A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  There was some detail about Kobi’s past and the murders but nothing new.

  She sat back in her chair, sipped her coffee slowly and gave herself time to absorb this news and the anger she felt at her involvement being leaked to the press. It didn’t actually name her but there were few psychiatrists in Stoke-on-Trent and only one forensic psychiatrist. Her. For anyone in the know it wouldn’t take long to point a finger at her name.

  So who had provided this particular little story? Anyone could have fed it to them. There were quite a few people now who knew she’d been asked to visit Kobi and plenty more who were aware that she actually had. It could be any one of a number of people: a prisoner, a prison guard, Kobi himself, Mrs Kobi, Marvel’s family, Tom Trustrom or his partner as well as someone from the police or even a work colleague from Greatbach. It could even be Miranda Pullen trying to extract a few more pounds from her largely made-up story. It meant nothing. And yet it had drawn her attention to something. Claire sat back and touched her forehead in exasperation. She should have realized this. There it was, staring her in the face and she had somehow walked straight past it. The newspaper article correctly described Kobi as a teacher, briefly mentioning the allegations that had led to him resigning his post in the Macclesfield school and taking up employment as a supply teacher working at various schools in and around the Potteries. Which schools? What she needed was a more detailed work record. Every single school he had worked at in the years between 2010 and 2016 when he had finally been convicted of all four murders.

  She looked more carefully at the dates. Petra had been killed in April 2012. Only two months later Jodie Truss had died. Marvel’s disappearance had been in November of 2013. Then in October 2014 Teresa Palmer had met her end, and finally Shelley Cantor in the November of 2015.

  She rang DS Willard, who denied having fed the story to the press. In fact, he sounded outraged at the leak and was so defensive it handed her an advantage. Which she used.

  ‘I need a detailed list of all the schools Kobi worked at between 2010 and 2016.’ When she sensed his hesitation, she added, ‘I take it you have them?’

  ‘Of course. But, Claire. It’s a long list. Some of those schools he only worked at for a couple of days.’

  ‘I still think I’d better go through them. Did he ever work at the school where Marvel attended?’

  ‘Yeah. A couple of times. But he didn’t teach her class. He taught the older girls.’

  ‘OK, well, if you wouldn’t mind emailing it over to me.’

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  Thankfully he didn’t ask her how she was getting on.

  She scanned the article again. In spite of the sensational headline there was nothing new in it apart from the fact that she was involved. That this was being made so public made her uneasy. She preferred to work in secret, behind closed, preferably locked, doors. Something else made her skin prickle. Would the leaking of her involvement to the press have any consequences?

  So what next?

  The temptation was to follow Kobi’s suggestion, drop down the rabbit hole and look into Marvel’s family. But it could have been a device flung in front of her merely to deflect her from the truth.

  Maybe Jessica Kobi would be more enlightening, but for now she needed to focus on her work here, in Greatbach.

  She had a morning spent with the police and the CPS advising on the parole panel. Always a worry and always a responsibility. Were you letting a wild animal out of its cage to prey on some unwary member of the general public or some old crony they had a score to settle with? On the one hand you had a prisoner who wanted out (or at least most of them did). Others, particularly lifers, having spent a significant number of years behind bars, in the protected environment of a prison, were fearful of stepping to the outside where they had lost connections and there was often no family, no friends and the support given to them by the state was lacking. To the outside world they were always ex-cons whereas inside they were the norm.

  Get it wrong and you robbed a prisoner of a chance of life outside. Get it wrong and you let a wild animal out of its cage.

  Today they were considering three cases. An armed robber who had held up a building society, a killer and an elderly man who had abused young boys in the late nineties. Claire had interviewed each one at length, making an assessment. The case conferences would go on for most of the day leaving Salena Urbi to cover the wards, which meant she wouldn’t see Ilsa until later on, when she would prepare her for formal discharge the following morning.

  Sometimes Claire ruminated over the consequences of the decisions made by the parole board but today her conscience was more focused on Salena Urbi’s workload, so she headed upstairs to the ward once the conferences were finished. And as anticipated, Salena was struggling.

  Ilsa was sitting in the corner, her face immobile except for her lips which were moving in some internal conversation. An argument judging by her fixed scowl and impassioned expression.

  Claire began with innocuous questions. ‘Are you ready to be transferred to the clinic in Birmingham for a little while before going home?’

  Ilsa turned her pale eyes on Claire. ‘I want to go home.’

  Claire sat down in the armchair. Why was she uneasy about this change of mind? ‘Why don’t you fall in with your husband’s suggestion? And then in a couple of weeks you can go home to John and Augustus.’

  Ilsa drew in a sharp breath. ‘Claire,’ she said, ‘I want you to remember something.’ Claire waited. ‘Remember this. I believe my husband and my “best” friend are plotting to kill me.’ She was watching her intently.

  Claire stiffened. ‘Why would they do that?’ Was this fact or a paranoid delusion?

  ‘I know he is having an affair with her.’

  ‘He denies it.’

  Ilsa’s smile was stiff. ‘He would,’ she said. ‘My husband likes to pretend. One of the things he likes to pretend about is that he is a good man, a devoted husband.’ Her expression was snake-like.

