by Joy Ellis
‘DI Jackman, it’s a pleasure to meet you — and Marie, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again. And you’re a detective sergeant now? That’s excellent news.’
I see, thought Jackman, first name terms, huh?
‘Professor Preston is working at the old military hospital out at Frampton Shore. He has a key role in the new psychiatric secure unit that is being opened later this year.’ The superintendent stretched those thin lips about as far as they would extend. ‘And he’s very kindly accepted my request to give us the benefit of his expertise.’
Preston raised his hands, palms up, ‘It’s no big deal. I’m at something of an impasse right now. The building work is at a critical stage. They’re putting in the security systems. The place is off-limits to anyone except the security experts, construction workers and their entourage. It hardly seemed worth trekking back up to Northumberland, so . . .’ He smiled. ‘If I can help, that’s great.’
Jackman was trying to bring to mind some of Preston’s work. Bingo! Something clicked neatly into place. ‘You wrote an important paper on female psychopaths: When Conscience is Lacking.’
‘Good Lord! And here was me thinking only a handful of bored students ever saw that! Not that I think any of them ever bothered to read it.’
‘I read it, and I did it voluntarily. It was a fascinating study.’
‘Thank you.’
Jackman thought the man looked like someone who taught yoga or Tai Chi. He had a calmness about him, a good quality in a psychologist. His patients would trust him quite easily. He glanced across to Marie, and saw mingled emotions on her face. They puzzled Jackman.
‘Superintendent Crooke has given me the bare bones of the case, but perhaps one of you could fill me in on the details?’ Preston looked at Marie.
If Jackman hadn’t known that Marie had been happily married for many years before her husband’s death, he might have thought that there was history in those meaningful glances.
‘No problem,’ Jackman said quickly. ‘Come down to the CID room with us. You can meet the rest of the team and . . .’ He looked at Preston. ‘I would really like your opinion on this strange, obsessive wall decoration done by the person we have in custody.’ He held open the door, and the doctor and Marie walked through. Jackman turned back to Ruth Crooke. ‘You were right, ma’am. I do owe you one.’
‘You’d better believe it, Detective Inspector Jackman, and one day, I’ll come a’calling, never fear.’
She gave him a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it told him that she really was on his side, and sod the budget.
Downstairs, they gave Preston a quick tour of the department. While Max showed the psychologist their reconstruction of Daniel Kinder’s wall-work, Jackman took Marie aside.
‘So you’ve worked with Preston before?’ he asked quietly.
‘Well, as I said, I was only a lowly baby tec, but he was a massive help with a complex and very delicate investigation. I’d say he was instrumental in getting Terence Marcus Austin taken off the streets for life.’
‘But if you were such a minion, how did you get on first name terms with the big cheese?’ Jackman hoped his question didn’t sound like some kind of jealousy.
‘I saved his life.’ She shook her head. ‘Look, can we do this later?’ She looked to where Preston stood staring at the board. ‘You better go talk to him. And, sir, we are very lucky to have him. If anyone can understand Daniel, it will be Guy Preston. I’ve never met anyone who can find his way around a sick mind like that man.’
Jackman was still trying to get his head around her statement. Saved his life? He managed a nod and dragged himself back to the present. ‘If his academic papers are anything to go by, I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Can I meet the artist himself?’ asked Preston, staring at the reconstruction.
‘Of course.’ Jackman beckoned towards his office. ‘But first, a coffee, and we’ll fill you in on what we know to date, okay?’
Preston smiled. ‘Sounds good to me. Lead on.’
Half an hour later, Guy Preston sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. ‘I guess I need to see him before I pass any comment, but everything you’ve told me to date says that Daniel Kinder is just haunted, well, obsessed, by his own belief that he’s a killer’s son. I would be very doubtful that he’s killed anyone.’
‘That’s our thoughts too, but we have to prove it. One mistake on our part could cost someone their life.’ Jackman said grimly.
