The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  But the words didn’t even seem to graze Heather. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly. ‘You’re making it up. Just jealous. A father should be present at the birth of his child, Doctor Roget.’

  For now, Claire could only work around this. ‘In view of your allegations, it wouldn’t be ethical for him to attend you as a doctor.’ She took the opportunity of repeating, ‘And as he denies the paternity of your child, he has no role in the labour room as father, either.’

  A quick glance at Ruth showed her shrinking, eyes scared, the alarm bells ringing loud and clear. Claire could read her message clearly. It didn’t do to confront her sister with such a blunt truth. Claire continued, ‘A doctor and a team of midwives will ultimately take responsibility for your obstetric care. And I will be responsible for your mental well-being. A paediatrician will see to your baby’s needs and check the child over.’

  She was puzzled at Heather’s sudden look of alertness.

  Ruth was staring at the floor now, chewing her lip, frowning, looking as though she wished she was somewhere else.

  But Heather was angry, her pale face red. ‘You don’t believe me now.’ Her eyes blazed with hostility and fury and she jabbed her index finger towards her, straight as an arrow. ‘But you will, Doctor Roget. You will. You’ll see.’

  The bang on her belly was hard enough to almost hear the baby cry out. After the bang the three of them fell silent, listening for an infant cry. But there was no sound. Nothing except Heather’s hard breathing. She was glaring down at her swollen belly with hatred now, her face twisted as she sucked in a long, rasping breath. ‘The father of this little devil, the little devil itself and I will be a complete family.’ She gave an oddly triumphant, twisted smile, hands gripping each side of her belly, speaking to the unborn child. ‘If he tries to deny it, I will destroy him. And if you,’ the word was accompanied by a glare, ‘try to stop us being together with your clever words and silly ideas, I will destroy you too.’ She leapt forward, towards Claire, clawing hands grasping the air between them.

  Every room in Greatbach has two alarm bells – one near the door and the other underneath the window. Claire had rarely needed to use either but it was a comfort to know they were there. To have to summon help would seem like failure. It broke the relationship between psychiatrist and patient and the patient came out on top. They were the winners; the psychiatrist, the so-called expert, vanquished. Claire’s arm rested on the arm of the chair, her index finger stroking the small round button.

  If she increased the pressure, even just a tiny bit, Security would come running. The patient would be overcome but she would be the one leaving with her tail between her legs. This fury directed at her had opened up a new situation. Not only was Heather a danger to the baby, Charles and his career, but also to her. She held her breath and waited.

  After a furious glare, Heather dropped back into her seat and the crisis was over, the mood quickly normal. Ruth’s chin dropped to her chest, shoulders bowed.

  But Heather hadn’t finished her assault. She held her head up high. ‘You’ll see,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon see. I’ll show you. Just wait till our child is born.’

  Her hatred was directed all at Claire now. This is the moment a psychiatrist needs to be wary. Whatever the diagnosis, from schizophrenia with all its manifestations and variations to psychopathy with all its dangers and pitfalls, when the anger, the paranoia, is directed solely at you, it is as hot and dangerous as a laser.

  It is you who are to blame for all that is wrong in this person’s life, head, brain, current situation and problems. Everything is your fault. You are the evil psychiatrist, the Dr Jekyll, creator of this monster. The next step? Punishment.

  Claire’s finger remained on the small panic button.

  She almost sensed that Heather Krimble could feel that gentle pressure too. There was triumph in her face. For the first time, Claire saw glimpses of the legacy of the bullying, violent father.

  And began to understand a little of the place from where Heather Krimble came.

  She stood up. ‘Until I come to talk to you for a bit longer, there’s something you can do for me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Write down details of your liaison, dates and places when you and Charles met up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to clarify your claim.’

  ‘But I’ve already …’

  ‘We need more detail, Heather. Times. Places. Telephone conversations. I need you to write down his mobile number. Anything else you can remember.’

