‘Slot him into next Tuesday’s clinic,’ she said. ‘At the end so I can spend some time with him, find out what he’s up to.’
The secretary clicked a few keys and smiled up at her. ‘Done,’ she said.
TWENTY
Tuesday, 21 October
Claire was distracted all day, knowing how the afternoon would end, Barclay’s 4 p.m. appointment lying at the back of her mind like thick, dirty sludge. She kept looking at her watch, wishing the hands would slow. But for once her clinic was moving forward smoothly and roughly on time, thanks in part to two DNAs – Did Not Attendees – whose non-attendance gave her extra free time. But in one of the cases, his non-attendance would have to be handed straight over to the police.
Dexter Harding. As his appointment time of 3 p.m. swung past, Claire grew increasingly concerned. He had never failed to turn up before. She scanned his notes. She had been seeing him for nearly two years. In fact she could never work out why he had ever been released from prison and been placed under the Community Treatment Order, under her care jointly with Community Psychiatric Nurse, Felicity Gooch, rather than kept in.
It wasn’t as though his initial crime had not been murder. He’d murdered four people. He wasn’t even bright. He’d got the wrong house. An ex-girlfriend lived two doors away on the opposite side of the road and he’d got the number wrong. Dexter was like that: stupid. The family he’d actually killed were an Iranian couple and their two small children, who’d come to the country a few years before as political asylum seekers. Some end to their troubled life. It was pathetic and a tragedy. But somehow Dexter had convinced some poor sucker of a psychiatrist that he was suffering from mental delusions at the time and had believed that his girlfriend was possessed of the devil. Claire could hardly believe that one of her psychiatrist colleagues had swallowed the obvious fable. Needless to say, once at Broadmoor these delusions had miraculously melted away and Dexter had been discharged from there and put under her care. But the terms of the CTO at least recognized that Dexter was dangerous. If he hadn’t turned up by the end of the afternoon, she would firstly ring Felicity to see if there was a valid reason for his non-attendance and, if she had no satisfactory explanation, she would ring the police and they would track him down. At least, Claire thought, she had the right to detain him. But for now she wondered where he was and why he had not turned up this particular afternoon. He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know what the repercussions were if he didn’t attend. He must realize that the police would come battering.
Not her problem for now. She had enough to think about. She made a note to ring Felicity at the end of the afternoon and moved on to the next case. Perhaps she should have remembered Barclay’s assessment of Dexter.
The other patient who had failed to turn up was much more difficult to classify. Maylene Forsyte had a histrionic personality disorder. She would do anything to gain attention. In fact, she was the worst case of pathological attention-seeking disorder that Claire had ever met. Thirty-five years old and very attractive, as they frequently were, blessed with long black hair and a naturally curvy figure, she led her husband a merry dance. It was often difficult to work out what was truth and what pure fiction, dreamed up by Maylene to make her listeners gasp and open their eyes wide. The anomaly was that sometimes Maylene’s real-life experiences were more unbelievable than her fantasies. Her family really had been circus performers. She really had swung the trapeze aged six. She really had been engaged to a member of the travelling community aged thirteen. He really had been murdered in a knife attack when she had been sixteen. All these events were clearly documented. However, there was no documentation that she had ever been the mistress of a Saudi prince or that she had ever had a pet tiger. These were Maylene’s little fantasies.
The trouble was that her second husband was the very antithesis of this fantasy life. Derek Forsyte was a foreman and shelf-stacker at one of the local DIY warehouses. The poor man had fallen madly in love and had told Claire on more than one occasion that he couldn’t believe his luck when Maylene had accepted his desperate offer of marriage.
Luck? If it was luck it was rotten luck. The poor man had been swept up by the whirlwind which was his wife and hurled into a universe he simply didn’t understand. The world of the fantastic rather than prosaic, where truth had no value or meaning, a world which flung money around, ignoring the fact that it too was simply a fantasy. Monopoly cash. He had told Claire that he felt so proud when he introduced his picture-perfect wife to his friends. What he couldn’t possibly have understood was that those same friends probably pitied him his terrible, unpredictable, unhappy, insane life. But he couldn’t see it.
