‘Yeah.’ She laughed that one off. ‘She is that, although when you meet her you’ll think nothing of the sort. You’ll think she’s bland. Plain and ordinary. No hint of the turmoil going on beneath.’
‘Whatever.’ He shrugged that off too.
She stood up. ‘I promised you a quick tour of Greatbach.’
He jumped to his feet. ‘Great stuff.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
They trotted around the wards and the outpatient department for a little more than an hour, Simon asking questions and making comments. Most things were, unsurprisingly, similar. It was a pleasant way to spend the early evening, almost seven thirty by the time they’d finished the tour and made conversation outside Claire’s office. She’d enjoyed his company and was reluctant to see him go.
‘Where are you staying?’
He made a disgusted face. ‘A nasty little place in Etruria,’ he said. ‘It’s noisy and dirty, nothing like it sounds. Classical Greece, my word. More like the slums of ancient Greece.’
‘Oh dear. I hope that isn’t colouring your entire view of the Potteries?’
‘I’m sure there are nice places here, Claire,’ he said, ‘I’m just hoping that dump sure isn’t representative.’
‘No. Definitely not. So will you be doing Laura’s locum for long?’
‘Well.’ He heaved out a big sigh. ‘It looks as though Laura will be off for some months. And then they have intimated there could be another long-term post going. I’d like to stay in the UK for a minimum of a year or two, if that’s possible. It’ll look good on my CV. When I get back to Oz I’ll be going for a consultant post but I can’t stay in that shithole in Etruria for all that time. I’ll have to find somewhere else. Somewhere a bit cleaner, for a start.’
She was thinking of her four empty bedrooms in the newly decorated house, the unused bathrooms. The yawning emptiness of the place which was easily big enough for a family home but instead housed just her. She had plenty of room for a lodger. She’d hardly notice him. But this was a big step. If she was working with Simon Bracknell, the most important thing was that they didn’t fall out. And, as everyone knows, sharing a house, however big, carries risks.
He was eyeing her, waiting for her to speak, and she had the feeling that he was reading her mind. However, he stayed respectfully silent and she needed to think about it for a little longer.
‘Are you heading back there now?’
‘What – to that poky, smelly little room?’ His face distorted even more, then brightened. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a curry? On me?’
‘Why not?’
And so, half an hour later they found themselves at the local curry house studying the menu, and she learned a little more about him.
His father ran a vineyard in the Barossa Valley, his mother was a nurse. ‘She’s the one that rooted for me to go to medical school,’ he said. ‘Ambitious lady, my ma.’
‘And the psychiatry? What’s made you choose that as a speciality?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
He was a great sparring partner. ‘You first.’
‘That was all me. Actually, I had a friend at school who committed suicide. Shot himself.’ His face was far away, still pained, still troubled. ‘Looking back, I suppose it was fairly obvious the poor guy was depressed but God, he hid it well. I felt guilty. I felt I’d failed him. I used to wonder what I should have picked up on, what I could have picked up on. What was there? What signs there were? I became more than just interested. I became intrigued. And that was that. Psychiatry seemed to be drawing me towards it, like a magnet.’
Another self-effacing grin, chin cupped in hand as he bit into a poppadom which shattered, spreading crisp shards over the table, making them both laugh like naughty schoolkids. ‘So what about you?’
It pulled her up short. She’d never really given it much thought. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I had an inspirational teacher in psychology. And then my predecessor here, Heidi.’
‘She was the one that was murdered?’
‘Yeah. That was a real shock. I suppose if anyone you know is murdered it pulls you up short. Particularly as my chosen speciality is forensic psychiatry. I’ve met murderers, rapists, extortionists, child killers, analysed their personalities, assessed whether they’re a danger to wider society or just some specific person. But to have actually known the victim … Heidi, Heidi Faro. That’s something else.’ She speared a gherkin marooned in the pickles. ‘And the wrong guy went to prison for it. The whole thing took some unravelling. But, a little like your story, knowing the victim makes you feel responsible somehow. Makes you want to be able to intervene. It made it worse that as a teacher Heidi was special. Inspirational. A really clever woman with unique thoughts and ideas. I used to watch her during lectures and wonder how it was she could peer so deep into people’s souls. She had an instinct for evil.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Deep stuff indeed.’