  Claire closed the door behind her, shutting out the fury.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Monday, 20 July, 3 p.m.

  She didn’t doubt that Heather Krimble was deluded and she recognized that these were testing times for Charles. But until now she hadn’t understood the wider danger to herself, the sole person who stood between Heather and her imagined nirvana – life with her beloved. And there was something else concerning her. In her book, cases of erotomania complicated by psychosis and pregnancy are often marked by deterioration and unpredictability following delivery. They needed to be prepared. Not only for the birth itself, but the aftermath. The baby would need protecting from its own mother.

  In the articles there were also warnings about protecting the object of desire. Even under the circumstances, Claire smiled. Charles needed protection from Heather? Well, there was something to think about.

  There was no treatment for Heather’s condition apart from gentle counselling and a certain optimism that the sufferer will, at some point, move on. So rather than focusing on a ‘cure’, you talk about ‘managing’. To have any chance of ‘managing’ Heather’s case, they needed to delve deeper inside her psyche, reach the boundaries of her mind and try and plant a few seeds of truth. She would need help. And the person who sprang to mind was Edward Reakin, the clinical psychologist attached to Greatbach.

  He’d already seen her once but Claire had had no feedback yet. Before she rang him, Claire felt her face warm.

  He was a lovely man with a grave insight. Older than his years, polite, divorced, intelligent, with perceptions that dug deeper than any psychologist she had worked with in the past. Plus, he was fast becoming a real friend. They’d shared drinks together a few times after work, even the occasional curry, but he would never replace Grant. There was simply no spark between them. No romance. No sex. Just a valued and treasured friendship. And she believed that Edward felt the same about her. She believed that his divorce had proved so traumatic, played out in public, so humiliating and damaging, he would probably remain single and never again trust his life to a partner.

  That stopped her short. Just like her? It was her private fear that she would never again trust her life to a partner. But she wasn’t so different from the average woman. She wanted a partner, perhaps children, a home, love and security to return to. She thought she had had it with Grant. But now her fear was that that one relationship would prove a tripwire for any other she might have.

  Bugger.

  She picked up the phone and connected with Edward, who agreed to spend more time with Heather and then fill her in on his thoughts so far. She appreciated the fact that he made little comment, no judgement, simply agreeing to see Heather again later that afternoon on the ward.

  ‘I’ll just have another chat,’ he said. ‘Nothing too heavy. Just get to know her a bit better. So far, I thought she was a very closed book.’

  ‘Did you see her with her sister?’

  ‘No. I saw her alone.’

  ‘Thanks, Edward. See what’s happening.’

  ‘OK, Claire. I’ll give you a ring later, shall I?’

  It was a relief to hand over the reins to Edward and let him drive for a bit. ‘That would be great.’

  She would be interested to have his perspective. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was missing something and that perhaps her view was skewed by her previous involvement with Charles. Maybe she needed less
focus, more breadth, more understanding, more of a picture of the complicated person Heather Krimble was.

  Maybe Edward would reinforce some of her ideas. Perhaps he would find new ones of his own. Find a reason why Heather invented fantasy romances.

  Husband rejection? A need to find love, even if it was imagined? Or was it something darker? Something else strewn across the path of memory, something unpleasant in her past, a fiction to block out a damaged truth? Substitution? If so, how conscious was Heather of this truth? Or was she completely deluded? Was there no basis in fact?

  Was the fiction a deliberate attempt at destruction of another individual? In which case, was a possible motive spite? The result of a previous rejection? She might learn something more by talking to both Tim Cartwright and Sam Maddox. It was possible that they had searched themselves for a motive. Maybe they’d found one? Bubbling under was another question. Had Tim Cartwright been Eliza’s father, or someone else?

  Anyway, Edward would see Heather and they could pool their ideas. Still upbeat, she trotted along to the coffee shop and picked up a latte before heading back to her office, an idea sparking in her brain. Something she had neglected to do.

