That, Claire thought, is the least of my worries, that he will throw a glass of wine over your dress. She wished she could banish the image of the mad axeman in Cardiff.
‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘The police will be keeping an eye out for him.’
‘Oh.’ There was silence and then Sheridan spoke again. ‘So I’m supposed to just relax, enjoy my big day?’
‘They’ll increase the police presence,’ Claire said. ‘They will guard you.’
‘Yeah, like they did before. I had to walk past that wreck of a house with all the flowers outside, knowing that if Dexter hadn’t been such an idiot it would have been my house and the flowers would have had my name on them. He wanted to kill me. And if other members of my family had happened to cop it too – well, that would have been the icing on the cake. He’s evil, Claire.’
‘I know.’
‘Well then,’ Sheridan said, showing some of the spirit that had helped her survive, ‘roll on Saturday. I guess not too many brides have such an exciting prospect on their big day, a psycho-death-threat man the uninvited guest at their wedding. Maleficent left off the guest list.’ Her tone was changing, sharp with irony. ‘If the police – or you – do get hold of him, let us know, will you?’ She was mocking the tone of a hostess asking if someone was coming to her dinner party. Claire bit her lip. The girl had been through enough, without this untimely reminder of the past and the systems that had let her down.
‘Certainly will.’
‘And thank you, Dr Roget.’ Now she sounded sincere. ‘I know you weren’t part of the decision to release him.’
‘No,’ Claire said, ‘I was not.’
So that completed her utterly shitty day. Maylene and Derek and now Dexter Harding. Sometimes this job was just far too hard. If not impossible.
She drove home, almost hating the golden sunshine that tried to lift her spirits. Waste of time, she thought angrily. But when she opened her front door (no one in the garden this time), it seemed fortuitous that on the floor was a leaflet from a local painter and decorator offering his services. His name made her smile.
Paul Mudd. Painter and decorator
At your service. Anything undertaken. Highest standards only.
Underneath the cocky little flyer was a mobile telephone number.
Claire rang it.
THIRTY-ONE
Thursday, 30 October, 8 a.m.
He was obviously eager for the work. An unprepossessing-looking man, medium height, slim frame. Large paintbrush, big glasses, and an even bigger cheerful grin.
She teased him about his name, which provoked a broadening of the grin. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But it makes people smile.’ He wagged a finger in front of her face. ‘They remember it.’
‘True.’
He hadn’t finished yet. ‘Mudd sticks, you see.’
She giggled, then showed him round the house, apologizing until he put his hand on her arm. ‘Just tell me what you want done, duck,’ he said, and she liked him even more. She explained her situation, that her boyfriend had abandoned the job – and her – halfway through. He looked around, energy bouncing off him in shock waves, his grin ever present, a few quips up his sleeve and his thick-rimmed glasses peering into every corner.
Finally he gave her a rough quote for the job. ‘You got four grands’ worth of work here,’ he said. ‘What he’s done he’s done well, but even if I work a seven-day week, it’s going to take me five, six weeks. I’ll just about be finished for Christmas.’
She nodded and felt a huge relief. One burden rolling from her back.
It would be like old times, she thought. The smell of paint greeting her return home, rooms being transformed, the place ready to sell and then it could go on the market. If that was what she decided to do. With all the drama at work, she hadn’t really sat down and thought it through: what to do about Grant. She could sell up, rent a flat for a bit then maybe buy again, maybe not. Somehow house ownership didn’t seem anything like as attractive any more. In fact, she could even rent a hospital flat.
Mr Mudd agreed to start on the following Monday. ‘Just got one small job I ’ave to finish,’ he said. ‘I’ll be round seven thirty Monday morning.’
They shook on the deal and Claire felt instantly happier. Action usually works well as an anti-depressant. But the feeling was not destined to last.
Dexter was still on the loose.
9 a.m.
When she arrived at work she knew instantly that she had left behind that feeling of karma.
