Sir Leon hadn’t objected to the marriage to protect his daughter from Hadda but to protect Hadda from his daughter, and by implication his wife.
So, not much. But it meant she’d needed to take a fresh look at what Wolf had actually written. And she had to admit that her own brief encounter with the two Ulphingstone women had left her with some sympathy for the old man’s point of view.
And now the clarity of her original interpretation and analysis had been brought into doubt. The whole thing began to resemble one of those drawings in which a slight change of perception turns a goose into a rabbit. It was all a matter of focus. Her initial perception had been of a paedophile in denial gradually coming to a horrified awareness of what he had done. But change that to an innocent man coming to a realization that his only hope of getting early release was by faking the process, and the whole thing made just as much sense.
She cast her memory back to her developing relationship with Hadda. Her delight when he’d given her the first piece of writing. She had taken his racy description of the events leading up to the accident as clear evidence that he was still in denial. She had never for a second considered the possibility that this might in fact be the plain truth.
And she had almost certainly let her scepticism show. She recalled the way he’d looked at her before producing his second piece, the description of waking from the coma.
She’d seen this as a definite step forward. And maybe this was exactly the way Hadda wanted her to see it. But only if her reaction to the first piece showed him there was no hope of convincing her he was innocent.
Once he’d taken this path there was no way back. He had played his part perfectly, written and spoken his lines in a way that persuaded her she was guiding him against his will to confront his Brocken spectre. Whereas all the time, he was leading and she was eagerly following . . .
She couldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t believe it. How could she, the professional, have been fooled by a . . . woodcutter! He’d surely have needed expert assistance as to which strings to pull . . .
Then she remembered finding a copy of Curing Souls in the bedroom at Birkstane, and the speed with which he’d removed it from her.
Why? A good reason would be that it was heavily annotated.
The bastard had used her own book to get inside her mind, her professional thought processes!
But why the hell was she so pissed off at the thought that this man she felt something for, even if she wasn’t yet sure what, might turn out to be innocent of the disgusting crime he’d been sent down for? Wouldn’t revelation of his innocence more than make up for the fact that he’d fooled her?
Or maybe of course he was simply even more cunning and manipulative than child molesters usually were.
Alva shook her head angrily.
She needed to put all that personal stuff out of her mind. She was a professional and she had a professional interest here. But even as she made the assertion, she knew she was not going to act professionally. That would mean taking her concerns to the proper authorities – the probation service and/or the police. And of course, if she had serious reason to believe a client was likely to commit a crime, she would have no choice.
But, she reassured herself, you don’t! If anything, you’re beginning to consider the possibility that a client may have been the object of a crime.
OK, she answered herself, then at least you ought to talk this over with someone whose informed judgment you respect.
Like who?
Her father would normally have been high on her list, but not in his present state. He’d already detected that something was worrying her. If once he got a sniff that what lay at the bottom of her problem was her inappropriate feeling for a convicted pederast . . .
No, Ike was out. Elvira was never in.
And not a colleague.
She knew only too well what another psychiatrist’s advice would be. Go to the authorities, get them to initiate a formal investigation. The trouble there was, whatever it produced in the long run, its first fruit would be the return of Hadda to custody. In her mind’s eye she saw him drinking his strong black coffee in the kitchen at Birkstane, logs crackling in the hearth across which Sneck lies, gently snoring, while outside the winter wind sends volleys of hail against the panes . . .
Jesus! She was thinking Christmas-card sentimentality now! But she knew she could not be responsible for dragging him away from that without better reason than she had so far.
Not so long ago she might have contemplated an off-the-record chat with Homewood, but having already experienced the irritatingly proprietary attitude probably spawned by his new domestic situation, she had no desire to invite him further down the road of intimacy.
And also there was still the nagging question of how he seemed to know what he couldn’t possibly know. She had gone over the exchange again and again and almost persuaded herself that she’d simply misinterpreted something quite insignificant.
Then an inner voice said, Just like all that stuff at Ulphingstone Castle? Right!
So who could she talk to?
One possibility remained and she was seeing him this afternoon!
At four o’clock precisely she rang the bell of Childs’s front door. As always, he greeted her with an ego-stroking delight.
‘Dr Ozigbo, hello. Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘And you too, Mr Childs,’ she said.
Would their relationship ever move on to a more casual form of address? she wondered. After more than two years, she doubted it, and in fact she didn’t mind. There was something pleasantly old fashioned in this friendly formality. It implied the closeness of equality without the dangers of intimacy, though to ask his advice in this instance might bring her perilously close to the borderline between the two.
‘Let’s go up to my study again,’ he said. ‘I always think the climb works up the appetite so well.’
On their way up the stairs, he said, ‘So how are things going back at work? Settled comfortably into the routine again, are you?’
She said, ‘Well, yes and no. Actually there’s something I’d really like your advice about, if you don’t mind me bringing my problems along to a Sunday tea-party.’
‘You interest me strangely,’ he said. ‘And one good turn deserves another. Now, here we are.’
They had reached the top landing and entered the study. On his desktop lay a pristine copy of Curing Souls.
