A Game of Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  He nodded and she managed a smile. The first she had ever given him. Now, it seemed, they were on the same side.

  Once he’d left she did her ward round with Salena and Simon and when they’d finished they had a coffee and some cake Rita had brought in (her daughter’s birthday). It was chocolate, sickly sweet, just what they needed. A sugar boost.

  Back at her desk and with the clinic day over, she was able to focus on an idea boring a hole in her mind. She picked up the phone and connected with DS Zed Willard, diving straight into the subject.

  ‘What do you know about Jessica Kobi?’

  ‘Wha-at?’ He was patently thrown by the question, protesting, ‘What’s she got to do with it? She only came on the scene three – four – years ago.’

  She repeated her question. ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘She heard about Kobi through the press and got in touch with him. I think they met six months later and that was that. She can’t have anything to do with Marvel, Claire. Why are you asking?’ He stopped for a moment, then added, ‘You think he might have confided in her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Zed. He might. But I would still like everything you know about her emailed over to me including her school record.’

  ‘OK,’ he said testily. ‘I can do that.’

  She hid her motive behind the research she intended. ‘I’m interested in people who marry lifers.’

  It worked. His response was warmer and less guarded. ‘Then consider it done. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I want Jonah Kobi put on suicide watch.’

  At which point DS Willard chortled with humour. ‘You’re kidding. There’s no one less likely to hang himself than Jonah Kobi. He’s hardly human.’

  ‘Have him watched,’ Claire repeated.

  Willard gave a long, laboured sigh. ‘All right. If you think it’s necessary.’ And then out came that well-worn phrase: ‘You’re the psychiatrist.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  6 p.m.

  She had a sheaf of papers to review and comment on, parole hearings, new cases, referrals and the ever-present inpatients. Sometimes she felt she was drowning in her workload. Suffocating under the sheer volume of it.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Simon Bracknell peered round. He looked awkward. ‘Come in,’ she invited. ‘Come in. How does Marianne like the UK?’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ he said, running his hands through his hair, ruffling it so, with his ginger hair, he looked like a bespectacled version of Just William. ‘To be honest, Claire, it isn’t working out. We were on a rocky road before I came and my being away hasn’t helped. Or maybe it has and we’re just not compatible.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should have stayed in Oz and sorted it out rather than’ – she couldn’t avoid the word – ‘running away?’

  He looked shamefaced, nibbled at the nail on his index finger. ‘I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to facing up to stuff.’

  ‘Like most men.’

  She thought she’d spoken under her breath but he looked up. ‘Like your guy? Grant?’

  She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Marianne’s going back to Oz. We’ve decided to split. I was going to talk to HR and see if there is any chance they can extend my contract. Maybe a year?’

  She drew in a breath, ready to speak, but he forestalled her. ‘I don’t mean stay at your place all that time. I know your guy is sort of lurking in the background and I guess at some point he might want to move back in?’

  Lurking in the background?

  ‘So if or when that happens and you want me to leave I’ll be OK with that. I’ll easily find somewhere else.’ He smirked. ‘Somewhere better than I had before. I just want some breathing space.’ She hesitated but finally nodded. He waited for her to say something and when she didn’t, he grinned. ‘Thanks, Claire. I owe you one.’ Then his face changed. ‘I still have a place over in Adelaide. If you and Grant fancy somewhere to stay – maybe for your honeymoon …’

  ‘I think that’s jumping ahead just a bit.’

  ‘No worries,’ he responded jauntily. ‘Whatever. Do you want me to pop back to the wards, spend some time with Ilsa?’

  ‘Yeah. That’d be good.’ She gave him a potted version of John Robinson’s revelations and he responded much as she had. ‘Oh. That’s a game-changer.’

  When he’d gone she sat for a moment. She didn’t want to go home to an empty house.

  She phoned her best friend.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  It was wonderful to escape the troubles and concerns of the day and drive that evening to The Villas. Julia and Gina had bought a house there a few years ago and were slowly transforming it. The Villas was an estate of twenty-four Victorian houses built in the Italianate style with turrets and impressive porches, reminiscent of Osbourne House on the Isle of Wight. Inside was an Aladdin’s cave of Minton tiles and large fireplaces, moulded cornices and ceiling roses.

  They hugged her and passed her a small glass of wine, urging her to stay the night so she wouldn’t have to drive home. She refused. ‘I have work tomorrow.’

  As usual the conversation descended into work talk while Gina grilled some steaks. Julia was a GP in Hanley with a large list of immigrant patients, many of whom had a poor grasp of English. While the meal was being set out she confessed the difficulty of trying to find a diagnosis through interpreters. ‘Quite a challenge,’ she said drily. ‘Everything takes twice as long. But …’ She grinned. ‘I’m not as badly off as the male doctors. The Muslim women who come in have a husband or male relative with them. And try examining women through the thick material of a burka. Very difficult.’

