The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  Not deliberately. Claire kept the comment to herself.

  Ruth’s eyes were now stone cold, her arms tightly folded. She regarded Claire with an expression just short of hostility. In the small, anonymous consulting room there was an unmistakable air of alienation, which Claire ignored as she ploughed on.

  ‘Your sister has made allegations in two previous pregnancies.’

  Ruth nodded. It was a staccato movement, neither a yay nor a nay. Just an acknowledgement, while her eyes remained cold, detached, guarded. Watchful. She offered no explanation. Claire was going to have to drag it out of her.

  ‘So what do you make of that?’

  Claire’s eyes trained on her, Heather’s sister shrugged. It was no answer.

  Claire continued, ‘Before we discuss the specific allegations surrounding this current pregnancy, let’s focus on Eliza and Freddie’s parentage.’

  Again, something was missing. Ruth Acton had been the babies’ aunt. She would have expected some semblance of grief. Some response. But there was nothing except a stony stare and apparent adherence to her sister’s stories.

  Claire waited before continuing again, ‘In the case of Eliza, Mr Cartwright, your sister’s boss, denied that there had been ever been any sexual activity between him and your sister. In fact, he said there had never been any sort of relationship between them at all.’

  No visible response. Nothing except this brick wall. After a pause, which Ruth declined to fill, Claire ploughed on. ‘In the case of Freddie and your sister’s allegations against Sam Maddox, a paternity test was carried out. And as I’m sure you know, Freddie was Geoff’s son. Your sister’s husband.’

  Straightaway, Ruth pitched in on the weak spot. ‘That doesn’t mean to say the relationships never happened.’

  ‘No. But both times the men have denied it.’

  Ruth stuck her pointy little chin forward. ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? That’s men all over. Have their way and off they go.’

  ‘You’re not married yourself?’

  Ruth shook her head and broke eye contact.

  ‘In a relationship?’

  Another firm shake of her head. Claire wondered. Did she have her own prejudices against the male sex? Some negative experience, perhaps?

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will be interviewing both Mr Cartwright and Mr Maddox.’ Again, she waited. Again, there was silence.

  ‘And so to your sister’s current pregnancy.’

  Ruth was now silent; lips pressed together, eyes evasive.

  ‘What exactly do you remember of that night in November when you went to your boss’s bonfire party?’

  Ruth frowned.

  Plotting a story or struggling to recall the truth?

  ‘Mr Metcalfe always has a party,’ she said, speaking slowly. ‘Every year.’ Her eyes flickered up to Claire’s. ‘Usually I don’t go, but last year I thought why not? Why ever not? Why don’t I go? But I didn’t want to go on my own, so I asked Heather if she’d come.’

  Claire interrupted. ‘Her husband didn’t mind?’

  Ruth dismissed this – and him – with a shake of her head.

  ‘We got there about eight. The party was already in full swing. Really noisy. People milling around all over the place. Mr Metcalfe owns a field at the back of his house and the bonfire was there, already lit.’ Her eyelids fluttered and drooped. ‘People were trooping in and out. It was a cold night, but …’ Here she stopped and unexpectedly smiled. ‘The fire was hot. You could feel the heat from it as you stepped outside the house. It was magical,’ she said. ‘They’d just lit the fire and there were fireworks going off.’ She smiled. ‘Popping off all the time. The fire was crackling and the fireworks shot brilliant stars into the sky, reds and blues and this bright, bright white. It was wonderful.’

  Claire badly wanted to prompt her. What about Charles?

  But she resisted the temptation and let Ruth Acton tell the story at her own pace, telling it her way. ‘There were lots of people there. I don’t know how many and most of them were strangers to me but I did recognize Mr Tissot. He was near the house having a drink. Standing on his own.’

  ‘Was he near your sister? Speaking to her?’

  She shook her head, frowning. ‘Not then.’

  She wanted to ask whether Charles had been watching her sister, as Heather had claimed. But it was too leading a question.

