She spent another hour combing through the notes, but she didn’t pick up on anything that referred to Marvel’s death or any other murders or disappearances other than the four he was finally convicted of.
She closed the file with a vague feeling of depression. Enough for now. She could examine the murdered girls’ profiles and details of their deaths later.
Salena and Simon Bracknell knocked on her door and filled the small office with their noisy chatter. They’d brought her a coffee and discussed their roles for the coming afternoon. Rejuvenated with two cups of strong coffee they said they could manage the wards and there was no clinic this afternoon, which left Claire free to begin her contact with Marvel Trustrom’s family.
‘By the way,’ Simon said as they were leaving, ‘I should know soon when Marianne’s due to get here.’ His words were accompanied by an anxious grin which set Claire wondering.
Was he concerned his wife would change her mind about the visit or was it more to do with being reunited with her? Whatever, she worried that even her home life was about to become a bumpy ride.
SEVEN
In the six years since Marvel had vanished from sight, life for the Trustrom family had moved on.
DS Willard had written a note to that effect and clipped it to the front of the file bringing Claire up to date. Two years after their daughter had disappeared, Tom and Dixie Trustrom had separated. Dixie now lived with their younger daughter, Clarice, in Acocks Green, Birmingham. Tom still lived in the family home in Gillow Heath, near Biddulph, Stoke-on-Trent, with his partner, Yvonne. Marvel’s older brother, Shane, was now married with a baby and Sorrel, the sister closest in age to Marvel, worked as a beautician in Cellarhead, where the Leek to Stone and Hanley to Cheadle roads crossed.
Claire contacted Marvel’s mother first thinking, mistakenly, she would be the more sympathetic choice. Dixie Trustrom was now working in Birmingham as a helper at a school for disadvantaged children and she was patently reluctant to have any contact with Claire, even when Claire explained in detail her involvement in the case. ‘I know Tom is sick,’ his wife said, in a tight, hard voice, ‘but we’ve been apart for four years now. We were no help to each other when it happened. There’s nothing I can do for him now. I can’t help you.’ Her voice had risen in a desperate panic. ‘Understand this, Dr Roget – we’re not good for each other. We just caused each other hurt. Every time we looked at one another we simply saw our murdered daughter.’
‘So you believe your daughter is dead?’
Dixie’s voice was incredulous. ‘Of course I do. I don’t mean to be rude, Doctor, but look at the facts.’
Claire kept her cool. ‘And you believe that Kobi killed your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why do you believe that, in spite of confessing to the other crimes, he’s consistently denied it and kept her body hidden?’
‘He wants to draw out the torture. To twist the knife,’ Dixie said bitterly. ‘Other parents of his victims have buried their girls, found some sort of closure. Something we couldn’t have. And now Tom is dying. We lost our girl six years ago. And look at the anguish it’s still causing him. That poor man …’ Claire heard her voice break. Unbidden the thought entered her mind. Could you not have held his hand? Consoled him in some way? Did you have to cut him loose?
‘I’d like to speak to you about the day Marvel went missing.’
‘Look,’ Dixie Trustrom said, ‘I’m sure your motives are perfectly honourable but I don’t want to meet up with you. I work with disadvantaged children now, children that I can actually do something for. It helps me as well as them. As a family we’ve all moved on. Shane is married. Sorrel has a good job and Clarice is hoping to go to university next year. She lives with me and we … we just don’t talk about it. We’ve all moved on – except Tom – and I suspect that’s because he’s dying. It’s making him focus on death. The rest of us want life.’ That note of desperation was back, more intense than before.
‘You know he wants to be buried with her?’
‘Ye-es, though I think it’s morbid. Wherever her body is Marvel ceased to exist once she’d walked out of that door.’ As though to make up for her refusal to meet up, she added, ‘He’ll see you, Dr Roget. Marvel was his special … little … girl.’
Was Claire imagining it or was there a hint of irony in her voice?
