Claire feigned ignorance. ‘Sorry?’
Rhoda Tissot’s voice trickled poisoned honey into the phone. ‘Oh. You didn’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Oh. That dear Charles and I are no longer …’ Even the pause was poisonous. ‘An item?’
‘I’m sorry.’ What else was there to say? She hadn’t known them as a couple.
Rhoda’s venom spilled out. ‘Well, he banged everything in sight. Particularly when he’d had a few. Taking the hostess’s bed in parties was his particular speciality. Or tempting ladies into his Jag. Didn’t really matter who the woman was, as long as it wasn’t me. Still, I’ve had my share of the pickings. Divorce lawyers these days are soooo good at arithmetic.’
Claire frowned into the telephone. She felt the danger intensify. Flashing red lights all over the place. Sirens screaming. She felt very apprehensive.
Rhoda spoke again. ‘So when do you think you’ll have a bed?’
‘She’ll be in early next week.’
Rhoda’s response was careless and sarcastic. ‘Like I said, do let me know when she’s in and I’ll pop over and make her acquaintance.’
‘Thank you.’
She hadn’t quite finished. ‘Tell me, Doctor Roget – this time, is there any truth in your patient’s allegations?’
‘No.’ But the single word must have sounded too weak.
‘So, Charles really is in hot water.’
Claire kept her silence. Instinctively she knew that any comment she made would only make matters worse.
‘Well,’ Rhoda said, ‘I’m just glad I took the money and ran. This won’t help his career path or his earning potential. Although …’ She paused, puzzled now. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Charles, even with his randy cock, would have been daft enough to break this ultimate taboo – accept someone he’d had sex with as a patient. Still …’ And she chuckled again.
But Claire didn’t join in. Much as Charles Tissot was not her favourite person in the world, she didn’t want to join this hissing, triumphant spite. Besides … although there were obvious doubts, the bet was still on, even though the likelihood was that Heather’s baby would prove to be the son or daughter of Geoff Krimble.
Rhoda gave another snort of laughter. ‘I take it Charles is currently suspended?’
Claire felt her shoulders drop. ‘In view of Heather’s previously unfounded allegations he is not suspended, though certain conditions have been made and he has been removed from any responsibility or contact with her. That,’ she said, more sharply than she had meant, ‘is why we’re anxious for you to be involved.’
No response. Claire couldn’t tell whether Rhoda was pleased or disappointed that her husband was getting off so lightly and that, subsequently, she was being dragged in. Her voice was crisp and professional now. ‘Let me know when you have her ensconced at Greatbach and I’ll come over and see her.’
‘Thank you.’
Claire waited but the phone was not put down. Instead, Rhoda asked another question in a humble tone. ‘Tell me honestly, Claire. What do you think? Has Charles really …’
Maybe there was still some affection for the love rat?
And this time, Claire couldn’t duck the question. ‘I think she’s deluded,’ she began before altering the weak wording to something stronger. ‘I’m convinced she’s deluded.’ She paused before adding, ‘I can’t see Charles falling into this trap.’
Rhoda didn’t respond. The conversation had ended.
But when Claire had put the phone down that one word bounced her mind. She’d used the word without thinking, almost instinctively. Why? Was it a trap? A deliberate trap? Set to snap shut around Charles Tissot’s career for some perceived slight? Mentally she ran over the other two cases, which posed different scenarios. Cartwright’s business had suffered temporarily. Sam Maddox was still a window cleaner. But Charles’s career – certainly any private practice he had – might not recover.
She sat still. What were her senses and her training telling her? Don’t make assumptions. Listen hard to the words your patient is selecting. Above all, watch their body language and keep sensitive to inconsistencies.
She was increasingly sure of one thing. Heather Krimble needed to be watched and her unborn child protected. But from what direction might the threat come?
TWENTY-ONE
As the week rolled by, Claire was aware of a pounding urgency surrounding the troubling case of Heather Krimble. She wanted her and her unborn baby where she and her staff could keep an eye on her.
