The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  Inching closer. I’m inching closer, she thought.

  And climbed up to the top floor.

  Heather was alone, sitting up in the bed. No sign of the baby. ‘He still hasn’t come,’ she said, patently furious. ‘He hasn’t come.’

  Claire glanced across the room. The windows didn’t open very far and there were bars across, inches apart. ‘Heather,’ she said, ‘where is the baby? Where is Caroline?’

  Claire looked at her patient, saw hatred and fury. In her anger, was it possible she had killed her own child? ‘Heather,’ she said, ‘where is Caroline? What have you done with her?’

  But Heather was too distracted to respond, too mad with rage. And her focus now was on her missing ‘lover’ not the child. ‘You’re keeping him away from me. You’re stopping him from coming. I hate you. You deserve to …’ and she launched herself at Claire.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ A miracle appearance. Edward Reakin was holding her back and two security officers had also arrived.

  ‘Where … is … Caroline?’ Claire repeated. She moved towards the window, which was open the regulation six inches. Even though common sense told her otherwise, half of her still feared what she would see. But there was nothing, no tiny flurry of pink blanket. No baby. Just the quadrangle, too enclosed for sunshine to reach, benches occupied by patients chatting, some of them smoking. Two of them looked up. At last, Heather answered her question. ‘One of the nurses has taken her for a bath.’

  She went outside to the nurses’ station.

  Claire moved along the corridor, her footsteps echoing. There were three bathrooms on this floor. One was occupied by an irate elderly lady, the other two were empty.

  The nurses were sitting at their station and responded blankly to her asking them where Caroline was. ‘With her mother.’

  ‘No, she’s not. She said that one of the nurses has taken her for a bath.’

  Both jumped to their feet and followed Claire back to Heather’s room. ‘Where is Caroline?’

  ‘I already said,’ she responded with dignity. ‘A nurse has taken her for a bath.’

  ‘Which nurse?’

  ‘The pretty one,’ she said dismissively. ‘The one with lovely red hair. She took her. And she’s giving her a bath now.’

  Claire’s heart almost stopped. There was no red-headed nurse on this ward. The only redhead she could think of was … unthinkable.

  In psychiatric hospitals nurses, in general, do not wear uniform. It is thought that it is more calming for the patient if the staff are casually dressed. But this has its downside. Who can tell who is staff and who a patient? So even if Heather recognized Riley Finch as the woman who had passed her in the corridor, she might have assumed that she was another nurse.

  She roped in the two security guards to search the ward as well as Edward. But this was all down to her. She should have taken better care. She’d recognized the threat when Riley’s eyes had drifted down to Heather’s pregnant belly. She’d seen the lust in her eyes, the naked desire. And done nothing. She’d almost foreseen this and not done enough to prevent it. And her fear was that no search would find little Caroline. Riley would have her until she grew bored.

  And then what? And who was in a position to stop it?

  A frantic search of the ward, Security darting into every room and then the entire hospital, revealed nothing. No sign of Riley. No sign of Caroline. Claire alerted the porters’ lodge but her fear was that it was too late, an almost literal shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. To make it worse, some of the patients picked up on the general panic and were wandering around, confused and anxious. And to top it all, in the general confusion, Arthur Connolly had disappeared too.

  Through all this, Heather sat centre stage, cross-legged on her bed, enjoying the drama and waiting for her hero, Charles, to find his baby daughter.

  Claire went down to the porters’ lodge and saw the CCTV, which was when her heart sank. There was a clear picture of Riley Finch walking out almost an hour before she’d arrived, pushing the pram, baby presumably inside.

  She rang the police.

  And waited.

  Inactivity can be the most exhausting way of spending time. Claire watched the hands of the clock crawl round to two p.m. Time for the clinic. She stood up – and sat back down again.

  She’d pushed Arthur Connolly’s disappearance to the back of her mind so far. But now she worried. What if he’d used the distraction of the baby’s disappearance to abscond? What if, in spite of the peace offerings of flowers, letters and cards, he was heading back towards his former home?

  This time, he’d do it properly.

  Wearily, she connected for the second time with the police. Gave them a description and suggested they send some officers round to Arthur’s former home and stay with his wife and son. Just in case …

  She reached her outpatient office but instead of calling in her first patient she bleeped Salena Urbi and asked her to take the clinic. She couldn’t concentrate on her work.

  But what else could she do?

  She headed back up to the ward to speak to Heather, who blamed her for everything.

  ‘Everything,’ she said viciously, jabbing her finger at Claire, ‘is your fault.’

  And Claire knew she was right. Her focus had been so much on Heather’s story, she’d lost her peripheral vision. Heather’s last words were ringing in her ears as she headed back to her office.

  ‘You get her back.’

  The afternoon dragged, time only filled by images that popped through Claire’s imagination. She could protect Lindsay and Saul, but an invisible baby held by an unpredictable psychopath?

  It was small consolation that this time, surely, Riley would be convicted?

  It wasn’t so much that Riley would deliberately harm Caroline. It would be an act of neglect. She would forget her or leave her or simply fail to protect her.