Rita was busily typing, headphones on, pecking away at the keyboard with unusual ferocity.
When she saw Claire she removed the headphones and stopped the machine. ‘Roxanne Barclay’s been on the phone,’ she said.
Claire stopped in her tracks. Didn’t she have enough to deal with?
‘She sounded upset.’
‘Did she say anything more?’
‘Just left a number.’ Rita handed her a Post-it note.
It was a mobile. Claire went to her office and rang her back.
‘It’s Dr Claire Roget here,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem, Roxanne?’
As a blind man senses a shadow has been cast when the sun has gone behind a cloud, she instantly knew Barclay was there, listening in. Even the words didn’t sound like the Roxanne she had seen. There was a stilted quality to the rhythm.
‘How nice of you to ring back, Claire. Thank you.’ The words she trotted out sounded wooden and unnatural. Was she reading from a script?
‘What can I do for you, Roxanne?’
Silence.
Claire strained to listen but could hear nothing in the background. No breathing, no gasp, no sob. Nothing. No one. And it suddenly seemed that the silence was more ominous than any sound could be.
Barclay came on the line then, voice silky smooth. ‘Where did you get this number from?’
She could not answer without probably putting Roxanne in a vulnerable position. So she did not reply.
He chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me Roxanne’s rung you for some polite conversation?’
She could hear steel in his voice.
Shit, she thought. But what else could I have done? How was I to know he would be there?
‘Oh, well,’ Barclay continued. ‘As you seem to be struck dumb, I guess I don’t really need to come back and see you before we set sail.’
At that she gathered herself. ‘Where are you going, Jerome?’ she asked steadily.
‘Oh, nowhere too adventurous,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘In the next day or two, Claire.’
When he used her name she felt ice-cold prickles stabbing her skin. ‘Should I be worried?’ she asked, deliberately cool.
The question didn’t faze him. ‘That’s completely up to you,’ he replied without even thinking about it. ‘But we are having a professional sailor with us, so I don’t expect the boat to sink. Though, of course,’ he laughed, ‘there is always some risk in setting sail. Water can be sooo dangerous.’ The malice in his voice was goading her to worry.
As she put the phone down she wished that she had been able to speak to Roxanne alone, even if it had been for only a minute.
The next event in her already eventful morning was a phone call from DS Willard, who sounded embarrassed. ‘Umm,’ he began.
Don’t give me more bad news, Claire thought. I’ve enough to worry about.
But it was.
He began by clearing his throat, then umming and aahing – always a bad sign from a policeman, particularly when combined with noisy clearing of the throat. ‘Hrrmmm.’
‘Have you got him?’
What a stupid question. Of course they hadn’t got him.
‘No,’ he said baldly. ‘He was spotted in Hanley on the CCTV cameras, but we haven’t caught up with him yet.’
‘Look, Sergeant Willard, Zed,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to tell you your job or point out the obvious, which you’ve already worked out for yourself, but Dexter Hardin
g has complied with the conditions of his discharge for the two years he has been under the CTO. For some reason now he’s flipped. It doesn’t take a very big bunch of neurons to work out that the reason may well be that his ex-girlfriend, Sheridan, is about to get married. Now I’d say – not being a policeman of course – that given his history his non-attendance is a strong indicator that he may well wish Sheridan harm.’
She had to hand it to DS Willard. He retrieved control of the conversation. ‘We’re aware of that. Claire,’ he said testily, ‘we are using all our resources to make sure that Sheridan’s wedding goes off without a hitch. If Harding is spotted in the crowd we’ll be there.’
She almost wondered whether to confide in DS Willard, tell him about the mad axeman in Cardiff, decided to keep it to herself.
He continued. ‘How did she respond, by the way, when you spoke to her?’
‘She’s a plucky girl but very frightened of Harding. She feels he should have been detained for much longer than he was and should never have been released. And, as you know, I agree with her.’
‘OK.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Claire,’ he said earnestly, ‘you know Dexter Harding well. You’ll recognize him. Can we rope you in to be an extra pair of eyes at the wedding?’
