Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  Who are you kidding?

  She knew what he was planning. A sailing accident from which he would emerge unscathed and a hero. He was going to get control of that money one way or another, and the Trigg family – Roxanne and the baby included – would be lucky to survive.

  Barclay tended to get what he wanted.

  And however much she knew she could read his mind, anticipate his actions, even she was powerless to stop him.

  But just over a week later she had what appeared to be a stroke of luck.

  Friday, 21 November, 9 a.m.

  It was her habit to meet up with Rita three times a day: early morning, lunchtime and at the end of the afternoon. Rita was the one who took all the phone calls, chased results, answered queries, typed the letters.

  Also, being Claire’s secretary, Rita knew how her boss felt about Jerome Barclay. She had taken phone calls from him and arranged appointments. So it was Rita who handed her a message. ‘Mrs Barclay’s phoned again,’ she said, handing Claire the Post-it note.

  For a minute Claire was confused. For a split second Mrs Barclay was Jerome Barclay’s mother, Cynthia, who was supposed to have committed suicide five years ago. Cynthia Barclay, who had adored her son, worshipped him and in the end died for him. Or by his hand. To her Mrs Barclay was already dead.

  Then her mind cleared. Not Barclay’s mother. Barclay’s wife. The name on the note was Roxanne.

  And the number, this time, was a mobile. She raised her eyebrows at Rita. ‘This could be interesting,’ she commented.

  ‘I thought it might be.’

  ‘Did she sound …?’

  ‘A bit agitated. A bit upset.’

  ‘Well I’d better ring her then. What time did she call?’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago.’

  Rita watched as Claire went into her office and closed the door, saying she wanted no interruptions.

  Claire dialled the number and the phone was answered almost straight away. ‘Roxanne? It’s Claire Roget here.’

  ‘I’m glad you called.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  The question provoked a silence.

  And then, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘OK. How can I help?’ Why did you ring?

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Without Jerry knowing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even if it’s bad things?’

  Claire knew if she was to take any action against him, she would have to reveal her sources at some point. She could deal with that later.

  ‘When can you come in?’

  ‘Now?’ Her voice was breathy. ‘He’s gone to the Boat Show at the NEC with my dad.’

  ‘OK. Now’s a good time. Just come to the hospital and ask for me.’

  ‘OK.’ She sounded enthusiastic. Excited.

  Later Claire would remember that tone.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Claire hadn’t really studied Roxanne before. She had only ever seen her with Jerome. The person she saw in front of her now was more attractive than she remembered from her first impression. More self-assured. She observed a small mouth, sharp little eyes. A trifle plump, but more a pleasing roundness than fat; the six-month pregnancy was suiting her. Short stubby fingers, her gold wedding ring embedded below the knuckle. Her hair was less brown, more caramel, with a couple of professionally applied blonde streaks and straightened like a sheet of glass. She looked less nervous than Claire would have thought. Quite a bit more confident and less intimidated. Roxanne was changing.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ She gave a tentative smile. Claire asked her if she wanted a coffee and Roxanne said she’d love one. So the ice was broken. Rita fetched a couple of coffees and they sat down to talk.

  Roxanne began. ‘You see, I don’t know what’s normal.’

  Claire knew what she must avoid was putting words into Roxanne’s mouth. ‘In what way?’

  The girl swallowed. ‘In marriage,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know how most people’s marriages work.’

  ‘But you know about your parents.’

  The sharp little eyes met hers with a ping before dropping her gaze to the mug of coffee. ‘My parents,’ she said, ‘are very different from Jerome.’ She looked up, surer of her ground now. ‘They’re simple people, Doctor Roget. They go to work …’ Quickly correcting herself to: ‘They went to work.’ She frowned. ‘You know about their Lottery win?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Her gaze sharpened. ‘That wasn’t why he …’ Her voice trailed off. Roxanne wasn’t sure enough of this to say it out loud.

