‘It was all there in the past for us to read, Edward,’ she said. ‘I should have realized. I’ve been really stupid.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’
And again she explained what had been staring them all in the face. ‘Dexter had been to Sheridan’s house on numerous occasions. He was not going to target the wrong house. If he did it was because he wanted to. It wasn’t stupidity that murdered the family.’ She tried out Barclay’s phrase. ‘He is the stupid clever.’
Edward didn’t respond, except to frown, which put her mind at rest. The phrase meant nothing to him. She continued. ‘It was pure evil. He knew that Sheridan would read the message and that she would be terrified.’
Edward was watching but not comprehending.
So she spelt it out again. ‘An entire family were murdered just to teach her a lesson.’
Edward sat still; appalled as the implication of this bald statement slowly sank in.
‘And you and I know full well that as a psychopath he ticks all the boxes; he isn’t quite as stupid as he makes out. Now he’s in police custody, and as his psychiatrist I can point this out. I don’t think he’ll ever be free again. But,’ she said, her eyes full on his face, ‘I have another problem patient.’
‘Let me guess,’ he said uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. ‘Jerome Barclay?’
And she knew her case was lost.
Her colleagues had always believed that both she and her predecessor, Heidi, had overestimated Barclay’s danger. They saw him as a self-preening narcissistic personality disorder, no real threat to anyone. All puff, boast and brag. When she had pointed out the poor life expectancy of his nearest and dearest, and the vicious assault on Sadie’s life, they had argued that he had simply used facts for his own ends – to make her believe he was responsible.
Nothing she had ever been able to say or do had altered their opinion. And her misreading of Heidi’s murder had underlined their opinions.
She sat still for a minute. She’d always liked Edward and had hoped that he, at least, had not judged her, but she could see now that she had been too optimistic.
This is just a waste of time. She could read it in his clear eyes, the dim flicker of disappointment in her.
She smiled, mumbled something and he watched, silent and embarrassed.
She stood up. So did he, almost a reflex. ‘So …?’
‘It’s OK.’ She forced herself to smile, thank him, and she left, very disappointed. She’d needed someone. Someone to listen properly to her misgivings. But now she knew. She was still on her own, unable to warn Roxanne of the approaching danger.
THIRTY-SIX
Later that morning
She couldn’t think of a way to do it, stop the train, avert the tragedy.
All she had were Jerome’s mobile number and a landline. No address. There was no way of bypassing him.
She sat in her office, door closed, disappointed in her colleague’s response, feeling alone in her apprehension and sense of foreboding. She leafed through Jerome Barclay’s file, searching for something that would point the way. Prove it. There it all was: his confessions (false?) of torturing animals. The allegations (unsubstantiated) of GBH, the assault on his previous girlfriend, Sadie Whittaker, who had not only left him after the assault that had landed her in hospital, but had deliberately terminated her pregnancy, as though she could not bear to harbour the devil’s spawn. Claire read through the notes she had made after she had met up with Sadie.
‘It was all there in his lovemaking. He enjoys inflicting pain … The sex act means nothing to him unless it involves terror. Bondage. Me being helpless. And …’
‘Verbal threats … “I could cut a slice off those thighs … I could rape you and make you scream” … A hard pinch of the nipple … Sometimes I would pretend to be more frightened than I was but he knew. He always knew, as though he could bore into my mind.’
Unusually Barclay had had insight into his condition. And that had made him doubly cruel, triply clever and quadruply perceptive. There was no fooling him. Which was why he was so slippery and difficult to catch out. He was thirty-five years old and his criminal record was minimal.
To provoke him she had deliberately asked him on more than one occasion how he felt about the termination of his child and had watched his features harden into hatred – one of the few times he had let his mask slip. He had ground his teeth and said nothing. But his eyes had burned with fury. She had watched and felt unnerved and uncertain. Was he furious that Sadie had cheated him of another vulnerable human being to hurt, or was it remotely possible that he had at last felt some affection for another human being – albeit his own, evil spawn?
