The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Sit down, Simon,’ she invited, thoughts completed and stuffed in a drawer. He sat down comfortably and now her office seemed less than half the size. He might be skinny but he still took up space. That, she thought, was a warning. Which she ignored.

  ‘Great idea of yours,’ she said. ‘And I do fancy a meal out. But first …’ She realized he was looking expectantly at her. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you.’ She found it difficult to begin. ‘I split up with my partner almost a year ago. I live on my own in quite a big house.’

  He blinked.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is you can have the top floor for a peppercorn rent.’ She laughed it off as a trivial, meaningless offer. ‘I’d hardly notice you were there. It’s newly decorated and is, I’m sure, not as horrible as the place you’re staying in.’ She waited for him to respond.

  ‘You really mean it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘really. It consists of two rooms and a bathroom.’ Now his eyes, behind the glasses, lit up.

  ‘Would you like to come and have a look and then, if you still fancy an Italian, we can walk into Burslem to the local trattoria. It’s really quite good.’

  ‘Wow, Claire …’ He touched her hand. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Just come and have a look at the place,’ she urged, ‘before you decide.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Fantastic. I’m tempted to kiss you.’

  Mmm, she thought. Maybe this would be a bit trickier than she’d anticipated.

  She shoved the thought aside. It would be months before she came to terms with the fact that there was one question she should have asked but didn’t. Is your wife intending to join you?

  He followed her back to Waterloo Road in his hire car and they drew up outside. Something in her felt proud of the lovely Victorian houses, built for pot-bank owners but many now sadly neglected. Burslem went through cycles, sometimes regenerating, at others decaying like a sugar-coated tooth.

  But as he climbed out of the car, long legs first, stood upright, looked up and said, ‘Wow,’ she knew it was a fait accompli.

  ‘Now this,’ he said, ‘is what I call a lovely traditional house. Is it Victorian?’

  ‘It is.’ And she felt that small burst of pride one feels when displaying your home and it is admired. As she looked at the solid Victorian walls, the bay windows (all neatly painted thanks to Mr Mudd), opened the front door to encaustic Minton tiles and ushered him in, she knew he would share her love of it. He stepped into the hall where she had a Victorian settle covered in tweed, above it a copy of a Stubbs – a shiny horse being led out of the stable by a well-dressed Regency man, hunting jacket over tight cream jodhpurs. ‘Here,’ she said, leading him straight up the wide stairway with shallow steps, holding on to the mahogany rail – carefully stripped and polished, again by Paul Mudd. She passed the first floor, her bedroom, spare bedroom and bathrooms and led him up to the second floor, which she had done little with so far apart from putting emulsion on the walls and installing the basics of furniture. Simon Bracknell’s eyes swept around the generous proportions of the two rooms, one with a double bed in it, the other containing a desk, bookcases and chairs, the pristine bathroom never actually used. And he started laughing, which changed his face into something different. A Jolly Swagman.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said, grinning and holding out his hand.

  ‘There’s no kitchen up here,’ she warned.

  His response was, ‘When can I move in?’

  She shrugged. ‘Whenever you like. I’ll sort you out with a key.’

  ‘Rent?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Oh, goodness. I hadn’t thought of that. How about you pay me what you gave for …’ she felt the smile steal across her face, ‘… the hovel.’

  They both laughed at that, Claire until tears ran down her cheeks, sooted with mascara. It was such a relief.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Let’s celebrate.’

  And they did. At the local Italian, a favourite of hers. A hundred strides from her own front door.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Monday, 3 August, 2 a.m.

  39/40

  Even though they thought they had prepared for all eventualities, Heather’s labour still took them by surprise, typically starting in the middle of the night. Luckily a vigilant nurse with obstetric experience called Trudy Winters was on the ball. She realized what was happening when Heather rang her bell to say her waters had broken and she was getting almost non-stop contractions. Trudy wasted no time, summoning an ambulance and ringing the maternity hospital. Heather was on her way to becoming a mother – for the third time.

