A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Thanks,’ he said again, his smile bordering on warm, inviting.

  She shook his hand, giving out the clear message, let’s keep this formal.

  She had enough complications in her life.

  THREE

  It was two thirty by the time she arrived at Greatbach Secure Psychiatric Unit. Tall grey walls reached through an archway; the modern part of the hospital which housed the Day Centre and Outpatient clinics was out of sight, round the back. Even for Claire who worked there, walking underneath the arch felt forbidding. She’d never quite got used to it.

  She was still in time to help Salena Urbi, her registrar, with the outpatient clinic. Salena was a beautiful and clever Egyptian whose insight into psychiatric diagnoses and intelligence was only matched by her work ethic. They greeted each other with a grin. ‘Simon has been seeing your patients,’ she said, flashing white teeth. ‘He’s getting on really well.’ She accompanied her words with a wink and a giggle.

  Simon Bracknell was her Australian lodger, also her registrar. Finding out he was staying in seedy lodgings and realizing she had four empty bedrooms, she’d offered him the top floor of her house and he’d jumped at it. Since Grant, the ex-boyfriend she still hadn’t quite managed to discard, had moved out she’d come to the conclusion that Number 46 Waterloo Road, Burslem, was far too big for a single person. She could have moved but since her decorator Paul Mudd had done up the place from top to bottom the house felt too much like home – albeit rather a large one. Having Simon on the top floor had worked out really well. So far. With pale skin, thick glasses and freckles he might not be the archetypal tanned, surfing Australian, but in his carefree casual nature he fitted the bill. It had been a few weeks after he’d moved in that he’d confessed he was married – to Marianne who was currently still in Adelaide. Presumably Simon rang or Facetimed periodically but he rarely mentioned her, and in the time he’d been living in Waterloo Road his wife had not visited. Not yet, at least.

  He came out of the interview room as she passed and he and Salena filled her in on the patients they’d seen so far. They split the rest of the clinic between them and by five thirty only had notes to write and the usual discussions.

  ‘How did your funeral go?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Grim and sad.’ Anxious to change the subject, she continued quickly, ‘When I switched my phone back on I had a message.’

  They looked vaguely interested.

  ‘Do you remember DS Zed Willard, Salena?’

  ‘The detective who was involved with the Dexter Harding case?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Not really. I think I might have met him once but I don’t recall.’

  ‘He’s asked me to look into a case of a serial killer.’

  She frowned. ‘To consider parole?’

  ‘No. To try and find a missing victim.’

  ‘One of his?’

  ‘Apparently so.’ Now she was frowning too. ‘That’s what they believe anyway.’

  Salena picked up on her doubt. ‘You don’t sound very convinced.’

  ‘You know me. I withhold judgement until I’m quite sure.’

  ‘You’re going to see him at the prison?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ was Simon’s contribution. ‘You’ll be dealing with a nasty, sticky little insect. And so,’ he tacked on casually, ‘how is the boyfriend?’

  By the jangling of her earrings, Claire knew Salena’s head had whipped round.

  ‘Grieving.’ She then ran out of words. She never could quite encapsulate Grant Steadman in words. He was a presence rather than simply a person. At one time she would have sworn they would marry and have a family but, without a word, for six months, he had simply disappeared. Only later, much later, had he told her why – to be at the side of his dying sister, Maisie.

  Simon and Salena exchanged meaningful looks and Claire smiled.

  Sometimes psychiatrists were just too darned perceptive.

  She rang the ward to ask if there were any problems and Astrid Carter, one of the senior psychiatric nurses, assured her all was calm.

  That meant she could head home. But as she drove through the traffic Claire felt guilty about Grant. ‘Which is bloody silly,’ she said out loud, grasping the steering wheel. ‘He was the one who abandoned me without so much as a word.’ She still dialled his number on the car phone. Perhaps recognizing the number, he picked up right away,

  ‘Hi.’ His voice sounded thick. At a guess he’d kept his promise to get roaring drunk.

  ‘Grant.’

  It was hard to say whether he was pleased to hear from her or not.

  ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘Not yet. Not quite. Not enough. What did you ring about anyway?’ He was slurring his words.

  ‘I just wondered if you wanted to come over tomorrow evening?’

  ‘To Waterloo Road?’ Instant sobering up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded taken aback. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ God, she’d forgotten just how awkward things were between them.

  ‘I’d love to come. Is seven too early?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She paused. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Not as bad as I thought she’d be. She’s coping. Some of her friends have been popping over to see how she is. People can be quite kind. She’s wondering whether to go back to Cornwall or stay here.’

  ‘It’s early days yet.’

  Another of those rich chuckles. ‘Not like you to resort to clichés, Claire.’

  He knew her so well, inside out, outside in, upside down.

  And that was the point. In our lives there is often one person. Just one person who understands us better than any other. Better than mother, father, brother, sister. They are your second skin, your natural partner, the one piece of humanity whose shape complements yours.

  For her that one person, that second skin, that natural partner, was Grant Steadman with his husky voice, so appealing, so laden with insight, always ready to test her because he knew that lightened her mood, distracted her from dark thoughts.