  ‘Ta-da.’ Tea was ready. Claire felt herself relax as she regarded her two very best friends in the world. Julia was comfortably plump with short, thick legs, while Gina was the exact opposite, petite with thick, gypsy hair which she dyed a variety of colours. Their relationship was so happy, with each respecting the other’s values. What Claire most noticed was the way they fitted around one another with neither appearing dominant nor submissive. They ate in comfortable silence, their conversation desultory as they focused on their food. They didn’t ask about Grant and Claire didn’t volunteer. And when she mentioned the two patients whose fates were obsessing her at the moment, they listened without offering judgement.

  It was only after the meal, when Claire was sitting on their sofa drinking a cup of herbal tea, that they did offer advice.

  Julia speaking first. ‘I take it you haven’t made up your mind what part Kobi played in Marvel’s case?’

  ‘I’m not there yet. At times I think psychiatry is even harder than examining a woman through a burka.’ They all laughed at that.

  When Claire left she felt she’d been given a tonic. She hugged them both, knowing the evening had been a necessary relaxant and she was ready to face whatever came next.

  Monday 28 October, 8.45 a.m.

  Thankfully the last few days of the week had been fairly uneventful and she’d had a relaxing weekend, catching up on her running on the Saturday and spending most of the dreary-looking, damp Sunday reading the papers and relaxing.

  The first thing Claire noticed in her emails on Monday morning was an attachment from DS Zed Willard pinned on to a jaunty message.

  Don’t know how this will help, Claire. If you ask me, she’s nothing to do with it and won’t advance your case one inch. But whatever – here you are. See you soon, Zed.

  And there it was.

  Jessica Wilson. Born 1997 to Arthur and Miriam Wilson in Wolverhampton. The family had moved around quite a bit, usually staying no more than two or three years in one place. In 2002 they had moved to Telford. Then in 2005 to Congleton, followed by Chester, back to Wolverhampton, then Macclesfield, and for an even briefer period, in 2008, the family had moved back to Telford. In 2014 the family had moved to Shrewsbury.

  Claire sat back, disappointed as she read through Jessica’s subsequent stor
y.

  Birmingham University. 2015–2018. BA in History. Coincidentally – or not – the same degree as Kobi. Brief teacher’s course B.Ed and then to a small secondary school in Stoke. Married Jonah Kobi 2016 when she must have still been a student.

  Claire studied the list, searching for a connection between Kobi and Jessica prior to his being charged, but she could find no evidence to support this. It looked as though her idea was just that. An idea. Still she couldn’t shake it off. The years between 2008 and 2014 interested her. It was quite a gap for a family who seemed to have moved around fairly frequently. Something was missing.

  She spent the morning on the wards. By midday she had finished.

  Except Ilsa.

  Whom she found sitting on her bed, staring into space, looking blank but untroubled. Claire greeted her warily before sitting down. ‘How are you, Ilsa?’

  The blue eyes bored into hers looking deceitfully bland and innocent as she countered the question. ‘How do you think?’

  Claire didn’t respond.

  Ilsa gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll go to prison?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  That produced an ice-blue sheen in her eyes but Claire could see behind this she was thoughtful.

  ‘We have a statement claiming previous assaults against your husband.’

  Ilsa gave a cunning smile. ‘He’s my husband,’ she said very quietly. ‘I think you’ll find there is such a thing as spousal privilege. You can’t force him to give evidence against me. He kept the previous assaults a secret, didn’t he?’ She gave a calm, controlling smile. ‘In fact he might even say that I felt threatened. And only picked up the knife in self-defence.’

  For a few seconds Claire watched her patient, who seemed to be demonizing in front of her eyes. And then …

  Something clicked into place. The answer to a question.

  FORTY-NINE

  The rest of the day passed in frustration. There was no more word from John Robinson or DS Willard. Or Grant for that matter. Claire was thoughtful all the way home. As she let herself into the mercifully quiet house she was piecing together fragments of information.

  Tom and Shane had been in Hanley on the afternoon that Marvel had vanished.

  Tom thought his son had had an incestuous relationship with his half-sister.

  Shane thought his father had killed her and hidden her body.

  Dixie believed either her son or her husband had killed the girl. She didn’t know which so had distanced herself from them both.

  And Sorrel and Clarice possibly shared their mother’s doubts.

  All had wanted Kobi to be guilty.

  But she knew now that he wasn’t.

  And that was why the crime and the timing and the MO and everything else was different about Marvel’s disappearance. Because it was different.

  The house was eerily quiet that evening. The phone did not ring; there was no key in the door. It was a house of ghosts.

  She had trouble sleeping. She heard whispering in her ear, taunts and threats, promises and delusion. She tossed and turned, thumping her pillows into different shapes and in the end gave up.

  How could she prove it?

  Then she thought of the school register.

  Tuesday 29 October, 9 a.m.

  The first thing she did in the morning was to ring DS Willard and make her request. He listened without comment and she could sense his confusion.

  ‘I don’t get it, Claire,’ he said. ‘I just don’t get it. And it depends on a guess.’

  ‘Chase it up,’ she said. ‘Please.’ She felt compelled to add, ‘If I’m wrong, I’ll—’

  ‘If you’re about to say you’ll eat your hat may I point out that you don’t wear one.’