Claire stared into space, trying to find a path through this. Relieved, of course, that Sheridan was safe, probably just setting off on her honeymoon. But now there was Roxanne and her family to worry about. Was there an endless supply of cruelty in the world? Of course – just look at the news.
Probably, she reasoned, at the moment, Roxanne was already being subjected to minor threats, both physical and mental. The trouble is that people adjust to intimidation. Like burning over scar tissue, they stop feeling the pain or recognizing the behaviour as pathological. Abnormal becomes the normal. And, as the saying goes: no pain, no gain. This is certainly true for the psychopath, whose distorted pleasure can only be achieved through another’s suffering. And so the intimidation must escalate if your psychopath is to keep feeling pleasure.
Her thoughts were going round and round. The injuries Roxanne had displayed before the outpatient appointment were typically inflicted somewhere visible, purely to keep her aware. If she was to have any chance of averting disaster, she must be able to speak frankly to Roxanne, bypassing Barclay. Maybe probe at first, find out just what he was up to. But that would never happen if he was listening.
There wasn’t a lot of point in summoning him back to clinic. He would see that as a triumph; he would know she was powerless to do anything. No one listens to suspicion.
From Grant she heard nothing more and knew the ball was in her court. The roses hadn’t lasted very long – they never do, which is probably why they are the recognized emblem of romance and love. The trouble was, she understood the situation only too well. Grant had been manipulated and she knew enough about the human psyche to know that this was how it was going to be. It was built into his personality. He was largely passive. She always went for the same sort of man: someone easy-going, commitment-phobic, unambitious. Maybe because they were the antithesis of her. But the trouble with Grant was that his strings were being pulled by someone else, and that someone was busily dancing him away from her. She recalled one of Heidi’s lectures. Fear the weak, she had said. Because manipulation is their strength. Don’t underestimate that power.
With all her skill, his sister was using her illness to manipulate him.
Wednesday, 5 November, 6 p.m.
She entered the house to the sound of tinny pop music and the smell of paint. She wandered upstairs into the spare bedroom and was entranced. Paul Mudd was doing a wonderful job, working his way methodically round the room, whistling and singing – songs from the musicals: Evita, The Sound of Music, Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables. All mixed up, sometimes, into one confused song which she struggled to identify. But it was better than silence.
Anything was better than silence.
The house was coming alive again. The rooms were starting to look bright and cared for. Added to that he was turning out a whizz with the floor sander, and had transformed the ancient floorboards in the dining room into beautiful flooring. Claire had found a local firm who measured, made and fitted curtains, and the place was soon going to look good. Still a weenie bit under-furnished, but even there she had an idea. There were a few antique shops in Leek. When all the decorating was finished, she could take a trip out there. Then she stopped. It would all have been so much more fun if she and Grant had chosen pieces together. She stayed in the dinin
g room, thinking it would make an excellent study, facing south and with a view over the garden through French windows. She loved the high ceilings, the original plasterwork, the square symmetry of all the rooms.
Paul Mudd was standing in the centre, paintbrush in hand. ‘It’ll fetch a good price, doctor,’ he said, ‘it’s a lovely place,’ and she felt an unexpected snatch at her heart. Did she really want to sell up?
‘Noticed the wedding invite,’ he continued, sounding impressed. ‘Aren’t they the ones that won the Lottery?’
‘Was it common knowledge?’
‘Oh. Ah. They went public on it. Lucky buggers.’
So easy for Barclay to home in on them then.
She opened the French windows and, ignoring the fact that it was dark and the grass was damp, walked out into the garden, sat underneath the gnarled apple tree (goodness knows how old it was), ran her eyes over the pots stacked on the terrace ready for geraniums next summer and, at the end of the garden, the high brick wall smothered in ivy. Even though the house was surrounded by other properties, it was silent and peaceful. Many of them were businesses: a dentist’s, accountant’s and a solicitor’s office. She turned around, saw Paul Mudd’s stocky frame silhouetted in the doorframe. ‘Maybe I’ll stay,’ she said, surprising herself.
