The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  FOURTEEN

  Claire started filling in her notes, stating all that had been said, finishing with her conclusion:

  It is possible that physical violence from her husband, Geoff, has translated to a rejection of his fatherhood and this has in turn led to substitute parenting furthered by erotomani. She can’t bear to think a man who was violent towards her also had sex, possibly under duress, with her and fathered her children.

  But … She sat back and half closed her eyes. What a huge word this was, the but … that you wait for after praise, knowing it will be tagged on, almost as an afterthought, but leaving the bitter taste of criticism in your mouth, and it is this bitter aftertaste that stays with you, not damning with faint praise. No, rather destroying it, erasing the memory of anything sweet that was said before. It is always the but … that you remember.

  We can search for the truth. It exists. It is out there, somewhere, sometimes buried deep under a pile of debris, tantalizingly difficult to find. Sometimes you have to scrabble over shards of half-forgotten memories or the pointed barbs of long-ago events dealt with and discarded. Dig deep, Claire. Dig deep. And then dig deeper. Because it is down there, somewhere. At the bottom of the well lies the real truth. She was reflective as she wrote.

  It is unusual for this circumstance to translate to erotomania, to find a substitute male role model. She stopped writing. Yes, it did happen, but in this case, three times? With three different men? Was she convinced that this was the true version? She continued writing. She sought out Charles Tissot, probably after the chance meeting at the bonfire party. Again, she stopped writing to think. Heather Krimble shows some signs of psychosis – inappropriate movements, particularly directed at the unborn child. But she has a firm conviction, shared by her sister, that she is speaking the truth. In her mind, men want her. She holds an absolute certainty that all men will fall under her spell. But there are troubling aspects of the case. Namely, two previous cot deaths and the punishment she appears to mete out to the unborn child manifested by banging on her abdomen hard enough to cause the foetus discomfort if not actual harm. She scrubbed out the final four words after a moment’s thought. So how do you stop that? Bandage her hands?

  She closed the file, mentally leaving it wide open and planning her next step.

  It was time to meet the man she had mentally registered as the Monster, the villain of the piece, the cause of this particular mayhem: Geoff Krimble, not Charles. She would ask Rita to invite him in.

  Pleased she was seeing a way forward, she could now focus on other responsibilities.

  5 p.m.

  She often met her registrar towards the end of the day to discuss cases. She was aware that her absorption with Heather had distracted her from her other responsibilities and possibly left too much to the rest of her team. Now she needed to catch up and check that all else was well.

  Salena Urbi, her registrar, was a beautiful Egyptian who wore her hijab with tantalizing elegance, gold earrings flashing against her dark skin. But her superficial beauty did nothing to detract from the fact that she was an experienced clinical forensic psychiatrist who had worked in many other countries. Claire felt lucky to have her. Besides her professional competence and vast experience, she also had a delightful manner and mischievous sense of humour, finding aspects of many cases that brought breadth and balance to her diagnoses. Claire was interested to hear her ‘take’ on the odd case of Heather Krimble.

  Hoping Salena might have some past experience in similar cases, Claire explained the situation and watched as she absorbed the facts without comment. Finally she turned her dark eyes with their finely shaped eyebrows towards her. ‘I’ve never encountered a case like this before. It sounds most unusual. And potentially very troublesome to Mr Tissot.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So what are you going to do next, Claire?’

  ‘Apart from interviewing Geoff Krimble, I thought I’d delve a little deeper into Heather’s previous allegations. See if I can get some clues there.’

  ‘The other two men?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The fathers, she claimed, of the babies who died in infancy?’ She looked concerned.

  ‘The pathologist found nothing at post-mortem,’ Claire reminded her.

  It didn’t erase the frown line from Salena’s normally smooth forehead. ‘Still worrying, though. Now she’s carrying another. And you say she’s hitting her abdomen?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘I did have one patient. A paranoid schizophrenic. I looked after her during her pregnancy. It was in Lille.’

  ‘Which only goes to show that medical histories are the same the world over.’