‘And you your job, no doubt?’
‘If I put a killer back out on the streets, then believe me, I’d be the first one to put my neck on the bloody block. And anyway,’ he added almost to himself, ‘I’d never be able to live with myself if I put innocents in danger.’
Marie smiled at Preston. ‘My boss has a conscience.’
‘Heavens! That’s something of a rarity these days.’
Preston looked thoughtfully at him, and Jackman felt a creeping tendril of discomfort. He was being scrutinised by a leading psychologist, and Jackman couldn’t help wondering what he saw. Jackman forced a smile and changed the subject. ‘I’ll ring the custody sergeant and have Kinder brought up to an interview room.’
The doctor stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Excellent, but before we do, I think I should tell you that I know a fair bit about Françoise Thayer. I spent a lot of time researching her and a couple of other women killers with the intention of writing a book on them. It’s actually very strange that Superintendent Crooke decided to rope me in on this.’
‘So you probably know more about Thayer’s mindset than anyone, and you’re sitting right here in the boss’s office!’ Marie sounded amazed.
‘More or less, but I suggest we don’t tell Daniel.’
Jackman thought about that, then said, ‘I see your point.’ He looked at Marie, then back to Preston and explained about all the missing documentation on the murder trial and the loss of the evidence boxes.
The doctor’s face turned from bland to dumbfounded. ‘But that’s a travesty! Thayer was one of the coldest and most manipulative, wicked killers this country has ever seen! And all the legal data on her has gone?’
‘To all intents and purposes. Vanished into thin air,’ said Marie.
‘Could it have been a deliberate act?’
Marie shook her head. ‘I can’t see why. It’s much more likely to be one damned great cock-up.’ She scowled. ‘And believe me, they do happen.’ Her frown lifted. ‘But we do have an ace computer boffin who is tracing everything that’s been left floating in the ether regarding that old case. Between the two of you, we could find ourselves with a pretty comprehensive history.’
‘Well, if it would help, I think I can probably lay my hands on some of my old research. As I said, it was something I tackled years ago, so it’s not on my laptop, but the hard copy will all be filed away.’ The psychologist passed a hand through his hair. ‘Luckily my work and my case notes are already with me at my flat. It’s only some of my personal belongings that are still at home in Northumbria.’
‘Are you planning on moving here permanently when the new psychiatric unit opens?’ asked Jackman.
‘Oh yes. I have been given a purpose-built chalet in the grounds. All very Nordic and spacious, but until my contract starts, I’ve rented a flat in Hanson Park.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Too much like Stepford for me. I like my privacy, my own space, but it’s somewhere to pitch up until my new home is finished.’
‘And do you have family back up north?’
‘Not really.’ His face clouded over. ‘My wife died last year, so there’s not much to hold me there anymore. It was her home county, not mine.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Jackman. ‘And please forgive me. My policeman’s curiosity got the better of my manners.’ He lifted the phone, pressed the extension for the custody suite and spoke to the sergeant.
‘Kinder will be in interview room three in ten minu
tes.’
As Marie and Preston talked about the new project at the secure unit, Jackman had an opportunity to take a closer look at their new colleague. It didn’t take him long to realise that his face was not the only part of him that was scarred. There was an ugly mark on the back of his left hand. It could have been a burn, or maybe a badly healed puncture wound. Jackman wondered why Guy Preston had not had plastic surgery, especially to the side of his face. The scar was tethered and puckered, and Jackman couldn’t see why it needed to be there. To afford a flat in Hanson Park, and to be senior enough in his profession to be asked to head up a new psychiatric unit, Preston would hardly be on the breadline, and even if he were, the injury was bad enough to warrant the NHS sorting it out for him. So why leave it?