Paul Mudd stood still, paintbrush in hand, and simply smiled, like a wise old Chinaman. ‘’Appen you will.’
Her next thought was how much she would have to give Grant to buy him out. Maybe she should wait until the place was finished and then get a valuation and decide. Or should she make her move now, before it was at its best?
Make your move now, the little voice whispered. Cut the thread. Sever the connection. It isn’t going to work. Do it, Claire. Do it.
But she didn’t want to be unfair to Grant. He’d been a good boyfriend – one of the best. She’d had a few fairly rubbish ones, but Grant had been different and she’d thought they’d be together for ever. When he’d gone so abruptly from her life she’d mourned, felt damaged, angry, bereaved. But, like grief, one works through it and slowly one heals. She’d just been going through that process when he’d reappeared. Like bloody Lazarus rising from the grave, she thought crossly. So now what?
She couldn’t decide. And so she did nothing.
Monday, 10 November, 12 midday
She’d been summoned to a meeting about Dexter Harding. Present were the CPS, his solicitor, and DS Zed Willard, whose eyes she could hardly meet. Her number would have shown up on his mobile phone-call record and he would have known it was not a wrong number.
She retrieved her professionalism, began by pointing out that Dexter was dangerous and would continue to be so – if not to the public in general, then to specific members of it.
‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘that in his obsession with that one girl, she is not safe and never will be. Neither,’ she added, ‘will people around her.’ Eyebrows were raised. ‘How so?’ Amanda Cavendish, representative of the CPS asked.
Claire described Dexter’s method – that of hurting people near to Sheridan – as a vicarious form of punishment designed to upset her and make her feel responsible for his actions. The solicitor moved uncomfortably while DS Willard met her eyes, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.
‘The Kurdish Iraqi family,’ she continued, ‘were murdered purely as a warning to Sheridan. She had built up a friendship with them. Was fond of their children, bought them toys. At Sheridan’s wedding it didn’t matter who died, just as long as he spoiled her day. That is a measure of Dexter Harding’s psychopathy.’ She paused, but no one else seemed to have anything to say so she carried on.
‘If he is allowed to walk free, even on a Community Treatment Order which, let’s face it, has failed, at some point he will attack again. Sheridan will always be a focus for his aggression. His brain is stuck on her.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ Amanda Cavendish asked.
‘Personally I think he should go to prison for life for the attempted murder of the policeman, but that probably won’t happen as he claims to have heard voices.’ She scratched the air at the overused phrase.
Amanda Cavendish interrupted. ‘You don’t believe that?’
‘Not for a minute.’
‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘We’ll put him in Broadmoor for the moment and ask the psychiatrists there to assess him. Are you happy with that, Dr Roget?’
‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘They’re expert at dealing with true psychopaths and the more dangerous spectra of schizophrenics, but I’m not sure about their expertise in dealing with personality disorder.’
Amanda Cavendish smiled. ‘I’ll point that out,’ she said. ‘And I can assure you that he will be detained for a number of years and not released until he is deemed to be no danger to this poor girl or to any other member of the general public.’
The occupants of the room looked at one another. They all knew this meant his release would not be for a very, very long time – if ever.
Two days previously, Claire had liaised with another psychiatrist and they had both interviewed Dexter at length.
Dexter hadn’t played ball. He’d stayed quiet and sulky, angry he hadn’t succeeded in ‘splitting that cunt’s face’.
It took them under a minute to place Dexter Harding under a Section 3, and now they could arrange to transfer him to Broadmoor. Initially for six months, and after that for annual review.
Job done.
She could wash her hands of him.
