The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  Kate made the customary enquiry about the journey. Mrs Rayner said, ‘I had a window seat with no children or obsessive squawkers on their mobiles. The bacon sandwich from the refreshment car was fresh and I enjoyed the scenery. That for me is a good journey.’

  They didn’t speak of Shirley, now Sharon, on the drive, although Mrs Rayner asked about the Manor and the people who worked there, perhaps to put herself in the picture. Kate guessed that she was saving the essentials until she was with Dalgliesh; there was no point, and there might be misunderstanding, in saying things twice.

  In the Old Police Cottage Mrs Rayner, welcomed by Dalgliesh, declined the offer of coffee and asked for tea, which Kate made. Benton had arrived and the four of them sat round the low table in front of the fire. Dalgliesh, who had Rhoda Gradwyn’s file in front of him, briefly explained how the team had come to know of Sharon’s real identity. He handed the file to Mrs Rayner, who examined the picture of Lucy’s battered face without comment. After a few minutes’ scrutiny she closed the file and handed it back to Dalgliesh.

  She said, ‘It would be interesting to find out how Rhoda Gradwyn managed to get hold of some of this material, but as she’s dead there seems little point in instituting an enquiry. Anyway, that won’t be for me to do. Certainly we’ve had no instances of anything about Sharon being published and there was a legal prohibition when she was a minor.’

  Dalgliesh asked, ‘She didn’t notify you of her change of job and address?’

  ‘No. She should have done, of course, and I should have been in touch before now with the retirement home. I last met her by arrangement ten months ago when she was still there. She must have already decided to move. Her excuse will probably be that she didn’t want to tell me and saw no need. My excuse, less valid, is the usual one: a too-heavy workload and the reorganisation following the splitting of Home Office responsibilities. In common parlance, Sharon fell through the net.’

  Falling Through the Net, thought Dalgliesh, would be a perfect title for a contemporary novel. He said, ‘You had no particular anxiety about her?’

  ‘None in the sense of seeing her as a public danger. She wouldn’t have been released if the Parole Board hadn’t been satisfied that she wasn’t a danger to herself or others. She was no trouble when she was in Moorfield House, and has been none since release. If I had anxiety – indeed, still have – it’s about finding a satisfying and suitable job for her, helping her to make a life for herself. She has always resisted taking any form of training. The job at the retirement home wasn’t a long-term solution. She should be with people of her own age. But I’m not here to discuss Sharon’s future. I can see that she presents a problem for your investigation. Wherever she goes we’ll ensure she’s available if you wish to question her. Has she been co-operating so far?’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘She hasn’t been a problem. At present we have no prime suspect.’

  ‘Well, obviously she can’t stay here. I’ll make arrangements for her to go to a hostel until we can arrange something more permanent. I hope to be able to send someone for her in three days’ time. Of course I’ll keep in touch.’

  Kate asked, ‘Has she ever expressed remorse for what she did?’

  ‘No, and that has been a problem. She only repeats that she wasn’t sorry at the time and what was the point of being sorry afterwards just because you’ve been found out.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘There’s a certain honesty in that. Shall we see her now? Kate, would you find her please and bring her here.’

  They were kept waiting for Kate to return with Sharon and when, after fifteen minutes, they arrived, the reason for the delay was apparent. Sharon had taken trouble over her appearance. A skirt and jumper had been substituted for her working overall, her hair had been brushed to shininess and she was wearing lipstick. There was an immense gilt earring in each ear. She came in belligerently but with a certain wariness and took a seat opposite Dalgliesh. Mrs Rayner took a chair beside her, an indication, Kate thought, of where her professional concern and loyalty lay. She herself sat beside Dalgliesh, and Benton, notebook open, sat close to the door.

  On entering the room Sharon had shown no surprise at seeing Mrs Rayner. Now, fixing her eyes on her, she said without apparent resentment, ‘I thought you’d be along sooner or later.’

  ‘It would have been sooner, Sharon, if you’d told me about your change of job and Miss Gradwyn’s death – as, of course, you should have.’