  ‘Did you see them talking, maybe later?’

  She looked up, thoughtful. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘I … I lost Heather for part of the evening.’

  ‘For long?’

  ‘I don’t know. An hour, maybe …’ She sounded dubious.

  ‘And how was she when you met up again?’

  ‘She seemed happy.’

  Consistent with just having had a fuck on the back seat of a Jaguar?

  She substituted that little crudity with, ‘Did you form any conclusion as to why she seemed happy? Did she say anything?’

  ‘Not then.’

  Claire waited.

  ‘Later, she told me about Charles. She said he’d been watching her all night and that she’d encountered him in the bedroom.’

  Again, Claire interrupted. ‘Did she use that word?’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Encountered.’

  ‘I think so. I can’t actually … Why do you ask? What difference does a word make?’

  A word plucked from a romantic novel is not the way a woman speaks just after the event. It speaks too much of fiction. She had to find a reason. ‘A word,’ she said, ‘adds colour – authenticity. And when she found out later that she was pregnant?’

  Ruth smiled. ‘She was … overjoyed. She couldn’t wait to tell him.’

  ‘So she wasn’t seeing him in the meantime?’

  ‘Oh, I think they’d met up.’ It was a vague answer, which she appeared to feel the need to clarify. ‘If not physically, they’d kept in touch.’ She waited for a moment before adding archly, ‘You have to leave my sister a few little secrets of her own, Doctor Roget. I haven’t pursued her story. If she wanted to tell me more she would have done. I’ve never asked for details.’ There was a note of discomfort now, a little trickle of doubt, maybe?

  ‘You’ve never disbelieved her story?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She paused before she crossed her legs and launched into an attack. ‘You’re only taking this line because it concerns one of your colleagues.’

  Something flared inside Claire. ‘I’m taking this line because your sister has made a habit of making allegations against men. Now I don’t know what the consequences have been to the other two but I do know what will happen to my colleague. We’re talking about an entire career here.’

  ‘And my sister’s life.’ Something in the sharp defence and implied confrontation made Claire’s skin crawl. This devotion between the sisters was pathological. There was absolutely no doubt that Ruth was convinced that, whatever anyone else said or science proved, her sister’s version of events was the truth. She added with more than a hint of venom, ‘And the dates fit.’

  Claire studied the woman who held her gaze without faltering. Considering the chequered history, apart from family loyalty, what was it that gave her such blind faith in her sister’s integrity? Maybe that was just it. Family loyalty.

  ‘When exactly did she tell you about Mr Tissot?’

  ‘When her period was late. That was when she told me.’ Ruth frowned. ‘That was when she told me who the father was. It was at the same time that she told me she wanted Charles to deliver their baby. She said that she would ask Doctor Sylas to refer her when she was a bit farther on. She said that he had said he would look after her. That was what he’d meant.’

  I’ll look after you. She’d forgotten he’d said that to her all those years ago until this very minute. She had felt sick and had sprung open the car door, told him she was feeling unwell, almost tumbled out. He’d called it out, at the same time pulling up his trousers, zipping up his
flies. She felt herself stiffen, shook away the memory and returned to the present with difficulty pursuing the words. ‘He said that? When?’

  ‘When she told him she was expecting his child.’

  ‘So when exactly was that?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the exact sequence of events, Doctor.’ Ruth was wary but perfectly in control. ‘You’ll have to ask my sister.’

  ‘Did she give you any other details about the circumstances of that night? Perhaps earlier, the encounter in the bedroom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ruth was confused now. ‘I’m not sure she told me.’

  ‘OK.’ Claire dropped it. ‘So what about contact between them now?’

  ‘She says he’s been taking really good care of her and the baby. After all,’ she challenged, ‘who would take better care of a child than its father and mother? In their own home, together.’

  Claire picked up on the implication. ‘Are you telling me that your sister, the baby and Mr Tissot plan to set up home together?’

  Ruth nodded.

  Claire drew in a deep breath. This hardly squared up with Charles’s desperate plea to her.