She hesitated. Hardly her role, but she did have a certain responsibility.
He sensed her hesitation. ‘If I said please?’
She sighed. She didn’t want to go but she felt she had an obligation. ‘OK,’ she said, resigned. ‘What church is it?’
‘St Bartholomew’s,’ he said. ‘Three p.m.’
‘OK,’ she said again, ‘I’ll go.’
‘Good. Thank you, Claire.’ Then, ‘Keep in touch?’
‘Yeah.’
It was only when she’d put the phone down that she wondered where she’d put his card. No card; no number. No means of contact.
Distractions. There were always distractions. Another patient, another problem. And she always seemed to be facing the wrong way.
Stan’s condition was deteriorating almost in front of their eyes, on a daily basis now. He looked tired and wan and these days kept to his bed most of the time. He’d had two further fits. They’d reduced his medication and moved him from the locked ward. He didn’t need sedating any more and wasn’t a danger to anybody. Claire had had a few brief talks with him and explained that they weren’t going to operate, and he’d looked back at her as befuddled as a hundred-year-old patient with advanced Alzheimer’s. He wasn’t understanding any of it. Maybe it was a good thing. She sat with him for a while, tried to talk about other things, but his eyes stayed unfocused. She left when she realized he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
And so the wheels went round.
Too much going on in my life, she decided, and worked through the rest of the day feeling she was never quite coping.
But after the usual drive home, something was waiting for her. On the doorstep was a large bouquet of red roses. She looked at them without feeling anything.
But when she read the card, his words did touch her.
I’m so sorry. I did the wrong thing, listened to the wrong people. I love you, Claire. Please, please, let me come home.
Signed ‘G’ XXXXX
She picked them up, let herself in, stood the flowers in water and sent him a text.
Flowers are lovely. Will be in touch soon. Someone called Mudd is finishing the decorating. Hah hah. She signed off C XX
At six she had another surprise, a phone call from Adam, saying that he and Adele (what a pretty name) were going for a curry tonight nearby and would she like to join them? She accepted, enjoying this new relationship as though she had only just discovered she had a brother. (Half, anyway.) She suspected that they had come up to the Potteries to see his (and her own) mother. Her relationship with her mother had cooled to freezing point years ago. Weekends spent visiting her were certainly not on the cards, and as for her stepfather she’d never liked him anyway, so Adam was really her only family. Her own father had returned to France and appeared to have forgotten he ever had a daughter. Like Dexter Harding, Monsieur Roget had also disappeared into the ether.
She showered and changed into tight black trousers and a pale blue sweater with a huge rollneck. The outfit was finished with some high-heeled black suede boots and a signature Osprey handbag. She slicked on some lipstick and brushed her hair. There – ready.
The curry house they were going to was just half a mile from her house, which would soon be back to its role as decorator’s shop. She walked up the hill to the restaurant, glad of the exercise and the distraction from her numerous work problems.
She’d given up trying to connect with DS Willard. She’d lost his card and with that his personal mobile and land office number. She’d tried to ring him more than once at the station, avoiding giving her name, but it was obvious that the Force guarded their officers’ privacy. He had not returned her call. The wedding was the day after tomorrow and she’d promised she would attend, but she hadn’t shared her fear that there would be another madman on the rampage, as had happened in Cardiff. Did she really think she could stop Dexter from carrying out whatever horror it was that he was planning, because she had no doubt that he had gone underground for that very reason. But why? It had been the default on his CTO that had alerted them that anything was amiss. In typical Dexter fashion, by going underground he had drawn attention to himself. Or was that what he wanted? Like Jerome – was fear his weapon? Had he wanted to spoil the build-up to Sheridan’s big day? She walked faster, telling herself that it was a police matter. Not her responsibility. When someone defaults on their CTO, it is the police who track him down. Not the psychiatrist. And with this knowledge her quick steps up the hill seemed to have a rhythm of their own:
It’s not all up to you, Claire. Sometimes you have got to hand it to someone else. Else you’ll crack up, darling.