  At the busy maternity unit there was no duty social worker and no psychiatric support. The midwives would be on their own. The labour ward was staffed by a trained midwife, a pupil midwife and a registrar who was so knackered he could hardly keep his eyes open and had only wanted to be called if there were complications.

  ‘I don’t know why I have to be here,’ he was grumbling. ‘Previous normal deliveries, third child. What’s the problem?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ the midwife snapped. ‘That is the problem. This is the third child. None of them, she claims, her husband’s. Three children. And how many of them are still alive?’ She peered at the head crowning to the accompaniment of Heather’s groans. ‘Only this one. Do you know where she’s been transferred from?’

  The registrar was well awake now. He shook his head.

  ‘Greatbach Secure Psychiatric Hospital.’

  He swivelled his head around to look up at her and she nodded.

  ‘That’s right.’

  After that she practically ignored him, moving round instead to the woman’s head. ‘Come on, Heather. Push.’

  The exhausted woman hardly looked at her but she grunted and the registrar saw the baby’s head crowning.

  And then it was gone. They had a bit of time yet.

  The midwife moved down to him to whisper in his ear. ‘Two cot deaths.’

  ‘Has the husband been called?’

  ‘The pupil’s on to it now.’

  With difficulty, Heather lifted her head from the pillow and spoke weakly. ‘Is Charles here? Has he come?’

  The doctor was puzzled. ‘I thought your husband’s name was Geoff.’

  Heather looked at him blankly. He tried a joke. ‘Not another …’ He read the midwife’s look correctly and added his voice to the chorus. ‘Come on. Push.’

  ‘Come on, Heather. Push. We’re nearly there.’

  The crown of the baby’s head loomed again, larger this time.

  The grunting eased and Heather gave one final push.

  The registrar controlled the head, checked the cord was not about to strangle the baby, eased out the shoulders and in a rush of liquor and blood, umbilical cord trailing, the baby was born.

  They were silent. There is something so magical about this moment. So overawing. So inspiring. So wonderful, beautiful, the wonder of a new life that even those who have witnessed it hundreds of times are still struck silent by its beauty. And then the baby was crying. ‘Wonderful,’ the midwife said, quite unashamed of her emotion and placing the child on Heather Krimble’s abdomen, an area that now looked like a deflated balloon. ‘You have a beautiful daughter.’ She clamped the cord and delivered the placenta to be weighed and inspected.

  Heather lifted her head. ‘Where’s Charles?’ she asked weakly. ‘He should be here by now.’

  It was the registrar who asked, ‘Who’s Charles?’

  Heather simpered. ‘You should know. He works here.’

  The registrar, whose name was Andrew Simpson, gave a swift, worried glance at the midwife. It was a look that dismissed Heather’s words. A look that said, Loopy! Let’s get her back to Greatbach asap!

  Heather sank back against the pillows, exhausted now. ‘I shall call her Caroline,’ she said, ‘after the dead princess.’

  Another look was exchanged between the midwife and the regist
rar. The urgency to return her to the psychiatric unit was intensifying.

  Heather’s voice was feeble now. ‘Is he here yet?’

  And when no one answered, she repeated the question. ‘Is he here yet?’

  The midwife tried to restore logic. ‘Do you mean your husband?’

  ‘No.’ The anger in her patient’s voice and face was palpable and unnerved them all. They were used to dealing with different problems. The midwife’s response, given the busy unit, understandably echoed the registrar’s. Get her back to Greatbach asap.

  After they’d taken a sample of cord blood. There was some dispute over the baby’s paternity.

  Monday, 3 August, 10 a.m.

  The first Claire knew that Heather had delivered was when she arrived on the ward. She’d planned to arrange her transfer to the maternity unit and labour induced anyway. Nature had beaten her. She peered into Heather’s room and saw the empty bed, a cot standing at its side in readiness. And someone had put a small pink rabbit and a neatly folded pink blanket, which told their own story. Following her glance, Astrid couldn’t prevent a smile spreading across her face like jam on a crumpet. ‘A little girl, Caroline.’ She screwed up her face. ‘After the dead princess.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the night.’