  ‘Well I was going to, but fat chance with the cops all over the house and everyone watching me. If they saw me phone they’d ask why. Anyway, she was only killed on Friday night.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now and there are a number of things we need to talk about in private, but first of all Commander Dalgliesh has some questions and I want you to promise to answer them truthfully and in full. This is important, Sharon.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘You have the right, Miss Bateman, to ask for a solicitor to be present if you think it necessary.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why would I want a solicitor? I haven’t done anything wrong. Anyway, Mrs Rayner’s here. She’ll see there’s no funny business. And I told you everything I know when we were in the library on Saturday.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Not all. You didn’t say then that you left the Manor on Friday night. We now know that you did. You went out to meet someone at about midnight, and we know who it was. We’ve spoken to Mr Collinsby.’

  And now there was a change. Sharon started from her chair, then sat back and clasped the edge of the table. Her face flushed and the deceptively mild eyes widened and seemed to Kate to darken into pools of anger.

  ‘You can’t pin it on Stephen! He never killed that woman. He wouldn’t kill anyone. He’s good and he’s kind – and I love him! We’re going to get married.’

  Mrs Rayner said, her voice gentle, ‘That isn’t possible, Sharon, and you know it isn’t. Mr Collinsby is already married and has a child. I think in asking him to come back into your life you were acting out a fantasy, a dream. Now we have to face reality.’

  Sharon looked at Dalgliesh, who said, ‘How did you discover where Mr Collinsby was?’

  ‘Saw him on TV, didn’t I? I was watching it in my room after dinner. I just turned it on and I saw him. That’s why I kept on watching. It was a boring programme about education but I saw Stephen and I heard his voice, and he was just the same, only older. The programme said how he’d changed this school, so I wrote down the name and that’s where I sent the letter. He never replied to the first one, so I sent another and told him he’d better meet me. It was important.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Did you make threats – either he met you or you’d tell someone that he’d lodged with your family and had known both you and your sister? Had he harmed either of you?’

  ‘He didn’t do any harm to Lucy. He’s not one of them paedophiles, if that’s what you’re thinking. He loved her. They were always reading together up in his room or going out for treats. She liked being with him, but she didn’t care about him. She just liked the treats. And she only went up to his room because that was better than staying in the kitchen with me and Gran. Gran was always picking on us. Lucy said she was bored with Stephen but I cared about him. I loved him. I’ve always loved him. I never thought I’d see him again but now he’s back in my life. I want to be with him. I know I can make him happy.’

  Kate wondered if either Dalgliesh or Mrs Rayner would mention Lucy’s murder. Neither did. Instead Dalgliesh asked, ‘So you arranged for Mr Collinsby to meet you at the parking space for the stones. I want you to tell me exactly what happened and what passed between you.’

  ‘You said you’d seen him. He must’ve told you what happened. I don’t see why I should have to go over it all again. Nothing happened. He said he was married but he was going to talk to his wife and ask for a divorce. And then I went back into the house and he drove away.’

  Dalgliesh asked, ‘And that was all?’

  ‘Well, we weren’t
going to sit in the car all night, were we? I just sat there beside him for a bit but we never kissed or anything like that. You don’t have to kiss when you’re really in love. I knew he was speaking the truth. I knew he loved me. So after a time I got out and went back to the house.’

  ‘Did he go back with you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Why would he? I knew my way, didn’t I? Anyway, he wanted to be off, I could tell that.’

  ‘Did he at any time mention Rhoda Gradwyn?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. Why would he talk about her? He never met her.’

  ‘Did you give him keys to the Manor?’

  And now she was suddenly angry again. ‘No, no, no! He never asked for the keys. Why would he want them? He never went near the place. You’re trying to pin murder on him because you’re protecting all the others – Mr Chandler-Powell, Sister Holland, Miss Cressett – all of them. You’re trying to pin it all on Stephen and me.’

  Dalgliesh said quietly, ‘We’re not here to pin this crime on the innocent. Our job is to find out who’s guilty. The innocent have nothing to fear. But Mr Collinsby may well be in trouble if the story about you becomes known. I think you understand what I mean. We don’t live in a kind world and people might very easily misinterpret the friendship between him and your sister.’

  ‘Well, she’s dead, isn’t she? What can they prove now?’