Again it was Grant’s words, spoken about a year ago and accompanied by a long, lingering kiss, that comforted her. And after the kiss?
She squeezed her eyes tight shut, against Grant’s particular brand of love-making, lazy but passionate and very arousing. And now she had reached India Cottage. She pushed open the door, caught the wonderful aroma of spices, and spotted Adam and Adele in the corner, heads close together, sharing secrets? He spotted her and stood up.
‘This,’ he said proudly, ‘is my sister.’
No half measures here. Claire could have cried.
THIRTY-TWO
Adele was one of those sweet-looking, petite, frail girls, who look vulnerable – a physical and mental lie in her case. Claire would soon learn that her appearance belied a steely character, awesome intelligence and a white-water-rafting hobby. She stood up, held out her tiny hand, and appraised Claire with a smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said. Her voice too was sweet.
They sat down, started chatting, ordered drinks and poppadoms and studied the menu. Adele turned out to be a solicitor who specialized in family law. ‘Mostly divorce and custody battles,’ she said, making a face. ‘And believe me, they are battles.’ She snapped off a piece of poppadom and spread it with mango chutney, finishing with sliced onion. ‘And you wouldn’t believe how tricky it can get when one of the parents is a native of another country. Crossing borders, child abduction.’ Then she started laughing. ‘Heaven alone knows why I chose that particular speciality when I could have done something so much simpler and less emotive.’
‘Such as,’ Adam challenged, grinning. Claire knew they were going over old ground here.
‘Well, company law.’
Claire ventured her view. ‘Don’t you think it would turn out just about the same? Aren’t companies a bit like a family?’
They all laughed at that.
They were just about to start eating when Claire’s mobile went off. A mobile number she didn’t recognize. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.
It was DS Zed Willard and he sounded relax
ed – considering what might be happening on Saturday. ‘Well hello there, Claire,’ he said, sounding jaunty. ‘Did I hear you’ve been trying to get hold of me?’
He’d obviously taken it personally. Completely the wrong way. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was.’
‘Sorry.’ Instant apology. ‘I’m sorry to ring you so late. I expect you’re—’
‘Yes, I am,’ she responded, ‘at an Indian restaurant. With friends.’ Make of that what you will, Sergeant Willard.
There was a brief, awkward silence while he did just that. Then, ‘Well what did you want to get hold of me for?’
‘I realized I had no contact details for you,’ she said. ‘If I spot Harding in the crowd or even going into the church, how would I get hold of you?’
He chuckled. ‘My card?’
‘Well actually—’
He butted in, unabashed. ‘Lost it,’ he supplied. ‘Well you’ve got it now – my personal telephone number. It’ll be on your phone memory.’ He laughed again. (What was the guy on?) ‘Don’t go handing it out to just anybody, will you?’
‘I won’t.’
‘No, really.’ There was a little more urgency and less merriment in his tone this time.
She matched it with her own tone. ‘I promise I won’t, Zed.’
‘Good. See you Saturday. At the wedding. Unless, of course, he turns up beforehand.’
He won’t.
His jauntiness irritated her, particularly as both Adam and Adele were munching on their poppadoms, pretending not to be taking any notice. But then she had to remind herself that DS Willard didn’t know what a nasty, stupid piece of work Dexter Harding was. He’d never met him. He probably didn’t know anything about the Cardiff case; neither had he been involved in the house fire and its grisly aftermath, or the complexities of the subsequent kangaroo court case. He probably didn’t have a clue how dangerous Harding really was; probably thought they were all making a big fuss about nothing.
Well – he’d soon see.
She put her phone away. Adam was watching her, sympathetic but curious. ‘Work, sis?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and tried to return to the conversation and the excellent curry that was now on candle burners in front of them, but there was little doubt the call had taken some of the joy out of the night.
Dangerous Minds Page 18