  ‘Mother and baby? How are they?’

  Astrid Carter shook her long dark hair. ‘Fit as fleas,’ she said. ‘They’re sending them back later today after the paediatrician’s had a look at the baby and taken some cord blood.’

  ‘And they’re both all right?’

  ‘Apparently fine.’ Astrid was a highly trained nurse who had worked at Broadmoor. Initially on her arrival she had appeared arrogant, a know-it-all who had looked down on the staff of what she had seen as a provincial hospital. But lately, and Claire suspected it was something to do with a mystery man named Tom, a subject which Astrid seemed to be able to slip into almost any conversation, Astrid had changed. Gone was the snooty nurse who looked down her nose at both colleagues and patients, replaced by a competent nurse with vast experience and the rough edges polished off to a shiny smooth surface. As they walked along the corridor back to the nurses’ station, she added, ‘But I think the maternity hospital is judging her condition on her safe delivery rather than her mental state.’ Her eyes were merry. ‘When they rang me to do a verbal handover there was mention of anguish at the fact that her husband, whose name is apparently Charles, wasn’t there to see his daughter being born.’

  ‘Shit,’ Claire said. ‘Was there any mention of Charles’s surname?’

  ‘No, luckily. So there was none of the prurient curiosity which would have come down the line if they had realized who Charles really was. They’ve sent some cord blood for a paternity test.’

  ‘Good. That should move things along. We need to get her back here quickly. Bleep me or ring Rita when she’s arrived,’ Claire said. ‘I want to see her, assess her, see how she is now the baby is born. She’ll need watching. Make sure that no harm comes to the baby. I think we’ll be more used to protecting our patients than the maternity unit.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Claire wandered back down the corridor, wondering. Would Caroline’s fate follow that of her brother and sister? At that moment, she didn’t even consider the possibility that the little girl was anything but Geoff Krimble’s daughter. She ought to speak to Charles, at least tell him that Heather had delivered and the DNA test already arranged. He’d already submitted one himself for comparison. With a bit of luck, his ordeal would soon be over.

  But she didn’t ring. At the back of her mind was a naughty thought: Let him suffer just that little bit longer.

  Simon Bracknell rang at noon and got straight to the point. ‘Claire, if it’s OK with you I wondered if I could move my things over this evening?’

  She chuckled. ‘You don’t waste much time, do you?’

  ‘I can’t wait to move in, Claire. That’s the truth.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine. I’ve had a spare key cut. Shall we meet outside at about six-ish? You remember the address?’

  ‘Of course. Great.’ His enthusiasm was infectious. ‘See you then. Maybe I can treat you to dinner?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she responded, laughing. ‘But I should really be treating you with the first week’s rent.’

  They both laughed at that and Claire put the phone down with a feeling of bonhomie. It was going to be OK. No strings attached. Just like her student days, she’d be living with a bloke. All platonic. She told herself she didn’t want complications. This suited her fine. He was a nice guy and she didn’t fancy him. He was a colleague, someone who would understand her point of view. Goodness, she thought. She might even be able to discuss cases with him, learn something from his upside-down geography.

  Yes. On the whole, she was looking forward to the evening.

  But events intervened. Snowballed.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, Zed Willard phoned. And he sounded puzzled. Once the niceties were over he too got straight to the point. ‘This Robin Acton, Claire. Did you say they lived at Brindley Ford?’

  ‘Yes. I have the address here somewhere. The Pike. Number eighteen.’

  ‘I thought that was what you said.’ He paused before plunging into his next point. ‘Do you know the place?’

  ‘No. I don’t know the area at all.’

  ‘I went out there, Claire, to take a look. The Pike is a row of old miners’ cottages. They’re quite rundown. They have large gardens and back on to a slag heap.’

  Now she was the one who was puzzled. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. There’s been nothing from him for eight years. No national insurance number. No bank account, no mobile phone. Nothing. He’s off the radar.’

