‘She supplies a need,’ he said slowly. ‘A need to be loved, cherished, protected.’
‘Go on.’
‘Her father was strict. A religious person who believed in upholding his values. There were three children – Robin, Heather and Ruth. During Heather and Ruth’s childhood, to the best of his ability, Robin tried to protect his sisters. She spoke of him with very real affection.’
She nodded, picturing this family damaged, as so many are, by a father with rigid beliefs who tried to beat his children into submission and a wife who was probably afraid to speak up.
‘But when Heather was nineteen, her brother vanished. She says her father told her he had run off.’
She saw his face change. ‘That equation bothered me, Claire,’ he said, face preoccupied. ‘A father who regularly beat both his son and his two daughters. An older brother who felt he needed to protect his younger sisters.’ He was frowning now. ‘Just vanishing? Not even trying to get in touch with them to see if they were all right? Never getting in touch with them? I asked myself, why not?’
She felt a ripple, as though a great wave was about to wash over them. ‘Did she offer any explanation for Robin’s apparent abandonment of them?’
‘No. But I got the impression that she’s both damaged and hurt by his silence as well as feeling vulnerable. And so she substitutes.’
‘That makes sense. And Geoff?’
‘The traditional reason behind a swift marriage. Pregnant. A way of escaping her father. Funnily enough, Heather’s father approved of her choice of husband. Practically arranged the marriage. Apparently, before Geoff fell off the wagon and took up drinking again, he was a member of the same church.’
She pushed on. ‘How much of this is conjecture, Edward?’
He leaned back, thought for a moment, then half closed his eyes. ‘I’m just filling in details, Claire.’
‘But you agree that these romances and sexual experiences are all fantasy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve little doubt.’
‘Then that’ll do. When are you going to see her again?’
He’d moved to stand up but instead dropped back into the chair. ‘Soon. But to be honest, Claire,’ he said, ‘in these days of social media, mobile phones, Skype and whatever, I’m focusing more on what’s happened to Robin Acton. I will see Heather again but I have the feeling it’s the reason behind her stories and allegations where the truth lies.’
‘Edward,’ she said, ‘thank you so much for this. I knew you’d have plenty of insight. I’ve been too directed by Charles, seeing it too much from his perspective rather than hers. You’re right. I should have looked harder at Heather and her reasons for the allegations. Perhaps,’ she continued slowly, ‘we should ask the police for some help tracking down Robin Acton?’
‘Do you know anyone?’
‘I do.’ It wasn’t exactly on her list of things she’d like to do – she had had contact with DS Zed Willard of Burslem police before and it hadn’t ended particularly well. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
‘Keep in touch.’ And he was gone.
She was well aware that to get Tissot off the hook she would need to formalize Heather’s diagnosis and back it up with evidence. To arrive at that she should interview more people around her. But Edward’s astute observations had set her thinking. Perhaps she should focus more on Heather’s family history and less on recent events which could be simply a manifestation of some trauma in the past. And the name that sprang to mind was Robin Acton.
Edward’s contribution had been really helpful, mostly to point her in the right direction. Maybe she owed a certain amount of professional loyalty to Charles Tissot. But nothing more than that.
In her heart of hearts, she felt that he was unchanged, the same person who would take advantage of a drunk woman. It was over-optimistic to believe that this episode would have taught him a lesson. For predatory men like him, there was no cure.
It didn’t help that, from her perspective, Charles Tissot’s behaviour was encouraged by a belief in Droit de Seigneur.
He was upper class, she nothing but the French frog, an image she could never shake off.
Somewhere at the back of her mind, behind the figure of Heather, her allegations and her family lay a niggling responsibility, a soft voice whispered warnings into her ear. Other patients. The uncomfortable memory of that brief encounter: Riley Finch’s eyes caressing Heather’s swollen abdomen. She’d seen that look and read in them Riley’s dangerous message. I want …
And the last time she had spoken to Arthur Connolly, she had been overwhelmed with pity, an awareness of his vulnerability and inability to cope with either his past life, his violent response or the future that waited for him at HMP.
She shook herself and grabbed at a current buzzword. Outcomes. The NHS was fond of the word. Outcomes. And so she focused, right there, on the desired outcomes.
For Charles Tissot? Absolute acquittal, the very shadow of suspicion removed from him, continuance of his career unhampered by scandal.
For Heather? That was a bit more complicated. But a safe delivery and return to mental health, relief from her delusions.
The child? Heather and Charles could look after themselves. Not so the infant. The temptation was to make the newborn a ward of court. But they would need more evidence than a history of two apparently natural cot deaths and mental instability on the mother’s part. Courts are not keen on snatching babies from their mothers’ arms. And offering a plea of instinct or past history would be similarly unimpressive. As a psychiatrist, yes, she could attest to erotomania, give it the dignity of calling it by the obscure French name, but there would be an outcry if she either failed to protect the neonate or robbed Heather Krimble of her sole surviving child. And for how long could they or should they protect the child? Until the child was strong enough to protect itself? And what about the father, who would probably turn out to be Geoff? Good old Geoff, who had failed to protect Eliza and Freddie and seemed untroubled by their deaths.
