‘So sorry for the delay,’ said the man himself at last, popping his grizzled head around the door. ‘Please come through.’
He spoke softly, with a strange accent – a hybrid, I guessed, of German and South African. I followed him into his consulting room and was gestured into a squashy, shiny black chair.
‘Thanks for fitting me in today, doctor,’ I began.
‘You said it was an urgent matter, to do with a client of mine?’
‘That’s correct,’ I replied, ‘Lucy Paxton. She’s being pestered by a man – a stranger. He’s in his twenties, with a pale complexion, and he suffers under the delusion that Lucy loves him.’
‘I see. Has the man offered any violence?’
‘Not as yet, but things could deteriorate at any time. I’ll come straight to the point, Dr. Klüver. Do you, by any chance, have a client called Owen?’
‘Why?’
‘We believe that is his name. We also believe he may have come into contact with Lucy – briefly – in the last few years. Perhaps they ran into each other here?’
Klüver removed his bi-focals and stroked his beard uneasily. ‘I’m sure you are aware that I am bound by a code of confidentiality.’
I nodded. ‘But you must concede this is a special case, perhaps even a tragedy in the making.’
‘In any event,’ he continued, ‘I don’t believe I have a patient of that name.’
‘Can you be sure?’
‘My practice is not that large, Mr. Webster,’ he said, grinning ruefully. ‘I think I would remember. However, we can check easily enough.’ He spoke into an intercom. ‘Mrs. Pardoe, I’d like a list of clients going back, say, three years. Full names, please. As quick as you can.’
While we waited I provided the therapist with a fuller physical description of the stalker, in case it rang any bells.
It didn’t.
In due course Mrs. Pardoe entered, bearing a print-out, which Klüver studied closely.
‘I’m sorry – there is no Owen, either as a first or a second name,’ he announced.
‘Ah well,’ I sighed, ‘it was a bit of a long shot.’
‘But please, get Lucy to make an appointment to see me. She must be under a lot of stress right now.’
‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘Speaking of stress, we might have to ask her to act as a decoy – to trap the stalker. In your professional opinion would she be up to it?’
Klüver shook his head gravely. ‘I certainly cannot advise anything which might aggravate her condition.’
‘I see. Well, thank you for the help,’ I said, getting up and shaking his soft, rather clammy hand. ‘By the way, are you a Freudian, a Rogerian, or a Behaviourist?’
Klüver smiled. ‘You have an interest in therapy, Mr. Webster?’
‘A lay interest.’
‘Well, to answer your question, I tailor my approach to the individual patient. One person might benefit from, let us say, regression, while another could be helped by something more experimental, such as sound or colour therapy.’
‘Fascinating. I wonder, what would be an appropriate treatment for the stalker, from what I’ve told you?’
‘Difficult to say without actually meeting him. He could be suffering from a psychotic delusion, but then again he might simply be infatuated with Lucy. Romantic obsession is not an uncommon thing, even in perfectly sane people.’
It took me no more than fifteen minutes to get across to UniFit gymnasium in Hills Road. Mo was waiting for me outside, blowing on his hands to keep warm, and looking glum.
‘Nothing?’ I asked.
‘They’ve got two Owens on their books.’
‘But?’
‘One is black, the other is fifty three years old.’
‘How far back do their records go?’
‘Since they opened – two years ago. The manager didn’t really know who Lucy Paxton was, either. He looked confused throughout the whole conversation.’
‘I thought she’s supposed to be a regular?’
‘Not according to him. Her membership ran out nine months ago. Anyway, what did the shrink have to say?’
‘Unfortunately for us he doesn’t have a patient called Owen. And he advises strongly against the decoy idea.’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ remarked Mo. ‘Doctors have to be over-cautious, to cover themselves.’
We returned to the car and drove west out of the town, in due course coming upon a forbidding mid-Victorian pile, set in substantial grounds. This was Fenbrook, the largest mental hospital in the area.