  Salena laughed. ‘Which is why we can get a job more or less anywhere.’

  ‘Yeah. And is why, as Laura’s off sick …’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Well … I don’t like the sound of it. Put it like that.’

  ‘Oh, dear. So who’s doing her work?’

  ‘To prove your point about medicine being the same the world over, an Aussie.’

  ‘Then maybe he has experience of erotomania.’

  ‘Maybe. But what about your pregnant schizophrenic? What happened there?’

  ‘She got worse during the pregnancy, claiming the baby was the Devil’s and that she must destroy it. She got hold of a knife and tried to excise it. Luckily the staff were vigilant, though she should never have accessed a knife in the first place. We didn’t want to sedate her in case it harmed the child. The stuff we use in psychiatry is pretty toxic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘We kept a very close eye on her and did an elective caesarean section at thirty weeks, then had the baby made a ward of court and subsequently adopted.’

  ‘So she didn’t actually harm the child?’

  Salena looked grim. ‘After the knife attempt, we didn’t give her the chance. We couldn’t risk it. She was observed twenty-four/seven.’

  Which gave Claire food for thought. ‘Thanks, Salena. I think you’ve just made up my mind for me. We’d better admit her as soon as possible.’

  ‘Here?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘You’ll get the community midwives in to see her?’

  ‘And there lies yet another problem.’

  ‘Ah.’ Salena still looked concerned. ‘I’m beginning to understand. Isn’t Charles Tissot’s ex-wife …?’ Her eyes widened and her voice tailed off.

  Claire nodded. ‘She’s the head of it.’

  ‘Won’t that be just a bit awkward?’

  ‘Awkward? Explosive, more like. I’m hoping that Rhoda Tissot will send a junior so she won’t be directly involved. And if she is, that her professionalism will kick in.’

  ‘A bit optimistic if you ask me. I’ve heard she’s fairly fiery.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And Charles Tissot himself?’

  ‘I’ve advised him to contact the MDU. He’s on a sticky wicket whatever.’

  Salena nodded. ‘He’ll be suspended?’

  ‘Maybe. They’ll certainly impose conditions on his continuing to practice. But considering Heather’s previous history they’ll probably ask me for a report before they take action.’

  Claire leaned back and took a sip of the coffee Rita had brought in for them.

  ‘Now tell me about the ward patients. What about Arthur Connolly and that devious little minx, Riley?’

  ‘Same as ever. They’ll both be coming up for review quite soon.’ Claire blew out a sigh of frustration and resignation. ‘Where Arthur will be found guilty of attempted murder and have a custodial sentence – not in my opinion the correct way to treat him. He’ll be bullied in prison, just as he was at home.’

  Salena nodded. ‘Except he won’t be able to take such violent action. Not a lot we can do there.’

  ‘No. And Riley? What do you think about her?’

  ‘She’s the one who should be locked up.’

  ‘I couldn�
��t agree more. She’s a potential danger to anyone who gets in the way of something she wants.’ Claire smiled. ‘But you try proving it.’

  ‘So.’ Salena smiled and looked a little more relaxed. ‘The law really is an ass?’

  Claire nodded, laughed and stood up. ‘Time I went home,’ she said.

  But home was an empty mausoleum. As she closed the front door behind her, the hallway seemed to echo its emptiness, the slam of the door reverberating and mocking her. She stood at the bottom of the handsome staircase, recalling Grant stripping gloss paint from it before staining and varnishing with, as she remembered, Golden Oak.

