A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  Watching Grant pour the wine, she reflected. Was it possible that with the death of his sister he had changed? He was still talking about his mother. ‘At a guess,’ he said, ‘she’ll move down there some time later this year.’

  ‘I hope she’ll be happy.’ The words came out automatically.

  ‘Yeah.’

  They knocked glasses across the table and Claire continued her appraisal. The jeans and bright shirt suited him better than the mourning clothes. He chewed his lip and she sensed he was about to tell her something. She realized then she’d always believed he would come back. But, with this new insight, she also believed he would not stay for ever. She was a psychiatrist and she could read the signs. Her job taught her to have insight into people’s motives and character. That was why DS Zed Willard had asked her to speak to Jonah Kobi, because part of her job was to interpret subtle body language like the foot that was tapping underneath the table as though it wanted to run and the fact that Grant was unaware of it as he continued his update.

  ‘They only came up here because they have a really good cystic fibrosis unit in Stoke. It was what Maisie wanted. And of course, I was here to study at Keele. But Mum’s got a part-time job down there which she can walk back into. The house up here is only rented and she’s got enough to buy somewhere, just a flat probably, in Cornwall.’

  Claire took a spoonful of risotto, tasting the salt on her tongue as though it was the brine of the sea. ‘And you? Are you intending to go back down there?’

  He licked his lips and met her eyes, a furrow between his thick eyebrows.

  ‘Are you?’ she repeated.

  He laid his hands flat on the table, palms down. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Whatever happens I’m not heading back down to Cornwall. It doesn’t feel like home to me.’

  Home, that word which sat between them. This had been his home. But she couldn’t ask him.

  ‘Claire,’ he said, his voice quiet and tentative. ‘I’d really like to move back in.’ He was avoiding looking at her. ‘Here.’ He followed that quickly with, ‘But of course that’s up to you.’

  The right words were difficult to find.

  She drew in breath, pressed her lips together, about to say, I really need to think about this.

  He lifted his eyes and there was that steely determination in them. She’d forgotten how long and thick his eyelashes were or how your soul could melt when you let yourself be drawn into his dark eyes and roguish features. She couldn’t help but smile.

  He grinned and reached for her hand across the table. ‘What I’d really like, Claire,’ he said, ‘is for us to be married. Having lost Maisie, I’d really like a family. I know first of all we’d have to be genetically tested. I couldn’t bear to bring a child into the world to suffer as Maisie did or to have to say goodbye to her or him.’

  Claire sought refuge in the research she’d done when she’d realized just why Grant had abandoned her without even a word.

  ‘An individual must inherit two non-functioning CF genes — one from each parent — to have CF. If both parents are carriers there is a 1 in 4 (25 per cent) chance that both will pass on the non-functioning gene, which would result in a pregnancy affected with cystic fibrosis.’

  When she’d learned about Maisie, she had paid to be screened for the CF gene. She was clear. Any children they had would be clear. But for now she was thoughtful and didn’t say anything. He took a sip of the wine and lifted his gaze to her, his face changing. He looked jaunty and mischievous.

  ‘I’ve started up an interiors business.’ His eyes flashed towards hers for approval. ‘I’ve always liked the market of creating an individual look, something other than the minimalist stuff that’s so popular, all that stark white, a bit of grey and the same old ornaments. Big telly, plain walls. No patterns, no interest, no individuality. Awful modern art which no one can really understand but pretend they do.’

  ‘You think there’s a market for this in Stoke?’

  ‘I do.’ His face was still merry. ‘The Potteries was filled with ceramics artists, painters, designers and these days there is still that pool of talent.’ He gave her a sly look. ‘And haven’t you got a friend who’s a talented potter?’

  ‘Gina.’ She was surprised he’d remembered her. He’d only met her a couple of times and she hadn’t realized he’d been absorbing her conversation quite so deeply.

  ‘Yes. Gina, the one who mixes Japanese folklore with fantastic animals.’

  She nodded and his face lit up with enthusiasm. ‘I know the Potteries are here because of clay and coal. But talented artists were drawn here because of the opportunity and the encouragement people like Wedgewood and Spode gave them.’

