“Why don’t you take a train and get there first?”
“I hate trains.” Baba Rana shuddered. “No idea why. I just do.”
“Oh? Me too.”
‘Walking it is, then.” She patted the boy on the shoulder. “You coming, strange little person?”
“I think this is your journey, Rana, not mine.” The boy smiled for the first time since the old woman had met him.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
-27-
“Gordon Berlin is a patient of mine, yes.” Doctor Lambert looked to be in his sixties and had a severe stoop. Constable MacDonald wondered if it was a result of a lifetime bending over patients. Short and bald, with a tatty green pullover, Lambert sat behind an enormous oak desk like some shrivelled goblin. “I can’t really give you details of Mr Berlin’s medical history, however, as I’m sure you know.”
The Constable had been rehearsing his lines on the drive over. He nodded agreeably and took out his notebook.
“I realise that sir. But, I thought, if I gave you a general outline of a hypothetical situation, you would be able to… eh… make some comment on what I might be dealing with.” MacDonald coughed politely. “Hypothetically.”
“Very clever.” Doctor Lambert put on his glasses and went to a large filing cabinet. “That would be acceptable. Please proceed.”
“We have a situation where a middle aged man has had some sort of breakdown. We’re a bit short on details, but we have the gist of it.”
“Go on.” The doctor knelt beside the cabinet, knees cracking loudly, and began rummaging through the drawers.
“Well…. Suppose this fifty five year old man wakes up and he’s convinced he’s someone else. What’s more he thinks he’s only fifteen. No memory of himself as an adult at all.”
The doctor looked round sharply. “When did this… um… theoretical breakdown happen?”
“Couple of days ago.” Constable MacDonald looked at his notebook again, more for show than anything else. After all, he hadn’t written any details down.
“Problem is, he’s gone missing. And we think his son and a local girl called Mary Mooney might be with him.”
The doctor stood up, holding a large file. He laid it on his desk and pulled out a set of beige folders.
“Gordon Berlin first came to me years ago, at the insistence of his wife. They’d just had a child, Bobby, back then.” The doctor began removing sheets of paper from the folders and spreading them across his desk. Constable MacDonald looked suitably surprised.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to divulge medical records.”
“This sounds serious and I’m retiring in a year. What are the medical board going to do to me?” Lambert separated files quickly and efficiently, scanning them as he did so.
“Gordon was a likeable man. He was also detached, moody and a heavy drinker. His wife thought he might be suffering from depression. He didn’t want to come to me, but he did it for her.”
“We all get like that sometimes,” the Constable said sympathetically. “Even me. It’s usually the wife’s fault.”
“Quite.” The doctor ignored the policeman’s attempt at humour. “But Gordon Berlin seemed different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.” He held up a sheet of green paper. “I sent him to Stratheden Hospital for psychological tests. He made a fuss, but he went.”
“What was the result?”
“The hospital psychiatrists weren’t sure what to make of him either.” Doctor Lambert sounded uncertain. “Gordon had a rather… eh… evasive nature. But these guys don’t like to admit to being stumped. In the end they diagnosed him with a condition known as Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
“And what might that be?” Constable MacDonald was sceptical of personality disorders. He liked good guys to be good and bad guys to be bad. It made arresting them more fun.
“Narcissistic Personality Disorder is a form of sociopathy.”
“You’re saying Gordon Berlin is a psychopath?” The Constable’s eyes widened.
“It’s not a term that’s really used these days,” the doctor corrected.
“You can call him a member of the Nutty Boys, Barmy Army for all I care. What are you telling me here?”
“Narcissistic Personality Disorder is often caused by post-traumatic stress - some childhood disaster, for instance. There are several symptoms that only come out later in life.”
“Like eating someone’s liver with a nice Chianti?”
“I’d advise you to stop being flippant and start listening.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I can probably write you a prescription for that.” Lambert gave a sharp wheezing laugh. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his burst of uncharacteristic levity, and looked at the notes again.
“The Narcissist is arrogant and distant but he often gets away with it because he’s also intelligent and charming. But he’s not emotionally equipped to deal with other people’s needs. He thinks he’s special and won’t accept other points of view if they don’t agree with his. He always has to be right.”
“C’mon doc” Constable MacDonald interrupted. “I’ve met lots of people like that. They’re called selfish buggers.”
“I’ll just finish.” Doctor Lambert said pointedly. “The Narcissist, however, falls apart in times of crisis. He becomes paranoid and may well respond by taking this confusion out on his nearest and dearest.” The doctor looked solemnly over his glasses. “Let me read you this passage. The Narcissist reserves his most virulent emotions - aggression, hatred, envy - towards those who resemble him the most.”
The policeman put down his notebook.
“Like his own son?”
“Perhaps.” Doctor Lambert removed the glasses and wiped them on his jacket. “I’m not an expert in this area. Narcissism wasn’t even recognised as a disorder until the 1980’s”
“What can you tell me, sir?”
