Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘You can do that just on the terms that he didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Simply put, yes – though we can use our discretion. Say if he’d gone on holiday or missed because he was unwell, something like that, we can decide not to Section him.’

  DS Willard nodded, understanding.

  He seemed a reasonable person, someone intelligent. She decided to ask his advice. ‘I wonder if you would give me your opinion on another patient. An outpatient.’

  His eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline told her how surprised he was at this turn of events. Psychiatrist asking a policeman for an opinion?

  ‘If I can.’ His response was dubious.

  ‘This patient is a male who has a personality disorder. He is attention seeking with a history of violence towards his ex-girlfriend. She dropped the charges.’

  DS Willard nodded. ‘They often do.’

  ‘His entire family – mother, father and baby brother – all died in suspicious circumstances. I’ve never been convinced that he wasn’t responsible for all three deaths, but there’s no proof. Just the long arm of coincidence. But, unlike Dexter, this man is as bright as a button. I would say his IQ’s at least 160. He can run rings around this department. He has recently married.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I was invited.’

  Zed Willard interrupted. ‘Is that usual – for a patient to invite his psychiatrist to his wedding?’ He was astounded.

  ‘Oh no. It is not usual. I was invited as a witness,’ she explained. ‘Purely to tease me. He knows I have my suspicions of his past and he also knows full well that I have no firm evidence, so can do precisely nothing about it except watch and wait and hope that at some point he makes a mistake and gives himself away.’ She leaned forward, studying the innocence in the baby blue eyes. Innocence was not what she wanted now, but suspicious comprehension. ‘Think of it as a cat-and-mouse game. It’s one of the few pleasures he has in life. His wife is pregnant. On the one occasion he has attended here since the wedding, voluntarily I might add, and at his request, his wife had facial injuries which she claimed were …’ The phrase was so clichéd she wafted it away with her hand and DS Willard met her eyes, understanding perfectly.

  Willard opened his mouth to speak but Claire pre-empted his words. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘If the wife won’t testify, you practically never have a proven case of domestic violence. It’s only if another person witnesses it. And even then …’ She left the sentence hanging in the air before plunging in again. ‘His in-laws are lottery winners, worth about three million.’ She knew by telling him these very specific facts that he would easily identify Barclay. ‘He has just bought a boat and intends going off sailing in it. With my suspicions, DS Willard, what can I do?’

  ‘If I call you Claire,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘I wish you’d call me Zed. And the answer is, I don’t know. Don’t you have any powers to control this guy’s activities?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He’s never been convicted of any crime apart from minor misdemeanours. He’s too clever for that.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘A slippery customer.’

  ‘Very slippery.’ She waited for his response but could see he was struggling.

  He was silent for a long minute, his face mirroring his thoughts as he tussled with the problem as she had. ‘I suppose,’ he said eventually, ‘that I would let him know I was on to him.’

  She was frustrated. He hadn’t quite grasped it. ‘But, Zed, that’s at least part of the thrill for him. He wants me to be on to him. He wants someone to applaud his cleverness. Just so long as he’s not caught and convicted of anything. This guy has a couple of very minor convictions. Cheque fraud and shoplifting when he was young.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘Then I would warn his wife and in-laws to be on their guard.’

  She shook her head. That was not the answer. ‘The in-laws aren’t exactly the brightest buttons in the box – certainly not compared to him – and you’d have to meet his wife to understand. She’s blinded by love. Devoted.’ She paused. ‘And pregnant.’

  ‘In my experience,’ he said seriously, ‘women are devoted right up until they have a child to protect. And then mother-love kicks in and … Well, let’s just say they change.’

  Something in his voice pricked her. ‘You sound as though you’re talking from personal experience.’

  He flushed. ‘Yeah. Well.’ He stood up. ‘Keep in touch, Claire.’

  ‘I will.’

  He left awkwardly, bumping into the bookshelf on the way out, as though distracted by the turn their conversation had just taken, and she was left wondering. As always.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thursday, 23 October, 7.45 a.m.