In her mind, the aura around Heather’s romantic fantasy was slowly changing from pink to purple to black. Possibly even red. Maybe the core was not love but destruction.
By Wednesday, she was acknowledging something else. Her concerns were not purely professional. There was some curiosity, too. Her instincts were telling her something. That Heather might be disturbed, psychotic. But what if, hidden inside the labyrinth of her damaged mind, there was a kernel of truth? What if she and Charles really had had a brief liaison and she had simply misinterpreted it? And another question. What lay behind both Heather’s fragile mental state and the absolute devotion of her sister?
Something in their past? Or was it simply a bond forged by paternal cruelty and maternal indifference?
It was this curiosity which had led her towards psychiatry in the first place. Not simply interest but a burning desire to know, to solve the mysteries.
Questions were pouring through her mind like sand through an hourglass. None of them answered quite satisfactorily. Nothing beyond the reach of doubt. Who? What? When? How? And as always, she was staggering along the wobbly cake walk that follows any statement made by a patient you have diagnosed as deluded. The old problem: what is the truth? Where is it? How do you recognize it?
But part of the urgency she felt was a drop in the barometer pressure, a sign of an approaching storm.
She could see the black sock whirling around in the washing machine drum of whites. Visible, invisible but always there, somewhere, staining. Something bad would happen. But would admission really avert that?
On Friday, a patient was discharged and Heather’s admission finally arranged.
She did not demur.
Friday, 17 July, 2 p.m.
37/40
The call came in at two p.m. Heather had arrived on the ward, accompanied by her sister. And so Claire headed upstairs.
One thing struck her.
Ruth couldn’t have fed her the detail: the make of the car, the leather seats, the colour of the leather, the scent all car owners know is peculiar to their own vehicle, could she?
She reached the top, pleased that her breathing rate hadn’t even increased, and peered in through the porthole window.
Heather was sitting on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, back completely straight, eyes watchful as her sister fussed around the room, hanging up clothes, spreading out baby outfits, disappearing into the bathroom with hands full of toiletries. As Claire observed her, Heather didn’t strike her as Charles’s type. He liked them obvious – ‘bits’ on show. His comments about women were all about tits, arses and legs. Personality didn’t cut much ice with him. Heather wore little make-up and looked coy in her maternity clothes. But eight months ago, tarted up for a party, made up, wearing party clothes? What then? Could she morph into something else, something different? Someone different? Charles’s type?
The sticky snail trail continued as Claire continued to observe the sisters. If events had happened as Heather had related them, would Charles have recognized her name, if he’d ever bothered to learn and retain it following their encounter? Probably not? And then would he have picked it out from the tens of referrals he received in an average week? Again, probably not. Charles never thought about consequences. After their encounter, he had not shied away from her. It had been Claire who had secreted herself in the farthest, darkest corner. He had been oblivious. In Charles’s convenient mind there were no consequences.
Besides, a woman’s name would be the last thing Charles would recall. Tits, legs, arse. Vital statistics. Those were the important things about a woman. These were the parts he would remember. Not her name.
And would he have recognized the party animal for the pale, quiet, modestly dressed pregnant patient sitting opposite him in his consulting room?
Possibly. Probably not. These liaisons were not something Charles retained in his mind.
But the Charles she knew would surely not be idiot enough to keep her as his patient, even directed by Dr Dagmar Sylas.
So, possibly not.
What would he have done when this inconvenient situation presented itself?
Answer: refer to her.
So now she had gone full circle and was disliking the way this case was forcing her to turn around and face her own past.
And even now, hand on the door, she troubled over the question all female victims ask themselves: what secret message did I give out? What pheromone vibes? What scent inviting men to do this? Why did he pick on me at that party all those years ago? And the inevitable consequence: how can I stop giving out these dumb messages? By wearing uninviting clothes, less make-up, shoulders rounded, eyes on floor. Just like Heather.