  She watched him, drawn into this other side of him, this creative other world he lived in – so different from hers which peered inside diseased personalities and aberrant minds.

  ‘I like creating and encouraging talent. I think I can do it.’

  She simply nodded, poured them both another glass of wine and was thoughtful.

  He pressed on. ‘I didn’t do anything with the money you paid me for the house. It can go back and help pay off the mortgage if you like. I want to realize my dreams, Claire. And you’re part of that. I need to be here with you. I need a home and family.’ His smile was appealing. ‘I also need a workshop.’

  She felt her own feelings draw her back.

  He hadn’t finished. ‘If my little dream comes true I think it’ll be good for you too. We were happy.’

  She resisted the temptation to point out the tense. ‘Grant,’ she began. ‘I’m really not sure about your moving back here. Let’s wait, see how things go.’

  It checked him. ‘OK,’ he said, his face changing and his gaze dropping to the floor. ‘I know I played it all wrong about Maisie but I am here now, Claire, and I will never leave you again.’ His eyes fixed on her face. ‘I know you, Claire. You aren’t a person to rush into things. You’ll want to spend some time thinking about this.’ He looked at her ruefully. ‘I’d better stop at this one glass of wine. Don’t want to lose my licence.’

  She filled his glass up.

  SIX

  Monday 16 September, 9 a.m.

  Salena gave her a sly look. ‘How was your weekend?’

  The truth was the weekend had flown by. Grant, by her side, felt as though he had never left and the same was true for her. They had laughed and talked, made love, cooked together and on the Sunday had walked along the Trent and Mersey canal, taking a detour to a city pub. He had left late on Sunday night, pressing his finger to her lips when she had tried to speak.

  ‘Next time it will be for ever,’ he said in his husky voice. ‘But be sure, Claire.’

  Why couldn’t she believe him? How deep are the scars of an early rejection? No word for six months …

  ‘So …’ Claire simply blew out her cheeks and answered her registrar’s comment. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Grant came over and we spent some time together.’

  Salena’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Oh yes?’

  Claire nodded. ‘I’m taking my time, not committing myself. But, Salena …’

  Salena gave her a wicked smile.

  ‘I don’t want to rush into anything.’

  And Salena’s perfect eyebrows managed to form a direct question. Oh really?

  ‘And your weekend?’ She knew perfectly well that Salena had been on call and would have been on the end of a phone and/or based in the hospital. ‘Have you concerns about any patients?’

  Salena groaned. ‘Ilsa,’ she said.

  Ilsa was a beautiful Danish woman married to a wealthy, local businessman, John Robinson. She had been suffering panic attacks and developed a habit of self-harming. She’d finally been referred by her private GP who hadn’t known what else to do with her. Salena and Claire had tried anti-depressants, a short course of ECT and some cognitive behavioural therapy as well as group therapy. And gradually the real Ilsa had peeped out, a funny, intelligent woman who real
ly should have been teaching Scandinavian Studies at Keele University. That was her talent and the original reason why she had ended up in Stoke-on-Trent. Between them, Ilsa and John had two stepchildren and a child of their own, Augustus, eight, who appeared to be cared for almost solely by a nanny. Ilsa had told her that her access to her own son was controlled by her husband which had led Claire to label him as ‘controlling’.

  She had interviewed John Robinson at some length and had found him difficult to work out. A wealthy businessman who seemed cold and detached. His interpretation of his wife’s illness was one of complete confusion. At times he appeared bullying towards both Salena and Simon, not uncommon among relatives who were frightened or mystified by a mental diagnosis. ‘Can’t you make them better?’ was the confused plea.

  ‘So what’s the problem, Salena? She’s nearly ready for discharge, isn’t she? She’s been here for more than two months.’

  Salena nodded and sat down in the chair opposite. ‘And that’s the trouble,’ she said. ‘She is ready for discharge. But her husband has no idea how to deal with her. If we send her home she’ll start on the old self-harming route again.’