  And Claire dared not prompt her. She had come to her, consulted her, sought her advice as a professional. Might this be her chance to incarcerate Barclay? Put him where he belonged; at the very least, place him under a Community Treatment Order?

  ‘So what brings you here today?’

  The girl’s eyes shifted to slide along the floor and Claire wondered.

  ‘He …’

  She was not as articulate as Sadie had been.

  ‘He’s not very … affectionate.’ She raised her eyes. ‘He seems to want to be unpleasant to me. To … to … hurt me.’

  No surprise there then. Now Claire had to choose her words very, very carefully because she would be documenting this conversation word for word. ‘In what way, Roxanne?’

  Claire gave her the quick once-over. No marks. No black eyes this time; no bruised cheeks.

  ‘In what he says,’ she added quickly.

  Claire recalled Sadie’s description: I could hurt you. I could cut a slice off these thighs. I could puncture your throat. I could kill you. I could rape you.

  Hardly the usual pillow-talk.

  ‘He seems to want to upset me.’

  ‘And this is a worry to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Said gratefully. ‘I worry about me, but more I worry about the baby. How will he be with …’ She rested her hands comfortably on her bump.

  Barclay with the baby? Claire thought. I dread to think.

  Roxanne continued, her voice slightly less timid now. ‘I just wish he’d stop and be more normal.’

  Barclay won’t stop, Claire thought. Not ever. He will never be normal.

  She looked at Roxanne. ‘Roxanne,’ she said, ‘have you ever wondered why Jerome is under me, a psychiatrist?’

  ‘He told me it was because he’d been distraught when he’d lost all his family, one by one.’

  Claire was impressed. Oh, Barclay, she thought, you are so neat. So clever. Clap clap clap.

  But she couldn’t completely spill the beans. ‘Put it like this, Roxanne,’ she said finally, ‘the way Jerome is with you is part of the reason why he was under my care.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes were wide open. Claire wasn’t convinced she had actually understood. She returned to the main subject. ‘So what do you want me to do about it, this problem?’

  ‘Speak to him?’ It sounded almost pitiful.

  ‘Don’t you wonder why he speaks to you like this?’

  ‘I have asked him.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘That it was part of his illness.’

  Oh, that too was clever.

  ‘It is, sort of. It’s part of who he is.’

  ‘So …’ Her comprehension was slow. ‘You mean he’s not likely to change?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘It’s unlikely. He might improve with time and age.’

  ‘But now he wants us all to go on a sailing spree – my parents too. And I’m …’ She hugged her pregnant belly. ‘I’m worried I’ll go into labour and …’

  Claire knew exactly what Barclay was planning. She could see it all, unfolding in front of her eyes like a roller blind dropping down a window. It was all in his plan: Roxanne, vulnerable and in danger, the in-laws there as witnesses. And, of course, if his plans included a tragedy to them, Barclay would stand to inherit.

  The lot.

  She knew exactly what he was plann
ing. Or did she?

  She gave Roxanne a sharp look, suddenly understanding much more.

  ‘Did he send you here?’

  Roxanne flushed and looked panic-struck. And Claire had her answer.

  THIRTY-NINE

  After that there wasn’t much point in prolonging the interview. Roxanne had been a plant, Jerome teasing again. She felt annoyed with herself for being taken in.

  Roxanne left, stuttering in embarrassment, and Claire started to document the interview. But halfway through she sat, chin in hand, and wondered.

  She had choices. Barclay was attention seeking and manipulative. He wanted her to sit up and take notice. So, like a parent with a recalcitrant child, she should not pander to his whims. She should ignore him.

  Dangerous.

  Her colleagues were convinced that she was obsessed with Barclay, that he was not nearly as dangerous as she thought. They knew he’d committed a serious assault on Sadie Whittaker, his previous girlfriend, but that was years ago, they argued. He had been a young man. The assaults on his three family members had never even been investigated by the police. They were all classed as non-homicidal: his father and baby brother natural causes, his mother a suicide. And yet Claire feared Barclay more than she had Dexter. She found him much more of a threat. Dexter was in your face. Barclay behind your back.