‘He’ll be only too anxious to talk about her.’ This time Claire could have sworn Dixie Trustrom was mocking something or someone.
Dixie finished with a more sincere sounding: ‘Sorry,’ and the line was cut, but Claire couldn’t rid herself of the instinct that something here was very wrong.
If it wasn’t the hard-heartedness of the mother, what was it?
Dixie was proved right. Marvel’s father was only too anxious to meet up with Claire but not until Wednesday. He explained he had a hospital appointment on the Tuesday.
The intervening day was filled with a series of pointless meetings about funding for some ring-fenced acute outpatient beds in the local hospital. And as always, whenever there was separate funding between physical and mental health, it led to prolonged ‘discussions’ which turned into impassioned arguments, and in the end nothing was settled. Claire walked out of the meeting with a sense of frustration. Two hours wasted. Nothing achieved.
Salena was away until the end of the week at a conference on bipolar disease and the current trends in treatment since Lithium had fallen out of favour. Simon Bracknell was working flat out but still had time to quiz her further about the weekend with Grant.
‘So how did it go?’
‘It went well.’
He winked. ‘Not giving much away, are you, Claire?’
‘No. I’m taking it one step at a time.’ She tried to divert the subject. ‘So when does Marianne arrive?’
‘I’ll let you know exactly when I’m picking her up.’ A mischievous smile lit his face. ‘So did he stop over?’
She felt herself flush. ‘Mind your own business,’ she said, and he guffawed.
And Grant? Wisely he was leaving her alone to make up her own mind. And she had. If he wouldn’t commit – not really – then neither would she. Maybe this easy come, easy go, suited them both.
Wednesday 18 September, midday
Looking at Tom Trustrom, Claire agreed with the assessment that he probably had only weeks to live. She’d agreed to meet him at his house, an inter-war semi in Gillow Heath, a small, rural conurbation near Biddulph. It was the same house they’d all lived in when Marvel had been taken, part of a row of eight which lay opposite open fields and a pathway. It was a quiet neighbourhood, the front garden neat and ordered, paintwork perfect, one car, a red Nissan Micra parked in the drive. As he’d opened the door Claire had noted the unmistakable fingerprint of cancer, the Belsen-like thinness, the hollows beneath the eyes, the bony wrists, the jaundice and the acceptance of his brief future portrayed in the droop of his shoulders and that extreme, painful tiredness as though the brief walk to the door had exhausted him. The clothes that must once have fitted him hung as though there was no body inside. However, he looked at her with a smile which held a hint of light and optimism, as though he believed she could offer some sort of absolution. The Holy Grail he was seeking, the body of his daughter. As she shook his hand she wished she shared both his optimism and his conviction, but was aware that she had yet to confront Jonah Kobi and she had the feeling that the encounter would damp any optimism she might feel of a resolution.
Yvonne proved to be a quietly attractive woman in her late fifties with salt and pepper hair. She stood behind her partner as he lowered himself into the sofa and threw a blanket over his skinny legs. In spite of her efforts she looked as tired as her partner and prematurely grief struck. The room they’d ushered her into was neat, cream and beige, with the underlying scent of death hardly masked by a lavender-scented candle burning on the centre of a pale oak coffee table. It was Yvonne who opened the conversation while Tom made
himself comfortable, arranging and rearranging cushions behind his back.
‘Tom and I met at one of the victim support meetings,’ she said. ‘My husband died as the result of a hit-and-run and they never found the driver. We sort of bonded over that. Dixie hadn’t wanted to go.’ She couldn’t resist a swift catty dig. ‘I think she was in denial so Tom had come all alone. He looked so’ – she fished around in her memory for the right words – ‘so lost, so lonely. I knew just how he felt. I was widowed and felt the same unfairness of it all. The same anger. Both of us, you see, had lost someone precious and we didn’t even have a person to blame.’ She gave a little ghost of a smile and glanced across at him with a touching, soft affection. ‘I still dream that one day there will be a car crash and they’ll get some DNA or something and someone will finally own up to having killed my husband.’ Another quick glance across the room. ‘And Tom hopes for the same. But time’s running out.’ Her face sagged. ‘He wants to see that man confess. He wants his daughter’s bones cremated with his own so he’ll be whole again.’