  Although she had plenty of problems to disturb her equilibrium, she had had a dreamless sleep and awoke with an unexpected feeling of optimism, many of her fears relegated to the back burner. And there was an explanation for her unwarranted peace of mind. She’d taken the bull by the horns. Late last night, feeling strangely calm and detached, she’d texted Grant suggesting they have dinner to discuss things. She’d desisted from signing off with a kiss, simply putting Claire.

  Problem One – dealt with. Well, not quite. More like – faced up to. Now there were just the rest of them.

  As she drove into work she tuned into Radio Stoke and kept the volume turned low. The day was dull and chilly, the city a uniform grey. But it didn’t dampen her mood. She began to hum along to ‘Holiday’ by Madonna. Maybe that would be the next step. Where? Egypt to a dive site, Costa Rica, Sri Lanka, the world?

  She was so preoccupied with this pleasant scenario that the eight o’clock news headlines hardly registered.

  A couple have been found dead in their homes in Biddulph. Police have released no further details until relatives have been informed. A post mortem has been scheduled for Friday.

  Biddulph, she reflected. A little close to home, but there were no names and so she drove on.

  There was a brief mention of Kate, Duchess of Cambridge; her clothes, her hair. One story after another scrutinizing the poor girl in the minutest detail. Claire knew she wouldn’t have swapped places with her for all the money in the world.

  Thinking of large fortunes brought her neatly back to the Trigg family and Jerome, and her concerns started up again. What, she wondered, was he up to? There had been no further communication from him, which was both a relief and a cause for anxiety. Like a mischievous toddler, Barclay was at his most worrying when he was silent and absent. She wondered when he was planning to sail away into the sunset. What sunset? Whose sunset? It wouldn’t be Barclay’s. The sun was not about to set on him but possibly on his wife, their child and her family.

  But when she arrived at Greatbach she was greeted with the news that the Royal Stoke University Hospital had been in touch. Hayley had deteriorated during the night.

  Not a great start to the day. And it was about to get worse.

  10.30 a.m.

  DS Willard rang to say Dexter had still not been found and the search had been stepped up. There had been no sign of him, no word of him. No sightings. On the plus side no crimes had been reported. ‘Just as a precaution,’ he said, ‘we’re keeping an eye on Sheridan Riley. Provided her with an alarm.’

  ‘But he’s been an outpatient here for a couple of years,’ she pointed out. ‘If he’d wanted to try and get to her, he’s had ample opportunity.’

  ‘He’s breaking the rules, Claire,’ he said gently, as though speaking to a primary school child. ‘You might be careful of yourself too,’ he said, almost as a bluff afterthought, but she was touched by the kindness – the care – in his tone. His protective attitude reminded her of the way Grant had been with the unknown girl, the stroking of her cheek. She squeezed her eyes tight shut. What was she doing? Looking for love and care from just anywhere? Pathetic. But when they had finished the phone call, it wasn’t Zed Willard or Grant or the unknown girl who was occupying her mind but her missing patient. The significance of
Dexter Harding vanishing underground was just beginning to hit her. Were DS Willard’s misgivings justified? Was there something sinister behind Dexter’s disappearance? Where was he? Why had he vanished? Barclay’s intentions were subtle, hints and jibes, but Dexter’s assault was likely to be full frontal. A brutal bludgeon. Now she was recalling the description of the aftermath of his arson attack. The pathetic remains of four people, two of them children, bent and burnt, buried in a land foreign to them because their own had been considered unsafe. Unsafe? Stoke could be unsafe when Dexter Harding was on the loose. What would be next? Another attempt on Sheridan’s life?

  ‘Leave it to the police,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s their job now. Their responsibility. Not yours. You’ve done your bit. Focus on your role.’

  And she did. Under duress, Stan’s brain scan had been booked at the University Hospital of North Staffordshire, with the conditions that the procedure should be carried out under a general anaesthetic, that he must be accompanied by two of Greatbach’s staff to supervise him, and that he be returned to the psychiatric unit as soon as he was conscious. Claire agreed to all three conditions – no more or less than she had expected.