  How much of these events had really happened? What did he remember of that night? Of Heather? What she had been wearing? Had they spoken? Or had he conveniently forgotten it all? She repeated her question. ‘What exactly does your sister expect to happen now?’

  ‘She and Charles – well, they’re going to make a go of it.’

  ‘He actually said that to her?’

  The challenge made Ruth visibly cross. ‘She wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t the truth, would she?’

  Back to square one. ‘What do you expect to happen next?’

  ‘Well, he’s divorced. His wife is a nasty, cold-hearted bitch.’

  Aren’t they all?

  ‘So why shouldn’t they get married?’ Her eyes blazed. ‘Why shouldn’t my sister have some happiness in her life? She’s put up with that oaf, Geoff, largely because it was what our father wanted. Why shouldn’t she have someone decent in her life?’

  It was a convincing version from her point of view but it was totally untrue – according to Charles. There were two different tableaux here – Heather’s fantasy picture and Charles’s sheer desperation – that she couldn’t stitch together without the thread of a psychiatric diagnosis.

  Ruth was watching her, waiting for her pronouncement.

  ‘Would you describe your sister as amoral?’

  Ruth’s eyes flashed out fury.

  Claire tried again. ‘Has your sister had many lovers?’

  This brought her to the edge of her seat and an emphatic and unambiguous response. ‘No.’

  ‘She doesn’t sleep around?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Do you think this baby will prove to be Mr Tissot’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You must know him from the hospital.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a friend of Mr Metcalfe, the consultant I work for.’ Her voice trailed away uncomfortably. ‘I think they play golf together.’

  That figured. She could well imagine Charles propping up the bar on the fourteenth hole. Gossiping, swapping private patient stories and crude jokes.

  ‘Tell me more about Heather’s husband. What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘Geoff? Oh, he’s all right. Just boring and never going to make anything of himself. When he drinks, he gets nasty.’ She paused before adding, ‘Not surprising really, considering it was our father who selected him.’

  ‘Your father set up the marriage?’

  ‘Heather was pregnant. Cartwright wasn’t stepping forward. Dad didn’t want her staying at home. She didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘Is he violent towards her?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Just verbally unpleasant. Rude. Boorish. He’s not good enough for my sister.’

  ‘And how did he respond to Heather’s claim about Sam Maddox?’

  Quite cleverly, Ruth parried the question. ‘Well, he’s his, isn’t he? The test proved it.’

  There was a challenge as well as anger in her response.

  ‘And when Freddie died?’

  ‘Heart …’ She stopped before adding, broken. ‘Very sad,’ she substituted. ‘Freddie was a lovely little chap.’ She bowed her head.

  And Claire sensed that the interview was over.

  TWELVE

  Thursday, 25 June, 3 p.m.

  Outpatient Department, Greatbach Secure Psychiatric Hospital.

  There was an advantage and disadvantage to this absorbing and interesting case. On the one hand, it was enough of a distraction to have stopped her brooding over Grant. But on the down side, she knew she was neglecting her other patients, in particular Arthur Connolly and Riley. She should have been completing her psychiatric assessment of them both and was well behind schedule.

  But her priority at the moment was to get to the bottom of Heather’s story. And so she asked Rita to send her another appointment slot only two days after the interview with her sister.

  Something had been bothering her. It was that last episode of banging her abdomen, punishing the child for the perceived sins of the father. According to Laura’s notes, she was a ‘cutter’. From self-harm to harming a baby was not a big step.

  And two children had died.

  Again, Ruth sat in, quiet as a mouse, so unobtrusive she faded into the wall. Whether she had told her sister the content of the consultation they had shared, Claire didn’t know and couldn’t guess from the sphinx-like, impassive face of both sisters. Impassive but wary.

  Initially Heather seemed positive, friendly, nodding and smiling, but in an automated fashion. There was no warmth behind it, nothing genuine. A strange lack of emotion. Almost of humanity. What Claire felt she was looking at was a robotic response.