  And this was a newborn. A baby whose umbilical cord was still a vulnerable, open wound. Baby Caroline had so many needs. To be kept warm. To be fed. Regularly.

  The abduction of a baby from a so-called safe place, particularly when the safe place is part of the NHS, generates if not a mountain then a very large hill of paperwork.

  Slowly, Claire began writing the report that would soon be demanded of her.

  Critical event analysis. Even she could see where the failures had begun. She could point her finger at herself.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 4 August, 3.30 p.m.

  Arthur Connolly was a man on a mission. He walked with purpose, feeling determined. He could do this.

  His target was ahead. He kept her in his sights. Arthur Connolly knew exactly what he must do. He would wait for his opportunity, then strike.

  Lindsay was at home watching a soap on daytime television when the knock came. She justified sitting around all day, receiving flowers and attention, her son dancing in attendance – as his father had once done. She’d just been very, very poorly. Nearly died. She’d never be right again. Her podgy hand reached out for another chocolate. Lucky to be alive, the surgeons had said.

  Another visitor, she thought.

  3.32 p.m.

  Claire couldn’t resist ringing the police again only to hear the unwelcome news. No sign of baby Caroline. The forces were doing all they could to find her. Accusation soured their voices.

  If you’d done your job properly, Doctor.

  4 p.m.

  Just be patient, Arthur told himself. Your opportunity will come.

  4.45 p.m.

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Lindsay scoffed. ‘Come here? With Saul here?’

  ‘All the same,’ PC Stephanie Bridges said, ‘I’m instructed to stay here, with you.’

  Saul Connolly stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘There’s no need. I’m here.’

  But Stephanie Bridges was used to carrying out orders.

  5 p.m.

  When he needed to, Arthur Connolly could move very quickly. If
he didn’t do it now the opportunity would slide by and he would lose it. Arthur recognized good and evil. He’d been married to Lindsay. He knew spite, and this woman was spiteful. He watched her hover outside the door, glance at the baby then back at the door again, tempted by the bright lights and promise of a pub meal.

  The baby was ominously quiet.

  And that worried him.

  She put the brake on. Arthur sensed her moment of indecision, her attention away from the pram, foot inside the door.

  Arthur moved. He grabbed the baby. And then he ran again.

  A man on a mission.

  6 p.m.

  She couldn’t, wouldn’t go home. She needed to be here. In the centre of events. But there was nothing to do.

  6.10 p.m.

  The first sign of relief was a knock on the door. Rita came in, a big smile on her face. ‘Good news,’ she said. ‘They want you up on the ward.’

  Good news?

  Astrid met her in the corridor, a huge smile on her face too, her manner bright with relief. ‘Thank God,’ she said, unexpectedly adding, ‘for Arthur Connolly.’

  Claire pushed the inevitable enquiry to the back of her mind and could only manage. ‘Arthur?’

  ‘He was keeping his eye on her.’

  Claire’s eyes swivelled round.

  Arthur was standing in the centre of a crowd, patients, staff mingling, admiration on all their faces. And so the story came out in fragments as people interrupted.

  ‘I saw her go into the ladies’ room. I had a bad feeling.’ He gulped and continued. ‘Then she came out with …’ And he held up baby Caroline as though displaying a trophy. No one took the child away from him.

  ‘Instead of stopping her, I thought I’d do a bit of spying.’

  Claps from two of the dementia patients.

  ‘I followed her to the bus stop. And then she got on to the bus. She couldn’t manage the pram, so I helped her.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘She didn’t recognize me.’

  On cue, another patient asked, ‘Where was the bus going?’

  ‘All the way to Fenton.’ Arthur couldn’t resist a beam of pride. ‘She called on one of her friends. They went off to The Queen Victoria.’ Now he was frowning, speaking with a sort of focused intensity, trying to get his facts exactly right.

  ‘But …’ He looked down at Caroline. ‘It’s against the rules to have a baby inside the pub. Her friend went inside, left her with the pram. I waited.’ He grinned. ‘She didn’t notice me nearby. You see, no one ever notices me.’ For the first time, probably in his life, there was a touch of pride in his situation, bravado in his voice. ‘When she’d almost followed her in, I saw my opportunity. And then … I caught the bus back here with her.’ A couple of cheers were raised from the back row and Arthur bowed and handed baby Caroline back to her mother in a formal presentation.

  So Arthur turned from villain to hero with a bus journey to Fenton. Claire could hardly wipe the smile off her face.

  Astrid put her arm round her. ‘We’ve rung the police,’ she said. ‘They found Riley still in the pub, just as Arthur said. They’ve picked her up.’

  Friday, 7 August, 11 a.m.

  Claire looked at the contents of the envelope in disbelief. And sat frozen. She needed to think about this one. When she looked at her calendar, she realized that if nature had played its course, this would have been the day that the infant would first have made her appearance. Yet she’d already been born and abducted.

  It looked as though Caroline Krimble’s life was set to be eventful.

  On Wednesday, 12 August, Zed Willard rang. ‘We took dogs trained to sniff out cadavers to the Actons’ garden. We’ll be excavating over the next few weeks but …’ He cleared his throat. ‘He’s there, Claire. Not missing any more.’