She may be learning about Charles through this case. But what, exactly, was it telling her about herself?
She had always been slim and worn little make-up. Though her hair was light it was not and never had been peroxide blonde. Her skin was good and she had dark eyelashes and eyebrows which needed little to no enhancement. Her one vanity was lipstick. She often wore a fairly vivid shade of pink at work, leisure and to parties. Had that one fatal cosmetic invited Charles? Her normal outfits were smart without being either provocative or spinsterish. That night she’d been wearing tight black jeans and a flimsy white top. She hadn’t led him on that night. She knew it. She’d been wearing jeans … and now she blushed. Underneath the top, she’d not been wearing anything. That still didn’t excuse him.
Even with a tank full of shots and spirits, even way back then in her misspent student days, she hadn’t been the sort to have casual sex. But Charles was a horny bastard. And sexy too with his male hormones stacked up. Drunk, he was quite capable of ramming a girl against a wall and trying his luck. But that was the Charles of then. Not now. Now he would have to be guarded in order to maintain his career and position.
But, by nature, Charles was neither subtle nor careful. His care might only extend to luring a girl into the back of his Jag, maybe wearing a condom. It wouldn’t moderate his behaviour completely.
As she watched, Ruth moved towards the bed and kissed her sister, wrapped her arms around her then moved away. For a moment, the two women gazed at each other, exchanging something, until Ruth patted her sister reassuringly on the head and continued fussing around the room.
A negative DNA sample wouldn’t let him off the hook.
Neither would Heather’s messy past psychiatric history. Then Claire recalled Heather’s hard, punishing blows on her pregnant abdomen and worried. At least part of her concern was not for Charles, who could look after himself, or Heather, who had invented a story behind the baby’s conception, but for the unborn infant and his or her dead siblings.
Two of them.
Cot death is tragic and notorious because in most cases it is inexplicable. There is nothing for the pathologist to find except an absence of life. Perfect little bodies lie on mortuary slabs. Various theories have sprung up over the years, coming in and going out of fashion as regularly as hemlines: milk allergy, placing babies face down on their mattresses, having a pillow, bedrooms too hot, too cold, having a slight fever. An impending cold. A virus. The trouble is this tragedy is without reason and leaves behind it heartbreak and an empty cot. Numbers rise and they fall and mothers, fathers, grandparents, godparents, aunts, uncles, siblings – everyone is left behind to wonder and to suffer.
Before she finally pushed open the door, Claire reminded herself yet again of the very first rule of psychiatry: make certain of your own impartiality before you even start trying to unravel your patient’s story. Analyse your own prejudices. Ask yourself this question: what do you already believe?
TWENTY-TWO
Friday, 17 July, 2.10 p.m.
37/40
It had been a while since she had seen Heather and her pregnancy had ballooned. Like many petite women late in pregnancy but before the baby’s head had engaged into the pelvis, it was hard to imagine her small frame supporting anything bigger. There was simply no room for expansion. In any direction.
Claire greeted them both, aware that she must keep Ruth on her side if she was to have any chance to winnow fact from fantasy. For that she needed both women’s confidence so she needed them both to relax, drop their guard, to see her as an ally. Trouble was that admitting Heather to Greatbach, even as a voluntary patient, cast her in the role of jailor rather than friend. So, reassurance before interrogation.
Heather swivelled around to face her as Claire entered the room to sit in the armchair, Ruth hovering, uncertain where to place herself.
Claire began with an explanation. ‘I know you’re here because there seems to be some confusion about the relationship between you and Mr Tissot.’
‘No confusion,’ Heather snapped. ‘I’m quite clear in my mind. You’ll see.’
Claire continued smoothly as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I don’t want you to have any concerns about the baby, Heather. Midwives will be in regular attendance here at Greatbach. I’ve already organized it. But at least we can keep an eye on you here, keep you safe until the baby is born.’