  ‘I’m about to buy one,’ she countered. ‘For my half-brother’s wedding.’

  ‘Right.’ And then he entered into the spirit of things. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of wearing a half-chewed hat to it.’

  ‘No.’ And at last she felt she could laugh because she understood.

  About the wedding, about Ilsa, about Marvel’s killer.

  Her mind focused on various phrases, one in particular. Marvel had no friends, according to Shane. But that day Marvel had been meeting a friend.

  She added to her list of questions. What had Kobi’s movements been on that November day? She searched through the notes Zed Willard had left but couldn’t find that one particular detail. In the initial investigation had no one asked him that simple question? And he hadn’t volunteered the information except when she had brought the subject up and he’d claimed to have been alone in his flat, watching television. She could pick holes in the original investigation. It had been sloppy. They had skated over Kobi’s precise work record, failed to ask even the most basic of questions. No wonder the CPS had not included Marvel’s disappearance in Kobi’s conviction. A smart defence would have thrown doubt into that conviction.

  And, as Kobi had been convicted and sentenced before Jessica had come on the scene they hadn’t looked too hard into her antecedents either.

  It was no wonder that when Tom Trustrom had made his appeal, Zed Willard had roped her in, hoping for some eureka moment with the help of psychiatry. And a timely confession from Kobi.

  She caught Shane on his mobile. His reluctance to speak to her again made his voice sullen and unfriendly. ‘I thought you were done with me.’

  ‘Almost,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m nearly there.’

  That was greeted with a silence which even over the phone sounded frosty but eventually he agreed this time to attend the hospital on the following morning.

  She needed to read his face when she passed on the allegation.

  Wednesday 30 October, 9.30 a.m.

  Shane arrived on time, looking awkward in a navy suit and silky red tie. He stood in the doorway, fidgeting with both hands and feet, the fingers weaving into one another, the feet tapping an impatient, nervous beat.

  He began with truculence. ‘I don’t know why you want to speak to me.’ She let the comment pass and he continued. ‘I don’t know anything about my sister’s disappearance.’ His eyes were anxious, his brows beetling together in a scowl. He glanced at the door and she read there a longing to escape.

  ‘You were in Hanley in the early evening the night your sister disappeared.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘Who …? How …?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who or how. Shane, I know you were only eighteen.’

  Shane Trustrom went white and then red to the tips of his ears.

  ‘Did you find her?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Did you see her?’

  He shook his head, the movement jerky. ‘I’d have said if I did.’

  She needed to handle this next subject delicately.

  ‘There is an allegation that you and your sister …’

  He quickly corrected her. ‘Half-sister.’

  ‘You and your half-sister were in some sort of … relationship?’

  Shane went chalk pale and tugged at his tie as though to give himself air to breathe. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who made that allegation?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Did you have intercourse with her?’

  ‘No. No. I never did. I didn’t.’

  She waited but he couldn’t speak.

  ‘Or were you smoking pot together?’

  He let out his breath in a sharp exhalation which gave her her answer. ‘Do you remember a girl called Jessica in school with your sister?’

  ‘Jessica? What’s she got to do with this unholy mess?’

  ‘Do you remember her?’

  He frowned. ‘There was a girl called Jessica but she was only at school for about a term.’

  ‘Can you remember her surname?’

  ‘No. She was a couple of years younger than me.’

  It fitted.

  ‘Jessica Wilson.’ She produced a photograph and he studied it.<
br />
  ‘Could be her.’ He looked up, a fresh-faced young man with his life ahead of him, she hoped. He grinned. ‘Hard to tell. I didn’t really know her.’

  ‘OK. Is there anything more you can tell me?’

  He shook his head. The door opened and he bolted. She heard his footsteps hurry along the corridor, shoes tapping on the floor, softer and softer until they were gone.

  FIFTY

  Next, she had to tackle Tom. But gently.

  And she began by telling him what she knew.

  ‘I know Marvel was not your daughter.’

  He bowed his head, closed his eyes and didn’t bother to try and deny it.

  ‘There’s something else,’ she said, to warn him. ‘A month or so after Marvel went missing Shane found this’ – she held out her hand – ‘in your car.’

  Tom opened his eyes with great effort. He took the trinket in his own hand, held it near his face.

  ‘Poor, silly little girl.’ His voice caught. ‘Never would have made a ballerina.’ She watched Tom who was still smiling as he looked at the charm. ‘She weren’t a bad kid. It’s just everything was stacked against her.’

  Claire watched for any sign of guilt or recognition but all she met was puzzlement.

  ‘I wonder how it got into my car.’ He looked up. ‘Have you asked Sorrel or Clarice if they’ve mislaid theirs?’

  ‘They haven’t.’

  She waited for Tom to put two and two together and then he did. ‘Did Shane think I had something to do with it?’ He managed to raise himself to a sitting position. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Try and put the blame on me when—’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘When what, Tom?’

  Tom was struggling to breathe. Yvonne reached for the oxygen cylinder propped up against the sofa. She turned it on and put the mask over his face, her own expression forbidding. And Claire didn’t miss the slight head shake.

  She waited while his breathing calmed down.