“I imagine being diagnosed with such an extreme condition actually put more of a strain on the Berlin’s marriage. All I can tell you is he left Fife shortly after and only came back a year ago, when his wife died.”
“To look after his son?”
“So he said.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“No reason not to. He got a job in the area and the boy looks healthy and well dressed.” The Doctor sat back and pressed his fingers together. “Though I do remember Gordon’s exact words, because they were quite unusual.” The man hesitated. “He didn’t exactly say he’d come back to look after his son.”
Constable MacDonald waited.
“He said he’d come back to save him.”
“And that didn’t sound vaguely… creepy to you?”
“I gave the man the benefit of the doubt,” Lambert replied defensively. “As far as I could see, he’d learned to live with his flaws. He sought me out, of his own accord this time. He seemed determined to do the best he could for his boy.”
“And could you help Mr Berlin?”
“I prescribed Abilify and Risperdal to help him cope. But in the main, it was down to him.”
“So he was managing?”
“Absolutely.” A tinge of admiration crept into the doctor’s voice. “He knew there was something wrong with him. He wasn’t happy. He was never going to be happy. But he kept a tight rein on his emotions.”
“And now?”
“A sophisticated fifty five year old with a lifetime’s experience can handle this disorder. Especially with medication to help him.” The doctor shuffled his notes back into a neat pile. “A man who believes he is fifteen certainly can’t. And if Gordon Berlin has lost his memory, he isn’t taking the pills any more. Their effects wear off fast you know.”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Doc.” Constable MacDonald was already on his feet.
“Like I said, I’m no expert,” Doctor Lambert added quickly. “And the diagnosis the hospital made
might even be wrong.”
“And if the diagnosis is right?”
“I doubt he’ll be able to keep control of himself for long. He’ll quickly develop a sense of mistrust for everyone. Think that people are after him.”
“In that case he’d be right.”
“Then catch him fast. A narcissist with a fifteen year old mind and a grown man’s strength.” The doctor took a long, deep breath.
“That would make Gordon Berlin very dangerous indeed.”
-28-
WPC Arnold walked round Pennywell cottage twice. The lights were off and there was no sign of life. She stood on the front step ringing the bell yet again. No response.
“I don’t suppose….” She turned the handle and the door swung open.
This was a bit of a dilemma for she knew she wasn’t supposed to enter without a warrant. WPC Arnold smoothed down her uniform and thought hard.
“Last time we met in the pub, Gordon, we got a little tipsy,” she said to herself. Actually they had both got raving drunk. “And you told me I could come round and have a bottle of wine any time I liked. Well. Here I am.”
She stepped into the hall.
First she checked for evidence that Baba Rana’s story was true. There was no food in the fridge, only several bottles of wine, but that didn’t prove anything. There was no sign of a note from Gordon Berlin, but Bobby might have kept that. There were two mobile phones on the living room table, father and son’s she supposed, but she couldn’t understand why they had left them in the house. WPC Arnold went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, but found nothing unusual there either.
That left the attic.
The dusty top room was filled with dark angular shapes. There was an overhead bulb without a shade and, when the policewoman switched it on, the light revealed a treasure trove of useless objects. Teddy bears, a rocking horse, boxes and crates, a cricket bat – all the paraphernalia that accumulated when lives moved on but couldn’t let go. Most of this was thickly overlaid with dust, but criss crossing footprints and open boxes showed that somebody had been up here very recently.
In one corner was a pile of camping equipment and, here, there was evidence that some of the items had been dragged across the floor and through the attic doorway
“So you are going cross country.”
Now she had something to fasten on to. Wherever the dust was disturbed, these objects had been newly touched - including a stuffed parrot lying in the middle of the floor.
WPC Arnold went to the nearest crate and shone her flashlight inside. On top of a pile of clothes was an old shoebox containing dozens of faded photographs of a young boy. Judging by the square shape of the snapshots and the thickness of the paper, they had been taken many years ago. The policewoman flipped through them, a frown on her face. Each photograph was mutilated and bent, scribbled over with a bright red crayon until the face was totally obscured. The policewoman sat back.
“I don’t know what I’m looking at, but I’m not liking it at all.”
She got up and glanced around. There was an antique desk shoved under one of the eves with a drawer pulled open. The lock looked like it had been forced.
WPC Arnold strode over and crouched beside the desk.
The lock was broken and the drawer was empty. Almost.
At the back were three shell casings. And there was a bald patch on the bottom of the drawer – the outline clearly showing what had been there.
“Oh my God.” WPC Arnold stared at the imprint.
“Gordon Berlin’s has a gun.”
-29-
WPC Arnold ran down the stairs and round to the back garden. The frost bitten grass was mashed down by footprints but she soon found what she was searching for. On the other side of the wall three sets of tracks led across the fields.
She pulled out her walkie talkie. It didn’t have a huge range but Doctor Lambert’s house was only a few miles away. She should be able to reach Constable MacDonald.
“MacDonald, this is WPC Arnold. I’m at Pennywell cottage. Where are you? Over.”