  6 p.m.

  She tussled with the problem all day and finally gave in. She wanted to talk to someone – not one of her colleagues. She couldn’t trust them. Besides, they were halfway to classing her as obsessed. And again, in spite of her earlier confusion, she thought of Zed Willard, detective sergeant. He’d given her his card, invited her to contact him if she had concerns. She fished it out of her purse and dialled before she could change her mind. This was pure business, she told herself.

  She’d used the hospital phone, which blocked the number, so he was, understandably, wary when he answered.

  But relieved when she gave her name. ‘Nice to hear from you. I think I had a missed call from you the other day? My sister said she answered. It was a wrong number. But it was your number, Claire, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t important. I decided I shouldn’t bother you.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, brought up short. ‘So what can I do for you now? Dexter’s well out of it and …’ he chuckled, ‘likely to remain so. You’ve sewn him up all right.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  There was an awkward silence until Zed Willard prompted her. ‘So?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a cheek,’ she said, ‘but I wondered if I could run something past you?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ He was definitely wary.

  ‘It’s about another patient.’ Now she was just beginning to feel silly.

  ‘Your colleagues?’ he suggested. ‘Don’t you discuss …?’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I mean – I’d love to be in your confidence. But I don’t know how much use I’ll be. It’d be great to see you again, Claire. I’m just not sure how my perspective will help you. I’m a layman. A copper.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m asking you. You see – I feel I’m being used.’

  He gave a little chuckle. ‘I’d rather speak to you face to face,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for some pasta or something. What time do you finish?’

  ‘In about an hour.’

  ‘Do you know the Italian restaurant opposite the Regent Theatre?’

  ‘I do.’ She’d been there with Grant on a number of occasions. Good food and better wine.

  ‘I’ll see you there at seven.’

  7 p.m.

  She had had no time to change, so had to go in her work clothes – dark skirt and pink sweater – but she had a spare pair of black high-heeled shoes in the car so she could change into those. She cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, splashed cold water on her face and freshened up her make-up.

  He was already there when she arrived. She’d had trouble getting the change for a parking space, and walking in high heels is necessarily slow. But she’d finally made it.

  He was sitting at a table, a smile on his face as he watched her enter. He stood up, his smile broadening. ‘This is good,’ he said, almost rubbing his hands together with the fun of it. ‘The psychiatrist asking my opinion about a patient.’

  She laughed, liking this teasing mood and the sparkle in his bright eyes. The waiter bustled up and she ordered a drink. And now she was not so sure that this was a good idea.

  He sensed her hesitation and encouraged her. ‘Come on, Claire,’ he prompted, ‘I’m dying to know how I can help you. Don’t back off now. Please?’

  So she told him the whole story, mentioning no names, simply calling Barclay ‘a patient’. She left nothing out, even when it reflected badly on her.

  It all spilled out: her suspicion that he had been involved in the murder of Heidi Faro, her predecessor; the deaths in his family; his mocking, manipulative behaviour, his brutal treatment of his ex-girlfriend, the invitation to his wedding and his wife being sent to unnerve her. Last of all she described the Trigg family, and watched his eyebrows meet when she detailed the Lottery win.

  He was silent all the way through, making not even one interruption or prompt.

  His only movement was in his eyes, troubled yet somehow innocent. Blue eyes often look like that, innocent.

  She knew that he could easily find out who the person was by the history she’d given. There weren’t that many unfortunates whose brother had died a cot death, father through an overdose of insulin and a mother more recently who had committed suicide. And it would be easier still to track down a recent Lottery win and a local wedding. She also knew that he wouldn’t pursue this. He wouldn’t break her confidence. Blue eyes. There is something trustworthy and transparent about them too. Not like Grant’s dark pirate’s eyes, which had concealed so much.