  The news from the hospital about Hayley was not reassuring. Stable but critical, the charge nurse said. They were monitoring her cardiac, liver and renal function and she was being drip-fed and with a feeding tube inserted into her stomach. She couldn’t tolerate a naso-gastric tube and vomited anything put down it. There was enough accusation in the nurse’s voice for Claire to pick up on her finger-point of guilt – as though the unit had not done enough for the child. Because in the eyes of the law, that was what Hayley Price was – a child. But they had kept her alive this far. Claire had some sympathy for the hospital staff’s point of view. She had worked with enough patients in this state to have a picture of her, lying virtually helpless in bed. Nothing like a normal fourteen-year-old, who should have been out clubbing with her friends or working towards GCSEs. Having fun. A life. Not this. But Hayley had been cursed from her very conception. And now who cared for her except Greatbach? Not her parents, that was for sure. Mother dead, gone the way of most heroin addicts. Father unknown. Behind Hayley there was not exactly a stable, loving family. It had been a shit start to a life which had slowly got worse. Now all they could do was hope.

  And so another day passed.

  Claire checked her phone a few times but there was no response from Grant. So he had bobbed up, briefly, and now had gone underground yet again.

  Outpatient clinic, Greatbach Secure Psychiatric Unit Friday, 24 October, 2 p.m.

  In that week there was one bright star in her sky. David Gad attended his clinic appointment accompanied by his grandson, the dark-eyed boy she had seen visit him on the ward.

  He walked into the room slowly, leaning heavily on the boy, eased himself into the chair before meeting her eyes with a grave smile. ‘I think you’ve already met Ephraim,’ he said. The boy didn’t smile but fixed his gaze on her with almost scientifically detached curiosity. He was around fifteen years old, tall and skinny, a kippah on his head, worn without self-consciousness but proclaiming his race and religion as surely as a turban on a Sikh or the hijab on a Muslim.

  Claire turned her attention on her patient, aware that he had been discharged nearly two weeks ago. Significantly there had been no suicide attempt since then. The longest period between attempts for years.

  ‘How are you, David?’

  He nodded his response. ‘Still alive, as you see.’

  The boy’s arm jerked towards his grandfather’s, almost staying him from saying more.

  Claire remained calm. ‘And will you remain so?’

  His nod was more an acceptance of his fate than an enthusiasm for life. ‘If God wills,’ he muttered. But Ephraim held his head up high, staring straight ahead as he addressed her.

  ‘My grandfather has told me the story of the burnt bread,’ he said, with stolid dignity. ‘I have told him: “One day, grandfather, I am going to be a film director”.’ Said with huge confidence. ‘One day I will make a film of this story and children will see it.’ There was something almost evangelical in the light in his dark eyes but also something endearingly mischievous. ‘And maybe then they will stop casting the Israelis as the bad boy of the world, the bully boy of the Middle East.’

  Claire said nothing. Politics in a consultation room was strictly taboo.

  Instead she turned back to the old man. ‘Will I be seeing you again, David?’

  ‘No.’ It was his answer and she knew it held the sanctity of a promise made with his hand on the Torah.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Then you’re discharged. Goodbye.’ She shook them both by the hand. David grasped hers, met her eyes and said nothing. It was the boy who spoke for both of them. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then, ‘look out for my film.’ He gave another sweetly naughty grin. ‘And who would you like to play your part in this?’

  She gaped. She had no actress up her sleeve ready to produce. ‘I don’t know, Ephraim,’ she said. He grinned at her. ‘I’ll think of someone.’ David smiled and they were gone.

  The Jew – haunted no longer – free of his ghosts.

  Whatever Jerome’s taunt at the man, David Gad and Ephraim had risen above it.

  Claire watched the door swing behind them. She would look out for the boy’s work. Something in her recognized his determination and conviction. One day he would make that film and it would be entertaining, interesting and without self-pity. There would also be something new in the old story of the holocaust. A different angle, maybe showing the long shadows of terrible acts, but also the unexpected fallout. Would he, she wondered, perhaps even touch on the terrible stories of his grandfather’s repeated suicide attempts? Would he peer into the long shadows that were still being cast today by other extremist groups?