  Silence dropped between them. Maybe he too was thinking the same thoughts. Finally Grant spoke. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

  FOUR

  Simon’s hired Nissan Micra was already in the drive and as she opened the front door he called out, ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  He was in the kitchen, preparing some pasta and sauce that smelt good. Garlicky and meaty. A tin of tomatoes was on the side. He saw her sniffing and peering towards the pots. ‘Plenty for two,’ he offered.

  ‘Nice. And I just happen to have a bottle of Italian wine which will go very well with it.’

  ‘Ready in ten minutes.’ As they sat round the table, both sipping the tea, Claire wondered how she could possibly ask her lodger to make himself scarce the following evening because her ‘boyfriend’ was coming round.

  ‘You want to talk about the funeral?’

  ‘Not really. What can I say? They’re all pretty awful. Maisie was just twenty-three. She’d gone through so much. She’d had a heart and lung transplant but her body rejected it. Then it was just a matter of time.’

  He nodded. ‘Poor girl.’ He paused before asking his next question, a little glint in his eye. ‘And the ex?’

  She put her hands to her face. ‘Doesn’t quite feel like an ex,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve asked him over tomorrow.’

  He jumped in. ‘I’d better make myself scarce then.’

  She eyed him and smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  They sat companionably, drinking tea. After a few sips Claire put her mug on the table.

  ‘I’ve never asked you,’ she said. ‘Your wife? Does she mind your being over here for so long – being without you?’

  She’d noticed that men with ginger hair often have a very pronounced blush and Simon Bracknell was no exception. ‘Oh, heck,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I was going to ask you abou
t that.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I mean …’ His blush deepened, making the freckles on his nose less pronounced, less of a contrast. ‘I …’

  ‘Spit it out,’ she said gently. ‘Or rather let me guess. You’d like her to come over?’

  ‘How would you feel about it, Claire?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ But even she could hear the hesitance in her voice. Having Simon on the top floor was a bit different from having a married couple up there. For a start she would be outnumbered, and they would probably want to use the shared kitchen more frequently. Honesty compelled her to add, ‘For a time, at least.’

  He nodded and looked past her. ‘To be honest we’ve been through some sticky waters. We need some time together.’

  This was getting worse. Now she sensed a warring couple. ‘And you thought the best way to deal with that was to scarper over here?’

  ‘She lost a baby a year ago.’ He looked even more ashamed. ‘Since then …’

  She guessed. ‘No sex?’

  ‘Fucking psychiatrists,’ he said, looking even more embarrassed. ‘Is there no place you won’t explore?’

  She shook her head. ‘You should know. So how is she now?’

  ‘Different. I thought it best if I absented myself for a while.’

  She nodded. ‘And has that helped?’

  He grinned. ‘Given the ten thousand miles or so between us at least sex isn’t much of an issue.’

  She couldn’t help herself. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  ‘But she’s agreed to come over. I thought if she could come to your place for a day or two just to get over the jet lag we could do some travelling maybe. A bit of sightseeing. Scotland, Wales, Ireland and of course there’s plenty of England too.’

  She felt compelled to ask, ‘How long would she come over for?’

  ‘A month, I thought, but we won’t be spending too much time with you.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but we’ll play it all by ear. You too. OK?’

  ‘Great.’ He almost rubbed his hands together and she grinned at him.

  ‘You’re fond of her, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Sort of childhood sweethearts.’

  ‘Touching. And Simon, I’m sorry about the baby.’

  ‘Hell. She was just three months gone. It didn’t seem real to me. I was just getting used to the idea. But Marianne was heartbroken. I hadn’t realized how much it meant to her but truthfully I can’t really say I was too.’ He eyed her. ‘And now you’re going to hate me for being a hard-hearted arse.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just a male thing, isn’t it? Now is that pasta ready? I’m starving.’

  As they ate Simon switched subjects. ‘So tell me about your serial killer?’

  She forked in some spaghetti. ‘He murdered four schoolgirls between 2012 and 2015. In 2013 another girl, Marvel Trustrom, went missing but her body’s never been found. There are anomalies in the case and no obvious link. Though he confessed to the four schoolgirls he’s always denied having anything to do with Marvel. The CPS convicted him of the murder of the four girls but had no evidence to charge him with Marvel’s disappearance so left that one out. Bad for the girl’s family. The police, however, have always bracketed Marvel’s disappearance with the others. Her father is dying and is appealing for help to find his daughter’s body so they can be buried together. It’s a terrible story,’ she reflected.

  Simon leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, the police are naturally anxious to solve major crime and keep their figures looking healthy, so sometimes they shoehorn major crimes into a known perp. I can see it from their point of view. It’s tempting. Trouble is …’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled at her. ‘I don’t need to spell it out to you.’

  She shook her head.

  He did anyway. ‘No body, no evidence and presumably no witnesses. And now on top of all that they have a time limit.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He forked some of the spaghetti into his mouth. ‘I wonder what he’s like.’

  ‘Kobi? Who knows. Probably perfectly ordinary – at least on the surface.’

  ‘Mmm. So how are you going to approach this?’