  Ruth remained tight-lipped, giving nothing away even when Claire suggested that her brother had been the father of baby Eliza. Claire was very gentle with this traumatized woman. ‘There is a reason behind the ban on close relatives having children,’ she said. ‘Any genetic defect is magnified.’

  Ruth covered her face with her hands.

  ‘That’s possibly why Eliza died,’ Claire said, feeling sorry for her. ‘Not strictly speaking a cot death but the result of consanguinity.’

  Ruth shoulders shook with sobs. ‘He made us watch,’ she said. ‘He made us watch as he … And he …’ She couldn’t say any more except … ‘We had to dig.’

  ‘Robin’s grave?’

  Her head nodded and nodded. ‘And Heather had to marry Geoff. Geoff always had a thing for her. He was glad to rescue her from … Otherwise …’

  The trouble with a deep cover-up of lies and deceit is that sometimes it is the truth which remains buried.

  Thursday, 13 August, 10 a.m.

  Claire was in her office, fingering the phone and savouring the moment. This was one phone call she was looking forward to making. Charles would probably already have forgotten about the case. She had difficulty tracking him down, waiting for his secretary to find him. She obviously wasn’t number one on his caller list any more. His voice, on the other end, was suitably irritated. ‘I thought this beastly business was done and dusted.’

  ‘Not quite,’ she replied, still relishing the moment.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘I need to congratulate you.’

  Absolute silence on the other end. In the background, she could hear hospital sounds. Bleeps, trolleys being wheeled, muted conversation. No words. No what do you mean? Or what the hell are you on about? Nothing but a stony silence, waiting.

  ‘You have a lovely daughter.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Thursday, 20 August, 2 p.m.

  One week later, Heather, smug now, was cradling the child.

  ‘You should have believed me.’ She dropped a kiss on to her daughter’s pink forehead.

  Claire settled down in the chair by the window. ‘Believed you about what?’

  And again, Heather hid behind her fantasy. ‘He loves me, you know.’

  ‘Who? Mr Cartwright? Sam Maddox? Or is it Charles we’re talking about here?’

  Heather was silent but watchful, waiting.

  ‘Or do you mean Robin?’

  And Heather froze like a statue. Mouth opening and closing. No words came out. But her eyes held pure horror. ‘You know,’ she whispered.

  And Claire nodded.

  Heather touched her arm. ‘I loved him,’ she said. ‘He protected us, looked after us. I owed him my love. He paid a terrible price.’

  For once, Claire was stuck for words.

  She moved along the corridor.

  There was still Arthur to consider. He awaited sentence and this time around Claire had good reason to be optimistic, because he was a hero now. Last week she had stood up in court, noting the rapt attention the jury had given the video evidence of a woman wheeling a baby out through the archway of Greatbach Secure Psychiatric Hospital, Arthur Connolly creeping along behind her. She’d tuned to face the judge. ‘This man,’ she said, ‘is not a danger to society. He just wanted to be loved. Respected. And what did he have? He was despised, ridiculed by his wife and son.’

  At the back of the courtroom Claire had caught sight of Lindsay Connolly, eyes starting in fury at this turn of events. Was she to be robbed of her rights? Saul, by her side, inching away from her, watching the video evidence with eyes wide open as though he was seeing something he’d never seen before, his father acting with bravery. His father a hero.

  Claire had finished giving evidence. There was only one way this should go.

  ‘I respectfully request that Arthur Connolly be given a non-custodial sentence with the proviso that he is never allowed within fifty feet of his wife, Lindsay Connolly.’

  Wednesday, 26 August, 10 a.m.

  And then it was Riley’s turn. Again. And again, Claire could speak.

  ‘Riley has what is commonly called a narcissistic, sociopathic personality disorder. She wanted the baby so she too
k it. In my opinion, she is and will continue to be a danger to society at large because of a diminished or non-existent sense of empathy or responsibility for the victims of her actions.’

  And this time, Riley received her just deserts. She went to prison to try and lie and charm her way out of whatever mess she managed to generate inside.

  Zed Willard unearthed the remains of Robin Acton. The shattered bones and fractured skull told their own story. Easy enough to lay the murder at Bailey Acton’s door when his wife and two daughters turned Queen’s evidence. Deciding exactly where, on the scale of accessories, his wife and two daughters lay, would be another case for Claire to offer an opinion on. Ruth had been crushed, her sister had been damaged and Win Acton silenced by the brutality of events. It had only been through clinging on to the elaborate fables that Heather and her sister had constructed around them, that they’d protected themselves from the horror of their brother’s murder. Heather was calm, still focusing on her lover. Charles had not come to see her, she said, but his lawyers had been in touch.

  There was no argument even such a consummate liar as Charles Tissot can conjure up against incontrovertible DNA.

  Saturday, 29 August, 10 a.m.

  The postman had been. Just one envelope dropped on to the mat.

  She knew the writing. Scrawled, spidery letters, large and crawling across the page in a slow tarantella. Inside were a couple of short sentences.

  Maisie died last Thursday. The funeral’s set for Friday, 12 September, 11 o’clock at Carmountside. Please come.

  G