Jackman tossed a few theories around in his head. Some women found scars attractive. They thought they made the man who bore them look virile, tough. Other women would think they were a sign of vulnerability, and that too could be a turn on. Or was it nothing to do with sexual attraction? Was Preston afraid of the knife? A friend of Jackman’s father, an eminent thoracic surgeon, was terrified of operations. This fear almost cost him his life when an aneurism threatened to rupture. So what’s Preston’s story? he mused to himself, then glanced at his watch. ‘Right, time to go. Mr Kinder awaits us.’
* * *
Daniel sat quietly, waiting for his next interview. The only other person in the room was a silent uniformed custody officer. He was glad that the woman had nothing to say to him, because he was suffering from the granddaddy of all headaches.
In a matter of days Daniel’s whole life had become a series of horrible contradictions. He badly wanted to be with Skye, but he also wanted her far away from him. He wanted to be safe in his own home, but he also craved the locks on his cell door. He longed for sleep, but feared it because of the accompanying dreams. Most of all, he wanted to know the truth about himself. But another part of him was terrified of finding out.
The room filled up with people.
Daniel watched as the senior officer removed a new tape from its sealed packaging and placed it into the machine. Then he listened as the detective inspector introduced himself and invited the others to do the same.
‘Daniel, do you have any objection to Professor Guy Preston being present, and talking to you during this interview? He is a medical expert.’
Daniel looked directly at the bearded man and knew instantly what kind of medicine he practised, but he thought he should ask the question anyway. ‘What is your field?’
‘Guy Preston is a psychologist,’ said the detective sergeant.
‘And if you are happy to talk to me, I promise to tell you the truth, no matter what,’ Preston said.
‘Do you specialise?’ asked Daniel calmly.
‘I do. I’m a forensic psychologist and a behavioural investigative advisor. I work with the police on serious crimes.’
‘Like murder?’
‘Amongst other things.’
‘Good.’ Daniel felt something like relief course through him. ‘If you deal with killers, then you’ll understand that I’m not lying.’
Preston stared at Daniel thoughtfully. ‘I meant what I said about telling the truth, Daniel. Are you prepared for that?’
‘I am.’ Daniel closed his eyes and felt the stinging behind the lids. ‘I believe I am the son of Françoise Thayer. I believe I killed Alison Fleet. I want proof of that.’
‘I’m not here to prove anything. That’s down to the detectives, but I will listen to you and give them my informed opinion.’
Daniel knew that was the best he could ask for. This man reminded him of his child psychologist all those years ago. It was frightening to know that you might have to face your demons, but it was also reassuring to be able to voice your fears and not be ridiculed.
The man suddenly smiled at him, and once again he was a small boy, with empty spaces, gaps in his life. Gaps that scared him more than any bogeyman or vampire monster.
‘Okay, Daniel. Let’s start at the beginning.’
CHAPTER TEN
Charlie Button pushed his chair away from his computer and rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you think of the shrink, Max?’
‘Sorry, sunshine, but I have trouble with people who have more brain cells than my screen has pixels. I just googled him, and he’s an academic with a capital “A.” He’s got degrees coming out of his ears and he’s published more papers in learned professional journals than you’ve had hot dinners.’ Max puffed out his cheeks. ‘Still, if he can help us with Dippy Daniel, he’s okay with me.’
‘He’s going to be the head honcho at the new secure unit at Frampton.’ Charlie shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to spend my whole life in a place like that, in the company of nutters.’
‘You can talk!’ laughed Max. ‘You spend yours with rogues and villains!’
Charlie nodded. ‘Yes, but you know where you are with criminals, don’t you? But with flakes, well, there’s no logic, is there?’
‘There’s logic, alright.’ Max’s face was serious. ‘It’s just twisted. It’s their logic, and everything makes perfect sense to them. That’s why they can do the things they do.’ Max moved the cursor across his computer screen, then sat up straighter, staring at the document that he had just accessed. ‘Well, well.’