Claire’s instinct was that the baby would be in danger. How to protect it was a much more difficult question. Maybe she should follow Edward’s instinct and involve the police.
Before she could change her mind, she picked up the phone and dialled the number she had for DS Zed Willard. He sounded more than surprised to hear from her. The surprise was tinged with anxiety, the subtext, What the hell does she want? This is where the personal treads on the toes of the professional.
She began with an apology. ‘Sergeant Willard.’ Her voice sounded awkward. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you.’
He made an attempt to sound friendly. ‘That’s OK, Claire. It’s lovely to hear from you. How are you?’
‘Not bad. And you?’
‘Fine.’ It was the classic answer which told them both absolutely nothing.
Sensing her reserve, he hesitated before, ‘Is this a professional call?’
‘Yes.’
‘So … is there something you want me to look into?’
‘Yes, there is. I have a patient whose brother vanished about eight years ago. I wonder if you could investigate.’
‘Sure. Be glad to. Give me the facts. Dates last seen, age, description.’
It was then that she realized how little she did know. ‘Can I ring you with them – later?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ He sounded friendly enough. He gave her his mobile number and hesitated. ‘That boyfriend of yours resurfaced?’
‘No,’ she said, giving the word a little less emphasis than she’d meant. It still sounded too uncertain and DS Willard obviously picked up on it. ‘OK. Right. Well, when you’ve got the detail of this misper let me know and I’ll see what I can do.’
11 a.m.
She had an hour to spare before the midwife was due to arrive and she hoped it would not be Rhoda. She didn’t fancy putting a bitter ex-wife into the melting pot. She had enough in there already.
But she could use the
time wisely. She climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked on the door of Heather’s room. She was sitting, looking forlornly out of the window. When the door opened she jumped to her feet, her face eager. But as soon as it registered who it was, disappointment dropped her shoulders and sucked the anticipation out of her. She sank back in her chair, saying nothing but pleating and re-pleating her skirt. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why he isn’t here.’
Claire sat down opposite, glad that for once she was alone with her patient without the limiting factor of her sister’s presence.
‘Heather,’ she said gently, ‘tell me about Robin.’
Heather’s eyes were wide but unseeing. ‘Robin?’ She sounded puzzled.
‘Your brother.’
She stretched out her palms towards Claire. ‘But he’s gone.’
‘I know he’s gone,’ Claire said. ‘Where?’
Heather was frowning. ‘We don’t know where,’ she said. ‘We just know he isn’t around any more.’
‘What was the last thing he said to you?’
Heather’s frown deepened.
Claire tried again. ‘Was it goodbye? Did he say goodbye?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you go to the police?’
She shook her head.
‘Did anyone in your family go to the police?’
‘I don’t know. I think maybe. Maybe someone did. Probably Dad.’
‘Not you.’
Heather dropped her head and shook out a definite no.
‘Did Ruth speak to the police?’
The question appeared to confuse her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Your mother?’
That made her eyes flick up. ‘Oh, no. Not my mother.’ She almost laughed. ‘Not her. She does nothing.’
‘So … your father?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps. Probably.’
‘What was Robin’s full name?’
‘Just Robin Acton. He didn’t have a middle name. Dad always said they were unnecessary.’
‘And his date of birth?’
‘Second of February 1985. Why are you asking all this?’
Claire ignored the question. ‘So he was twenty-four when he went missing?’
Heather nodded. ‘I suppose he must have been.’
‘He was five years older than you.’
Again, Heather nodded.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I don’t know. It was winter. Dark. Cold.’ Again, she asked, ‘Why are you asking me all these questions about Robin?’
And again, Claire ignored the question. Something else was troubling her. Heather and her sister had watched as their brother was beaten. What else had they witnessed? She left the room with the usual feeling of confusion.
She couldn’t wait to fill DS Zed Willard in.
As she peered in through the porthole two doors away she could see Arthur, the small man bent over his crossword, and felt desperately sorry for him. What the hell would happen to him in prison?
Overwhelmingly, she knew he did not belong there. He was no criminal, no knife-wielding homicidal maniac. He was just a man who had been pushed too far. In HMP he would be bullied and assaulted. His life inside would be no better than his life had been on the outside. Lindsay had put him there. She pushed the door open.
He was sitting quietly in the corner, seeming to take up no space in the room. He looked up when she entered and she was touched to see how glad he was to see her. His smile was shy and warm, yet she had nothing to offer him. No handy diagnosis on which to dispose of a prison sentence. She sat down.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt her,’ he said softly. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
His voice was barely more than a whisper. To her ears he sounded sincere. But however much he expressed regret for what he’d done, she doubted it would lighten his sentence. The ruling on psychological manipulation male to female was new, the goalposts not quite set out. It was still something to be vaguely swept under the carpet, something shameful. Few men would admit it. The ruling from female to male was almost unheard of in the courts. Untried and untested. However softly spoken, however diminutive, however much he tried to shrink against the wall, Arthur was still a man. She doubted he would gain a jury’s sympathy.