  She might not be able to connect with Laura Hodgkins but she could stick to her original plan and speak to the locum who was filling in for her. Take a better look at Laura’s notes.

  3.50 p.m.

  Needless to say, getting hold of a locum consultant was not quite instant. She’d drained her coffee cup by the time Simon Bracknell returned her call.

  She got quickly to the point, explaining the bare bones of her case, and again, his response was bright and friendly. ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘I could do with reading through Laura’s notes myself.’

  ‘I thought you might. I’ve got her notes out all ready.’

  She smiled. This guy was making life that little bit easier. Particularly when he followed that with a suggestion.

  ‘Look, I’ve been dying to take a look round Greatbach. Call it nosey if you like but … Why don’t I bring Heather Krimble’s notes over so you can read them through? We can kill two birds with one stone. You can take a look at Laura’s notes and I can satisfy my curiosity by taking a peek round Greatbach. See how it compares with our secure units at home.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, liking the idea. ‘I’m seeing a couple of patients this afternoon but I’ll be free by five. Why don’t you come over then?’

  ‘Great,’ he said, sounding as pleased as a child who’d just been promised a trip to Legoland. She put the phone down. Now she could give all her attention to her other patients.

  She’d finished preparing her report on Arthur Connolly but knew she could not say enough to save him from a prison sentence. The assault had been too serious. His wife could easily have died. She’d had to have five major operations but was still left with life-changing injuries. Claire couldn’t even use the defence that he had been of temporary unsound mind. Arthur had been perfectly aware of what he had done and freely admitted it. He’d been charged with GBH and he didn’t have Riley’s genius of plucking on the heartstrings as skilfully as a royal harpist. Riley, who had subtly adapted her mantra to the classical sounding, I grieve for what I cannot have.

  Where on earth had she picked that one up?

  It was a line which would have fitted into medieval poetry but Claire knew full well it was likely to bring out sympathy in the jury, who probably wouldn’t recognize it was a borrowed cliché. Particularly when Riley accompanied the phrase with a flash of those sad little eyes and an almost clownish downturned mouth. So Riley would go free while Arthur would be incarcerated on the grounds of his robust mental health and her assumed sad case. Justice? No. Not in Claire’s opinion. Quite the reverse. She knew that Arthur was not and never would be a danger to society. Not even to Lindsay any more – provided he did not move back in with her and she steered well clear of him. Something in her smiled at the thought of Lindsay – and Saul – welcoming him back into the marital home. It was more likely that stocky Lindsay and bulky Saul would block the doorway to prevent another disaster which might well have turned into a second tragedy. Maybe next time it would be Arthur who would be the victim of a physical assault. And then would the raft of sympathy change direction? The question intrigued her. Her smile stiffened. Lindsay would not be so insane as to invite him back. Instead, she would find someone else to dominate.

  If Claire had learned anything about people and human nature it was that they did not learn from their mistakes, do the sensible or safe thing and change their ways, but threw themselves back into the path of danger. If experience was the school of fools they hadn’t even attended kindergarten. Why, she had never worked out, but her patients returned to their damaging relationships, continued with the very acts that had made them unhappy in the first place.

  Riley, on the other hand, was a quite different kettle of fish. What she wanted, she would have. Oh, yes, she would. But Riley was slightly cleverer than Arthur. Subtler. More deceitful. No one would ever manipulate her. She would be the one pulling the strings. She would conceal her emotions, airing them only when it suited her purpose and they would achieve something she wanted. Emotions for her were something to be used to her advantage. And she would hide her footprints as cunningly as a felon on the run. In Claire’s opinion, whereas only one person was in danger from Arthur Connolly, no one was safe from spoilt little Riley.

  But then what did she know? She was just a psychiatrist.

