The Mentalist

by Rod Duncan

  Harry nodded. It was no surprise that his agent had been economical with the truth.

  By the time they crunched to a stop on Angela’s gravel drive he hardly noticed. He advanced from the car towards the front door, leaving Pickman filming through the passenger side window.

  She was there, glaring at him, before his finger reached the bell. ‘You’ve got a nerve showing up here.’

  ‘I’ve still got 8 hours,’ he said.

  ‘You left her sitting in a police station!’

  ‘There’s no safer place.’

  ‘I know about your girlfriend,’ Angela said. ‘You think I’d let you take Tia home to a woman like that?’

  ‘Chloe? She isn’t my girlfriend.’

  ‘I’ve had detectives here. Asking questions about you. They told me what you’ve been doing.’

  Harry tried to step into the house but Angela spread her arms to block him. He shouted over her shoulder. ‘Tia!’

  ‘She doesn’t belong with you.’ Angela’s voice was a hiss. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you this for years.’

  ‘Christ!’ Harry shouted. ‘You should listen to yourself!’

  Angela flinched. He could see the hurt whenever he swore like that.

  ‘You’ve never taken my hints,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to face the truth.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tia isn’t yours.’

  He understood the words his ex-wife had just spoken, but together they didn’t seem to make sense. He found himself blinking rapidly.

  ‘We’re going back to court,’ Angela said

  ‘We?’

  She pulled in a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want it to be like this. But you’re ruining Tia’s life. She’s not your daughter, Harry. We don’t want you to see her again.’

  *

  The thought of letting Dr Fields, the forensic psychologist, into his office was unsettling, so Morgan booked one of the larger interview rooms for the meeting. She was waiting for him when he opened the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ he offered his hand, which she took. Her grip was soft.

  ‘You’ve had time to read my conclusions?’ she asked.

  ‘I have.’

  They were sitting opposite each other. She had a copy of the report on the table in front of her. He placed his own copy to mirror hers. Her coppery hair seemed even brighter under the room’s fluorescent lighting than it had on the hillside when they first met.

  ‘I’m hoping you can clarify something,’ he said. ‘I’m familiar with the basic division between organised and disorganised crime scenes. When we spoke before, you told me we were looking for a killer in control of his actions.’

  She folded her arms. ‘The crime scene was organised.’

  ‘Which means an intelligent, socially able killer. A sociopath rather than a psychopath. Someone with no moral inhibitions to killing. But in your report you changed your mind.’

  ‘It’s never that simple. And we didn’t know then that all the victims were linked to Harry Gysel.’

  ‘This is what I don’t understand,’ Morgan said. ‘You haven’t mentioned the possibility that Harry Gysel is the killer.’

  ‘I do. If you read section three…’ Dr Fields flicked through her copy of the report, then traced a finger down the margin of one page. ‘Here we go… “Assuming Harry Gysel isn’t himself guilty, I conclude that…”’

  ‘Why assume?’

  ‘“…I conclude that the killer is fixated on him. The killer may have specific delusional fantasies of a relationship with Mr Gysel and psychic phenomena.’”

  She looked up from the page.

  Morgan said: ‘I thought delusional killers left disorganised crime scenes.’

  ‘Not always. If Gysel was the murderer, he’d make sure the victims couldn’t be connected to him. I think our killer wants Gysel to be involved — to know the deaths are related to him.’

  ‘It could be greed,’ Morgan said. ‘The man is on the road to riches because of this.’

  Dr Fields closed the report. ‘Maybe you’re right. It isn’t an exact science. But I’d say you’re looking for someone who came into contact with Gysel two years ago, possibly after a life-changing event of some kind.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Accident, mental breakdown, loss of a love done. Anything like that. When they kill again, the victim will be someone Harry Gysel knows.’

  ‘Why not kill Gysel himself?’

  ‘Killing Gysel would kill the fantasy. As long as the fantasy is alive, Gysel is safe.’

  Morgan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Is believing in psychic phenomena a mental illness?’

  ‘Do you believe?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not in anything? Ghosts? Jesus? Love?’

  ‘There is something I haven’t mentioned,’ Morgan said. ‘Something Harry Gysel showed me when I interviewed him.’ He began describing the way Harry Gysel had divined his mother’s middle name. Dr Fields looked at him so intently that he found himself dropping his own gaze to his hands as he spoke. When he looked again, he was surprised to see her smiling. ‘If he’d known I was going to interview him, he could have looked it up.’

  ‘You must have mouthed the name,’ she said.

  Morgan thought back, trying to remember. ‘Not the middle name.’

  ‘Well, did you tell it to him before he showed you what was on the card?’

  ‘Yes. But after he’d written it.’

  ‘It’s a Mentalist trick,’ she said. ‘Conjuring that looks like mind reading. It has to be. What you should be asking is why he thought Debbie was going to die.’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me,’ Morgan said. ‘But I do have some news on that. We found out today, Debbie had liver cancer. She knew she was going to die.’