‘Perhaps you would like to inscribe it while I get the tea,’ he suggested. ‘Then we can sit down together and mull over this problem of yours.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What would you like me to write in the book?’
‘Oh, something encouraging,’ he said vaguely. ‘I know he will be so delighted to have your signature and your support.’
She must have looked a little doubtful, for he smiled mischievously and added, ‘I daresay he will also be delighted to have my signature on the fat cheque I shall be enclosing with the volume.’
Alva smiled back at him and said, ‘I’m relieved to hear it. Universities are full of books, but hard cash is always in short supply.’
She sat down at the desk as he excused himself and headed back down the stairs.
There was a pen in a small jug that acted as a desk tidy. She picked it up and opened the book and tried to think of something witty to write.
She recalled a remark of R. D. Laing’s: Few books today are forgivable. Yes, that would do, followed by I hope you will find something to forgive in this one. Good luck and Happy Birthday!
She picked up the pen and started writing. Or at least tried to. The pen was dry. The only other writing implement in the tidy was a red pencil, which would hardly do.
Without thinking she pulled open the nearest drawer of the desk in search of a more suitable implement.
There were several pens in there. There was also a framed photograph.
She took it out and stared from it to t
he gap in the line of photos displayed on the wall, then back again.
It was a face she knew, though not like this.
She heard a distant clink of crockery on the stairs.
When the door opened, the desk drawer was shut and Alva was just putting the final flourish to her signature.
‘All done?’ said Childs, entering with the tea tray.
‘Yes, all done,’ she said brightly.
Too brightly? She hoped not. But she reckoned she’d done very well to answer him with even a semblance of normalcy while her mind was bubbling with the question: What the hell was John Childs doing with a photograph of the young Wolf Hadda hidden in his desk?
5
Davy McLucky was whistling as he turned into the quiet Chingford street where the Trapps’ cosy suburban villa was located. He hadn’t been too delighted when it turned out Hadda was serious in his suggestion that on his next trip to London he should stay with the solicitor, but it had turned out fine. The absence of alcohol apart, Ed and Doll were his kind of people, and the hip flask he always carried made up for that single deficiency.
But it wasn’t pleasurable anticipation of the warming cup of cocoa and large wedge of chocolate cake awaiting him that put the bounce in his step and the music on his lips, it was the memory of the evening he’d just spent with Morag Gray.
He’d started by coming clean, or at least as clean as he felt he could. She’d shown no surprise when he told her his real name and profession. They’d exchanged biographical details over a couple of drinks, and then they’d gone back to her flat where the exchange became more biological.
Now here he was, striding along the quiet suburban street with a lightness of heart he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager.
He reached the Trapps’ villa and turned in at the gate.
As he took the key out of his pocket and inserted it in the front door lock, he heard the sound of a footfall behind him. It had nothing of the menacing speed of attack, nevertheless he spun round, his forearms raised defensively.
‘Good evening, Mr Murray,’ said Alva Ozigbo. ‘Why am I not as surprised as I should be to see you here? Or is your sat-nav on the blink again?’
Doll Trapp’s reaction when she saw Alva following McLucky into the old-fashioned lounge where she and Ed Trapp were sitting reading the Sunday papers was to smile widely and say, ‘Dr Ozigbo! I was hoping you’d show up. Take a seat, dearie. Ed, you make us a cup of tea. Davy, why don’t you give Wolf a bell? See what he thinks, OK?’
Alva thought, Davy. There’d been a Scottish cop looking after Hadda in hospital. They had seemed to get on well. Davy McLucky. That was it: D.M.
The Scot followed Ed Trapp from the room.
Doll said, ‘I know you said it was natural, but I thought I’d give it a go anyway. What do you think?’
She shook her head to draw attention to her hair, whose pink tinge had been replaced by pale straw.
‘It’s very nice,’ said Alva.
‘Yeah, but now I see you again, it’s nothing close, is it? Hard to carry colours in your head. You buy a scarf thinking that’ll go with my blue jacket and you get home and it clashes like a skullcap in a mosque. Why’s it so hard, do you think?’
‘Perception’s an inexact thing. That’s what makes witness evidence so dodgy. Mrs Trapp, is that man David McLucky who used to be a detective constable in the Met?’
‘Now how on earth do you know that?’ said Doll.
‘Wolf wrote about him.’
‘Oh yes. And you’ve put two and two together. He said you were sharp.’
‘Not sharp enough, I’m beginning to think. Listen, Mrs Trapp –’
‘Doll. Call me Doll. I think we’re going to be friends. And leave the questions for a moment, Alva . . . I’ve got that right, I hope? Such a pretty name. How long does it take a man to make a pot of tea? No wonder it takes for ever to get a plumber. At last!’
The door opened and Ed Trapp entered carrying a tray that bore the tea things and a plateful of biscuits.
‘Just look at the way he’s arranged those biscuits,’ scolded Doll. ‘“Arranged”, did I say? I think he’s stood at one end of the kitchen and thrown them at the plate.’
But even as she scolded him, she was smiling affectionately at her husband. This was a very close-knit couple, guessed Alva.