  Then she had a sudden thought which brought a smile to her face and a quick giggle, hand over her mouth. Why hadn’t she suggested Jennifer Aniston or Scarlett Johansson play her? Even Keira Knightley?

  Damn. She clicked her fingers. Missed opportunity. She caught sight of her laughing face in the mirror above the sink and reflected. She hadn’t looked like that for months.

  Then she peered a little closer, still laughing. ‘You didn’t suggest them, Claire Roget,’ she said severely, ‘because they’re far too bloody glamorous.’ And she stuck her tongue out at the too-truthful reflection.

  But the encounter seemed a portent for an improvement in her life. On the surface, at least, Greatbach seemed to be succeeding with at least one of its patients. But the day – or the week – was not quite over. She still had a pile of notes and patients to see. However, she had ten minutes’ grace before her next one was due. She drew her mobile phone out of her bag. The little icon was flashing. Before she pressed the button she already knew it would be from Grant.

  He’d left a message. She listened dispassionately. Not appealing for her forgiveness or understanding. His voice was unemotional, matter of fact. Realizing the situation had changed irrevocably, he simply said: ‘Yes, Claire. We need to meet.’ And then, in typical Grant manner he said, ‘I umm … I umm,’ then an embarrassed laugh. ‘I have some explaining to do.’ Not really. Not now. Too late. She rang him straight back. The sooner this was dealt with the better.

  He agreed to meet her so they could talk things through.

  The arranged meeting was for this evening, again at the tapas bar. It was convenient, not far from Festival Park, Greatbach or home. No point hanging around, wasting time. Get it over with, she muttered. Then you can move on.

  She finished her clinic, and once she’d completed her dictation she pushed the problems of Greatbach – and its wider community – to the back of her mind. She focused not on the missing psycho or Barclay about to set out on his boat, family in tow; not on Hayley, teetering on the edge of life or death, or the black cloud that hovered over Stan Moudel. She didn’t even consider the baker of Buchenwald and his charism
atic grandson with grand plans for the future. For now only she and Grant existed.

  It was enough.

  She left work at six, needing to go home first to shower and change. But she didn’t feel like dressing up. It didn’t feel like she had anything to celebrate, so she wore a plain grey dress and black tights. With that she wore her favourite thick silver bracelet and pearl earrings, then finished off with some high-heeled black court shoes and a Hermès bag. The bag gave her a sliver of confidence, the feeling that she was in control of herself. But it was in reality simply a prop.

  She finished the image off with a light spray of Kenzo.

  There. Ready to go. Hot to trot. But the smile she gave herself into the mirror was wary and cynical – nothing like Keira or Scarlett or Jennifer. Just her. She peered closer and wasn’t sure she liked this face. She preferred the other, the one that had laughed at her from the mirror. She stuck her tongue out.

  As she drove the fifteen-minute distance to the tapas bar (again) in Hanley, she reflected. She was curious to know how she’d feel when she saw Grant again. Angry? Sad? Would she feel cheated or resentful? Would she feel that dreadful desperation to have him back at any cost? Was she about to make a huge fool of herself and fling herself at his feet? Or would she feel nothing but numbness and distance?

  She didn’t know.

  7.30 p.m.

  He was already sitting at a table, head down, clumsily trying to spear an olive with a cocktail stick. She smiled. She’d seen him do that on plenty of previous occasions, usually when he was uncomfortable about something. It was a distractive game. As she watched him she knew he was unaware of her, simply drowning in his own emotion. He looked as though he was carrying a heavy load, shoulders bowed under the weight, not like someone who has just fallen in love. She also knew that of all the emotions she had imagined she would feel, the one she actually experienced now was a void superseded by a wash of modified affection, as though she was meeting up with an old friend. Not quite someone as close as Julia, but an acquaintance of whom she was fond.