A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘I’ll get to her. She might well fulfil that role but the first inkling of real emotion I’ve seen was when I mentioned Miranda Pullen, which is why I’m anxious to meet up with her. He was clearly still furious with her. Nothing else stirred him like that. Not a mention of his sister-in-law who professes to be a real friend or even his wife had such an effect on him.’

  On the other end DS Willard blew out his lips in frustration and hid behind his usual mantra. ‘Well, you’re the psychiatrist.’

  And her response was just as hackneyed. ‘I wish I had a pound for every time I heard that particular phrase.’

  She felt she should climb down. ‘How is Tom?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything this week, Claire.’

  ‘But he’s …?’ It seemed brutal to use the words still alive so she omitted them, leaving the sentence dangling in the air for DS Willard to catch her meaning.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  And that was the end of the conversation.

  She put the phone down, omitting to add that one of the papers she was considering writing for the psychiatrists’ journal was to look into the reasons why women married lifers when there were no conjugal rights in the UK, and as far as the current home secretary was concerned this privilege was unlikely to be granted any time soon. Her mind wandered. There was the converse of men marrying women killers, though it was much rarer. There were only two cases in the whole of England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. Possibly because fewer women committed murder. Or possibly because men were less likely to fit into the categories she had so far dreamed up: sentiment, notoriety, curiosity or conversion.

  Still no word from Adam and, as always, where her half-brother was concerned, she felt guilty and anxious.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday 26 September, 6.15 p.m.

  She was anxious to get home, wash, change and make it to the restaurant before eight. At last Adam had texted her, leaving a message that he and Adele would meet her there. Grant had texted he would pick her up at seven thirty and she’d smiled, knowing his idea of time was as elastic as a rubber band and had little to do with clocks or the appointed time. The one time he would not turn up at would be seven thirty. Maybe six or twenty past, possibly as late as eight. He was … unpredictable. Though, she reminded herself, the last two times they had met he had more or less stuck to the appointed time.

  And just to prove the point he turned up early, at six forty-five, while she was still in the bath soaking away the day. She heard Simon let him in, a few exchanged words and then, unmistakably, Grant running up the stairs and knocking on the door. ‘Claire.’

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was his response. No apology or explanation. In his mind, unpinned from the clock, neither was necessary.

  It felt natural to pull the plug, wrap a towel around her and meet him in the bedroom. He was sprawled across the bed, in jeans and open-necked, check shirt, hands underneath his head. He watched her, saying nothing – it was all expressed in his wide grin, the rogue smile taking it all in as she dressed in a Joseph Ribkoff, calf-length dress, black with a panel of brilliant verdant green and a split that reached halfway up her thigh. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Smart wear for a taverna.’ His grin spread even broader. ‘If things were different, I’d say give me a twirl.’

  He would do this, drop in and out of her life casually. While he was there all seemed natural. And when he wasn’t that seemed OK too. She too had moved on.

  So she obliged him with his twirl and dropped down beside him on the bed. ‘I just felt like dressing up,’ she confessed. ‘I always seem to be in work clothes and I’m sure they carry the scent of Greatbach or the prison or of something or someone equally unpleasant.’

  ‘Whereas I,’ he said smugly, ‘carry the scent of paint and wallpaper paste.’

  She propped herself up on her elbow. ‘So how’s it going?’

  She didn’t really need to ask. She’d caught his look. She knew when Grant Steadman was pleased with himself.

  And she was right. He put his arm around her and pulled her to his chest. His shirt was open. She felt the scratch of his hair, coarse compared to the softness of the hair on his head. ‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘We’ll be finished in a month or so.’

  ‘So quickly?’

  ‘Well, there’s no structural work only paint and the finishing touches. And even better a few of his mates who’ve been round to take a sneaky peak, like my work, and want to commission me. Looks like’ – he stopped and kissed her cheek – ‘I’m on my way.’

  And isn’t it odd and unfair. After years spent fretting that her boyfriend did not have a ‘proper’ job she felt a tinge of envy. Her own career of delving into damaged minds seemed mundane and vexatious; his creative and artistic.

  ‘And the lady of the house?’

  This brought a troubled frown. ‘Is away. He wants it done before she gets back.’ He half closed his eyes, long lashes hiding his misgiving.

  ‘I only hope she likes it. It sounds a risky strategy to me.’

  He gave her a naughty look now. ‘Considering how exacting some women can be,’ he said mischievously, ‘I would have thought so.’ He leant in and found her lips with his own.

  She’d forgotten how good he tasted.

  She nestled into him and thought how easy it would be to let him back into her life – for ever. She’d meant to say, Let’s not get serious tonight, Grant, let’s leave “us” out of it. Adam and Adele will be full of wedding plans. Let’s just enjoy the evening. Please? But he was making it hard.

  He kissed her gently on the cheek as she slipped on her shoes. ‘You really want to walk up – in those heels?’

  ‘I was hoping I’d be chauffeur driven.’ And now the memories were flooding back. Grant’s driving, slow and prone to distractions, chatting by her side. With an effort she sat up, crossed to her mirror, fixed her make-up and brushed her hair.