  Claire played it safe. ‘That’s certainly my impression.’

  Ilsa looked at her pityingly but with a touch of contempt. ‘So you are fooled too.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But Ilsa, you’re a lot better now. You don’t need to be here. It’s time for you to go.’

  ‘OK. But remember this. It’s important Claire.’

  As Claire left the room half an hour later, she wondered. Ilsa appeared convinced about this affair between her husband and best friend. So who was the one who was deluded – or lying? John or his wife?

  If John was lying, he was a consummate actor. The temptation was to trust his version of events and put Ilsa’s version down to her precarious mental state. But …

  She documented it all the same and knew that she was not in any danger of forgetting Ilsa’s words.

  Remember this. There had seemed a special significance in the words and the way she had spoken them. Almost a threat? What was she planning? Why had she planted that seed of doubt?

  Claire wrote up her notes, spent more time discussing the case with Astrid.

  And so the day passed.

  At five o’clock, Rita rang. Jessica Kobi was waiting for her downstairs.

  TWENTY-SIX

  It’s hard not to form a picture of someone you are about to meet. Claire was intrigued, her curiosity bubbling up like an underground spring. This was a first for her, interviewing a woman who had married a lifer after his sentence. The voice on the phone had sounded decisive and in control when she would have thought that a woman marrying in such circumstances, especially to someone who had committed multiple murders of young girls, would have been just another victim, someone who had problems forming normal relationships. After all – what was in it for her? What on earth could be her motive?

  A do-gooder – someone who believed they could reform him?

  Notoriety? Maybe capitalising on it: writing articles, novels, selling her story, perhaps even extracting further details of his cri
mes that she could use in some way?

  A love of intrigue?

  She leaned back in her seat, rolling her pen between finger and thumb, analysing.

  Was it possible there was another explanation? Surely, surely the motive for marrying a serial killer could not be love? That beautiful, selfless emotion? How could she fall in love? Why had Kobi married her? It didn’t make sense.

  But thoughts of love led her along another pathway. She retrieved her mobile phone from the bottom of her bag and, before she could change her mind, texted Grant. Hey, you. Fancy cooking for me tonight?

  She watched the screen for some response, and when there wasn’t one she reluctantly switched it off. She could not have it pinging in the interview.

  The first thing that struck her about Kobi’s wife was how petite she was. Almost childlike though she was in her early twenties. The second observation was that though the packaging was different – Jessica had arrived in ripped jeans and biker boots – there were similarities between Jessica and Miranda Pullen. Jessica was similarly self-assured, with a disconcerting gaze. Although she was small, she looked strong and entered with an assured stride, dropping into the chair with a silent challenge. Surely, Claire thought, she was just the type that Kobi hated? She had a clear, clean, freckled face which was easy to read, grey eyes with long lashes. She wore no lipstick and very little foundation. Her main adornments were four ear piercings which reached along the pinna and a nose stud. Her hair was stripey brown, shoulder length, thick and straight and her gaze was direct. She held her hand out as Claire greeted her.

  ‘So we meet at last,’ she said, her mouth twisted with some of her husband’s cynicism.

  Claire nodded and indicated a chair opposite.

  She began by thanking her for coming and Jessica Kobi responded with a regal bend of her head in acknowledgement. Then she waited for Claire to begin the interview.

  ‘Mrs Kobi,’ Claire began, only too aware of the questions she really wanted to ask.

  Kobi’s wife waited.

  ‘Do you understand why I’ve become involved in this case?’

  Jessica Kobi gave a sharp intake of breath which could have been interpreted as an expression of irritation. Claire chose to ignore it until she spoke.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘The one girl whose body has not been found.’ She folded her arms and looked confrontational. ‘My husband has assured me he knows nothing about this girl’s disappearance. You understand?’ In case Claire hadn’t got the message, she repeated more forcefully, ‘He denies it.’

  Claire nodded. ‘And you believe this to be the truth?’

  Jessica Kobi slowly unfolded her arms and spread her hands out. ‘Why would he lie to me?’

  ‘Perhaps because this is the one murder he has not been convicted of and thus could have a renewed sentence?’

  Jessica Kobi blew out her cheeks in derision. ‘Come on, Doctor,’ she said. ‘What bloody difference can it make? Jonah’s been handed four life sentences. Life times four. He’s unlikely to come out. Ever.’ She spat the last word out with vitriol.

  It gave Claire an opportunity to delve. ‘Would you want him to come out?’

  Kobi’s wife shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It isn’t really part of the deal.’

  ‘The deal?’ Claire was struggling to understand her.

  Jessica Kobi gave a twisted smile. ‘Life means life. That’s what they say, isn’t it? It’s what they want. Throw away the key.’

  ‘If he did come out,’ Claire said slowly, ‘how would that impact on your marriage?’

  That drew another twisted smile. ‘It’s certainly not what I signed up for.’

  Another golden opportunity. ‘So what did you sign up for?’

  Jessica’s smile this time was pure cynicism. ‘None of your business,’ she said. ‘That is between me and my husband.’