‘Yeah. So did the suicide of your friend result in a special interest?’
‘Have a guess. Depression, I suppose. Suicide attempts. Self-harm.’ He frowned. ‘Self-destruction. Treatments, drug therapy. Prevention. Counselling. CBT.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘I wouldn’t mind doing some research into post-traumatic stress disorder. Stuff like that anyway.’
Her ears pricked up. ‘For the military?’
‘We-ell, we don’t send a lot of our forces into conflict. No. I was thinking more broadly. Any sort of flashbacks, maybe into assaults and accidents.’ His grin was appealing. ‘Try and heal the mind. You know?’
They spent some time discussing various trends and current papers as they polished off the poppadoms and the curries arrived together with naan bread and rice, and then he asked her about her special interest.
‘Personality disorder,’ she said, feeling herself warm to her subject. ‘That manipulative, dissociative evil. Each case so subtly different. That cleverness, sizing each other up like wrestlers in the ring. It intrigues me. And worries me.’ She leaned her elbows on the table, met his eyes and told him a little about Riley Finch, the way she found excuses for her behaviour, disguising a manipulative and selfish character. ‘You know, Simon …’ her thoughts were finding words, ‘… I don’t know where she’d stop. She recognizes nothing but her own needs, her own desires.’
‘You think she’d murder?’
Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly. ‘Because the consequences to her would be too serious. That’s the only reason. When I spoke to her about the suffering of the mother whose baby she stole, her eyes were quite blank. She genuinely didn’t understand what I was talking about.’
‘Trouble is, Claire, there isn’t really any treatment. You can’t alter someone’s personality, can you?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said through a mouthful of curry, index finger waving. ‘I think something along the lines of CBT might work.’
‘How so?’
‘I think if they were shown clips of people suffering as a result of their crimes, it might teach them about the emotions they ought to be feeling.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty groundbreaking.’
She laughed to lighten the mood. ‘And completely unproven. Most psychiatrists are more likely to say some people are evil, like Riley Finch, and others are not.’ She gave him a potted version of Arthur Connolly’s story. And, like her, he believed that Lindsay was a monster.
Claire’s curry was a bit hot and she ordered yoghurt to cool it down, taking a spoonful before she was ready to continue the conversation. Simon looked up, his face worried. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I just had a thought. I hope I’m not keeping you from your boyfriend.’ He laughed. ‘He’s not about to beat me up, is he?’
It was half worry, half joke. Claire spluttered at the thought of Grant beating anyone up. His pirate looks did not extend to pugnacity. He was more the sort to cry at the plight of Syrian refugees than pick a fight with anyo
ne. That was not to say he was a pushover. He was not. Grant Steadman could and would stand up for himself and protect her and anyone else he considered too weak for the job. But only if he deemed it absolutely necessary. An unavoidable requirement.
She was aware that Simon Bracknell was waiting for a response. And she had to supply one. She took a deep breath in. ‘My boyfriend is an ex. We split up a while ago.’
‘Leaving you heartbroken?’ It was simple curiosity rather than anything else. Behind the glasses his eyes were kind.
But she didn’t even try to answer, and diplomatically he didn’t pursue the subject, perhaps understanding that she hadn’t responded because she couldn’t. She couldn’t because she didn’t know the answer herself. She felt her face crumple before deflecting his probing with a return shot. ‘You?’
‘I’m married,’ he said shortly. And surprisingly.
Surprise which she couldn’t hide. ‘What – married? And you’ve left a wife back in Oz.’
‘Umm, yes.’ His eyes behind the glasses were now evasive, lids dropped, a film concealing his expression.