  Although she now loved Adam and his fiancée, Adele, and enjoyed these periodic meetings as well as the way he called her Sis, she was dreading the day of their wedding. Dreading meeting her mother again and stepfather, being forced to witness the way they doted on him and could hardly bear to look at her. She wanted to scream at her mother sometimes. It isn’t my fault that Monsieur Roget abandoned us. Maybe it’s yours. Certainly, I shouldn’t have to pay all my life for his walk-out. And when she allowed herself to reflect on her father, whom she could not even remember, she knew there was an echo of the way Grant had vanished from her life, even if it had only been for six months. Maybe that was why she was hypersensitive to the subject of abandonment?

  But misgivings and fears aside, the evening and the dinner were splendid. Every time she met up with her half-brother she was struck by what a balanced, incredibly nice man he was. He and Adele chatted easily, but did not bore about the wedding details. They showed interest but not undue curiosity about her current case load, even asking Grant about his interiors business. Grant kept them amused with his stories of the paunchy businessman and his attempt to impress the so far missing wife. ‘She must be really special. He’s sparing no expense, changing everything from kitchen units to Danish taps, from swatches of material to the latest in gadgets. Next he wants to build an indoor gym and swimming pool.’

  ‘Wow.’ Adele laughed with the others. ‘What on earth is she going to think when she gets back – her entire house gutted?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Grant said, slightly uneasy.

  There was a sudden halt in their conversation. Adam and Adele exchanged glances and Claire knew they had had conversations about her and Grant’s relationship.

  Grant kept his eyes on her, the long, curling lashes flirting as he ate his food, and accompanied by his signature wicked grin. She sensed his mood. Teasing. The talk eventually returned to details of the wedding and finally she addressed the dreaded subject. ‘I suppose our mother will be there.’ Even the wo
rds ‘our mother’ seemed a lie. Adam and Adele exchanged swift glances which, inexplicably, seemed to include Grant but exclude her. It was Adam who spoke, ruffling his copper-coloured hair and giving an apologetic scraping of his throat. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Adele stretched her hand across the table. ‘Claire,’ she said in her soft voice. ‘I know life hasn’t really been …’ She started again. ‘I know Adam’s …’ Another false start. ‘I know your mother hasn’t always been fair to you. I know you’ve had a difficult time but let’s hope this is the beginning of a détente. Peace between you.’ She gave a swift, worried glance at her fiancé. ‘We’ve done our best, Claire.’

  Claire simply nodded, trying to swallow the bile that had risen and suppress the resentment she felt that Adam and Adele should need to intercede on her behalf – with her own mother. Suddenly it was anger and hatred that bubbled up.

  And when, an hour and a half later, Grant drove her home and hesitated on the doorstep, waiting to be invited in, she shook her head. ‘I’m not in a great place. Sorry.’

  She shut the door on him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Friday 27 September, 7.45 a.m.

  She’d spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning, taking in turns who to resent most: Adam and Adele for the happiness denied her; her mother, for obvious reasons; or Mr Perfect David Spencer for being just that – the perfect stepfather. In the end she’d given up on sleep and come in to work early.

  Because the great advantage of work is the distraction it provides.

  Her curiosity was now directed towards Jessica Kobi for two reasons. The first was a genuine reason. Had Kobi confided in his wife any details which might help her learn Marvel’s fate? The second reason was to provide details for her research into why women married lifers.

  There was no record of Jessica Kobi having gone public with her unusual marriage choice so it would seem that money was not her motive. Claire had pictured her as a high-maintenance, brassy blonde, a woman with a loud voice addicted to fame or rather notoriety. But the voice that responded to her call and introduction was soft and sounded intelligent, which made Claire even more curious.

  ‘Yes, Jonah spoke of you,’ she said in response to Claire’s introduction. ‘He said you would probably call.’

  ‘You understand why I’ve been asked to involve myself in your husband’s case?’

  ‘I do.’ She didn’t enlarge. Obviously a woman who did not feel the need to fill silences.

  Claire waited for a clue. But on the other end of the line was silence. It was being left to her to provide the cues.

  ‘Would you be happy to come in and talk to me?’

  ‘I’d have to run it past Jonah first.’

  ‘OK.’ Claire gave her her contact details and let Jessica take the lead.

  ‘When were you hoping to speak to him again?’

  ‘I have an appointment with him next week,’ Claire said. ‘Tuesday afternoon.’

  If he doesn’t cancel, she added mentally.

  ‘I hope you get what you want.’ Was there a hint of mockery in her tone?

  Claire put the phone down thoughtfully.

  I hope you get what you want.

  What did she want?

  The truth. Only that. One could take this statement as a polite expression or a genuine wish, though she doubted it. Much more likely was that the pair of them were sniggering behind their hands at this psychiatrist running around in circles in search of a schoolgirl who had been missing for six years without any clue as to her fate. It was an uncomfortable vision.

  Doubts trickled like cold water through her mind. Oh, she thought in frustration, why had DS Willard involved her in this?