“Heading in your direction.” The familiar voice sounded strained. “I’m only a couple of minutes away. Over”
“We’re going to need backup. The two children have gone in the same direction as Gordon Berlin and he may be armed and possibly dangerous.”
“Oh, he’s dangerous all right. I’ll be there soon.”
WPC Arnold had worked with Constable MacDonald, on and off, for years. She could tell from the policeman’s clipped delivery that something was very wrong.
“I think you should radio for assistance right now. I’m going to follow the tracks and see if they intersect a road where you can pick me up. Over.”
“That’s a negative, Constable,” MacDonald retorted. “You’re to stay there until I arrive. Over.”
“Who says?” WPC Arnold bristled, forgetting radio protocol.
“The Chief Inspector of Fife Constabulary, that’s who. I’m to pick you up and we’re to head for police headquarters at Methyl.” Before WPC Arnold could protest, the radio went dead.
The policewoman strode up and down the garden, fuming. She kicked at frosted blades of grass, checked her handcuffs and glared indignantly up the lane until the Panda car appeared over the crest of the hill. It drew to a halt in Pennywell’s drive.
Constable MacDonald didn’t get out. He stayed in the driver’s seat, staring stolidly through the windshield, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Are you crazy?” WPC Arnold pulled open the door and leaned inside, her face red. “Gordon Berlin has a gun! We need to go after him.”
“Yes. I radioed that information in a minute ago.” Without looking round, Constable MacDonald held out the handset of the police radio. “The Chief Inspector wants a word.”
His companion snatched the receiver and held it to her ear.
“WPC Arnold here. Sir, we have a potentially critical situation developing. Over.” She wasn’t sure of the correct terminology for a state of affairs like this, but felt she sounded suitably urgent.
“This is Chief Inspector Montgomery,” the radio crackled. “You are to proceed to Methyl Police Station immediately.”
WPC Arnold couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Sir!” she objected. “We are following a white male, Gordon Berlin, who is probably mentally ill and who may well be armed!”
“I have his description and I’ve put out an APB on him.” The Chief inspector’s voice also had a tense quality to it. “But we have a situation here that I can’t discuss over the radio.”
“With all due respect, sir, this man may have two teenagers with him!”
“Listen to me.” Her superior’s tone turned glacial. “You and Constable MacDonald are to make no attempt to pursue Gordon Berlin. You are to return immediately to headquarters and await further orders. Do you understand?”
“No sir. I don’t understand.”
“And I don’t care,” the Chief Inspector replied menacingly. “Get back here now!”
WPC Arnold climbed into the car and replaced the headset, shaking with fury. Constable MacDonald was still staring ahead, gripping the steering wheel as if it were about to be wrenched from his grasp.
“Before, you ask? No, I’ve no idea what just happened.” He slammed the car into reverse. “Put your seat belt on.”
He whirled the Panda round and headed back the way he had come.
Two men in dark pullovers and black jeans watched the car vanish down the lane.
“So he’s gone AWOL,” one commented.
“Gone nuts, more, like it.” His companion blew into his hands. “I certainly don’t like the police being involved.”
“They’re gone now, and it doesn’t sound like they’ll be back any time soon.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Radio in the information, then stake the place out.” The man slid a folding knife into his pocket and removed his leather gloves.
“I
f Gordon Berlin comes back, we finish this.”
-30-
Bobby and Mary had been following Gordon’s footprints for almost two hours. Bobby’s father had crossed over a couple of minor roads and, each time, the pair had managed to find his trail on the other side. But the frost was dissipating fast.
“This is hopeless,” Bobby moaned. “We’ve almost reached Cowdenbeath. “There’s no way we can follow him once he gets there.”
“If he’s paranoid, then he’s hiding from everyone, and he doesn’t know the way.” Mary replied confidently. “We must be moving faster than him. He could be just over the next hill.”
“How does he even know where Dundee is? Signposts won’t be any help, because he’s not following any roads.”
“Maybe there was a map in your mum’s camping stuff.”
“Nah. My mum knew every inch of Fife. Mind you, she had a compass.”
“That might be what he’s using.” Mary looked up at the pale sun. “He’s been heading directly north the whole time.” She punched her companion in the arm. “C’mon. When we lose his trail, then we can give up. But we haven’t yet, have we?”
“Oh, you’re so damned chirpy about everything. We’ve as much chance of finding my dad as I have of winning the lottery.”
“That’s because you don’t play the lottery,” Mary said with infuriating good humour. “My gran buys me a ticket every week.”
And, sure enough, they found Bobby’s father ten minutes later.
Gordon was sitting at the edge of a small wood, looking across at the town of Cowdenbeath, a large rucksack by his feet and a book open over his crossed knees. He threw his hands in the air when he spotted the children.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” he said belligerently. “How did you find me?”
Bobby was tired and cold and in no mood for such an inhospitable reaction.
“See this stuff all over the ground?” He swept his hand round in an arc. “It’s frost. You leave footprints in it, no matter how sneakily you bugger off from home.”
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