‘What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Marianne.’
Even the name was unexpected, sounding more like a Disney princess than a wife halfway across the world, dropped, discarded, to be picked up at a later date. He hadn’t mentioned her before, even when he’d spoken of hoping to stay in the UK for a year or two. No, I’m hoping my wife will join me, or my wife’s hoping to get a job over here.
But if she was only giving him half the story, Simon Bracknell was obviously equally reluctant to give up his secrets. The conversation appeared to have hit the buffers but, just before she left it, she allowed herself one stab at a question. ‘Have you any children?’
He shook his head and pressed his lips together. A sure sign.
They’d finished their meal. Claire was still hanging back on telling him she had rooms to spare. She’d relegated it to the back of her mind but she had already worked it out. He could have the top floor. All of it. Bedroom, bathroom, study. She hardly ever went up there. And as for his rent … well, she didn’t really care. She didn’t need it. But it would help to pay off the mortgage that bit quicker. She actually opened her mouth to speak and then clamped it shut.
But she still heard the voices. Why not offer it?
Answer: because it was a situation easier to dive into than to climb out.
Think about it. Don’t be impulsive. His wife, this Marianne, might be planning to fly over and join him. Would you like a couple up there, over your head, maybe rowing? Even children running around?
And so she obeyed her sensible voice. Shoved her impulsive and generous nature to the back of the room and slammed the door on it, allowing suspicion and pessimism and caution to take precedent. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah. That’d be nice.’
It was late by the time they left the curry house and parted. Past eleven. The evening had flown by and she couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed someone’s company so much. Conversation, outlook, even humour. Outside the curry house, she shook his hand and said, ‘Keep in touch.’ It was nice, friendly but not overly so – neutral but still ultimately dismissive. And she thought that behind the thick lenses she read disappointment. Regret?
He did make a small effort. ‘Would you mind if I sat in on one of your clinics?’
She felt a rush of pleasure. ‘No, of course not. Any time. You’ll be welcome. Just arrange it with my secretary.’ She scribbled Rita’s number down on a scrap of paper. ‘And thank you so much for bringing the notes over. They’ve been really helpful.’
That was it. She dragged herself back to the car park, reflecting. He seemed nice. Polite, quieter than she’d imagined, pleasant. And if he already had a wife, well, that was fine too. At least she’d know where she was with him. Already taken. No entanglement. It was just a bit strange that he seemed reluctant to discuss his wife. Most men with a ‘Marianne’ tucked away halfway across the world are only too happy to talk about their missing half. Claire imagined her to be glamorous, the sporty, tanned blonde she’d expected Simon Bracknell to be. Or maybe she was wrong on this count too. But still, wasn’t it also strange that he’d come to UK, leaving her behind apparently without a backward glance? For a year?
Oh, well, it was none of her business, she thought as she drove home. People pursue their own lives and careers. They don’t always sit too comfortably with married life, or at least the conventional image of married life. There was still nothing to stop her putting her idea of him becoming her lodger in front of him, see what his response was. It would only be for a year and no possibility of any romantic entanglement on either side. Her mind flipped over the issue and considered it afresh.
Now, what would be a realistic rent?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 21 July, 9 a.m.
37/40
The day began with a note on her desk to say that the community midwife would visit at 12 p.m., before there was a knock on her door and Edward Reakin’s face peeped round.
‘Sorry I missed you,’ he said. ‘I tried to get hold of you yesterday evening but you were with that locum guy from the community. I didn’t want to interrupt.’
‘That’s OK. Come in. Sit down. So tell me. Did you get to see Heather?’
‘I did.’
‘What did you make of her?’
‘A conundrum. I couldn’t quite work out how real the entire fantasy is to her. She kept jumping to her feet, peering out of the window. I wonder when Charles will be here.’ His mimicry was excellent. Heather’s bland voice and vague Potteries accent sounded as though she was in the room with them. ‘She must have said it fifty times.’ His grey eyes were musing and perceptive. ‘In fact, every time she couldn’t think of an answer to my questions.’