  She had two clinical case reviews that afternoon which took most of the next couple of hours. Everyone wanted their say: community psychiatric nurses, ward nurses, psychiatrists (in the plural as both she and Salena were there but not Simon) and Edward Reakin. One of the cases under review was that of a paranoid schizophrenic who had had multiple brushes with the police. Usually little more than shouting and twice he had locked himself in public toilets, cut his wrists and refused to come out. Daniel Price was not a danger to society but he was a danger to himself. The decision was made to adjust his medication and move him to sheltered accommodation where he would be supervised twenty-four seven.

  The second case up for review was that of Ilsa Robinson and the decision when to transfer her. She caught Edward’s eyes and he gave a troubled shake of his head. Claire felt a ripple of unease which passed around the table like a Mexican wave. Discharging a patient carried some risk. Patients could relapse and the progression of some diagnoses could be unpredictable. It was always a matter of patching up holes. Claire left the meeting with a heavy heart and a sense of guilt that she was letting this patient down. But she had a list of eight more vulnerable patients who would benefit from an inpatient bed.

  Edward caught her just as she was leaving. ‘I took a look at your guy’s notes.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘He’s devious and clever. He doesn’t fit into the usual criteria, no evidence of alcohol abuse or overt aggression. Everything he does is organized. Interesting that there’s no other criminality. Nothing he does is accidental or random. It’s all planned and his narcissism is practically off the scale.’

  She listened, agreeing with his chilling assessment.

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘Be careful, Claire. He will try to manipulate your opinion.’

  ‘Thank you, Ed. And thanks for your help with Ilsa.’

  She spoke to John Robinson and explained their decision. His response, over the phone, was hard to gauge: relief or concern?

  He tested her. ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘As sure as I can be of anything.’

  She arranged for Ilsa to be discharged to the clinic on the following Friday.

  Simon met her in the corridor, a broad grin on his face. ‘She arrives tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I wonder … could I …?’

  She didn’t need to ask who was coming on Saturday morning. It was obvious and Simon looked happy. The wife, Marianne.

  His hopefulness was as eager as a puppy’s when promised a long walk. But underneath his excitement she also sensed his anxiety.

  And it left her with a dilemma. She didn’t particularly want to be there for the hopefully joyful reunion. On impulse she picked up her phone, connected with Grant and made a suggestion. The weather forecast promised fine weather, great for a coastal walk. Add to that fine food and wine. Grant listened to her suggestion before asking only one thing. ‘Where?’

  ‘Wales,’ she said. ‘Where else?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Monday 30 September, 9 a.m.

  The weekend in Wales had proved to be wonderful. Claire had found a beautiful hotel on the coast, near Aberystwyth, with a pool, five-star restaurant and plenty of bracing walks along the coast overlooking the Atlantic rollers. She’d packed a case early Saturday morning, picked Grant up from his house and headed straight off, for once glad to be abandoning home. She wasn’t looking forward to having a second guest and already suspected there were unresolved tensions between the couple that could only make things even more difficult. Let them have the place to themselves for the weekend and, hopefully, start to sort themselves out. Simon was on holiday for the next week and Salena would cover the weekend. She’d felt her spirits rise as Grant opened the door and she saw him, happy, grinning, dressed in walking trousers and heavy boots. He threw his bag on to the back seat, climbed in and kissed her hard on the mouth making her wonder how many of those bracing walks they would actually manage.

  Sometimes weekend romantic breaks work out. At other times they almost seem to fuel rows and disagreements. But she felt she and Grant had reached a status quo. There were silences between them, but they also had some long chats and it was good to be away from the Potteries and work.

  They ate in the restaurant on the Saturday night, enjoying the
quiet hotel, hearing the waves wash over the beach. They toasted their evening and Grant watched her. ‘This,’ he said, ‘was a very good idea.’

  They did manage to swim in the hotel pool and braved the rain which was confounding the weather forecast, sheeting down, almost obscuring the cliff path ahead which was muddy and slippery on the Sunday giving them an excuse for extreme laziness.

  But all good things come to an end. Sunday evening saw them heading back to their separate addresses. As Claire dropped Grant off outside his house his mask slipped. ‘I wish I was coming home,’ he said.

  Claire almost said, Then why don’t you? The words were in her mouth, ready to spill out. She looked at him and felt the pull that made it hard to separate. But something tugged her back. ‘Grant,’ she said. He was watching her very closely, maybe realizing the doubts that lay in her heart. Then he kissed her. A hard, defining Goodbye Kiss. Uncompromising. He opened his door, closed it behind him, picked up his holdall from the back seat and was gone without a backwards glance or saying anything more.

  She drove home still in a daze, feeling she might regret not saying those words when they had seemed so obvious, so fitting, so right. They would have dropped quite naturally and sequentially into the chumminess they had achieved over the weekend, but something had held her back and now the moment was gone. And like many significant moments perhaps it would not return.

  The house had been quiet as she’d let herself in. Simon’s car had been in the drive so, presumably, he and his wife were upstairs. She’d stood at the bottom, straining to hear any sound. But it had been silent. At a guess Marianne would be jet-lagged and Simon would be upstairs. She felt excluded. Wishing Grant was beside her, she showered and slipped into bed. When you have grown used to your partner lying beside you, a double or king-sized bed can seem as big as a continent.