A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  She heard pots and pans clanking in the kitchen but couldn’t face sharing the space with them. Twenty minutes later there was a soft knock on her door and Simon popped his head round. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘Since she lost the baby she hasn’t been herself at all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose your moving to the UK helped.’

  ‘It was the wrong move. I know that now. I should have stayed there, with her, but when I saw there was an opening here … It’s so important for my career. I need the experience.’

  She held her hands up. ‘Well, it’s your decision,’ she said. ‘Your wife, your problem, but Simon, I’m not sure I want this sort of situation in my house.’

  ‘No. No. I quite understand. I’m sorry. I’ll …’

  She anticipated his offer. ‘There’s no need for you to leave right away. Just sort it. Please?’

  He nodded then grinned. ‘We’ve left you some tea in the oven. Marianne’s a great cook.’

  She smiled and the mood between them evaporated.

  But her house no longer felt like her home. The impulse to ask Simon to move into the top floor had backfired. Now it was she who was the outsider.

  She spent the evening in her bedroom, watching a film on her iPad. The next morning she couldn’t even remember what the film had been.

  Wednesday 2 October, 8 a.m.

  Even though there was no sign of either Simon or Marianne the next morning, she bolted her cereal and coffee and only felt at ease when she’d backed her car out of the drive and started to plan her day.

  Today she was due to meet Miranda Pullen, the girl who had flipped the trigger. Whatever the rights or wrongs of her allegations Claire felt Miranda must have sensed something about her teacher. What was it?

  At least the meeting would give her something to focus on because so far her contact with Kobi felt unsatisfactory. She had learned nothing about the fate of Marvel Trustrom. Anything she did learn would probably come from another source. Kobi had suggested she look into Marvel’s family. Was it possible he was right?

  But unwittingly Kobi had given something away. He didn’t want her to speak to his wife. And judging from the fact that Jessica had not contacted her, she wasn’t too keen on speaking to her either. Claire’s curiosity was aroused. She would pursue this lead. So when she had completed the ward round she dialled the number she had for Jessica Kobi using the hospital landline which would come up as an unknown number rather than her own mobile. After a few rings it was answered by a very wary voice. Claire outlined her proposal for a meeting, and it was quickly obvious that Kobi had got there first. ‘Jonah doesn’t want me to meet up with you,’ she said apologetically. Then added, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Claire couldn’t quite work out whether the reluctance came from Jonah or from Jessica herself. Whatever – she intended to pursue this course.

  She wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  ‘Why do you think your husband doesn’t want us to meet?’ Claire asked the question even though she already knew the answer. Kobi liked to write his own lines, didn’t he? And that included his wife’s lines too. He liked control, even from inside the prison. The other end of the line was silent. She pursued her advantage. ‘What harm can it do?’ she urged. ‘Besides, would he need to know?’

  ‘He’ll know all right.’ Jessica paused before adding, ‘There’s nothing I can tell you that he won’t already have said to you. I didn’t even know him at the time of the murders. It was afterwards.’

  ‘I just wanted your take on it, Jessica, that’s all.’

  Her response was sharp and guarded. ‘Take on what?’

  ‘On the search for the missing girl. Has he ever mentioned her to you?’

  ‘No.’

  She’d answered too quickly. ‘I thought he might have said something to you that might help us find her.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t. I can’t help you, Doctor.’

  ‘Please?’

  There was a long, tired sigh on the other end of the line as though she had been asked this question too many times before. ‘Don’t you guys ever give up? It was years ago. My husband has denied all knowledge of the girl. He had nothing to do with her. It didn’t even fit the profile of his crimes. I’ve been married to him for just three years – the girl disappeared four years before that. Leave us alone?’

  ‘He might have inadvertently said something?’

  ‘I don’t get it, Dr Roget.’ She was riled now. ‘How do you think I can possibly help you?’

  ‘Men confide in their wives, Jessica.’