‘Do I have to come in as well?’ asked my colleague, as we turned into the drive. ‘This kind of place makes me nervous.’
‘How unenlightened of you, Mo!’ I rebuked. ‘Think of it as just another hospital. Seventy per cent of us suffer from a mental illness at some point in our lives, you know.’
Mo looked unreassured, and pulled anxiously at his adam’s apple.
‘Alright, you stay in the car,’ I said, parking outside the main entrance. ‘It shouldn’t take long to establish whether they’ve got an Owen.’
Within half an hour I had gathered my information. The most recent patient called Owen discharged himself a year ago, and took his own life three months later. Another trail had run cold.
We returned to Cambridge in a mood of growing dejection.
‘I really think we ought to give your mother’s decoy idea a chance,’ urged Mo, ‘whatever that therapist says. It could take months to find this guy.’
‘Even if Lucy agrees I doubt whether that cerebrally-challenged husband of hers will,’ I replied.
‘We’ll never know unless we ask. Why don’t I give him a ring now?’
I hesitated. ‘Alright, but don’t try to persuade him on the phone. Arrange a meeting at his house. He might be a little more amenable when he’s in his own domain.’
The Paxtons lived in a substantial modern residence on the Madingley Road. We arrived just before eight that evening, and were welcomed by an incongruously tuxedoed Trevor. He pressed a glass of wine into our hands and directed us to the living room, which had a bar at one end.
Lucy appeared in a crushed velvet creation, looking rather awkward. It seemed obvious to me that the display of sartorial elegance was Trevor’s idea, probably for our benefit.
‘So, what’s this fantastic new plan you’ve come up with?’ he asked, scooping up a handful of peanuts with simian enthusiasm.
‘To be frank, Mr. Paxton, it’s taking longer than we expected to identify the stalker. We need to tempt him into making just one more approach.’
‘Are you talking about using Lucy as bait?’ he asked, with a perceptiveness which surprised me.
‘As a decoy, yes. It could save a great deal of time and effort.’
Trevor fixed me with a fierce stare. ‘Let’s get one thing straight – I’m not going to put my wife in danger.’
‘Understood,’ I said, holding up a hand defensively. ‘We’d stay close to her at all times. If the stalker appears we move in within seconds.’
Our host slurped down another glass of wine, burped, and swivelled round on his bar-stool. ‘Well? What do you think, doll?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, I suppose.’
‘As long as you both appreciate there are no guarantees of success,’ I added realistically.
Lucy nodded.
‘OK, you’re on,’ announced Trevor, slapping a hand on my shoulder. ‘But I want to be involved all the way down the line – or you can forget the whole thing.’
‘What role do you envisage for yourself?’ I enquired evenly.
Trevor plainly had not thought that far ahead. ‘I don’t know exactly . . . we’ll have to work it out.’
‘Perhaps,’ offered Mo, ‘we could set up a kind of relay system? I tail Lucy from the salon to the market, then I hand over to Mr. Webster, and so-on.’
I demurred. ‘It would be safer if we all kept together throughout the manoeuvre. Then, if Lucy
recognises the stalker she can shout a pre-ordained codeword, and we can move in simultaneously and restrain him.’
‘OK, that’s settled,’ declared Trevor. ‘Now we can have some grub.’
The next evening we put the plan into operation. There was, I have to say, a gratifying amount of co-operation on all sides.
Lucy left the salon at 6.00 p.m. precisely, and made a good job of looking nonchalant as she set off towards the city centre. I walked twenty yards ahead, while Trevor and Mo kept a similar distance behind.
Having passed through the market-square we departed from her usual route and twisted through a series of the narrowest, worst-lit lanes. It was a tense procession. To our suspicious eyes every young man we passed seemed a likely candidate for the stalker. Nevertheless, we ended up at our destination – the carpark – without incident.
The following evening we repeated the exercise, only this time Lucy walked at a much slower pace, giving Owen every chance of making an appearance.
Perversely, he stayed away again.