She was a softly spoken woman, who wore little make-up except for mascara which emphasized her limpid brown eyes and long lashes. Her voice was soft, her feet bare, toenails varnished pale pink. She spent a moment searching Claire’s face before falling silent, waiting for either Tom or Claire to take over.
Tom Trustrom studied her through tired eyes before he spoke. ‘So you’re Dr Roget,’ he said, ‘the psychiatrist trying to extract a confession from that …’ He gulped. ‘That monster.’
She nodded. ‘I take it Detective Sergeant Willard has been in touch with you and explained my role?’
‘That’s right. He’s pinning my last hope on you.’
It gave her an opening to prepare him. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘it’s quite likely that Kobi won’t tell me anything he hasn’t already confessed to.’
Tom nodded. ‘I realize that. Have you seen him yet?’
Claire shook her head and didn’t confess she hadn’t received the visiting order yet. ‘I thought I’d talk to you first and examine his files.’ She dropped into jargon. ‘Familiarize myself with the background.’
‘I haven’t much time left, you know?’ His voice was soft, his eyes suddenly bright almost as though he visualized heaven. It took her aback.
She nodded her agreement. Pointless to try and pretend otherwise. ‘Tom, Mr Trustrom, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t hold out much hope of getting anything out of Jonah Kobi. He’s kept silent for nearly four years. He has nothing to gain by telling us the circumstances of your daughter’s death. Or where her body lies.’ She felt bound to tack on, ‘If he is responsible for her disappearance. You understand that? I don’t have magical powers. In the end it will be up to him what he tells me.’
Tom Trustrom nodded, his head drooping but whether from disappointment, acceptance or tiredness Claire couldn’t guess.
Yvonne stood up. ‘Let me make some tea.’
The universal panacea. ‘Thank you.’
When Yvonne had left the room, Claire settled back in her chair. ‘Tell me about your daughter, Tom. What was she like? Tell me about the day you last saw her.’
He didn’t respond straight away but spent a moment gathering his words together. ‘I went looking for her, you know. Took the car round the streets just hoping I’d see her. She was a lovely girl. Nice natured. A bit trusting. Naive. You know. Kind … but a bit needy.’
Claire tucked the word away. Needy. How so?
Tom gave a short chuckle. ‘One minute she could look the innocent schoolgirl. The next she was wearing clothes that seemed too old for her, slapping on the make-up, looking like …’ He ran out of words.
Claire nodded, encouraging him to continue with a bland agreement. ‘I suppose lots of girls are like that at that age. Sleeping with a teddy bear at home but when they’re out so sophisticated.’ She watched him carefully. Was she imagining this? Was there something furtive in his manner? Some evasion?
‘Tell me more about the day she went missing.’
‘It were a Saturday in November. The weather was horrible and rainy. Blustery. We all felt a bit … cooped up in the house. Four kids’ – he looked around him – ‘and this place isn’t big. Sorrel and Marvel had been at it like a pair of cats. Quarrelling.’
‘What were they quarrelling about?’ Claire asked the question quietly. It could have little bearing on the case.
‘Oh, those bloody charm bracelets.’ The frustration was flooding back. ‘We’d bought Sorrel and Clarice a charm because they’d done well in their ballet exams. And Marvel made such a bloody fuss. She always wanted what the other ones had. She was a bit prone to that. Jealousy. We thought Marvel should be getting on with her homework and stuff, but she made such a fuss about the charm and said whatever we said she was going up Hanley to get one. You know, why should her sisters have something she didn’t. Drove us mad, it did.’ He’d forgotten for a moment. ‘So off she goes. Caught the bus up Hanley in the most unsuitable clothes considering the weather. I said to her, “You’ll get soaked”.’ He chuckled, still in the moment. ‘She just gave me one of them looks.’ He chuckled again before he remembered. ‘I thought she’d get the charm, perhaps meet some friends, maybe grab a burger. At least it would get one of them out of the house. I did suggest she take one of her sisters with her. Huh. That went down like a lead balloon.’