  Her response was sharp and quick. ‘Not when they’re in prison. And not Jonah. Some men might confide in their wives the details of their crimes. Not him. We don’t talk about them. We stick to … other subjects.’

  Like what? Claire thought. Politics? The weather? Impending holidays? What else was there to talk about other than the events which had incarcerated him?

  It had registered that Jessica hadn’t called the crimes horrible or dreadful or even disgusting. Jessica continued, ‘Some men might get off on it. Describing their crimes to their wives. Not Jonah. And …’ Even over the phone Claire sensed her smiling. ‘Some wives might even get a kick out of it too. Our relationship isn’t like that.’

  ‘So what is it like?’

  There was a pause while Jessica Kobi thought up an answer. ‘A sort of mutual respect,’ she said. ‘We find each other interesting.’

  ‘Why did you marry him?’

  Jessica’s answer was defensive. ‘What’s it to do with you?’

  ‘You know I’ve been asked to help – for the sake of Marvel’s family, in particular her father. Knowing what attracted you to Jonah might just help us find the answer to what happened to this girl.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Her scepticism hung in the air. Claire could have given up, put the phone down and abandoned this line of enquiry but she didn’t. She pursued her quarry. ‘I think it would be good if we met up – even if it is just the once.’

  ‘All right.’ Her voice was sulky. ‘How are you fixed for next Friday? In the afternoon? I’ll come to you. I know where you are.’

  Back in her office, she browsed through DS Willard’s notes again, this time focusing on the two last girls: Teresa Palmer, the fourteen-year-old whose body, still in school uniform, pristine white shirt and green and grey tie, knotted around her neck, had been crumpled into a wheelie bin; and Shelley Cantor, Kobi’s last known victim, who had been found at the bottom of Westport Lake, rocks in her school bag keeping her weighted down. But, of course, the RSPB nesting box had been watching and recording as Kobi had dragged the girl’s body over the sandy gravel, to the water’s edge and then waded out until it was deep enough for her to sink. All recorded. A basic mistake, Claire thought. Surely he would have known this body’s disposal was bound to be more public than simply tossing something out of a car? Had he wanted to be caught? Or, more likely this, had he not cared? That would fit in with his character. A complete disregard for the rules of normal society. But at least Shelley’s death had led to Kobi’s conviction and stopped him murdering any more girls. Jonah Kobi had finally been caught and charged.

  And the city and the two counties breathed again. Teenage girls were let off the hook, allowed out for shopping trips or meeting up with friends for coffee. Life began again as though the colour had been leached back into the city.

  Kobi’s picture had been splashed all over the media and plenty of his ex-pupils had surfaced to write their own blogs and tweets and tell the world that they’d always known he was a weirdo. Except no one had really known, had they?

  And among that plethora of girls Miranda Pullen had surfaced again and profited well from the story she told which was probably no more a fabrication than any other of the tall tales.

  Where had Marvel’s story fitted in to this?

  And what would Jessica Kobi have to say about her husband?

  It was four o’clock when Miranda Pullen fin
ally rang and in a tight voice said she would be at the hotel in twenty minutes.

  Eleven years brings quite a change as a schoolgirl morphs into a young woman though there was still the hint of a truculent teenager hovering just beneath the veneer of sophistication. Miranda Pullen was now in her twenties and had obviously thrived. She walked in on high heels and a smart, grey power suit, neatly striped hair in a bob and immaculate make-up, carrying a large, expensive-looking handbag. Her eyes were watchful, her manner guarded. In the intervening years Miranda Pullen had learnt something of the world. Claire shouldn’t have been surprised but she was. This was a brittle woman who kept tight control. She walked elegantly towards her, head held high, wafting expensive perfume and displaying white, even teeth. Everything about her shrieked prosperity, success, confidence. She showed absolutely no vulnerability. Claire watched her carefully. This was a woman who was used to looking after herself.

  ‘At a guess,’ she said, sinking into one of the deeply upholstered armchairs, ‘you’re the psychiatrist who’s been,’ she wiggled her fingers in speech marks, ‘involved with Mr Kobi.’