  Which brought her neatly back to Heather Krimble. Merely labelling her as obsessed was not enough for Claire. It might be the title page of a book but it wasn’t the full story. And that was what she wanted. From beginning to end. She didn’t want to treat a symptom without really understanding its cause. So, work to be done. Questions to be answered. Was she a danger to society? To her baby? To Charles – apart from the destruction of his reputation? Mud sticks, you know? Claire’s mind flicked back to her last interview with Heather. She had felt it then – hatred boiling over at anyone who came between her and her beloved, the man she was so certain adored her. Or was that simply a front? A pretence?

  Was there any truth in Heather’s version? Recalling Charles’s account that night at The Orange Tree, the answer was an emphatic no. But was she missing something? Was that the whole truth? For a moment, her mind snagged on the two dead babies. Perhaps if Freddie and Eliza had lived, Charles would not have had this sticky mud of scandal slung at him. Watching Heather bond with them might have given her more of a clue as to her mental state. Would she be able to draw parallels between the three pregnancies and their accompanied allegations? Maybe when she had learnt more details about Heather’s two previous claims she would be able to do so, to spot the diagnosis and find a resolution.

  But at the back of her mind was always a darker alternative. What if, heaven forbid, the child’s DNA proved Charles to be the father? That would be it. End of. Obstetricians don’t survive an allegation of sexual assault on a vulnerable and misguided woman. Even a lengthy enquiry and subsequent exoneration would mean the end of his career, a career he had had for fifteen years. Longer than that. School exams had to be passed, the best results achieved to gain that treasured place in medical school.

  She looked forward to hearing Edward Reakin’s opinion. And reading Laura Hodgkins’ notes. And, for that matter, meeting the Aussie locum.

  Briefly, she wondered about him. He had sounded jaunty, confident, happy. Which led her to another curious thought: why did Aussies come over here? Why, for that matter, did so many Brits take the trip over to Oz-Land and stay there?

  Maybe she should give it a try. She toyed with the idea for a minute or two before realism kicked in. She was on a good salary here, had a mortgage, a family – well, a half-brother. It had taken her a long time and a number of exams to reach consultant status. And she was thinking of giving this up? To take root on the other side of the world? Where she knew no one, had no family, no friend
s? No ex-boyfriend?

  She picked up her files and left the room, smiling at the tiny glimpse of life someplace else, the way she had imagined when she was a little girl. Upside down.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday, 20 July, 4.15 p.m.

  Without any sense of foreboding, Claire climbed the stairs to the top floor. She thought she would check to see whether Heather had started compiling her diary of ‘trysts’ and whether Edward had continued his assessment of her. The sun had finally made an appearance and streamed in through tall windows, lightening the grey, Victorian walls and drab decor. She met a few colleagues on the stairs and stopped to exchange stories: holiday plans mainly. Those who had school-age children were raring to go away and ‘chill’. It rubbed it in that she a) had no children to talk about b) no partner and c) the one she could do something about – no holiday booked. But where does one go when one is alone? As she reached the top of the stairs, she made herself a promise. Once Heather was safely delivered and she had done her best for Arthur Connolly and her worst for Riley, she would book a cottage somewhere beautiful, perhaps near the sea, take her bike, a pile of paperbacks, running shoes and she too would ‘chill’. On her own. It was an enticing thought.

  She had reached the top floor and felt a draught of cool air, as though someone had left a window open. We pin moments of emotion on to one particular reference point, a place and time we revisit to remind ourselves what that extreme could be … In this case, the emotion was happiness.

  Happiness was a damp and uninspiring April evening over a year ago now, returning home after a difficult, long and tiring day at work, exacerbated by an episode which some might call an occupational hazard. A young woman, twenty-three years old, with a severe forensic personality disorder, had run amok in the ward, wounding two members of staff with a knife filched from her meal tray and ultimately injuring herself. All, luckily, had only superficial injuries. The patient had been sedated and the members of staff treated but the episode had underlined the danger they ran the gauntlet of every day and she had returned home exhausted and a little depressed, closing the front door behind her with a sense of heaviness. And then …