  *

  The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, loud but tinny, chimed from Harry’s mobile phone. He groped on the bedside table, pressing buttons at random until it stopped, then fumbled it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Tia? What time is it?’

  ‘You said… you said I could call any time.’

  He was more asleep than awake but the half sob in his daughter’s voice was like a slap to the face. He swung his legs out of bed and blinked, trying to focus on the glowing digits of the alarm clock. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘You were on the news, Dad.’

  ‘I know sweetheart. Where are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I am! They said… they said a girl was killed. Mum turned the TV off and sent me to my bedroom. They said…’

  ‘Are you there now? God, Tia, it’s three in the morning.’

  ‘Stop fussing about me! They said you were arrested.’

  ‘They just questioned me.’

  ‘Did you… did you really know? They said you predicted it all.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything. The woman, Debbie, she thought she was going to die. That’s all there is.’

  ‘But you predicted it. You should have stopped it.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Mum says I’m not to see you any more. She says you’re no good. She says…’

  ‘I will see you.’

  ‘…she says it’s your fault.’

  ‘Then she overestimates me.’

  ‘She says you call up devils.’

  ‘There are no devils, Tia. At least, only human ones. And I’m nothing special. All I do is conjuring tricks. Please tell me where you are.’

  ‘Stop treating me like a baby!’

  ‘I’m asking because I love you.’

  ‘You said love is just chemistry.’

  ‘Tia, I’d do anything for you.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Tell me what you want. Anything.’

  ‘I want you to be special.’

  *

  The press conference was Harry’s idea. When he told Davina about it she surprised him with an embrace so t
ight that he could feel her heart beating. It was as if he’d agreed to convert to her religion.

  ‘We could book that same hotel the police used for theirs,’ she said.

  Davina had an instinct for the mischievous that he almost admired. Holding it there would certainly goad Morgan and that was a satisfying thought. But Morgan wasn’t his target.

  ‘The acoustics were terrible,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a better idea.’

  And so it was arranged. Back to the theatre, the exact spot where he’d stumbled on Debbie’s premonition of death.

  News of a serial killer had attracted reporters up from London, including correspondents from the foreign press. Harry stood on the street opposite the theatre, his face concealed under the hood of an old anorak. He watched them arriving, jostling each other as they pressed through the doors. French and Italian accents mingled with the English. When he’d heard enough, he followed them in and made his way to the wings. There he took off his coat and waited.

  Davina was standing centre stage behind a bank of microphones. He listened to her addressing the audience, priming them, telling them what to expect. She would have been a good stage hypnotist.

  Then, at her command the lights dimmed.

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Pickman just behind him. Harry stepped out from his hiding place. Camera flashes strobed him as he advanced towards the microphones. He peered into the audience. There were more people here than on his last performance. Then the stage lights came up full and he couldn’t see them any more.

  ‘Mr Gysel will take your questions now,’ said Davina.

  There must have been a radio microphone in the audience because the voice of the first questioner issued clear from the stage speakers. ‘Harry. Are you using your powers to help the police or are you a suspect?’

  This one they’d expected. ‘Some people see beauty and mystery in the world,’ he said. ‘But it’s hard for the police to admit there’s more between heaven and earth than the ozone layer. I predicted Debbie’s death. It’s natural they needed to question me.’

  Out there in the audience the microphone changed hands. A new voice spoke. ‘Were you born with special powers or did you develop them?’

  ‘We use only 10% of our brain capacity. We are all capable of amazing things.’ It didn’t matter that the statistic was made up. And it didn’t matter that he hadn’t answered the question. Play the mystic, Davina had said. The less you say the more they’ll want.

  ‘Mr Gysel, do you believe in God?’

  ‘What I believe isn’t the point. But there are powers in the universe that we don’t understand.’

  ‘Harry. What did you tell the police? Is the killer going to strike again?’

  ‘All I told the police is confidential.’

  ‘Give us a demonstration, Harry. Read my mind.’

  Davina sidled between Harry and the microphones. ‘Harry Gysel will be performing at venues around the country for the next month. A new tour list is on his website today. If you want demonstrations, that’s your opportunity.’

  Another voice from the floor. A shaky one this time, unlike the hard-bitten hacks. ‘Do you… do you make things happen? Or is it… is it like everything’s set?’

  Harry peered into the spotlight beam but could make out no more than the silhouette of heads against the yellow haze. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Did you… I mean, did you make it happen? Did your powers kill Debbie?’

  ‘What newspaper do you represent?’ Davina asked.

  ‘I’m just… I was Debbie’s friend, that’s all. She was my housemate.’

  Harry could hear the movement of people out there in the audience. Camera flashes flickered, picking out a man with long hair, sitting half way back.

  ‘What’s your name?’ one of the reporters shouted.

  ‘They call me Diablo. I’m the bass player with the Witch Kings.’

  If a girl hadn’t died it would be almost funny — another wannabe celeb hijacking their opportunist publicity stunt. He could sense his agent stiffening as the cameramen on the front row turned to refocus on the musician.