  It was interesting that years later Miranda still called him by his teacher’s title. Claire would have smiled but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said, equally briskly. ‘I’m Claire Roget, consultant forensic psychiatrist. I’ve been asked to speak to Mr Kobi to see if we can learn the fate of Marvel Trustrom.’

  Miranda snorted. ‘Well, good luck with that one.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Claire had lined up her questions one after the other, but the woman’s composure slightly nettled her.

  Like the police before her, Miranda displayed certainty. ‘He did it, you know.’

  Claire ignored the comment and pressed on. ‘How many of your allegations about Mr Kobi were true?’

  Miranda smirked and lifted her perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘Excuse me?’

  Claire simply waited.

  She soon got a sulky response. ‘I might have … embellished some of it.’

  ‘Did he actually do anything?’

  A cunning look crossed her face. ‘He kept me back after lessons,’ she said, tossing her hair.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, tried to make out I was using my mobile phone. But I wasn’t.’ Her lipsticked mouth became a thin, unattractive scar. ‘I knew it was so he could look down my blouse, watch me cross my legs.’

  This didn’t even deserve a response.

  ‘Did he actually touch you?’

  ‘Who’s to know? There were just the two of us in the room.’ She gave the self-satisfied smile of a woman who believes she is irresistibly attractive and flicked her hair away from her face. ‘And he’s in prison and likely to stay there. So who’ – she leaned her face towards Claire’s – ‘is to know?’

  ‘It must have taken quite something to persist in your story when the tabloids became interested.’

  The eyelashes flickered at the word ‘story’, but Miranda was losing none of her equilibrium.

  ‘And of course, he was found innocent.’

  That provoked a laugh. ‘Well, they were wrong, weren’t they? And if they hadn’t made such a mistake maybe one or more of those girls would still be alive.’

  ‘How much money did the tabloids pay you for your story?’

  Even that didn’t faze Miranda. ‘Enough to pay off my student loan.’

  And again, unexpectedly, Claire again found herself on the same side as Kobi. She disliked the girl intensely. She drew breath.

  ‘And look at me now,’ Miranda crowed. ‘I have a good job. A car. I’m getting married next year. Notoriety has served me well.’

  Claire studied her face. Did she not realize she was the one who had lit the spark? And if she did feel she was in any way responsible for the four murders would she care? In her own way Miranda Pullen was as much a psychopath as Kobi.

  ‘What was he like? What made you home in on him?’

  ‘Creepy.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Miranda Pullen crossed her legs. ‘The way he’d stare at you.’ She frowned. ‘You know in books they say a man undresses the heroine with his eyes?’

  Claire jumped in, interested in her use of words. ‘Do you class yourself then as a heroine?’

  Miranda became thoughtful. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you’re the psychiatrist. Male teachers respond in a certain way to teenage girls. They play along with them. Mr Kobi – well, he just didn’t engage. He was wooden except when he looked at me. I began to wonder …’ She drew in close again, enjoying the feeling of confidentiality. ‘I began to wonder if I’d be able to tempt him. It became a sort of challenge.’ Her expression changed, became almost coy. ‘I tried a few tricks but he wasn’t biting. I began to wonder whether he was gay – or bi or simply impotent.’

  ‘He’d been married,’ Claire reminded her.

  ‘Yes, but it didn’t last, did it? And lots of gay men marry just as a smokescreen.’

  ‘And now he’s re-married.’

  That drew a chortle of laughter. ‘Some marriage,’ she said disparagingly.

  ‘So you wanted to bait him.’

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Miranda coloured. ‘What’s he like now?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘I’ve only met him when he’s been in prison for three years. He’s probably changed.’

  Miranda was silent, working out her response. ‘Some people might have found him attractive … then.’

  And Claire saw through it. She had found Kobi attractive. But he had ignored her. And so she had extracted her revenge. That was how it had really been.