  Claire had done all the things you’re supposed to when a long-term relationship dies. She could tick them off on her fingers. She had joined a gym, taken up running, returned to cycling, which she loved, particularly the Stoke Ladies’ Cycle Club which went out on long rides most Sundays. She had been on a singles holiday to Venice. Big mistake that. Wandering the art galleries, the Guggenheim, St Mark’s Square, watching couples kissing on the gondolas. It had rubbed her single state in just that bit too much. She’d been glad to come home to unromantic Burslem. She had been on a couple of Internet dates, which had been an unmitigated disaster, and accepted three blind dates set up by well-meaning friends. But all the sparks were missing and reluctantly there had been no follow-ups. She had spent a few pleasant evenings with her colleague, Edward Reakin, the clinical psychologist. Pleasant, she reflected. Yes, she thought, pouring herself a glass of ice-cold Chablis straight from the fridge and sitting at the kitchen table, polished and stained in antique pine. Pleasant. That was the word. Pleasant. No sparks. No fireworks. No explosions. No Grant. She took big gulps of wine and reflected. No one measured up to him. Grant had been all sparks and fireworks. And unpredictability. Hot sex, warm lips, a voice that caressed and aroused.

  Shit, she said out loud, and tried to focus elsewhere, searching for the advantages in her single state. And now she was determined to maximize them, ticking them off on her fingers.

  She’d developed a much closer relationship with Adam, her half-brother, and Adele, his girlfriend. No, she admonished herself with a smile. Fiancée. They were due to be married in six months’ time, which would mean an uncomfortable and unhappy encounter with her mother. Her mother, who had hated Claire, the ‘Frog’, daughter of the Frenchman who had abandoned her, leaving her alone until David ‘Superhero’ Spencer had come along on his big white horse, married her and given her the perfect life and the perfect son, Adam. As a child, Claire had crawled into any hole she could to hide away from her mother, who so patently hated her, and spent long hours fantasizing about her father, whom she imagined as a cross between Eric Cantona and Maurice Chevalier. And one dark night, when her mother and stepfather had been downstairs watching a noisy television programme, Claire had crept into Adam’s room, a pillow in her hands.

  With malicious intent.

  Thankfully, intent had been all it was. She had looked down at the tiny baby whose big eyes stared up at her and she had felt guilty, a reinforcement of her mother’s pronunciation. Bad. Wicked.

  The Frog.

  She’d always wondered. Did he remember?

  FIFTEEN

  Friday, 26 June, 8.45 a.m.

  34/40

  She knew exactly what her next step should be. Move around the story, testing the water. Try and verify each little detail of Heather’s account. And one thing she needed to do was set in her mind where the boundary lay. Which meant, in turn, however reluctantly, talking to Charles Tissot again. Of course, she told herself, Heather’s story was fiction. But something was at its heart. Also, she had a professional duty to check that he was keeping the Medical Defence Union fully informed. This was potentially a dangerous situation for her as well as for him.

  She got hold of him fairly easily on his mobile. He had probably been waiting for this call and recognized her number.

  ‘Claire.’ She could hear tension in his voice even as he spoke her name. He started off creepy. ‘Thanks for calling. Have you …’

  She cut in, speaking more crisply than she’d meant. ‘I’ve spent some time with Heather and her sister.’

  He gave an uncomfortable bark of a laugh. ‘The Crazies. Nuts, aren’t they?’

  She responded warily. ‘It can be hard to separate fact from fiction, Charles. Particularly when they’re both suffering from the same illusion. Heather not only believes that you and she had sex in your car the night of the bonfire party, she is also absolutely convinced that you and she are in some sort of ongoing clandestine relationship. She is also convinced that the child she carries is the result of …’ here she hesitated, almost embarrassed, before plunging in to recount events, ‘… that quick shag in the back of your car the night of the party.’ Did he remember? She needed him to understand. ‘The dates do fit. Her sister is backing up the story.’

  He snorted. ‘Says she was there, does she?’

  ‘No,’ she responded carefully, ‘she just recalls that Heather went missing from the party, and when she returned seemed smug. Happy. On the surface, the facts fit. Right down to the detail.’

  ‘Hah.’ Even across the telephone, the laugh he gave sounded phoney, the response forced. A laugh extruded simply to convince her that this could not possibly be the truth. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  She moved on. ‘The MDU?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sounded impatient. ‘On my list.’

