Now, it would be reasonable to suggest that Skelgill’s self-absorbed behaviour stems from a wish for self-aggrandisement. Dr Agnetha Walker may consider hypotheses ranging from a lack of inner self-confidence to a certain naïve vanity. However, she seems to prefer to interpret his efforts to impress as a sincere if gauche form of flattery. Indeed, it is true to say that she has provided subtle encouragement, and received his replies with a serene delight. Nonetheless, she is clearly surprised – and amused – when it dawns upon him to ask her a question.
‘So – Annie – you live down in Cheshire?’
Gripping the handle of her mug through the cuff of her cagoule, she takes a careful sip of her steaming tea.
‘Ah, well – if I’m being honest that makes it sound countrified. A suburb of Greater Manchester, I’m afraid, on the Cheshire side.’
Skelgill nods.
‘And you’re what – a hospital doctor in the city?’
‘Oh, I am not a doctor – at, least not that kind.’
‘What other kind is there?’
‘My title comes from having a PhD – I am a psychologist.’
Skelgill makes a surprised sound, expressing air between his lips.
‘Queer thing – London buses, as the saying goes – you never meet a psychologist, then two come along in the space of a week.’
‘How is that?’
‘We had to interview an inmate down at Haresfell – the mental hospital. We met this doctor chap there – name of Pettigrew.’
She gives an audible intake of breath.
‘Dan – that is where I am working – indeed I report indirectly to Dr Pettigrew.’
‘Small world.’ Skelgill momentarily seems distracted by some thought. ‘What are you doing there – if you live in Cheshire?’
‘My role is peripatetic – I roam – I have a six-month assignment to work with some of the patients at Haresfell – my last job in Manchester was at a medium secure unit in Bowdon.’ With her free hand she brushes a couple of stray strands of hair from her eyes. ‘And, by the way, Peter – that is, Dr Pettigrew – would never forgive me if I did not point out that he is a psychiatrist rather than a psychologist.’
Skelgill looks affectedly dim.
‘They sound much the same to me.’
She places her mug in one of the little depressions Skelgill has drilled in the shingle. Then she uses both hands to embellish her explanation.
‘To become a psychiatrist one must first qualify as a medical doctor – followed by perhaps nine more years of specialist study. Ultimately one will be concerned with the treatment through drugs and therapy of patients suffering from mental disorders.’
‘And you?’
‘I read psychology – not medicine – as an undergraduate.’
‘But you must have some string of letters after your name.’
She tilts her head on one side in order to look at him.
‘I take it you did not attend the recent conference?’
Skelgill pulls a disparaging face.
‘That would have been well over my head.’
‘Dan, I am sure that is not the case – however, I was one of the speakers. I am a forensic psychologist – my area of expertise is in malingering.’
‘Ha!’ Skelgill cannot help the ejaculation. ‘You should meet my sergeant – Leyton – he’s an expert, too!’
She waits patiently while Skelgill has a good chuckle at his own joke.
‘So you see, psychology is the study of the relationship between the mind and behaviour – in this context it particularly concerns assessing the risk of reoffending, and the design and implementation of rehabilitation programmes.’
‘Where does the malingering come in?’
‘Well, to begin with, a plea of insanity is often entered – to avoid a jail sentence.’
Skelgill frowns.
‘I can see that – in countries where they still have the death penalty – but what regular criminal would want to be locked up with a bunch of –’
‘Loonies?’
She smiles a prim touché.
‘You are thinking of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.’
‘Aye – that kind of thing.’
She gives a little shrug of her shoulders.
‘You might be surprised – although currently I have someone who claims to be in much the same position – rather ironically a former psychiatric nurse who murdered her elderly patients.’
Skelgill’s antennae prick up.
‘Meredith Bale?’
‘That is correct.’
‘She’s the one me and Leyton went to see – the Manchester cops couldn’t bother their backsides driving up, so we got lumbered.’
Dr Agnetha Walker nods slowly. Her preternaturally quizzical eyebrows make her underlying interest hard to gauge.
‘She is a fascinating case – not that I ought really discuss my patients.’
Skelgill looks at her a little askance.
‘I reckon we’re singing off the same hymn sheet, Annie.’
She yields a little, bringing her delicate fingers together into a conciliatory lattice.
‘Well, it is true to say there is a good deal of information already in the public domain – the trial attracted a great many news headlines.’
Skelgill picks up a small pebble and flicks it with his thumb into the water’s edge.
‘She reckons she never did it – that she was framed. By the time we left, Leyton believed her.’
Dr Agnetha Walker smiles archly.
‘It would have taken quite a conspiracy – have you studied the statistics?’
Skelgill hunches rather defensively. He had delegated the reading of the background report to DS Leyton, who in turn had complained of car-sickness thanks to Skelgill’s erratic driving and an enforced second breakfast from the motorway services. They had arrived for their interview rather poorly informed.
‘I remember hearing about it at the time – twenty-odd patients they reckon she killed.’