  He wondered who would watch all this tonight on the evening news? Chief Inspector Morgan, no doubt. If the man had disliked him before, he would hate him after this. Tia? Would Angela be in the room to click the TV remote?

  Attention was still on the young musician, in spite of Davina’s efforts.

  ‘Diablo. What was she like as a housemate?’

  ‘She was cool.’

  ‘Did she believe in psychic forces?’

  ‘She was like me and the band, we’re all into it. We’ve got a new track out. That’s about magic.’

  Harry projected an image of Tia sitting in the audience in front of him. It was time.

  ‘I can sense a presence,’ he said, pitching his voice half a tone higher than before. There was a whisper of people shifting in their seats to face him again. He raised his eyes to the lights above the stage and spread his arms to stand cruciform. This was the image they’d put in the papers tomorrow. Angela would hate him for it.

  *

  Morgan had slipped into the theatre after everyone else was seated. He stood now by the wall on the left. He’d watched through the performance, taking in Gysel’s agent, the hacks and then Harry Gysel himself.

  As the questions came, he made himself watch the audience rather than the stage. Who were these people — all so eager to feed on stories of psychic phenomena? Then Diablo spoke drawing the camera lenses towards himself. Morgan hadn’t noticed him before.

  When Gysel spoke again there was something ethereal about his voice and Morgan found himself turning involuntarily.

  ‘I can sense a presence.’

  Harry Gysel, lit by the spotlight and surrounded by the blackness of the stage, had made himself into an image of the crucified Christ. As Morgan watched, the man’s eyes rolled under his lids.

  ‘I can sense… someone in this room… someone has travelled far to be here. I can hear a name… It begins with L. Lucy. Or Lucia.’

  A blonde woman towards the front of the audience stood up. ‘I’m Lucia.’

  ‘A republican will reward you,’ he said.

  ‘Republican?’

  Gysel rocked his head from side to side. ‘I don’t know. Republican. Republic.’

  ‘La Reppublica?’ she asked. ‘I write for La Reppublica in Italy.’

  ‘Do you have some old photographs in your house, jumbled in a box or an envelope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a picture of an old man. It is him, he’s giving you this message.’

  The woman was nodding. ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘He says you have been hurt in the past. He can feel your hurt, but you are healed now and it is time to move on.’

  From where Morgan watched he could see the woman stagger back a step, then slowly sit.

  Harry Gysel was swaying, as if about to fall. His agent stood open mouthed next to him.

  ‘There are forces here in this room,’ he cried. ‘Powerful forces… I sense someone watching. A killer is watching. I’m looking into the killer’s heart. There is emptiness inside. Emptiness and weakness and loneliness.’

  Then Harry Gysel cried out as if in pain and threw back his head. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. There was a moment of silence, then everyone was on their feet. The photographers were the first to clamber up on stage, then everyone was following. Everyone except the boy Diablo, who turned and walked out of the back of the theatre.

  *

  Harry lay on the stage, eyes closed, listening to the uproar he’d created. He was aware of Davina’s perfume. Her fingers were cool on his cheek. She fumbled his top button open.

  Then other people were clambering onto the stage. The impact of their footfalls thundered into his skull through the boards. Their shadows were on him and the camera flashes were flickering. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

  ‘What happ
ened?’

  When he opened his eyes, they were crowding in, trying to elbow each other out of the way.

  ‘Harry. What did the killer look like?’

  ‘Harry, smile.’

  ‘Harry, is it a man or a woman?’

  ‘Harry. Harry. Over here.’

  ‘Will you go to the police?’

  ‘Harry. Will he be coming for you?’

  He let Davina help him into a sitting position. The crush of bodies pressed closer. Cameras held over heads pointed down at him from above. He stood. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Davina took his arm as if to steady him. ‘Mr Gysel needs air. Please back away.’

  No one did. She started leading him towards the wings. The crowd was moving with them. Cameras were in front of his face. A long lens caught him on the side of the head.

  Only when Davina closed the door of the dressing room were they alone. He dropped himself into the chair and looked up at her. There was a greyness in her face that he’d never seen before.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re reporters. That’s what they do.’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, Harry. What did you see?’

  He stared at her, suddenly unsure. It hadn’t occurred to him that his agent, one of the most materialistic people he knew, would be taken in by his act. ‘I’m a fake, Davina.’

  There was a look on her face that he couldn’t decode. Was it fear? Sadness?

  ‘Some of what you do is fake,’ she said. ‘I know that. But not all of it.’

  He said, ‘All of it.’

  ‘Then how did you know the girl was going to die?’

  ‘There are signs. If you think a word in your head, your face muscles shift. It’s like you’re saying it out loud. Some people can’t help it. That girl — she believed she was going to die. All I did was lip read.’

  He’d been planning on telling her the rest — that he was going to bring this killer, who was clearly fixated on him, out into the open to be caught. He’d been planning on telling her that the news story he was in the process of making would be so big that he’d finally be able to drop the pretence of psychic power and come clean and people would still flock to his shows. He wanted to tell her that she would be proud of him, that Tia would be proud of him.