She swallowed the comment that not a single member of the jury would believe his statement that he had not meant to hurt his wife. She could almost hear the derision if she’d even mentioned it.
He had a fucking six-inch blade in his hand. That knife was as sharp as a sword. He stabbed her four times. Only missed vital blood supply, her heart by less than two inches. But for the Grace of God his wife would have been lying there dead. Did you see the crime scene pictures? A blood bath. That’s what it was. Slaughter. Even his own son won’t testify for him.
The man is a monster.
Oh, yes, she could hear it echo around her ears. However much she protested that Arthur Connolly was a good man, no one would believe her. She’d kept interviewing him, trying to find a way to prove to the courts, to his lawyer, to the sceptical jury that this had been an impulsive act committed by a man who had been pushed too far.
But Arthur was giving her few clues. He’d never really gone into detail about the way Lindsay had treated him and the biggest blow of all was that no one from the church was willing to testify to Lindsay’s treatment of her husband. Not the verbal abuse, not the slap, not the insults. It wasn’t fair. But however soft, unusual and pliable a character Arthur was, his next question still managed to take her by surprise. ‘Will Lindsay ever forgive me?’
She stopped to consider before she responded. Forgiveness, that Christian quality. Why was it so important? Why did it matter at all? Who cared? Why did he want her absolution? Once he’d come out of prison he wouldn’t be returning to the marital home. Lindsay wouldn’t have had him anyway. Too bloody scared. Claire couldn’t help the sad smile spreading like butter across her face. Forgiveness? Was Arthur hoping his wife’s forgiveness would earn him a place in heaven? After prison? If he survived it?
‘Arthur,’ she said gently, ‘you know I can’t answer that. Only Lindsay can.’
And I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.
‘Do you know how she is?’ was his next question.
‘More or less recovered,’ she said. ‘She’s out of hospital but will need further operations. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Saul is with her.’
His look changed to one of resignation as he nodded, donkey-like. Then brightened. ‘They’ll be glad to be home. Together.’
She spent the next ten minutes discussing the imminent gaol sentence. He took it all on the chin until she asked him that one final question. ‘Have you seen Saul?’
It was at that point that Arthur’s face crumpled.
And Claire left the room, struck by the sheer inappropriateness of it all.
TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, 21 July, 12 p.m.
With half an hour before the midwife was due and only a vague idea of her purpose, she approached Riley’s room. But it was empty. No sign of her at all. Bed neatly made up, no clothes strewn around the room, no one in the chair. It was as though she had vacated it. Which worried her. Like an active toddler, Riley was at her most dangerous when out of sight.
She asked the nurses, who looked unconcerned. ‘She’ll be in the bathroom. She spends a lot of time there.’
But, reassured, instead of searching her out she entered the staff room and pulled out her mobile phone.
She had a bit of a conscience that she hadn’t kept Charles up to date. She should inform him of all the developments: Heather’s current inpatient status as well as the imminent arrival of the community midwife, possibly Rhoda. She found his number but just before she pressed the call icon she hesitated.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said to herself. ‘You’re a psychiatrist. You have the story. You’ve met the people concerned. Work it ou
t for yourself.’
And that was the problem. She hadn’t met all the people. She was missing some.
The two male subjects of Heather’s previous allegations and Heather’s parents. And last of all, another person who must once have been close to Heather and Ruth, someone who would have known them as children. Someone who would have known Heather’s parents.
The missing brother. She hadn’t spoken to him. And neither had Laura.
There were other people who featured on the edge of this story. Charles she knew. And it was possible that she was about to meet Rhoda. But first Charles. She pressed the call button and prepared to speak.
He answered the phone with a weary, ‘Hello, Tissot here.’
This debacle was taking its toll. ‘It’s Claire. Are you all right?’
He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Stressed, knackered, and yeah, a bit worried.’
‘About Heather?’
‘Oh.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘That and a long list of other things. Work’s busy, Claire. Divorce is complicated, bitter and expensive.’ He gave another long sigh. ‘Whoever would have thought a quick shag could prove so fucking costly.’
And whoever would have thought that a man as talented and intelligent as Charles M Tissot, consultant obstetrician, would have proved so obtuse in learning such a simple lesson? All actions leave baggage just as all operations leave a scar, however invisible.
But she tried to sympathize – on the surface at least. ‘Patient care?’
He gave another mirthless laugh. ‘If only it were that simple. Patient care? They teach you that at medical school. No, what they don’t teach you is hospital policy, how to make things sound better than they are. How to massage your figures for caesarean sections or lie about infant mortality. How to keep one foetus alive at eighteen weeks and watch another die because it is unwanted. How to stick to guidelines written by governments who know fuck all—’ He halted mid-flow. ‘Sorry, Claire. But meetings, directives … they’re what’s wearing me out. Not the work itself. Obs and gynae are a dream compared to the rest.’
The Deceiver Page 23