Dr Agnetha Walker inhales deeply, as if she is steeling herself to recount some unpleasant narrative.
‘Over a twelve-month period there were twice as many deaths on her shifts compared to the average. She activated the emergency alarm over fifty times – more than all the other nurses combined. It appears she liked to instigate a crisis and then receive praise for her nursing skills – and in fact she was hard working and highly able.’
‘Able – and twenty-odd died?’
‘That may have been her intention in such cases. The transcripts of the trial make rather ghoulish reading. It seems that on some occasions she accelerated their demise simply because she wished to finish her shift on time. Records indicated that the high-dependency unit in which she worked had used almost one hundred ampoules of epinephrine not ordered by doctors.’
Skelgill frowns.
‘It’s adrenaline, right? Same as an EpiPen?’
‘Except a much larger dose is used to restart a heart.’ She pauses reflectively. ‘Or stop one.’
‘And it’s hard to detect?’
‘Well – not, actually. But since it is naturally occurring it is likely to go unnoticed at autopsy – and of course an unusually high level in the blood might well have been injected by a doctor or paramedic in an effort to save the patient’s life. That is why it is always so conveniently on hand.’
Skelgill stretches and fills a spare roll with plump sausage. He slices it in half with a wicked looking knife and offers the plate. Dr Agnetha Walker smiles but shakes her head. Skelgill adds a daub of ketchup, but then he pauses to speak before taking a bite.
‘I’m amazed they didn’t get on to her sooner.’
‘Her close colleagues had suspected for some time. But there was no proof. She was never caught in the act. And among patients of that age and condition sudden cardiac episodes were normal – it was just the frequency that was not. The administrators did not notice the trends, and she was just considered to be
unlucky.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.
‘And now she denies all knowledge.’
‘She has claimed from the beginning that she was framed by her colleagues because they were jealous of her competence.’
‘And what do you reckon, Annie?’
She has full lips, and Skelgill’s gaze is drawn to their beauty as she purses them contemplatively.
‘Well, you might say it is a game of bluff and double bluff. Normally, I would be dealing with someone who is sane that is pretending otherwise – that is a claim which is quite straightforward to debunk.’
‘Really?’ Skelgill sounds genuinely surprised.
She nods with conviction.
‘You see, people who feign mental illness – they are generally naïve – they have little knowledge of how a sufferer truly behaves. They will perform in tests – such as for memory – according to their own view of the stereotype. Since we have the data from thousands of genuine patients, it quickly becomes apparent that they are making it up as they go along.’
‘But Meredith Bale was trained as a psych – ’
‘A psychiatric nurse – that is true – but she is not simulating such an illness, of course.’
Skelgill nods and tucks into the ‘spare’ half roll. He washes down a mouthful with the dregs of his tea. Then he reaches for the Kelly kettle and gives it a shake.
‘I reckon acting normal is just as tricky.’
Dr Agnetha Walker watches him closely as he makes another mug of tea.
‘And what makes you say that?’
Skelgill checks her mug – but it is still almost full.
‘I interview plenty of folk who might be lying. I’ve not got a test for it – but it’s usually obvious when they’re telling porkies, as my sergeant puts it.’
‘And how is it obvious? I think this takes more intuitive skill than you give yourself credit for.’
Skelgill can’t conceal his pleasure in response to this compliment; a small swagger seems to take hold of his upper body.
‘When folk lie they try too hard.’
He casually flicks another pebble but by dint of bad luck his shot goes awry and it lands with a splash in his mug, drawing an involuntary giggle from his companion. He picks up the mug and defiantly drinks without bothering to remove the stone. She giggles again, amused by his stubbornness.
‘You see, Annie – they’re so busy thinking how they’d behave if they were acting normal – and then at the same time trying to do it – but that’s not humanly possible. It’s like patting your head and rubbing your belly.’
Her eyes seem to widen a little.
‘But aren’t people under great stress when they’re being interviewed by the police? They feel guilty even when they are not. And so they behave differently in any event.’
‘Aye, maybe – but you get used to that – it’s something more subtle that I’m talking about.’
Dr Agnetha Walker places the tips of her fingers together, signalling that she is deliberating from an academic perspective.
‘One could argue that Meredith’s demonstration of being calm and collected is in fact evidence of her abnormality. It never ceases to surprise me how utterly convincing people with mental disorders can be. For instance, she sometimes claims she has a dossier of evidence stored remotely on the internet that will prove she was the innocent victim of a conspiracy.’
Skelgill turns to look at her.
‘Aye – that’s what she told us – that she’s keeping it back for the right moment.’
Dr Agnetha Walker nods knowingly, the semblance of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
‘It is a common ploy – not just by Meredith – you might say an attempt to gain some leverage over one’s gaolers.’
Skelgill swallows the last bite of his sandwich.
‘Strange thing is, she seemed to know in advance what we’d come to ask her about.’
‘As if she had been informed?’