An inquest had been held on the deaths of Derek and Maylene Forsyte. As expected, the findings had been murder and suicide while Derek’s mind was unbalanced. Their money problems were aired. There was no mention of the text which had probably goaded him into those final, violent acts. Barclay had slithered away again.
But at least Dexter had been put away. She could focus her attentions on her other patients.
Stan was dying, slipping away slowly but peacefully. Apart from the odd verbal outburst, he was too sick for any aggression and lay in a state of semi-wakefulness. Claire would sometimes sit with him, as did the other nurses, but it was sad to watch. Soon he would have to be transferred to the hospice. In the days since he had been ill, he had had not one visitor – no one to care for him. Stan would soon slip out of the world unloved and unmourned. Claire had rung his ex-wife, Annie. Surely she would remember a Stan before all this? But Annie was unforgiving. ‘He cocked up our lives,’ she said harshly. ‘Me and Stacey had a rough time with him. I don’t feel no affection for him.’
‘And Stacey? He would love to see her. He is her father.’
‘Listen, you psycho-whatever you are. I don’t mean to be rude,’ she’d said, ‘but I’ve remarried. The guy is steady and he is a father to Stacey now.’ There was a bitter laugh. ‘A kid of eight don’t need two fathers. I don’t want her knowing her real dad died in a mental hospital ’cos he’d taken too many drugs. The world’ll be a better place without him. See?’
No, Claire thought, I don’t see – but she could do no more except appeal.
‘Annie,’ she said, ‘Stan is dying of a brain tumour. Not drugs.’
There was a shocked silence. She had no response to this.
Claire put the phone down. Maybe Annie needed to do some thinking.
But she was with him one day when he opened his eyes and, with a lucidity she hadn’t seen for months, asked again to see his daughter. ‘I want to see Stace, doc,’ he’d said to Claire. ‘I know Annie probably feels that I let her down, but Stacey’s my little girl. Can’t you persuade her?’
‘Not really, Stan,’ she said, and she didn’t tell him she’d already tried.
Sometimes the life of a psychiatrist is just too hard. For Stan to see his daughter she would have to have summoned the courts and forced Annie’s hand. Was this a good idea? Did she have time?
Again she turned to Edward Reakin for advice.
She could tell he was relieved that, for once, the conversation was n
ot centring on Barclay. ‘Does he still have bouts of violence?’
She nodded. ‘Verbal.’
‘And are they predictable? Could you guarantee the little girl’s safety? Could you guarantee that he wouldn’t have an outburst with her?’
She shook her head.
Edward smiled at her. ‘Then you have your answer, Claire. I should leave well alone.’
But time was slipping away.
On the following day, Stan was transferred to the hospice.
There was one ray of hope in those days and one piece of good news.
The good news was that PC Dylan Salisbury had been discharged from hospital, pronounced fit and well. He would be returning to the Force.
The ray of hope was that Hayley Price had returned to them, looking reasonably well and with a tiny pot-belly from the food she had been managing to eat. Somehow the Royal Stoke University Hospital had weaned her off the tubes and machines and her liver and kidneys had recovered to some extent. They would never be 100 per cent healthy, but they could see her through a normal life span. If she ate. Simple as that.
Claire spent time with her one dull November day and found her more amenable than before.
Did anorexics, she wondered, do this – push themselves to the very brink, and once they had reached that then draw back, knowing now exactly where the boundary lay so they would never scrape quite so close again?
Perhaps.
Hayley had reached her target weight. Already they were making plans for her to be discharged to one of the safe houses. From there she would be taught on a one-to-one basis until it was felt she could once again return to the home and go to school like any other normal fourteen-year-old.
So now Claire’s problems appeared reduced to one patient: Barclay.
THIRTY-SEVEN
He lay at the back of her mind, taunting her with memories. Slippery as an eel; worrying her. He was like the family Rottweiler – you knew there was a potential for trouble, but trusted that the instinct would remain quiescent.
Dangerous Minds Page 21
