient to her until prodded by Charles, who had plenty of reasons for wanting Heather’s claims to be declared a fantasy, a symptom of psychosis. Questions were building up in her mind. It was in Charles’s interest for Heather’s story to be disbelieved from the start. And the previous allegations heaped doubt on any story Heather span. On top of that, Dr Sylas appeared to have personal admiration for the obstetrician. She hadn’t questioned the request for a referral to her instead of to Laura Hodgkins again, so why had she escalated Heather’s case from community to Greatbach? Purely because of the professional allegation? Had Charles told her that he had met her socially even if it was only on that one occasion? Had Heather mentioned to her GP that she’d met him, briefly, at a party? How well did Charles actually remember Heather from that party? How brushing or brief had their encounter been that night? Was Dr Sylas aware that Heather’s sister worked for one of Charles’s colleagues?

  Four people were involved here: Heather, her sister, the GP and Charles Tissot.

  She was the fifth.

  The question was who knew what? Claire’s thoughts chased each other round and round.

  To unravel the claims and counter-claims, Claire knew she would need to plan her approach and assess her patient without prejudice. And to do that she had to begin with Heather’s own version; not Dr Sylas’s or from Charles, but the one from the patient herself.

  There was another person to whom she could turn. Dr Laura Hodgkins, the community psychiatrist, who had dealt with Heather during her two previous pregnancies. There were distinct advantages here. Laura was a colleague who would use the same language as her and have the same perspective, unclouded by any fuzzy memory from years before.

  Claire knew her vaguely – their paths had crossed on more than one occasion – and she had been impressed with Laura’s competence, particularly managing difficult cases, elderly schizophrenic patients, patients with severe bipolar disorder and two or three cases of profound depression. All managed in the community? That was a challenge. And a risk.

  On a couple of occasions, Laura had asked her to admit a patient to Greatbach and she had obliged. They didn’t exactly work together – their roles were different. Managing a patient in the community as opposed to admitting them was a different skill. But each had a healthy respect for the part the other played, where they overlapped and how they could assist one another. So Claire was looking forward to an intelligent and impartial viewpoint. But she was in for a disappointment. When she rang the consultant’s secretary, Faye, she was told that Dr Hodgkins was ‘off sick’.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  Laura Hodgkins was about forty. A bit young to have a serious illness … But then medicine, pathology, diagnoses, prognoses were all fickle entities, choosing their victims at random.

  ‘I can’t really tell you, Doctor Roget.’ Even more concerning was that Claire could hear a catch in the secretary’s voice. Shit. What was going on?

  She tried another tack. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  This time she could definitely hear the upset in Faye Gardener’s voice more clearly. Claire was alarmed now. She felt concern for her colleague’s health but she also needed Laura Hodgkins’ notes on Heather. It was a difficult enough case without working blind. She needed the full history. And her colleague’s insight.

  Faye pulled herself together, clearing her throat. ‘A locum is covering her work,’ she said, her voice struggling to brighten. ‘He’s an Aussie. You’ll like him, Claire. He’s competent. He’s different. And he’s fun.’

  But he doesn’t know the patient was Claire’s first thought.

  She blew out her cheeks in exasperation. What she wanted was a clear, concise and truthful history of a patient’s previous medical condition. Not bloody fun.

  She tried to console herself. He might not know the patient but he would have access to Laura’s notes. It would have to do. She just had to hope that all of Laura’s observations had been recorded. But a locum covering such important work? So the holes in the NHS are patched and covered over, but they are still holes. Bits missing, gaps in histories, absences of knowledge.

  ‘Was it anything really important?’ Faye was doing her best to assist.

  Claire hesitated. ‘I need to discuss a patient of Laura’s.’

  ‘Which patient?’

  ‘A Heather Krimble.’

  ‘Oh?’ There was definite concern.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remember Mrs Krimble. A troubled soul,’ Faye said. ‘She’s come your way?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Claire couldn’t possibly explain the route which had dumped Mrs Krimble at her back door.

  ‘
Well, good luck with that one. I’ll fish her notes out and ask Doctor Bracknell to take a look, shall I?’

  But the phrase had stuck with Claire. How much good luck exactly?

  ‘That would be brilliant. Just tell him she’s now six months pregnant and making similar allegations to the ones made in her two previous pregnancies. I’m seeing her in my clinic on Friday to assess her mental state because of the potential seriousness of her current allegations.’ There was no need to be specific.