  Mrs Rayner broke her silence. She said, ‘They can’t prove anything, Sharon, but gossip and rumour don’t rely on truth. I think when Mr Dalgliesh has finished questioning you we’d better have a talk about your future after this terrible experience. You’ve done very well so far, Sharon, but I think it may be time to move on.’ She turned to Dalgliesh. ‘Could I have the use of a room here for a time, if you’ve finished?’

  ‘Of course. It’s straight across the hall.’

  Sharon said, ‘All right. I’m sick of the cops anyway. Sick of their questions, sick of their stupid faces. Sick of this place. I don’t see why I can’t leave right away. I could come with you now.’

  Mrs Rayner had already got up. ‘I don’t think that will be possible immediately, Sharon, but we’ll certainly work on it.’ She turned to Dalgliesh. ‘Thank you for the use of the room. I don’t think Sharon and I will need it for long.’

  They didn’t, but the forty-five minutes or so which passed before they reappeared seemed long to Kate. Sharon, who was no longer truculent, said goodbye to Mrs Rayner and meekly enough returned to the Manor with Benton. As the gates were unlocked by the security guard, Benton said, ‘Mrs Rayner seemed a very nice person.’

  ‘Oh she’s all right. I’d have been in touch with her earlier if you lot hadn’t been watching me like a cat with a mouse. She’s going to find a place for me so I’ll be out of here soon. In the meantime, you lay off Stephen. I wish I’d never called him to this bloody place.’

  In the interview room Mrs Rayner put on her jacket and took up her bag. She said, ‘It’s unfortunate that this is happening. She was doing very well at the geriatric unit, but it was reasonable for her to want a job with younger people. The old patients liked her, though. They spoilt her a bit, I imagine. But it’s time she got some proper training and settled into something with a future. I hope to find a place for her fairly soon where I think she’ll be happy to spend a few weeks until we can settle the next move. And she may need psychiatric help. Obviously she’s in denial about Stephen Collinsby. But if you’re asking me whether she killed Rhoda Gradwyn – which of course you aren’t – I’d say it’s extremely unlikely. I would say impossible, except that one can never use that word about anyone.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘The fact that she’s here, and with her record, is a complication.’

  ‘I can see that. Unless you get a confession it will be difficult to justify arresting anyone else. But like most murderers, hers was that one act.’

  Kate said, ‘She’s managed to do some appalling harm in her short life. A child murdered and a good man’s job and future at risk. It’s hard to look at her without seeing an image of that smashed face superimposed on hers.’

  Mrs Rayner said, ‘The anger of a child can be terrible. If an out-of-control four-year-old had a gun and the strength to use it, how many families would be left standing?’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘Lucy was apparently a lovely endearing little girl.’

  ‘Possibly to other people. Not perhaps to Sharon.’

  Within minutes she was ready to leave and Kate drove her to Wareham station. On the way they spoke from time to time about Dorset and the countryside through which they were passing. But Mrs Rayner didn’t mention Sharon’s name, and nor did Kate. Kate had decided that it would be both polite and sensible to wait with Mrs Rayner until the train had arrived and she was safely on her way. It wasn’t until it was approaching the platform that her companion spoke.

  She said, ‘Don’t worry about Stephen Collinsby. Sharon will be looked after and given the help she needs, and he won’t be harmed.’

  6

  Candace Westhall came into the front room of the Old Police Cottage in a jacket and scarf and wearing her gardening gloves. She seated herself, then took off her gloves and placed them, large and mud caked, on the table between herself and Dalgliesh like an allegorical challenge. The meaning, if crude, was plain. She had been called from a necessary job once again to answer unnecessary questions.

  Her antagonism was palpable and he knew that it was shared, if less openly, by most of his suspects. This he expected and in part understood. At first he and his team were awaited and greeted with relief. Action would be taken, the case cleared up, the horror which was also an embarrassment would be salved, the innocent vindicated, the guilty – probably a stranger whose fate could cause no distress – would be arrested and dealt with. Law, reason and order would replace the contaminating disorder of murder. But there had been no arrest and no sign of one. It was still early days, but for the small company at the Manor there was no foreseeable end to his presence or to his questioning. He understood their growing resentment because he had once experienced it when he had discovered the murdered body of a young woman on a Suffolk beach. The crime was not on his patch and another investigating officer had taken over. There had been no question of his being regarded as a serious suspect, but the police questioning had been detailed, repetitive and, it seemed to him, unnecessarily intrusive. An interrogation was uncomfortably like a mental violation.