We held a council of war in the pub afterwards. Lucy expressed her frustration at the lack of results. Trevor, on the other hand, exhibited a degree of patience which, once again, was surprising.
‘I don’t mind if it takes a month, as long as we get him in the end,’ he declared grimly.
Driving back to Mother’s house later that evening I began to wonder whether our disobliging stalker may have decided to give up his campaign of harassment. The trouble was, of course, we could never know for certain. It was all extremely unsatisfactory. As we left the Cambridge lights behind us and sped away into the inky countryside something began to spark in the back of my mind – a half-recollection of a quotation. It bothered me all the way home.
I was pretty poor company over supper, too. In the end Mother became exasperated by my lack of conversation.
‘Tell us what’s on your mind, before we all burst!’ she insisted.
‘Alright, if you must know, I’m thinking about the words Owen used when he visited the beauty salon – pangs of love.’
‘Well? What about it?’ asked Mo.
‘It’s a quotation from a book, or a poem – I’m sure.’
After a moment’s reflection Mother replied coolly: ‘You mean The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office?’
‘That’s it!’ I cried, leaping from the sofa. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s part of the most famous speech in the English language,’ she replied, with a note of reproach at my ignorance. ‘Hamlet’s soliloquy.’
‘Brilliant, Mother!’ I exclaimed, giving her a kiss and rushing over to the bookcase.
I turned up the relevant speech in our Collected Works of Shakespeare. There it was, in black and white.
‘How does this relate to the case?’ asked Mo, unable to share in my euphoria.
‘We can now add an important new element to our picture of the stalker, can we not? Yes, he’s obsessed and deluded, but also rather well-read, probably of an academic bent.’
‘And?’
‘And as we’re in Cambridge it would seem reasonable to assume that he’s a student, possibly reading English. Mrs. Elkbourn told us he was wearing a striped scarf, remember?. Why not a college scarf?’
‘Could be,’ said Mo, beginning to warm to the theory. ‘Perhaps he’s gone off his head because of the pressure of work. Parental expectation – that kind of thing. It’s a well-known syndrome.’
‘The next step, of course, is to establish which college that scarf belongs to. Do you think Mrs. Elkbourn would help us out?’
‘I’ll ring her tomorrow, if you like,’ offered Mother. ‘I’m sure she’d be happy to.’
At one o’clock the following afternoon Mo and I collected Alice from the salon and together we strolled over to a gentleman’s outfitters called Bramble and Stokes. This is a long-established emporium specialising in official college accessories such as ties, caps and, most relevantly for us, scarves.
The assistant was kind enough to take us through his stock, enabling Alice to make a pretty positive identification. The scarf that Owen was wearing was from Downing College.
‘I distinctly remember that purple stripe,’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘It clashed with his bright orange anorak.’
‘Wonderful! We seem to be getting somewhere at last,’ I said, rubbing my hands together in glee.
We left the shop, thanked the beautician profusely, then made our way along to Downing College. The Porter, an amiable man with an accommodating nature, informed us that they had an Owen Phillimore – a second-year undergraduate reading English, who currently had digs in Newnham. He wrote down the address for us.
‘I think we’ve found our stalker!’ I declared, as we came out of the lodge. ‘It can’t be a coincidence, surely.’
‘What are we waiting for, then?’ said Mo. ‘Let’s get over there.’
‘Lucy Paxton is the one who can confirm whether this is our man. Unfortunately we’ll have to wait until she finishes work. How about a little more sightseeing?’
Mo scowled at me. ‘They’re forecasting snow this afternoon.’
‘In that case we’ll go back to Mother’s house, grab something to eat, then pick up Lucy at six.’
My heart sank as we returned to the salon that evening. Silhouetted in the window was the unmistakable, hulking figure of Trevor Paxton. He was waving his arms about as if in a heated argument.
‘I could have done without his interference,’ I said, turning to Mo. ‘Especially at this crucial stage.’
‘We could come back later, I suppose.’