What was also true was that Maylene’s spending habits had landed the couple in some real financial trouble and, like Barclay, Maylene had come before the courts more than once – for shoplifting, failure to attend court appearances, defaulting on debt and non-compliance with conditions of bail. She was a complete fantasizer who was always immaculately dressed, wafting expensive perfume and wearing only designer clothes.
What was for sure was that Maylene, for all her irritating ways, was not a danger either to herself or to the public in general – only to her poor long-suffering husband – so her non-attendance was not concerning. It just felt like unfinished business. Claire put a DNA sticker on the notes. She would ask Rita to send her another appointment.
Maylene, the expensive butterfly. Barclay’s description, how apt. Phrases started to dance in front of her, Maylene’s justification for her expensive tastes. Claire had imagined Maylene had dreamed up the phrases.
You deserve nice clothes.
You owe it to yourself, and so on. Now she wondered. Had Maylene and Barclay possibly met? Had he been the one to encourage her expensive tastes, fed her delusions? Telling a woman she owes expensive clothes to herself in this case had been a red rag to a bull. An invitation. How much more so when Maylene would have agreed with him heartily without a word of caution or realism. Truth was, her husband simply couldn’t afford it. Oh yes, Jerome was hovering somewhere near, a shadowy presence behind the scenes, little more than a silhouette against a thin curtain. But there all right. In his way Barclay was a clever psychologist, brilliant at sensing the most effective phrases to gain the result he desired.
Claire sat and stared at Maylene’s notes, clicking keys on the computer, registering her failure to attend clinic and puzzling. Why had Barclay homed in on this particular patient?
But part of the trouble was that instead of focusing on Maylene, Claire was seeing things from Barclay’s angle. Distracted by the fact that she would soon be seeing him, and at his request, so while trying to puzzle things out she was missing the danger of the situation. Her mind was too firmly focused on Barclay. Why did he want to see her? There could only be one reason. He wanted to parade something in front of her. So, for now, mistakenly, she was thinking about Jerome. Not Dexter Harding or Maylene Forsyte.
He sauntered in at 4.30 – half an hour late. This was one of his tricks – to keep her waiting, knowing that she would be conscious of every minute that clicked past. Roxanne trickled in behind him, in his wake. The poor girl was bloated with her pregnancy and looked fearful and unwell. For some women pregnancy is a gateway to beauty. For others it is the reverse, and Roxanne Barclay was one of these unlucky ones. Her walk had morphed into a waddle as she entered the room behind her husband. Her lip was swollen and her right eye too. Her manner spoke loudly of a battered wife: the bowed head, humble attitude; something shameful about them, believing, although they were mistaken, that it was all their fault that bad things tumbled down into their lives. All women subjugated by their husbands look the same. They all look like this.
She met Barclay’s eyes.
Jerome had his habitual cynical smile pasted on as he greeted Claire. ‘I must thank you,’ he said carefully, ‘for your most generous wedding present.’
Claire looked pointedly at his wife’s face.
; ‘She’s got clumsy,’ he said, ‘since her weight and shape have ballooned.’ He half turned towards her in his chair, twisting his body and speaking with loud deliberation as though to an elderly deaf person. ‘Haven’t you, my dear?’
Roxanne nodded, eyes watchful and wary.
Claire was going to get nowhere with her, so she turned her attention back to Barclay. ‘Was there any particular reason why you wanted to see me today, Jerome?’
He didn’t answer straight away, but was still gauging her reaction to his wife’s facial injuries. Instinctively Claire knew he had wanted more of a response. He had wanted her to question Roxanne more closely. Perhaps Roxanne had been taught the correct answers. But Claire had already decided that she would not get the truth out of Roxanne. Even if Barclay hadn’t been present, his influence would have lingered, clinging to the air like the odour from bad drains. His wife would still be frightened of him, even if he were out of the room. Claire already knew, without a doubt, that Jerome had not only assaulted his wife but was deliberately flaunting it. This appointment had been booked specifically to make her aware. That was the reason. She moved closer to him, folding her arms across the desk. ‘You understand, Jerome, that if I have any concerns about the safety of people around you, I can have you admitted under a Section?’