  He said, ‘In 2002 Rhoda Gradwyn wrote an article for the Paternoster Review dealing with plagiarism in which she attacked a young writer, Annabel Skelton, who subsequently took her own life. What was your relationship with Annabel Skelton?’

  She met his eyes, hers cold with dislike and, he thought, contempt. There was a brief silence in which the antagonism crackled from her like an electric current. Without altering her gaze, she said, ‘Annabel Skelton was a dear friend. I would say I loved her except that you would misinterpret a relationship which I doubt I can make you understand. All friendships seem to be defined now in terms of sexuality. She was my pupil but her talent was for writing, not Classics. I encouraged her to complete her first novel and to submit it for publication.’

  ‘Did you know at the time that parts of it had been plagiarised from an earlier work?’

  ‘Are you asking me, Commander, whether she told me?’

  ‘No, Miss Westhall, I’m asking whether you knew.’

  ‘I didn’t, not until I read Gradwyn’s article.’

  Kate intervened. ‘It must have surprised and distressed you.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, both of those things.’

  Dalgliesh asked, ‘Did you take any action – see Rhoda Gradwyn, write to protest either to her or to the Paternoster Review?’

  ‘I saw Gradwyn. We met briefly in her agent’s office at her request. It was a mistake. She was, of course, totally unrepentant. I prefer not to discuss the details of that encounter. I didn’t know at the time that Annabel was already dead. She hanged herself three d
ays after the Paternoster Review appeared.’

  ‘So you didn’t have an opportunity to see her, ask for an explanation? I’m sorry if this is painful for you.’

  ‘Surely not too sorry, Commander. Let there be honesty between us. Like Rhoda Gradwyn, you’re merely doing your distasteful job. I tried to get in touch but Annabel wouldn’t see me, the door locked, the phone unplugged. I’d wasted time with Gradwyn when I might have succeeded in seeing her. The day after her death I received a postcard. There were only eight words and no signature. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I love you.’

  There was a silence, then she said, ‘The plagiarism was the least important part of a novel which showed extraordinary promise. But I think Annabel realised that she would never write another and for her that was death. And there was the humiliation. That, too, was more than she could bear.’

  ‘Did you hold Rhoda Gradwyn responsible?’

  ‘She was responsible. She murdered my friend. As I suppose that wasn’t her intention there would be no hope of legal redress. But I didn’t take private revenge after five years. Hatred doesn’t die but it loses some of its power. It’s like an infection in the blood, never completely lost, liable to flare up unexpectedly but its fever becoming less debilitating, less acutely painful with the passing years. I’m left with regret and a lasting sadness. I didn’t kill Rhoda Gradwyn but I can’t feel even a minute’s regret that she’s dead. Does that satisfy the question you were about to ask, Commander?’

  ‘You say, Miss Westhall, that you didn’t kill Rhoda Gradwyn. Do you know who did?’

  ‘I do not. And if I did, Commander, I think it unlikely that I would tell you.’

  She rose from the table to go. Neither Dalgliesh nor Kate made a move to stop her.

  7

  In the three days following Rhoda Gradwyn’s murder, Lettie was struck by how briefly death is allowed to interfere with life. The dead, however they die, are tidied away with decent speed to their designated place, a tray in a hospital mortuary, the undertaker’s embalming room, the pathologist’s table. The doctor may not come when called; the undertaker always does. Meals, however sparse or unconventional, are prepared and eaten, post arrives, telephones ring, bills have to be paid, official forms filled in. Those who mourn, as she in her time had mourned, move like automata into a shadow world in which nothing is real or familiar or seemingly ever will be again. But even they speak, attempt to sleep, raise untasting food to their mouths, continue as if by rote to play their destined part in a drama in which all the other characters seem familiar with their roles.