‘Go on.’
‘I pressed her for more detail. Dates, times, places. What was Charles wearing that night? I think she realized I was sceptical and became defensive.’
‘Aggressively defensive?’
He nodded. ‘There’s more behind that head of hers than you’d think.’
‘Her thought processes?’
‘Not so much damaged as crossed wires. Or rather twisted wires so she thinks one thing and then everything gets confused and changes her story.’
‘Tell me more.’ Claire was intrigued. She had always respected Edward with his steady, truthful insight. But this clarity was helping even more than usual.
‘She plays it,’ he said, ‘like a virtuoso. She is so convinced he’ll be delighted to meet up with her.’
‘So why isn’t she ringing him?’
‘Truth?’ Edward had a kind face. In his forties, mild-mannered and balding, he was the sort of man who was hardly remembered. You met him and forgot him. But underneath a bland exterior was the searing perception often found in quiet men. They sat. They watched, they observed, they drew their own conclusions.
‘She doesn’t have his number.’
Claire nodded. ‘Did you mention the two children who had died, apparently as a result of cot death?’
‘I only touched on it. The subject makes her very defensive.’
‘Defensive,’ she said. ‘Not exactly grief-struck.’
‘Yeah.’ He stuck his long legs out in front of him. ‘She didn’t seem exactly heartbroken. Says there must have been something wrong with them. Almost discarded the two that died. Like she didn’t care. Or …’ again he thought about it, ‘… that it was inevitable.’
‘So where exactly does that fit into the bigger picture?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Anything else?’
He shook his head and looked a bit embarrassed. ‘This is outside my remit but I think she’ll be going into labour fairly soon. She’s definitely getting some firm contractions.’
‘Yeah, I noticed the Braxton Hicks. Well, I have the community midwife coming to assess her this afternoon so they can probably see if she’s
going into labour, check the foetal heartbeat, cervical dilatation, etc., etc. She’ll be thirty-eight weeks on Friday so they may want to induce her then. Did you notice her banging her abdomen?’
He nodded. ‘Quite hard.’
‘Edward …’ She almost hesitated to ask this. ‘I’ve been wondering what’s behind all this. Why all these phantom romances? Quite apart from her odd response to the deaths of her children.’
She stopped, suddenly thoughtful, while Edward Reakin waited for her to continue.
‘I’ve spent some time delving into her family background.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve formed a theory.’
‘Go on.’
‘Did you touch on abuse by her father?’
‘I did. She hotly denies sexual abuse, Claire. I don’t think that’s the answer. She does say he was a strict disciplinarian. Religious. No hint of sex. If anything, she hints that he found sex a sin.’
The word resonated to Claire, the sound loud and insistent, but she couldn’t find its source.
‘Did you get the impression that …’ She scratched quotation marks into the air. ‘The lady doth protest too much?’
He didn’t answer straight away but thought about it before responding as was his way. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I got the impression she was telling the truth. As she sees it.’
‘Anything else strike you?’
‘Yeah. Her delusion seems to be only in that one area – lovers, child. All other responses were perfectly rational. I mean about her life, her work, her sister. Even, to some extent, her marriage.’
‘Geoff?’
He chuckled. ‘She seems to have a sort of friendly relationship with him, a sort of disparaging affection.’
‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I might well try and see him again. So your conclusions, cause, effect?’
His eyes sparkled. Edward Reakin, clinical psychologist was polite, thoughtful, contemplative, intuitive and very, very clever. And divorced after his wife flaunted an affair which she’d never thought he’d respond to. But he had. In a swift and uncharacteristic action, he’d thrown her out of the marital home and divorced her almost in one rapid, smooth action. Quite against the grain when normally he was a gentle, easy-going guy, given more to thought than action with bland features: neat mouth, grey eyes. But once he’d made up his mind, that was it. Action.
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