  ‘I thought I’d arm myself with some facts first, speak to the girl’s dad and the rest of her family, explore the other victims’ circumstances and then interview him.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ He took a deep swig of the wine. ‘Have you got anything from his past social and medical history?’

  ‘Waiting for that to come through from the police and his previous psychiatric assessment. I’ve already applied for a visiting order. He doesn’t have to see me though I suspect he’ll at least grant me an interview.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ he said, and raised his glass.

  FIVE

  Friday 13 September, 6 p.m.

  In spite of the unlucky warning of the date it felt good shopping for something special to cook. Simon had emerged as she had arrived home and announced he was visiting friends in Manchester and wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening so she had a whole hour and an empty house to prepare – food and herself. And yet something held her back. She recognized something in Grant that she’d previously turned her back on. When faced with a conflicting situation he was a runner. ‘So, Claire,’ she lectured herself as she peeled some fresh prawns, ‘remember that. When things get tough …’

  The seafood risotto she’d planned meant peeling a lot of shellfish and all had to be fresh. Finally all was done by six thirty so she opened the wine and lit the log burner. It wasn’t really that cold but the log burner made the atmosphere intimate and cosy. She sat watching the flames before going upstairs to shower and change into a midnight-blue dress, short-sleeved and relatively plain. She didn’t want to overdo it, make it appear that she’d dressed up for a special dinner date. This was simply a ‘mate’ coming round for supper. At least that was what she told herself. The drawback to this was she’d forgotten how sexy Grant was, how he turned her guts to water and her free will to soft plasticine. But when she heard the doorbell ring all the old, familiar feelings flooded back.

  Grant, wearing jeans and a dark red shirt, had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of night-scented stock in the other. She smelt the peppery, fresh scent the moment she opened the door, almost before she breathed in the sharp tang of his aftershave. Simon didn’t wear ‘man scent’ as he called it, so the scent of aftershave had been missing from the house. Grant was grinning at her as he handed over the flowers. He knew how they always lifted her spirits, particularly stock with its country garden look and fresh, clean scent. He bent and kissed her cheek with a grin that was more like the Grant she’d known and so loved, and she reached out her hand to cradle his neck and hold him there. She drank in the scratchy feel of his chin. Grant was no precise shaver. His lips felt warm and soft, the scent of soap and spice and shaving cream almost heady. Then he broke the moment, drawing back, sniffing and peering round her. ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  He followed her into the kitchen, his eyes taking it all in, the freshly painted walls and ceilings, the newly polished wood tiles. ‘Looking good,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. I got a local guy to do it from top to bottom.’ She giggled. ‘His name’s Paul Mudd.’

  ‘Fitting for a decorator.’ He ran his fingers over the sash window frames. ‘He’s done a good job, Claire.’

  She knew how he felt. Disconcerted. He’d been replaced. But she felt different too except in another way. He’d only just walked back in here and she felt as comfortable as though she’d slipped on a pair of slippers. She had to keep reminding herself that this pair of slippers, however well worn, was quite capable of walking away. She stood and looked at him and he took in the appraisal without blinking. It was as though their eyes were communicating without words, awkwardness, hesitation or duplicity, just honesty. His eyes weren’t questioning but now looked back at her with a hint of mischief.

&n
bsp; ‘So do I pass the test?’

  She simply handed him a glass of wine.

  He looked around him. ‘Where’s your lodger?’

  ‘Away for the weekend.’

  Grant raised his eyebrows and she felt bound to add, ‘I didn’t chuck him out for the duration, you know. He volunteered. He’s got friends in Manchester that he wanted to visit.’

  Grant looked both amused and sceptical.

  He had the look of a pirate. Dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, dark eyes, a thin, almost menacing face – when he wasn’t smiling. He was only a little taller than she. His build was muscular but his hands were the delicate hands of an artist – not a pirate’s hands at all. He had long, slim fingers, well-shaped nails. More suited to carrying a paintbrush than a cutlass. His hands were his true beauty. They were the clue to his artistic tendencies. And his personality too was more artistic than piratical. But there was nothing feminine about him. He had a certain steeliness, an underlying selfishness, the habit of running away and, buried deep beneath that, vulnerability and neediness. But he was soft-hearted too and this mix had been why he had rushed to his dying sister’s side but backed away from explaining the situation to her. As she stirred the risotto she homed in on another characteristic. Once he had made up his mind about something or someone, he did not change, but was as constant in his opinions as the four points on a compass.

  They sat down, Claire still tossing ideas around, while on the surface Grant was telling her about his mother’s plans.

  ‘She’s missing the sea.’

  ‘She has lots of friends in Cornwall.’

  ‘She’s looking at houses this weekend.’

  There was a subtext, each of them asking questions about the future. A chasm to be crossed that grew wider every day. She had bought him out of the house they had planned to refurbish together and refused to let him back into her life because Claire was familiar with abandonment. Soon after her birth, her French father had abandoned both her and her mother. Her mother had blamed her for his leaving, calling her the ‘French Frog’ and making her the focus of her bitterness. Right up until she had met Mr Perfect David Spencer and they had produced the perfect son, Adam. After which her mother had virtually ignored Claire.