‘No, we can’t afford any more delays. Let’s just steel ourselves and go in.’
The moment we opened the door Trevor turned on us with a pugnacious expression on his coarse features. ‘Ah! Webster! What’s all this about finding the stalker? Why wasn’t I told immediately?’
‘Because there was nothing definite to report,’ I explained calmly. ‘We simply have a suspect.’
‘And you want my wife to go and identify him?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll come along too.’
I shrugged. ‘If you feel it’s necessary. I trust you won’t be tempted to use violence?’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Lucy, looking at me appealingly.
‘Don’t worry, doll, I won’t cause any trouble,’ Trevor assured her. ‘That would put me in the wrong instead of him.’
‘Indeed it would,’ I confirmed. ‘Well, if you’re both ready, the car’s parked just up the road.’
Mo drove us to Newnham, which is a genteel, residential suburb of the town, much favoured by students because of it’s tranquility. We found Owen Phillimore’s address without much difficulty. His was the very end house of a terrace.
There were no lights on, and the curtains were all drawn. We parked opposite. I got out of the car, wandered across the frost-glazed street, and knocked on the front door. Nothing stirred. I knocked more emphatically. Still nothing.
Returning to the car I announced: ‘We may have to come back later. He’s not in.’
‘Hang on a minute – I saw a curtain move!’ shouted Trevor, who was sitting next to Lucy in the back seat.
‘Which window?’ asked Mo.
‘The bedroom – on the right hand side. The bastard’s in, alright. He’s watching us.’
‘What can we do, if he won’t open the door?’ asked Lucy, practically.
‘There may be another door,’ suggested Trevor. ‘Let me out – I’m going to have a look.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ I said firmly.
Next to the house was an unlit alley, no wider than a few feet. Trevor disappeared into this, and I followed closely behind. About half way along we discovered a back door, which was unlocked. We entered the house and found ourselves in what seemed to be a kitchen, although it was much too dark to be certain. Neither of us could locate the light switch.
‘
Anybody home?’ I called, anxious not to be mistaken for a burglar. ‘Mr. Phillimore? Are you in?’
Trevor whispered: ‘He’s hiding in the bedroom. Follow me.’
Before I had a chance to object he led the way into the hall. By sweeping my hand along the wall I managed to locate a row of switches and throw them.
Suddenly the whole house was illuminated. Trevor nodded his appreciation. Then we started up the stairs, shielding our unaccustomed eyes against the glare. I called Owen’s name several more times on the way, but there was no response. The silence was frankly beginning to play on my nerves . . .
Emerging onto the landing we saw that the bedroom door directly opposite us was ajar. Trevor gave me a questioning look before pushing it open and entering. A broad shaft of dim light penetrated within.
What it illuminated was as awful as it was unexpected. A man’s body – fully clothed – was dangling by the neck from a piece of cord, swaying almost imperceptibly.
We gaped at the ghoulish spectacle for a few horrified seconds, then Trevor rushed forward and attempted to disentangle the cord with feverish fingers. But I could tell from the grotesque expression on the face, and the angle of the head, that we were too late to be of any service.
‘I’ll call the police,’ I said quietly. ‘There’s a phone in the hall.’
Trevor caught my sleeve and was about to make some objection, but stopped short.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘I was going to say you should call a doctor first.’
‘There’s no hurry for that, I’m afraid.’
‘No,’ he agreed sombrely, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
I went downstairs and tried the phone. It was dead, so I was obliged to return to the car in order to use the mobile.
Mo and Lucy were naturally shocked at the news – it took them a while for it to fully sink in. Once I had called the police all three of us returned to the house, only to find Trevor blocking the stairs with his substantial frame.
‘I don’t want my wife to go up there,’ he said. ‘It’ll upset her.’
‘We must ascertain whether that really is the stalker,’ I insisted. ‘Lucy is the only one here who can make a positive identification. I’m sorry, Mr. Paxton, but it is necessary.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 11