  Her pregnancy was more pronounced and she appeared increasingly aware of it, intermittently stroking her bump, looking down at her swollen abdomen, which she’d emphasized by draping a tent-like billow of flowery material over it, even giving little secret smiles downwards as though the child could peer through her abdominal wall and see its mother. It was bizarre and a bit creepy, in Claire’s opinion. And the secret gestures between Heather and her child excluded both her and Ruth who sat, back ramrod straight, staring ahead, looking miserable.

  Which made Claire wonder why was this having such an effect on her? Was Ruth’s job threatened because of the poison her sister was spreading and her allegiance to Heather? Who knew why it was so intense? Why this bond so strong? But Ruth was not her patient; Heather was, and so Claire passed over the sister and focused on her patient, plunging straight in. She needed to find out how far Heather was from reality.

  ‘Do you understand why we are doubtful that Mr Tissot is the father of your child?’

  Heather lifted her gaze heavily and slowly to meet Claire’s challenge.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t understand why I’m here at all. When I tell Charles that you’ve been interfering, he will be furious.’

  Claire felt her mouth drop open as Heather continued her rant. ‘You can’t doubt that he is this …’ a glance downwards and another stroke before staring back again at Claire, ‘… child’s father.’ She stiffened in her chair, hands now gripping the arms. ‘Are you trying to say that we are not lovers?’ She had just the right measure of incredulity in her voice. ‘That nothing happened between us?’

  Now that was possibly a step too far.

  Claire’s best ammunition was, ‘And in the cases of Eliza and Freddie?’

  Heather gave a little hiccup of a laugh. ‘They can deny it all they like,’ she said smoothly. ‘Sam and Mr Cartwright can say it didn’t happen.’ She leaned in. ‘But I have powers, Doctor Roget. Men tend to fall for me.’ The words were accompanied by a flick of the eyes, as though she couldn’t quite believe it herself. ‘And then they feel ashamed and deny it. Or blot it out of their memories out of a sense of guilt or … someth
ing. In this case, Charles is simply frightened to come out with it.’ A curving smile. ‘After all, his divorce is recent. His ex-wife is vindictive and his own children are furious with their father for … succumbing.’

  It was one way of putting it. But … ‘You know an awful lot about him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was only one way of achieving anything here – follow Heather Krimble down the rabbit hole.

  ‘But Tim Cartwright wasn’t married,’ she pointed out. ‘He had no reason not to. He had no vindictive wife or angry children.’

  Heather threw back her head and laughed. It was a high-pitched, hysterical laugh, almost a scream. ‘He had a mother. Far more controlling.’

  Claire blinked back her response. Tell me about it.

  ‘Besides …’ Another throw back of her head. ‘Tim was a wimp. Weak. He couldn’t face the truth, the consequences of what he’d done. He couldn’t confess to his mother.’

  ‘And Sam Maddox?’

  Again, a secret smile that excluded both Claire and Ruth, who was still staring rigidly ahead but now looking slightly awkward. ‘Sam was due to get married when he seduced me. He wasn’t man enough to call the whole thing off so he pretended it hadn’t happened.’

  Always an explanation. Ready and logical. Heather’s eyes were overtly hostile as she waited for Claire’s next parry.

  ‘But, as we’ve already ascertained, Freddie wasn’t Sam’s. The DNA proved he was your husband’s child.’

  The pointy little chin jutted forward and tilted upwards. ‘And I say the samples were switched. People didn’t want to acknowledge my power over men. They fall head over heels. And it was the same with Charles. He. Could. Not. Have. Resisted. Me.’

  This was one of the paramount signs of erotomania: an unshakable conviction that you are irresistible to any man you turn your attentions on. Yet, by her side, Ruth was nodding her agreement. Though not without a brief, worried glance at her sister.

  ‘How do you and Charles communicate, Heather?’ She asked the question without any hope of an honest response. What she anticipated was some fiction of Heather’s own invention.