He simply smiled. ‘Concerns? Safety? Section?’ as though they were a series of punchlines to schoolboy jokes. ‘Oh, Claire, I think you’d need some evidence against me. Firm evidence,’ he emphasized, ‘or your judgement might be questioned.’ He gave a little smile. She knew that smile. It appeared when he thought he had neatly outmanoeuvred her.
His attitude was still pleasant but there was always a veiled threat behind the bland words spoken so politely.
So again Claire looked pointedly at his wife, who met her eyes only briefly before, predictably, they flickered away.
And Jerome was forced into pursuit. ‘Where would you get evidence from? You’d need a statement, you know,’ he finished, almost gently.
He’d got her there. Police do need evidence, particularly in cases of alleged domestic abuse. The problem is this: almost always only two people are present. And in this case neither of those would be telling.
‘So why did you request this appointment?’ She already knew the answer. So she could see that he was up to his old tricks again.
But she knew only half the story.
‘I thought it was time you met my wife properly,’ he said.
There was no response to that.
Barclay continued. ‘My wife and I,’ he began, parodying the traditional wedding speech before veering off wildly, ‘plus her parents, with whom I get on very well, are buying a boat.’
He met her eyes. ‘We thought we’d do a little sailing.’ His smile was mocking. Begging her to challenge him. He wanted sport.
And she knew. She could see it unfolding, right in front of her eyes. How easy it can be to tip up a boat.
‘What sort of boat?’ She couldn’t keep the alarm out of her voice.
‘Oh, just a sailing dinghy,’ he said carelessly. ‘You know, cross the Channel, stuff like that.’ He smiled again. ‘I thought you’d want to know that I’ll be leaving these shores. After all,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘I am no danger to anyone.’
At his side Roxanne flinched.
His smile widened. ‘If I was still under close supervision, I wouldn’t be able to go, would I, Claire? But you’ve discharged me.’
She could read his intention. To lay any tragedy at her door and blame it on her bad decision-making.
For a moment she was so taken aback she simply looked at him. Then, partly because she wasn’t quite sure what action she could take at this point, she focused on: ‘And what about the baby?’
Again, Barclay smiled. ‘Babies are born all over the world in various conditions, Claire,’ he said. ‘We’ll make sure we’re around in the UK for the birth. Won’t we, darling?’
Roxanne nodded and linked her arm in his.
It broke Claire’s heart to see how hopeful Roxanne was looking. If she’d had a tail it would be wagging right now. She considered her position. Barclay was right. She had absolutely no jurisdiction over him. No real power. By discharging him she’d relinquished it, pronounced him healthy and safe to be at large. Barclay’s case wasn’t like Dexter’s the bruiser, or even the suicide-by-anorexia Hayley, both of whom it was easy to see had to have strong intervention. No, Barclay was subtle and clever, and she feared both for his wife and his unborn child.
But she wasn’t in a good position. If she alerted the police now they would ask her whether he was a danger either to himself or to the general public. She could prove nothing. It was all shadows, so her answer would have to be no.
Her only hope was …
‘Roxanne,’ she said, ‘how did you hurt yourself?’
A frightened, chamois-like glance at her husband, who simply smiled.
He knew he had her.
‘I’m just clumsy,’ she said, voice stolid; not looking at Claire but at her husband, who was nodding his agreement. ‘I walked straight into it.’
‘Straight into what?’
‘A door,’ she said brightly, then dropped her eyes.
Roxanne was not a girl who was comfortable telling lies. Or imaginative enough to think of something more original.
Jerome continued, well in his comfort zone now. ‘You see, Claire, as I’m not under a close supervision order, I really can wander the world at will.’ His eyes sparkled with the challenge. ‘And remember. I made this appointment entirely voluntarily. Of my own free will.’ And, finally answering her question, ‘I really just came to say goodbye.’