‘Do you think she was meeting someone that day?’
Now he looked annoyed and defensive. ‘I would have said if she was. I would have told the police, wouldn’t I? They interviewed her two best friends, but Karen and Lara said they’d gone to the pictures.’ He stopped again, puzzled now. ‘Except …’ Claire resisted the temptation to prompt him, ‘… they hadn’t asked our Marvel if she wanted to go with them.’
There was a tinge of sadness here while Claire wondered whether Karen and Lara were such good friends.
‘If she had … maybe …’ And his voice trailed away.
‘Marvel had a mobile phone?’
‘Pay as you go.’ Another rueful smile. ‘She’d run out of credit, else again … maybe …’
They were both silent. The world, history, events, full of maybes.
Yvonne broke the silence, re-entering with a tray of rattling teacups and a look of concern at Tom and accusation towards Claire. Tom held his hand up to ward off any intervention.
‘What was she wearing that day?’
‘I can’t remember.’ He looked away.
Yvonne opened her mouth as though to speak and clamped it tight shut. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ It was not what she had meant to say.
Questions were lining up in Claire’s mind. She needed to delve back into Kobi’s file, take a look at the girls he had killed and compare them with Marvel’s profile. Serial killers are suckers for habit. And tend to stick to the same victim type. Blonde-haired, red-haired, dark-haired – whatever. So the first question was why a Saturday? Why would Kobi have gone for a girl not wearing his preferred outfit? Could it be because the police were closing in with officers around schools and vigilant parents sitting in cars waiting to take their daughters safely home? Was that why he had struck on a Saturday? She might discuss it with her colleague, Edward Reakin, who was the clinical psychologist attached to Greatbach. He’d thrown a light on many a case before but, as she sipped the tea and watched Tom Trustrom, even here, with the girl’s father, something felt like a misfit. Without answers to the little questions she would not find the truth to the larger one.
Or were they all wrong and this was not Kobi’s work but another killer? Kobi had provided them with a convenient explanation.
As the three of them made small talk and drank their tea, at the back of Claire’s mind doubts were compounding. Tom and Yvonne seemed to have a hidden language. Each would start a sentence, eyes on the other, and then stop abruptly. Perhaps there is always some conspiracy between partners. Which begged the question: was there one between her and Grant? Or was it missing? Was that
what was missing? He had had a conspiracy to care for his sister but had not shared that with her. He kept secrets.
Instinctively she put her finger on something when she asked one particular question. ‘Have you had any contact with Kobi?’
Yvonne and Tom looked at each other guiltily. Exposed. And then Tom nodded. ‘I wrote to him,’ he said. ‘Appealed to him to tell us the truth. Two or three times but the letters were opened and returned. He never got back to me.’
No, she thought. The appeals would have amused him. Answer the questions that were so distressing the girl’s father? No.
‘So he didn’t even deny responsibility?’
Tom shook his head and put his finger right on the pulse. ‘It was as though he wanted us to suffer. To hang on. Always to wonder. Never have answers.’
She nodded. ‘I believe you’re alone in the family wanting this …’ She hesitated to use the word. ‘Closure? Dixie’– she’d chosen not to use the epithet of ex-wife – ‘and your son and other two daughters aren’t pushing to find out what happened to Marvel?’
‘They’re not bothered,’ he said without rancour. ‘They just want to get on with their lives. Put it behind them. They don’t want always to be known as the brother and sisters and mother of a murdered girl. They want to forget about her. Pretend she never existed.’
A Game of Minds Page 5