  ‘We have her on the right medication and she can attend therapy sessions here. She’s happy to go home?’

  Salena was frowning now. ‘We-ell, she’s saying she should be at home with her son.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Salena’s frown deepened. ‘She’s now saying that John is having an affair with her best friend, Maggie.’

  ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘She appears absolutely convinced.’

  ‘It could be true.’ Claire smiled. ‘We might not find him the most attractive of men but he’s wealthy. And beauty, as they say …’

  ‘I know. But some of the scenes she was describing, if they’re not true, then she is psychotic. She’s describing them as vividly as if she was a fly on the wall.’

  ‘That is troubling. I’ll talk to her later. Any other concerns?’

  ‘If she’s psychotic how reliable will she be caring for her son?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  There had been one incident when Ilsa had taken the boy shopping and had gone home without him, forgetting he’d been left in the store’s crèche. John Robinson had instantly hired a nanny, a Swiss girl. Two days later Ilsa had been shipped off to a private clinic in Birmingham.

  Claire was silent for a while, then she shook her head. ‘There’s no option, Salena. She has to go home. She’s been here long enough. The bed bureaux is putting pressure on me. We can keep an eye on her as an outpatient, see her weekly, check her mental state and monitor her medication, but you know as well as I that she will go home. I can’t keep her here indefinitely.’

  Salena stood up, tall and willowy with a vague scent of patchouli that clung to the air around her. ‘I know that as well as you but we both know that that could cause Ilsa Robinson to relapse.’

  ‘One of the frustrations of our work.’

  Simon arrived then, still yawning. ‘God, that was a hot weekend,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I have trouble keeping up with my Aussie friends.’ He grinned at Claire. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He smothered yet another yawn. ‘Hope I didn’t disturb you when I got in Sunday night – or was it early Monday morning?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear you at all.’

  ‘Good.’ He rubbed his hands together as though celebrating something exciting. ‘So when do you get to see your serial killer?’

  Salena’s perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted and her head swivelled round sharply.

  ‘I don’t want to visit him until I’ve got a bit more background, hopefully from the family. I’ll wait for the notes and all the police files as well as the dead girls’ photographs to come through. Then I’ll have to wait for clearance – and his permission to visit. As I don’t have anything to use as an inducement and it’s pretty pointless appealing to his better nature, he might not agree to see me. I’ll be honest.’ She eyed them both. ‘I’m not optimistic about this outcome. I’ll delve into his past medical and psychiatric history. See if there’s anything there that’ll work but he’s stonewalled the police and I don’t really think I’ll fare any better.’

  Salena’s expression changed to one of sympathy while Simon continued to look intrigued. ‘Sounds time consuming.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I won’t be neglecting my work here.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  He tried to retrieve the remark and Claire justified her stance. ‘If I have a job to do I must do it properly.’

  They spent the rest of the morning speaking to patients on a prolonged ward round before Claire picked up some sandwiches from the canteen and returned to her office where, next to a large pile of outpatient notes, was a parcel marked with her name in thick black felt-tip pen, alongside the words Jonah Kobi and in brackets from DS Zed Willard. For a moment she didn’t open it. Inside this brown paper parcel lay the stories of the deaths of four girls. She took a bite of her sandwich and still didn’t break open the seal. Pandora’s box, she thought, but without any hope left inside. Instead it was the story of a killer and the devastation he left behind.

  She took another bite of the sandwich while she wondered what Kobi looked like. What was his story?

  She broke the seal and opened the first page, a neatly typed up and concise past medical history and assessment by Terence Wilson, the psychiatrist who had interviewed him. So there it was.

  A police mugshot was pinned to the front. She took a while to study it. Thin face, dark hair, staring boldly into the camera with more than a hint of arrogance. No surprise there. He was an unremarkable-looking man, someone you would not have looked twice at if you passed him on the street.

  Age: thirty-eight. So now he would be forty-one.

  She read on. History teacher. She spent some time digesting this fact. A history teacher who must have hated his pupils. As he had taught the First World War, Henry VIII and his six wives, the Russian revolution or the battle of Waterloo, he had planned to kill girls like the ones who faced him.