  She finished with her quandary. ‘I don’t know whether I should keep tabs on him,’ she said, ‘or how. Or what I think I can achieve by this, except pandering to his attention seeking. Do I have a duty to monitor his behaviour?’

  He was silent, took another sip of wine, then smiled at her. ‘And you want me to advise you?’

  She lifted her eyebrows, splayed out her hands on the table, lifted her shoulders in a silent plea. ‘The bottom line is, Zed, I think he’s planning something. Why would he suddenly want a boat? And if he is planning something – how can I stop it? I can’t be out there on the high seas. And I can’t stop him going.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘Let me think about it for a moment. Shall we order?’

  She’d learned her lesson years ago. When on a date you don’t order spaghetti. It might be all right for Italians to tuck their serviettes like babies’ bibs under their chin and dribble their way through a meal, but it was not all right for her.

  She ordered fusilli.

  They’d almost finished when he put his fork down. ‘You really think he’s going to hope his wife dies in labour and drown his in-laws for their money?’

  Put like this, it sounded silly, and she risked appearing histrionic. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  ‘But, Claire, seeing him regularly isn’t going to prevent any of this. You know what he’s like. You can’t stop him. As you said. You can’t go to sea with him, can you? It appears that you have no access to the family except with him lurking or listening in the background. So what do you propose?’

  He was so right. His gaze was on her. Of course she couldn’t prevent Barclay from carrying out his plans. Could she warn the Trigg family – if not Roxanne, who was so completely under her husband’s spell, then perhaps the parents? She put this to Zed. ‘Well, you tried it with Roxanne,’ he said. ‘It didn’t work there, did it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said simply. ‘I can see what’s about to happen and I can’t stop it. But I have to try something.’

  ‘What a
bout,’ he said slowly, ‘the parents?’

  That was when she made up her mind. That was what she would do: speak to the parents.

  She smiled at Zed Willard and thanked him. ‘I don’t know why I had to bounce that off you. Why couldn’t I see that for myself?’

  ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. That’s why.’ His grin was genuinely warm. ‘You make things more complicated than they need to be.’ He reached across the table, his eyes meeting hers, and touched her hand.

  And she knew, in that instant, that she wanted Grant back – sick-sister baggage and all. She smiled and moved her hand away and DS Willard sensed her retreat.

  A few minutes later, when their plates had been cleared and they were drinking coffee, he asked her. ‘So?’

  ‘Yep,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m going to speak to his in-laws – at least warn them. I don’t think there’s any point talking to Roxanne again. She’s too much under his influence. She’ll side with her husband.’

  Zed Willard nodded. ‘Atta girl,’ he said, and she knew he’d recognized that moment when her heart had spoken loud and true. Banged like a church bell.

  Tuesday, 25 November, 9.30 a.m.

  Before she could speak to the Triggs, she had to formally discharge Barclay from her care. It would not do to be speaking to a patient’s relatives without his permission, so she needed to distance herself from him. She dictated the letter. And, strangely enough, when she signed the typed version, she felt cleansed. He was off her hands. No longer her patient. Which changed the ground rules.

  Three days later she rang Kenneth and Mandy Trigg and invited them to come in and talk to her. They were wary at first, but when she said that she had their interests at heart, as well as those of their daughter and unborn grandchild, they agreed to come in on the following Monday at 12 o’clock.

  4 p.m.

  She visited Stan at the hospice. He was sadly pathetic – sunken eyes, a grey skin tone; no flesh, only bones. He already looked like a corpse. The staff told her he slept for most of the time. It was obvious his tumour was growing rapidly and he wouldn’t last much longer. He probably had just days to live. She was at least pleased she had made the decision to transfer him to the hospice. Their care for him was the best. Greatbach was not equipped to deal with such a physically sick person. They couldn’t run drips or tube-feed him. Even a morphine pump was beyond them. The staff were trained in mental disorders and were poorly trained to manage this terminal physical condition. He was in the right place. She sat with him for a while and then the ward sister came in, bent over the bed, spoke to Stan and then addressed her.