  ‘OK. Apart from these shared allegations, there are other factors that disturb me about her case. She seems to bang her abdomen as though punishing the child.’ She waited, giving him a chance to respond. Got nothing. ‘She could actually harm the foetus.’

  ‘Hmm.’ It was all he could manage. A see-if-I-care sort of dismissal.

  ‘Also, Charles, she wants to remain under your care.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘And her sister is in on the act, accepting Heather’s story without question.’

  She wished she could see him, read his face. Analyse his responses. Something here wasn’t right.

  ‘So what next?’ His tone was terse.

  ‘I’ve put her under the GP and the community midwives.’ She practically felt him wince.

  ‘Oh, thanks, Claire.’

  ‘I had no choice, Charles.’

  ‘Other than to expose this bitch of a nutcase to my vindictive and barking mad ex-wife.’

  The thought swam in to her mind. All the women who surrounded Charles Tissot were necessarily bitches, vindictive. Mad. How so?

  ‘And I will be admitting her as soon as I can arrange it.’

  ‘That’s good.’ His voice was heavy now, weighed down with the lead weights of accusation as though he had divined her thoughts.

  But his next sentence surprised her with its humility. ‘Claire.’ There was a note of desperation in his appeal. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  It was as though he’d shrunk, the balloon of self-confidence deflated. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ She kept her voice steady, hoping he could not hear the little warble of doubt which she tried to rectify with a hearty, ‘Charles, of course I do.’

  But his response was still the grumpy acceptance of a sulky teenager. ‘I suppose that’s something.’ He paused but couldn’t resist tacking on his mantra. ‘The girl’s obviously nuts.’

  She had to smile because Charles had reverted to Charles. And the smile translated into words. ‘Unfortunately, Charles, nuts isn’t in my repertoire of diagnoses.’ She had to prepare him for the weakness in her history. ‘Charles, there is some bad news.’ She quickly corrected. ‘Well, not bad. Just not quite so good.’

  ‘Hit me with it.’ His voice was gloomy.

  ‘Heather’s previous psychiatrist, Laura Hodgkins, is off sick, which robs us of a very important and detailed source of information on her previous history, as well as Laura’s professional support. I don’t know when she’ll return but it doesn’t s
eem like it’ll be any time soon. I have spoken to the locum but it isn’t the same as actually discussing the patient with a colleague who’s spent time with her, getting some weight behind the evidence with which to fight this case.’ She had to warn him. ‘Because it is going to be a fight to clear your name for certain. You know how blurred psychiatric diagnoses can be.’

  ‘So Laura Hodgkins is off?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Just my bloody luck,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘It doesn’t help things,’ she agreed.

  A pause settled between them, which he finally broke. ‘So where do we go from here?’ The gloom had intensified in his voice.

  She tried to inject some positivity into her response. ‘I’ll continue to see Heather and assess her mental state,’ she said briskly. ‘Admit her sooner if it becomes necessary, either for her or the baby’s health.’ She felt she must shine a ray of hope in his direction. ‘It is possible, Charles, that once she’s delivered and the baby proved to be her husband’s, her psychosis might recede.’ She avoided adding that equally it might worsen. She was trying to keep the conversation optimistic and cheerful. ‘I’ll try and find out from the locum what happened post-partum in the two previous pregnancies. For the moment, though, we’ll watch and wait. I’ll see her on a weekly basis, the midwives also, and …’ The warning had to come. ‘You shouldn’t see her, Charles. I’d get your registrar to monitor her and if it’s a male, warn him to have a chaperone at all times. And that chaperone can’t be her sister. The duo are potentially dangerous to any male professional. I’ll go ahead and put her under the community midwives’ care. And we’ll just hope that it isn’t Rhoda who attends her.’ She hesitated. ‘Charles, if she does decide to proceed to a formal complaint …’ She stopped. Right there, feeling possible consequences collide into her. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’d be more worried if she doesn’t decide to take it further.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘At the moment, she’s not vindictive. She’s convinced that you two are going to be setting up home together, happy as a pair of lovers.’

  ‘God.’ He sounded suitably appalled.