Claire hadn’t quite finished with him. ‘Tell me, Jerome,’ she said casually, ‘how would you describe yourself?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A controlling psycho? A clever manipulator?’
His eyes glittered. ‘I really don’t follow you, Claire.’
‘The haunted Jew, the stupid clever,’ she pursued. ‘How do you know confidential details about my patients?’
‘Hit the nail on the head, Claire?’ His tone was insolent. ‘Good descriptions?’
She ignored the jibe and pursued her question. ‘How do you know? Who is telling you things?’
His return stare was blank.
She continued the pursuit.
‘The expensive butterfly, the stupid clever?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t seem to recognize those phrases.’
‘Your words,’ she said. ‘You spoke them on the telephone.’
‘Lucky guess.’
Claire shook her head. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘not a lucky guess. I will find out who is leaking confidential information.’ She met his eyes. ‘I will winkle out this informer.’
His response was another of those annoying smiles.
‘Who is it? Is it Astrid?’
He frowned, mock confusion. ‘Don’t think I know an Astrid.’
‘OK then, is there anything you particularly want to tell me about these specific patients?’
He couldn’t hide his delight. ‘Wait and see,’ he said.
TWENTY-ONE
After they’d left, Claire sat for a while. She could see trouble ahead, but what could she do? Nothing. Her mind was working frantically but she knew her hands were tied, both as a professional and as a bystander. Feeling that it would be of future importance, she documented the consultation even more carefully than usual: Barclay’s wife’s facial injuries, claimed to be accidental (she didn’t even bother putting in the tale of the door), his intended purchase of a boat and, more difficult to put into words, his general manner, sleekly menacing. Then she tried to work out a way to document his inside knowledge of her other patients.
She shook her head and put her pen down, worried. If Astrid wasn’t responsible, who was? Someone very close to her who almost seemed to anticipate events. They knew her caseload, both in- and outpatients, so well. And why pick o
n those particular people? She had hundreds of patients passing through her hands. Was there something uniquely different about those five?
She was perfectly aware of the pleasure Barclay derived from baiting her. That was the reason for his attendance today. The problem for her – as his psychiatrist, responsible for his actions – was that, apart from having a spy in the cab, he now had four potential victims: Roxanne; her parents, who were almost certainly unaware of Barclay’s true nature; and then there was the unborn infant who needed protection. Claire estimated that Roxanne was about five months pregnant. Unlike Sadie Whittaker, who had aborted Barclay’s child, it was too late for Roxanne to have an abortion, except on grounds of a foetal abnormality or maternal ill-health. She would have had her first scan, which would have excluded abnormality (having a psycho daddy didn’t quite fit the bill), and she couldn’t see Roxanne having any problems with the child. So now only an accident or a late miscarriage could result in Barclay’s spawn not being born. But then what? Was the baby going to be safe with Barclay any more than its mother was? Claire’s mind explored all the dark possibilities. Another accident, like the one that had befallen his baby brother? Or would Barclay nurture his spawn? Who could know? Claire would like to have the baby made a ward of court but she would never have this. A case conference to discuss the child’s future would achieve nothing. Jerome Barclay had no criminal record. He was too clever. In the eyes of the law he had committed misdemeanours, not crimes. None of the petty thefts he had been convicted of would justify denying him the right to bring up his own child. Once Sadie had withdrawn her allegation of GBH, Barclay’s record had reverted to ‘clean’.
Claire had never seen the brutal side to Barclay. She could only imagine what he was like when he let go. Not a sudden snapping of temper, but something far more calculated and cruel. Roxanne would have warning. She would know it was coming, what was coming, feel the whoosh of air before his fist made contact, see the blaze in his eyes, the sadistic joy in his face. Oh yes, Roxanne would have forewarning all right. And seeing the fear on her face would intensify the pleasure for Barclay. But if Roxanne wasn’t going to testify against her husband, they had nothing that would stand up in a court of law. Round and round Claire’s thoughts went, always banging into the same brick wall.
Dangerous Minds Page 11