  ‘He could be living rough, unemployed.’

  ‘Yes,’ DS Willard said. ‘That’s perfectly true. He could. But …’ He laughed. ‘Call me a suspicious copper if you like, but I’m curious as to why Mr and Mrs Acton didn’t report their son missing.’

  ‘I gather he left after a family row.’

  ‘Well, we’ll look into it. But Claire, if I were you, I’d be asking your patient about her brother who went missing. Find out from her or her sister the exact circumstances surrounding the last time they saw him.’

  ‘Right. I will.’

  When she’d put the phone down she sat and stared for a while. Like peering into a tin full of writhing worms, she could not separate head from tail. All she could see was a muddle. Then she started doodling, writing dates, years. Robin had been five years older than his sister. And now the questions were all about dates. When, exactly, had Eliza been born? When had Heather married Geoff Krimble? And when, exactly, had Robin disappeared?

  She didn’t have time to sit here and ask questions. She had work to do. But her mind was only half on it. The rest was trying to pick out the facts and set them in order.

  At four o’clock, Astrid bleeped her to say that Heather was back from the maternity hospital and was very disturbed.

  They didn’t have a specific mother and baby unit at Greatbach but they did have baby equipment for the odd cases of puerperal depression and psychosis. Anything from the post-baby blues to full-blown hallucinations.

  But as she made her way towards the ward where Heather had been readmitted, she had the feeling that she was holding the strands of something other than these false allegations against men in her hand. She had the facts but she was not connecting them properly.

  She could hear the baby’s loud wail right along the corridor. It was a lusty sound for a newborn. Echoes bouncing along the walls, bare except for a few framed black-and-white photographs of bottle kilns, pot-banks and potters in clay-stained aprons lined up and smiling for the cameras. She pushed the door open. Heather was sitting up on the bed, cooing over the tiny pink bundle in her arms, tears in her eyes. Before she registered Claire’s presence, she was sobbing. ‘He wasn’t there. He misse
d her birth. He wasn’t there. I thought he could deliver his own daughter.’

  Geoff was sitting on a chair by her side, head in hands, his attitude one of despair. He simply didn’t know what to do – cradle the baby, put his arm around his wife or simply sit there, frozen, immobile. He looked up at Claire’s entrance but his face was mournful, blank, hopeless.

  Heather’s expression changed when she realized it was Claire. She still looked pale and weary but furiously angry with her. ‘Someone,’ she said, jabbing the air with her index finger, ‘is keeping Charles from me. You …’ accompanied by another jab, ‘… you are conspiring to prevent him from seeing our beautiful child.’

  Geoff didn’t even bother lifting his head but his shoulders gave a little shake. When he looked at Claire, she knew he wanted to talk. At last. She caught his eye and nodded.

  But her concern was primarily for the baby. Heather was clutching the neonate, holding it against her breast. But the baby wasn’t sucking. Or even fixed on the nipple; it was squashed against the engorged bosom. Heather was not focusing down with love at the infant but was glaring at her. ‘He hasn’t even seen her yet,’ she said, fury making her eyes round and bright. She was now gripping the baby’s head. The baby’s soft little head with its two tiny fontanelles, protected during delivery by the registrar’s guiding hand.

  By Claire’s side, Astrid moved forward and held her hands out. ‘Be careful, Heather,’ she said in a gentle tone Claire had never heard her use before. ‘You’ll hurt the baby.’

  ‘But I’m feeding her,’ Heather said, though patently she was nearer to suffocating the child. ‘She’ll die if she doesn’t drink … my milk,’ she continued, looking first at Astrid and then, longer, at Claire.

  Without protest or comment, Geoff left the room.

  Claire responded. ‘That’s true, Heather, but she’s a newborn. And tiny little babies are often a bit slow to take to the breast. You just wait. Just wait and she’ll be fine.’

  But Astrid’s look of alarm mirrored her own feelings. This baby needed protection.