  And Claire nodded. Fair enough.

  Remembering that an appeal was more likely to bear fruit than confrontation she angled her next question appropriately. ‘Are you able to help me at all with the investigation into Marvel Trustrom’s disappearance?’

  Strangely enough the name had an effect on Kobi’s wife. Her mouth opened as though to protest. But then she closed it again. ‘I …’ Then: ‘No. I’m not.’

  Claire moved on. ‘When and how did this romance between you and Jonah start, Jessica?’

  Kobi’s wife studied her for a moment before smiling. It was not a nice smile. There was no warmth in it. Only coldness, hostility and mockery. ‘You’re the psychiatrist,’ she said. ‘Work it out.’

  Though Claire groaned inwardly she kept her voice steady in her reply. ‘You read about him in the paper and thought he looked interesting?’

  Jessica’s look was pure disdain. ‘That’ll do,’ she said.

  After a pause Claire pursued the subject. ‘Why marry?’ she asked. ‘Why not simply write to each other as friends?’

  Jessica’s answer was strangely soulless and unconvincing. ‘They need someone on the outside,’ she said woodenly. ‘Someone they can trust.’

  ‘But what’s in it for you?’

  The grey eyes slid over her with even more disdain. ‘Does there have to be something in it for me?’

  Claire tried another tack. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to have a partner on the outside?’

  Jessica shook her head leaving Claire puzzled.

  ‘What job do you do?’

  The innocuous question caused Jessica Kobi to look wary. ‘I’m a teacher,’ she said. ‘I just graduated.’ She smiled. ‘In history.’

  Did that give Claire a clue? ‘Did you know Jonah before all this?’

  Jessica shook her head.

  ‘Did he ever teach you?’

  ‘I went to school in Shrewsbury,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe Jonah ever taught there. If he did he certainly didn’t teach me.’

  ‘Is there a connection between the fact that you both studied history?’

  That was the point at which Kobi’s wife disengaged. ‘I don’t see that’s anything to do with the focus of your enquiries,’ she said and stood up.

  Claire appealed. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘all I want is to satisfy a dying man’s request for us to locate his daughter’s body so they can be buried together.’

  Jessica gave a squeal of laughter. ‘And you think I can help by tricking my husband into confessing to something he didn’t do.’

  ‘You’re convinced of that?’

  Jessica Kobi bent over the desk. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.

  Then she was gone, leaving Claire unaccountably uncomfortable. It can take a while to have a handle on a person’s character. But Jessica Kobi’s personality defied any classification. Having spent less than a quarter of an hour in her company, Claire was still unsure what sort of person she was or why she had married Kobi. There was a reason, she was sure, but she could not work out what it was. And that spread around in her head like a virus.

  She thought she’d had enough shocks for one day, but she was due for one more. Having forgotten to switch her phone back on she had missed Grant’s response. His battered Peugeot was in the drive and the scent of cooking greeted her as she let herself in. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, spatula in hand, striped butcher’s apron knotted around his waist. It felt so good to see him that she simply walked up to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him full on that soft mouth. When his mouth was free, he laughed. ‘It’s only spag bol,’ he said. ‘No need for a fuss,’ and returned to his pan of pasta. Something meaty bubbled in the pan next to it. Then he turned around. ‘You all right, Claire?’

  He’d always been quick to pick up on the subtle signs.

  ‘I have had a shit day,’ she said. ‘And I need more than a hug.’

  He looked warily at her. ‘Before or after tea?’

  When they were finally sitting down and he’d grilled her about her shit day’s work, while she’d relished the feeling of having someone to offload t
o she’d finally exhausted the subject. ‘Let’s change the record,’ she said. ‘What about your day. How’s the job going?’

  He rested his fork on the side of his plate, frowning, his dark eyes troubled.

  ‘I can’t work the guy out,’ he said without explanation. ‘He treats everyone like a lackey. Even me sometimes.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘But God, he pays well. He’s set up a standing order. No quibbles about the price of anything. For a businessman he’s careless about money, doesn’t check the receipts. Personally I think he just wants to impress people. Or else he’s trying to buy someone’s affection.’

  ‘The missing wife?’ She wound the spaghetti round her fork.

  ‘Maybe.’ Grant shook his head. ‘But she still hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s abroad.’

  ‘Yep. But he is an odd guy.’

  ‘You don’t have to like him, Grant,’ she pointed out reasonably, ‘you just have to make the place how he wants it.’

  His frown deepened. ‘And that’s the trouble, Claire. He doesn’t really know what he wants. He wants something but I don’t think he’s quite sure what.’

  She wound another coil of spaghetti round her fork. ‘Does he need clear ideas? Isn’t that why they employ someone like you?’

  ‘Yes. But I need some idea of what they hope to achieve.’

  She frowned. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  He laughed at that. ‘And sometimes neither do I.’

  She poured out another half glass of wine.

  And he continued. ‘The house is really nice as it is. It’s an old house. It’s not possible to turn it into exactly what he wants.’

  ‘Right. You can do it, can’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es. Sort of – inside, at least. But he says his wife’s difficult to please.’ He caught something in her eye. ‘Claire?’