Charlie looked up. ‘Found something?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m working on Alison Fleet’s background, and I’ve just seen that she was married before, when she was young. Funny that her husband didn’t tell us. It’s a major thing, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe she never told him. Some people are very private about their past, and it could have been a bad marriage.’
‘It would be a tough thing to keep schtum about. After all, there would be certificates and stuff like that to get around.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, it could be done I suppose. Maybe I should trace Alison Fleet’s first husband and see what happened to their relationship.’
‘Good idea. I’m still trying to trace Jane Doe, and I’m having no luck at all.’
Max thought about the decomposing body in the beer cellar of the Drover’s Arms, and shivered. For some reason he desperately wanted her to have a name. He needed to see a picture of the real woman, the live, loving girl that she most likely had been, not that horrible disintegrating mess on the cellar floor. A name and a face would give his brain a proper picture to concentrate on, one that would allow the other nightmarish image to fade a little. He knew it would never disappear completely, but a human face, a girl with a proper name, would make it easier. ‘Keep at it, my tenacious little friend. It’s vital that we know who she is.’
‘Easier said than done, but you’re right. I’ve no doubt someone will be tearing their hair out wanting to know where she is.’ He turned back to his screen and muttered, ‘Okay, Button, try looking at it from a different angle. Let’s forget about tracing the woman, and go back to her clothes.’ His youthful face took on a determined expression. ‘Don’t you worry, Jane, we’ll find your real name, I promise.’
* * *
Skye opened the flap of the cat carrier, stroked the silky head, then bundled the suspicious and now protesting animal into the box.
‘Sorry, sweetie, but I can’t leave you here alone and as I’ve no intention of commuting, you’re coming with me.’ She looked at the shopping bag filled with pet food, cat milk and treats, then at the vet bed and litter tray. ‘I get the feeling that this will be something of a learning curve for both of us, Asti-cat.’
It wasn’t a perfect solution. She wasn’t sure that the small soft hunter would adjust to being a house cat, but it was worth a try. The less time Skye spent at Daniel’s home the better. Her last night alone there had totally freaked her out. The media had hammered on her door and there were several anonymous telephone calls in the early hours. She had risen early, gathered up her uniforms, clothes and toiletries and, using a circuitous route, had driven back to her flat. Asti was her only problem, but as sh
e didn’t think she could face the barrage of press staked out on Daniel’s doorstep, the cat would either have to go into a cattery, or try her luck as a flatmate in Skye’s two bedroom ground-floor flat.
So here she was, at Daniel’s place, hopefully for the last time until her lovely, mixed-up boyfriend was back with her again. Whenever that might be.
She had already cleared the fridge of anything perishable, and checked that the answer-phone was set. Now Skye walked around making sure that all the windows and doors were locked.
‘Right, Cat-astrophe, are you ready for your first photo-shoot with Saltern’s press?’
The cat let out a piteous yowl.
‘I know exactly how you feel. But let’s get this over, shall we?’
Skye set the alarm system and opened the front door.
She should have been used to the bright flashes by now, but she gave a grunt of anger, grasped the carrier tighter and pushed her way towards her car. Questions rained down on her and reporters pushed cameras into her face, but she remained tight-lipped, secretly hoping that she might run one or two of them over on her way out.
It was ironic. She’d always been so proud that Daniel was a journalist, and now here she was, fighting them off as if they were a swarm of malaria-infested mosquitoes.
She glanced into her rear-view mirror as she pulled out onto the road, and was disappointed to see no bodies strewn across the gravel. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get them next time,’ she said to the cat. ‘Now, hang onto your scratching post, we’re taking the scenic route, just in case we’re being tailed.’
The journey took twice as long as it should, and as she pulled into the parking area at the back of her flats, Skye was relieved to find it empty.
Tavernier Court was a sympathetic conversion of old, red brick railway buildings with beautiful grey slate tiles. The architect had retained as many of the original features as possible, without making the place look like a Thomas the Tank Engine theme park.