There is a note of alarm in Dr Agnetha Walker’s question, but Skelgill shakes his head reassuringly.
‘More like she was just expecting it – off her own bat.’
‘What sort of thing are we talking about?’
Skelgill shifts his position, stretching out his legs and leaning back to rest on the heels of his hands.
‘My guess is Greater Manchester CID are investigating missing drugs – medicines, I mean – from the hospital where she used to work.’ He brings an arm around to rub the top of his head in a gesture of frustration. ‘You’d think they’d have clamped down since the murders. The questions they wanted us to ask were about loopholes in the ordering and stock control systems.’
‘But she was not forthcoming.’ Her response is a statement rather than question.
‘She said it wasn’t her – so why should she know?’
Now Dr Agnetha Walker gives an ironic smile.
‘Yet she has some ‘explosive’ revelation up her sleeve.’
Skelgill shrugs resignedly.
‘She said the doctors weren’t fully qualified, the nurses were badly supervised, and no one kept proper records because they were understaffed and overworked.’
‘That sounds like the standard media criticism of the NHS.’
Skelgill grins ruefully.
‘Or substitute doctors-and-nurses for officers-and-constables and you’ve got the police.’
‘It is true that all of the public services are stretched – and with fewer administrators it makes it easier for the maverick operator.’
There is a curious emphasis in her voice as she says the word maverick and beneath her scrutiny Skelgill reaches away and begins fussing with a fold of the tarpaulin where rainwater is dripping into the mouth of the shelter. After a few moments he gives it up as a bad job and slumps back with a little tut of annoyance. Then, rather out of the blue, he poses a question.
‘Could she have had an accomplice?’
Dr Agnetha Walker’s startled brows edge a fraction higher.
‘What makes you say that?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘If drugs are still going missing – and she’s so definite about being able to blow the gaff.’
There is a silence, but when Skelgill looks at Dr Agnetha Walker for her reaction she is grinning benevolently. He opens his palms to indicate she should elucidate.
‘And just what is a gaff? I have still not got used to this expression.’
Skelgill seems pleased to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
‘Aye, well – what I just said means to give away a secret – but if you asked Leyton he’d tell you it’s where someone lives – and if you asked me any other time I’d say I’ve got one in the boat – a stick with a hook on it – not that I’d ever use it on a fish, mind.’
‘Not even a slippery female?’
*
That Skelgill has a fisherman’s gaff in his boat – and a nasty piece of work it is, too – does beg the question as to why, but he remains evasive when he exhibits the said item. The fact that it would make a fairly useful (legal) deterrent in the face of unwanted aggression might just have something to do with it, but Dr Agnetha Walker does not press the point. If anything she reacts in a fashion that seems to flatter his machismo – though his focus quickly shifts, for it is clear that playing upon his conscience is the matter of the thirty-pound promise.
The afternoon draws on, however, with few indications that the elusive fish will be forthcoming. Skelgill shifts the boat at regular intervals, trying all of his favoured spots: shelves, inlets, weed beds, submerged shingle banks, wind lanes, and deep channels – but to no avail. Even the dead baits – productive before lunch – are left unchewed. He becomes increasingly tetchy, and finds a succession of excuses (all external factors, of course, such as the atmospheric conditions and corresponding state of the water) to explain away the lack of bites.
The only bright light on the horizon is almost literal – imperceptibly by th
e minute, but gradually by the hour, the weather improves. At some stage Skelgill declares it is no longer raining but ‘mizzlin’ – a drizzle accompanied by the residual mist of low cloud – and in due course even this dries up. The day is in fact deceptively warm – around the seventy Fahrenheit mark – and Skelgill eventually discards his jacket. He looks mightily relieved to do so, for stiff with age and smeared with layers of roughly applied wax it restricts the actions of rowing and casting. He has explained his choice of traditional outer fabric for its durability – such as when enlisted into service as a picnic rug – and its resistance to hooks; beneath he wears only a shrunken and faded olive green t-shirt that reveals his physique to be more muscular than his lean frame might suggest. The brolly, too, is dismantled, enabling Skelgill’s angling companion to cast more freely. Indeed, she demonstrates considerable fortitude of mind and body and continues to fish with unstinting energy and enthusiasm. Like Skelgill she affords herself of the opportunity to make herself more comfortable, and wriggles out of her waterproof trousers and cagoule to reveal a close-fitting ensemble of stretch black yoga pants and a matching purple-and-charcoal tailored zipper top.
However, despite their efforts, it is not until the time has crept into the last hour of their allocated session that some action finally occurs. Skelgill is at the oars, manoeuvring the craft into a small bay when suddenly Dr Agnetha Walker lets out a cry of surprise.
‘Herregud!’
Though Skelgill has no idea what she says, the panic in her voice prompts him to spring from his seated position and before he knows it he has lunged to grab her by the hips – ostensibly to prevent her from being dragged over the stern.
Murder in the Mind Page 4