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I’m considering admitting her to Greatbach and could do with her past history to give me some perspective on her present condition.’

  ‘OK. It’s a pity Laura isn’t here.’

  Too right.

  ‘I’ll get her notes together and have Doctor Bracknell get in touch with you when he’s read through them, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ll be interested to hear his take on all this.’

  ‘OK.’ She didn’t sound curious, which was good. It almost certainly meant that the word hadn’t filtered through to her. For all its strict rules on confidentiality, gossip and tragedy spread like wildfire through the medical profession. No one was quite sure how it did when all were sworn to secrecy. It just happened. Through nods and winks like semaphore, leaked test results and the availability of scans and X-rays to anyone with the right password.

  ‘And Faye, give Doctor Hodgkins my regards, will you? Wish her a speedy recovery.’

  ‘I will.’ Sniff. ‘Thanks.’

  Claire put the phone down. So she would have to be patient, work blind with one arm tied behind her back and wait for this Aussie locum, Dr Bracknell, to make contact.

  In the meantime, Claire returned to another of her tricky patients.

  Arthur Connolly. She was trying to tease out a little more of his mental turmoil through the years. His case was up for review in the following weeks and she wanted to assess him more thoroughly. The news on his wife, Lindsay, was good, in a way. She had made a reasonable recovery from her husband’s assault and was currently back in the marital home, seething, no doubt, at the harm her meek and docile husband had wreaked.

  Resisting a smile, Claire made her way to Arthur’s room.

  He even looked the part of an abused and dominated husband. He was short and slight with wispy pale brown hair and an unfortunately bristly, sandy-coloured moustache that did little to suggest masculinity. He had a soft voice too and tended to look at the floor when he was speaking, rather than at the person he was talking to, as though he had no confidence in his own words. He was a born victim.

  He also had the unfortunate habit of rubbing his fingers together while he spoke, accompanying his words with the rasp of dry skin. A permanently apologetic look, eyebrows raised, forehead crinkled and bent shoulders completed the picture. For the life of her, Claire could not imagine him knifing Lindsay Connolly, who was a large woman, plump to the point of obesity, with heavy, sagging breasts which had been pierced by the knife. Claire had interviewed Lindsay twice – once while she was still in hospital, the other after she had been discharged to find out whether Arthur had shown any sign that his tolerance was about to snap.

  Lindsay’s eyes had bulged with fury and self-righteousness. ‘Just sat there, he was. Saying nothing.’ She couldn’t resist tucking in a bit of spite. ‘As usual. I was just telling him …’ At that she had gasped for air and pressed her oxygen mask to her face. ‘I was just telling him he’d spilt some coffee on the kitchen work surface and he’d better wipe it up.’ She coughed theatrically, clutched her chest, groaned and gasped again. ‘What’s the problem with that? I tell you, Doctor. After all I’ve done for him. The man is mad. I cannot believe I have put up with him for all these years. The man is mad,’ she’d repeated.

  Claire didn’t think so. His patience had simply slipped.

  She had visited Lindsay Connolly a second time at home and received mostly the same response, but this time firmer. ‘I’m not having him back, Doctor. Saul says I’m not to have him in the house again. Not ever. I want to see him go to prison. He nearly killed me, Doctor. I was nearly done for.’ And behind the bravado, Claire had read real fright. Lindsay was used to being in control. Not a victim.

  Lindsay had continued in the same injured voice. ‘I don’t understand why he did it. He wasn’t strong and he had no direction. I had to tell him what to do, where to go, things like that. He wouldn’t have known for himself. Not able to make decisions.’ And in sudden viciousness, ‘Gormless,’ she’d spat out. ‘Gormless. That’s what he is. If I had him here I’d tell him, all right.’

  Lindsay, it appeared, had not learned her lesson. And so Arthur would continue to be a danger – to his wife.

  Her main reason for meeting up with Mrs Connolly had been to learn a bit more about their marriage pre-assault. Whether Arthur had shown any sign that he was about to rise up tall, like some monster from the deep. Had there been any build-up? Any planning in his actions?