  And possibly realizing her cover had been blown, Miranda shuffled in her seat. ‘Is that all or is there something else you’d like me to go through with you?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘But you’re convinced he is responsible for Marvel’s disappearance?’

  Miranda’s response mirrored Zed Willard’s. ‘Who else?’

  The question rang in her brain all the way home. Who else?

  She was deep in thought as she turned into her drive. Simon’s car had gone so she assumed he and Marianne had gone out somewhere. Hopefully somewhere where they could sort out their differences. She couldn’t cope with a warring couple under her roof. But she felt some sympathy for Simon’s wife. She’d miscarried her child. And then her husband had taken a contract on the other side of the world. A double loss.

  She was so absorbed in reflections she almost didn’t notice a girl standing in the shadow of the trees that marked her boundary. Waterloo Road, Burslem, had once had a reputation for being a red-light area. But in the last five years it had been cleaned up. The girls had gone, probably elsewhere. Claire stood still for a moment trying to make out the girl’s features. She wasn’t speaking, and although the night was cold she was wearing a micro skirt, long black shiny boots and T-shirt. They looked at one another. Claire didn’t say anything. To offer, Can I help you? would have been fatuous. It was obvious that the girl was hoping for business. She was slim, average height, had thick, dark hair that rippled down her back and looked young – perhaps not even twenty. Claire locked the car and took a step towards her front door. When she looked back, she felt that the girl wanted to speak to her. She half-turned but someone else was walking along the street. With a heavy tread, determined, focused. Masculine. The girl shrank back against the hedge. A miasma of fear seemed to form around her. A hand reached out and the girl slipped away back into the night.

  It is strange how a street in a densely populated urban area can suddenly seem empty of people. The girl had vanished somewhere out of the arcs of light cast by the lampposts. It was as though she was never there. As Claire turned away from the street towards her front door, she realized the encounter had brought something home to her. Girls vanished for many different reasons. Many were never found. Some were trafficked, others descended into drugs, prostitution or simply formed a new identity. A few were murdered, t
heir bodies not found for years; some remains were never found. And this might be the end result of the investigation into Marvel Trustrom’s fate.

  They might never know.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  She might have resented the tense atmosphere between Simon and his wife, but the house seemed eerily quiet without them and she took a moment to steady herself. ‘Stupid,’ she told herself.

  Walking through into the kitchen she found that Simon had left a note on the kitchen table simply saying they’d headed off for a few days’ holiday. Good idea. Claire put her bag down and linked her phone to the charger. She had the place to herself – again. Bliss. It felt a welcome situation but also strange, foreign and unreal. A bit lonely and isolated. Even though it was late she was tempted to pick up the phone, speak to either Adam or Adele or even Grant, but she desisted. She wanted to think. She needed to think. She always had concerns about a number of patients and usually a glass of wine and the peace and quiet of home settled her mind. But not tonight. Her mind was disordered. The case of Jonah Kobi and the missing girl was disturbing her.

  She slept badly that night, tossing and turning through turmoil, dreams of the dead girl now alive, now dead. Body tossed somewhere but never found, Kobi wagging his finger at her, as though he was a schoolteacher telling her off for poor spelling or not handing in her homework. He had assumed a dominant role in her mind, and when she woke she was hot and sweaty. She showered, slipped on her dressing gown and went online to read the news headlines as she drank some coffee.

  When you first wake and read the headlines, they do not initially sink in.

  She read them three times before realizing what was being said.

  And then she understood.

  Just a small paragraph.

  Police are to reopen the case of missing schoolgirl, Marvel Trustrom.

  There it was, in black and white. Why hadn’t Willard told her they were going public with this? To flush something or someone out?

  It is understood that in the hope of finding out the truth behind the disappearance of schoolgirl Marvel Trustrom, who disappeared in 2013 and whose body has never been found, a forensic psychiatrist has been visiting Jonah Kobi, the teacher currently serving four life terms for the murder of schoolgirls Petra Gordano and Jodie Truss in 2012, Teresa Palmer in 2014 and Shelley Cantor in 2015.