  Terence Wilson had begun his report with a neat and unemotional precis.

  Convicted of the murders of four schoolgirls between the years of 2012 and 2015. Each one strangled and the bodies carelessly disposed of. Asked to interview with a view to a psychiatric diagnosis.

  Claire almost smiled. Well, good luck with that one, she thought.

  There was no mention of Marvel Trustrom. Dr Wilson had stuck to the known facts and the crimes Kobi was accused of. He had begun with an overview of his character:

  Jonah Kobi is of average height and weight with a confident, intelligent manner and good eye contact. He comes over as pleasant and engaging. His appearance is smart. He is slim and fit looking without appearing over muscular. He has worked as a history teacher, initially at a private girls’ school. In 2008 one of the pupils, a thirteen-year-old girl, made an allegation of inappropriate behaviour. There was no evidence to support this allegation and eventually Mr Kobi was deemed blameless. But he left the school two years later and took up supply teaching in numerous schools in Staffordshire and Cheshire, which is where the four crimes were committed.

  Claire read on.

  He is the younger by two years of two brothers. His father is a manual worker, his mother a housewife. He describes his parents as conventional, ‘a bit boring’.

  His childhood appears to have been unremarkable. He graduated in history at Birmingham University in 1999. He was briefly married in 2003 but he and his wife split up after two years and have had little contact since then. It appears to have been an unsatisfactory relationship.

  I have interviewed Mrs Marie Kobi, Mr Kobi’s ex-wife, who insists their sex life was normal and that they were simply incompatible. Interestingly, she claims not to have been surprised when he was found guilty of the murders of four young girls, but when questioned didn’t enlarge or offer any tangible explanation for this. It is worth men
tioning that his sister-in-law (his ex-wife’s younger sister), Chloe, remains fiercely loyal to him.

  Claire smiled. With their manipulative charm psychopaths are very good at inspiring devotion.

  Mr Kobi’s past medical history is unremarkable consisting of the usual childhood illnesses. He insists he is medically fit both physically and mentally.

  She was beginning to taste Jonah Kobi, anticipating their encounter with some relish.

  She bent her head and read on.

  His older brother works in Dubai as an engineer.

  He has no children.

  There was plenty more which she scanned before she arrived at Terence Wilson’s summing up.

  There is a certain arrogance in Mr Kobi’s manner, a superiority and condescension, but towards me he was polite, restrained and articulate. It was only when I dug deeper and asked him if he had known any of the girls personally that he shrugged and said they were all of a kind.

  What sort of a kind?

  Privileged, arrogant, thinks their attractiveness makes them superior. They can tell lies with impunity.

  Claire underlined that last word. So the allegation made by the girl at the Macclesfield school had acted as a trigger factor. He had stayed at the school for a year after her allegation had been dismissed, no doubt encountering the girl and her friends on a daily basis and so the wound and damage to his ego had festered. This then would be where her interview would begin. With Miranda Pullen who had lit the spark.

  As for Kobi, she had no illusions that he would tell her the truth. She would have to dig deep and read between the lines. Sometimes she thought of psychiatry as a guessing game, hit or miss. There was no definitive blood test to prove a positive or negative. At other times she realized psychopathy was nearer to a scientific equation: underlying personality disorder plus narcissism plus circumstance plus trigger factor equals the explosion, i.e. the crime. Put the right components together and the consequence was almost inevitable. She stared at the walls of her office and wondered. What worms would she unearth in Kobi’s story? He might play her like a kitten with a mouse. And maybe to give his game extra flavour he would play her along until Marvel’s father was dead. He might refuse to see her, as was his right. She almost picked up the phone to explain to DS Zed Willard that she was too busy with her own work and that the likely outcome was that Kobi wouldn’t tell her anything new. Her hand actually reached for the phone but she stopped, held back by an image of Marvel’s father, dying, in despair, wanting to know his daughter’s fate, possibly feeling he had let her down. If there was any chance of alleviating this terrible grief then surely she had a duty to do what she could?