  When she’d put this to Lindsay, she had spent some time thinking about it before shaking her head, still bemused and unsettled by the turn of events. ‘Nah,’ she’d said. ‘He was just sittin’ there quiet as a mouse, looking at the floor.’ She’d rolled her eyes. ‘Like he always does. I told him. Arthur, I said, you’ve spilt some coffee. Now you go wipe it up. Then I follow him into the kitchen …’ she’d tightened her mouth, ‘… to check on him and make myself a cup of tea, and he hadn’t even picked up the dishcloth. “Arthur,” I says, “you can see the mess you’ve made, now you go and wipe it up and be quick about it.” But he didn’t go to the sink. He walked towards the corner of the kitchen with this funny look in his eye, and before I knew where I was he’s grabbing the bloody knife out of the block. “Arthur,” I said, “what on earth do you think you are doin’?” Next thing he’s sticking it in me, his eyes blood red like a madman.’ Her own eyes were wide with disbelief. The shock was making her voice shake. Lindsay genuinely hadn’t been able to believe what was happening.

  ‘Blood everywhere,’ she said, grabbing for the oxygen mask again, snorting in a noisy, panicky breath. ‘I felt it go in, Doctor.’ Claire could read the terror, the shock, the incredulity. ‘I tried to get him to hear me, to scream out, Stop!, but he doesn’t. Instead, he does it again. And again.’ She clamped the oxygen mask tight over her face and took some deep breaths before continuing. ‘I can’t have him back, Doctor. He’s not right in the head. Saul says if I had him back he’d just do the same again so I must never have him back.’

  And that, Claire was thinking as she sat opposite the quiet, meek man that was Arthur Connolly, was what she was charged with ascertaining. Was Arthur ‘right in the head’?

  She smiled at him, ignoring the bristly moustache, the rasp of dry skin as his fingers rubbed together nervously. It was difficult not to feel pity for the man, not to say out loud, Wrong wife, Arthur. Bad choice.

  Married to someone no more assertive than him, he might have had a happy life. Instead …

  She substituted her thoughts for the psychiatrists’ bland opening, ‘How are you today, Arthur?’

  In the weeks he’d been an inpatient, Arthur had been learning to trust her. Slowly.

  He met her eyes and responded formally. ‘I’m all right, thank you, Doctor.’

  His voice was low and polite. His eyes immediately dropped back to the ground.

  ‘You understand that we need to decide what to do with you?’

  His nod was jerky, shoulders stiff. ‘Yes.’ The whisper was soft.

  ‘What was in your mind when you followed Lindsay into the kitchen, Arthur? What were you thinking?’

  ‘I—’ He was struggling. ‘I – I wasn’t thinking anything.’

  She couldn’t leave it at that. ‘You mean your mind was blank?’

  He frowned. ‘No,’ he said, as though he was just discovering this. ‘No. It wasn’t a blank. I thought … I was thinking.’ He tried again. ‘I thought. I thought … I’d h
ad enough.’ The quiet words belied the action that had followed. Four stab wounds with an eight-inch blade. Four.

  ‘When you picked up the knife, what were you planning to do with it?’

  Arthur drew in a long, irritated breath. ‘I didn’t know it was a knife.’

  A knife block that, according to Lindsay via the police, was always there? Claire could have asked what he had thought was in his hand but she didn’t. She wanted Arthur to volunteer this information.

  ‘I didn’t know what it was,’ he repeated. ‘I just wanted her to stop being so …’ he was fumbling for the word, ‘… nasty.’

  ‘What was she saying to you? Can you remember?’ She was always doing this, throwing him lifelines. But Arthur Connolly never picked them up. ‘What was she saying to you?’

  He looked at her then, and in that look was a weight of trouble. ‘Telling me off,’ he said, calm now. ‘She was always finding something I’d not done right. Always telling me I’d done something wrong. Always angry with me.’

  She had heard these words before. ‘Why was she always angry with you?’

  He gave a long, slow, thoughtful blink. ‘I did tend towards clumsiness,’ he said. ‘My mother told me …’ A pathetic attempt at a smile. ‘I was born clumsy.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He nodded. ‘And she were right. With me it obviously was so.’

  She tried, gently, to draw him back to that moment. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Lindsay asked me what I thought I was doing. I think I already had the knife in my hand by then. I think I didn’t answer.’

  It was a hollow attempt at bravado.

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I wanted to say just picking up the dishcloth from the sink.’ He looked pleased with himself at this clever invention. ‘But I didn’t get to say it. I tried to push her away but, of course, I had the knife in my hand and … There was blood.’ He looked shifty, somehow. ‘She were screaming.’

  If there had been just one stab wound, Arthur might not have faced a charge of attempted murder. He might have just crawled under the radar with the fable, I just wanted to push her away. Not realizing what was in his hand. But there had been four stab wounds. Each one hitting deep; hitting home. He had struck again and again.