She noted there were only two cups on the tray. As Doll started to pour the tea, Murray/McLucky came into the room.
He said, ‘It’s OK.’
‘Is that all? Come on, he must have said more than that!’ protested Doll.
‘Aye,’ said the Scot. ‘What he actually said was, you can either tie her up, gag her and keep her in the attic for a few weeks, or you can tell her anything she wants to know.’
‘That Wolf, he’s such a joker,’ said Doll.
Alva felt she wouldn’t have cared to be here if Doll hadn’t thought it was a joke.
‘Right, you two, off you go and watch some footie or something,’ the woman continued. ‘Me and Alva have got things to sort out.’
Obediently the two men left.
‘Milk? Sugar? Bikky?’ said Doll. ‘No? No wonder you keep your lovely figure. Too late for me.’
She added a couple of teaspoons of sugar to her tea and helped herself to a biscuit which she dipped into her cup.
‘So what made you decide to come round to see us?’ she said.
Because I want answers, thought Alva. And because I couldn’t think of anyone it’s safe to ask except you, and I’m not all that sure about you!
But a good psychiatrist never reveals the depths of her own ignorance. She’d impressed this woman with her identification of McLucky. Build on that.
She said, ‘I need to fill in some gaps in my files before I decide whether to go to the authorities or not.’
Doll gave her a wry grin as if she didn’t believe a word of it and said, ‘Then we have a problem, dearie, as I can’t tell you anything without your assurance that nothing you hear here will go any further. Like you were listening to one of your patients.’
Alva said, ‘If one of my patients told me he was planning to blow up Parliament, and I believed him, I’d have to tell someone.’
Doll let out a cockatoo screech of laughter and said, ‘Me, I’d ask the bugger if he wanted any help! But I take your point. Makes things difficult, though. Up to you, dearie.’
She ate another biscuit, regarding her guest expectantly.
Alva blanked her out and focused on her problem. With everything she did it seemed the gap between the professional and the personal was widening. Her reaction to Luke Hollins’s letter had started the rot. Instead of taking it straight to the probation service, she had shot off to Cumbria. All very unprofessional.
On the other hand, until very recently the authorities she was threatening to go to would have included Homewood and Childs, so what was she hesitating for? She’d returned to her flat from tea at Childs’s house, her mind sparking with speculation that she knew could lead nowhere except a restless night. She needed more information and the number of people she could approach in search of it was very limited. In fact, the only ones in reach were the Trapps.
Pointless wasting more time on futile thought. She’d dug out Doll’s card and headed straight for Chingford, arriving there just in time to see Murray/McLucky walking along the pavement towards the house.
She said, ‘If you tell me unequivocally that a crime is about to be committed, then I’ll have to speak. Otherwise you’ll get maximum discretion.’
Doll screwed up her face and said, ‘I suppose that’ll do to be going on with. All right, dearie, sitting comfortable? Then I’ll begin right at the beginning. Here’s how Ed and me first met Wolf. He was just sixteen and me, God help us, I was just turned thirty!’
When Doll fell silent twenty minutes later, Alva said, ‘I’d just like to make sure I’m not missing anything. You’re saying Ed met Wolf in his capacity as duty solicitor, guessed the boy was under ag
e, believed he was guilty as charged, knew he’d absconded from a Remand Centre and broken into his office . . . And despite this, Ed made no attempt to involve Social Services, got him off the charge, and covered up the absconding and the break-in. Then you took him into your home and found him a job. Have I got it right?’
‘Word perfect, ducks,’ said Doll. ‘Though, I got to admit, hearing you spell it out so precise, it does sound a bit weird.’
‘Weird!’ said Alva. ‘It sounds . . . I’m not sure how it sounds, except I’ve had patients whose fantasies came over as more down to earth than this.’
‘Yes, well, the thing is, you are missing something, dearie. Though the fact that you’re here at all makes me think maybe you’re not really missing it at all, you’re just not facing up to it. The thing is, Wolf was . . . is . . . very attractive, I mean, not just in the usual boy– girl way, though that too. But most people just like him! Even the cops put in a bit of effort with him. And Ed was full of him when he came back from their first meeting at the nick. I recall saying, “I hope you’re not on the turn, Ed!” He just laughed and said, “If you met the lad, you’d see what I mean.” Never thought I would meet him, of course. But I did. And I saw. This making any sense to you, dearie?’
It was. Alva thought of what she knew of Wolf’s childhood. A loner, yes. But through his choice, not other people’s exclusion.
In fact (why hadn’t she spotted this before?) it was the fact that he was so attractive that had permitted him to go his own way so merrily. The evidence was all there: his teachers cutting him an enormous amount of slack at school; the girls trying to date him; Sir Leon ruffling his hair and talking to him in wolf-language; the mountain rescue men taking him under their wing; Johnny Nutbrown not taking offence when this uncouth yokel punched him on the nose; Imogen pulling her clothes off on the mountain and inviting him to fuck her; and even after his disgrace, a hard-nosed cop like Davy McLucky finding something in this damaged paedophile to like and sympathize with. And Luke Hollins clearly took a more than pastoral interest in his new parishioner.
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