‘As if I need to be kept “safe”,’ she scoffed. ‘And afterwards?’
Afterwards? Two dead children cast a shadow behind her. Claire shuddered. Was that what afterwards would mean?
‘Afterwards, too,’ she continued, hardly pausing but still feeling her face stiffen. ‘For a few weeks. Just until the situation is resolved and we think it’s safe for you both to go home.’
Heather’s eyes flashed but she didn’t ask any of the logical questions.
Home?
To …?
Situation resolved? Her eyes narrowed as she tried to read Claire’s attitude, fingers tapping out a staccato beat on her locker which intensified and speeded up before she moved them to dig into her abdomen.
Claire couldn’t ignore it. ‘Why do you do that, Heather?’
Her patient flashed her another look heavy with hostility but she did not answer. And then her eyes flirted upwards. It was as though she challenged Claire, asking her silently, Why do you think I do it, psychiatrist?
Then she dug her fingers in even harder so Claire winced for the child while Heather simply glared back, gloves off. There was an intensity both in her action and in the look, a cruelty and hatred about it that she’d successfully hidden, until now.
There was little doubt that in Claire’s mind that she was punishing the unborn child for the sin of the father. The sin of denial.
She had never witnessed this sort of behaviour before though she’d read about it. But such hatred of the unborn was rare. Even after violent rape. Attempted abortion was not uncommon in the early stages. And even more common was behaviour that indirectly harmed the child: alcohol, drugs, risky sexual behaviour. Yes, all these would harm a foetus but the actions were at best careless, at worst deliberately neglectful. But this was destruction. Particularly when two children had previously died.
‘Please stop doing that,’ she said. ‘You could harm the baby, you know. Is that what you want to do? Hurt Charles through harming the baby?’ This time the look that Heather aimed back at her was unmistakably calculating, malicious, triumphant. Just try and stop me.
Claire’s opinion of her shifted. This was a different act from the meek, pliant person who had first arrived at her clinic with her story of a party liaison followed by an intense love affair. This woman looked perfectly in control, rational and well able to look after herself. A q
uick check with her sister told her a different story. Ruth’s eyes were wide. Frightened. And she looked shocked at this morphing of her sister from star-crossed victim to harpy. Families are a strange entity, roles reversing, siblings skirting around each other. Thoughts criss-crossed Claire’s mind as she studied the two women and revised what she knew about Ruth.
She worked for Leo Metcalfe, a thoracic surgeon whose Christian name could not have been more apt. When his mother had christened him Leo, she must have imagined her son would one day be tall, well built, with a mane of tawny hair. In which case, she must have had a crystal ball, because that was a pretty good description of him.
Ruth bounced her gaze back defiantly.
Heather was smiling at her now, looking around the room with satisfaction. ‘I’m happy to be here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be glad of the rest.’ She patted her bulge. ‘So will he.’
Claire continued with her instruction. ‘The community midwives will come in, probably daily, to keep an eye on you and the baby. And when you go into labour you’ll be transferred to the maternity unit for delivery.’
Heather’s eyes slid upwards as though she saw some heavenly vision. Or was it an eye-roll? As always with Heather, there was a text and a subtext. ‘Will it be Charles who delivers his own child?’ Her eyes were inspired, bright, her manner enthusiastic now.
Claire drew in a deep breath and shook her head. ‘No, you won’t be under the care of Charles Tissot. It wouldn’t be wise.’ She tossed the statement back. ‘Would it?’
Heather looked angry then, fury bubbling up. ‘I want to see him,’ she said, petulant now. ‘I know he wants to see me and be involved with the birth and aftercare of his own baby. I must insist, Doctor.’
Claire couldn’t let this pass. However much Heather might resist the truth, this was an undeniable fact. ‘Mr Tissot denies any involvement in the conception of this baby.’
The Deceiver Page 17
