Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  She sank further into thought, moving beyond her patient. There is nothing that rubs in the single state more than an invitation to a wedding. She allowed herself a minute’s pity before reading the card through again and wondering why he had suggested she be invited. She half closed her eyes, blanking out the room and imagining the conversation: Jerome saying, mocking smile on his face, when asked by his future in-laws what family to invite, saying, with a mournful face, that he had no family. Barclay was good at faces. He could mimic any emotion as well as if he’d been to acting school, because it was that – an act. An expression applied to his face, a tear as fake and obtrusive as a painted Pierrot’s. But convincing for all that. She could imagine his face when he said that his mother and father were both dead, his only sibling too. It would invoke pity. Misplaced. Claire believed he was responsible for all three deaths: his brother’s ‘cot death’, his father from poorly controlled insulin-dependent diabetes (how easy to tinker with insulin), and finally, last to go, his sad, devoted mother from a presumed overdose. But all Jerome would say when challenged about the poor life expectancy in his family was that he was the victim here. ‘Gosh, Claire,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve lost everybody I ever loved.’ With his nuptials approaching, the phrase had a sinister resonance. And Barclay didn’t ‘do’ love.

  And to prove that? There had been no grief, only challenging merriment in his tone. And why had his eyes sparkled at such tragedy?

  Hah, she thought, suddenly savage, hating him not only for the crimes but for the slimy way he had slipped through any attempt to prove it. Victim? I don’t think so.

  She fingered the card. There was a kernel of truth in her imagined conversation. Family members to invite to the wedding from the Barclay side were sparse. She recalled now that he had an aunt who lived somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, but she was labelled as ‘peculiar’. Claire wondered whether the peculiar aunt had been invited. She thought she had also heard mention of a cousin, but knew no more details. No names for either.

  And so, when asked who he would like to invite to the wedding, she could just picture it. Jerome would have said. ‘My psychiatrist.’ Pulling her out of the hat like a true psychopath. Events, acquaintances, anything you and I would hide beneath the carpet, they hang out on the washing line to blow in the wind. Displayed for all to see and make of what they will, taking pleasure in the puzzled reaction.

  ‘Her name’s Claire,’ he would have continued. ‘Invite her to the wedding.’

  Then something else registered and she realized why the invitation chilled her. It had been sent to her private address, not to the hospital. It hadn’t even been redirected but had come straight here. Here, where she was vulnerable, and did not have the protection that Greatbach provided. She could not hide behind the security and numerous panic buttons, the locks and keys and CCTV everywhere, the eye of the porters watching every move. No. This had dropped here on to the mat, into the heart of her private existence, straight into a house with too many empty rooms where she now lived alone with no one to protect her. Not even Grant.

  Though – and she smiled here – Grant wouldn’t have been much protection. He hadn’t exactly been the chivalrous knight-in-shining-armour type. He was the sort to let a mouse out of the trap because he was gentle and couldn’t bear suffering. He wouldn’t squash moths or spiders or use fly spray, but tried to catch them in his hand and let them free, out of the window. He had had a gentleness belied by his looks. Again she smiled. He looked like Blackbeard the pirate. A shock of thick dark curly hair, merry brown eyes, and something of the blackguard about him.

  She smiled again. Grant had always had that capacity, to make her smile.

  Her eyes returned to the card. She needed to make a decision. She either went or she didn’t. But now she had invoked Barclay he stood before her, his face bland, as usual, giving no hint of the weird and complicated person that hid behind it.

  During consultations Barclay had only really had the one facial expression – vaguely interested, polite and impassive. He only acted when he needed to. On that first meeting she had wondered why Heidi Faro, her predecessor, had singled him out for such attention. She recalled the precise words and phrases she herself had written in his notes.

  An unremarkable-looking guy – of medium height, around five nine, five ten, medium build. Slightly pale skin, medium-brown hair, cut neat and short.

  The words bored into her mind exactly, every phrase, every adjective. She could remember his clothes. He was neatly dressed. Never wore anything that would draw attention to him. He was bland, would melt easily into the background. Useful.

  Loose-fitting grey chinos and a cream sweater, sleeves rolled up to expose sinewy forearms.

  Most of all she recalled his scent. Sometimes in her sleep she would smell it and wonder why such a pleasant scent made her feel uneasy.

  He smelt vaguely of cinnamon, as though he’d just drunk a cappuccino.

  And, in particular, as her image flickered, she would recall his eyes. Always an important sign for a psychiatrist. It is hard to fake the truth that lies behind the eyes.

  His eye contact was good. Forthright and confident. Possibly arrogant.

  Psychopaths blink less frequently than normal people. They don’t blink because they lack empathy, and it is empathy that makes us blink. If you doubt this, stare at a cat.

  And she remembered his smile, slightly supercilious, as though he knew something she did not.

  She looked back at the invitation and knew that, as he had almost certainly anticipated, she had made her decision. She was going to accept. Spy out the land, make her own mind up. Without wasting any more time, she sat down and wrote her acceptance.

  Wriggling through the back of her mind was a worm of an idea. It was time she did something she should have done long ago.

  Claire Roget and partner will be delighted to attend the wedding of Roxanne and Jerome on Sunday 5 October at 3 p.m. at The Moat House, Acton Trussell, Staffordshire.

  Done. She felt better already. Nothing like coming to a decision. She spent half an hour sweating it out on the rowing machine which Grant had installed in the basement. Then she watched the News Channel, had a long soak in the bath, wrapped herself up in her bathrobe, watched a romcom and finally went to bed.

  Triumphantly ticking another day off.

  She still hadn’t contacted Grant.

  She left the envelope on the mantelpiece three days before posting her acceptance. He would get it on Monday morning.

  FOUR

  Monday, 8 September, 6 p.m.

  She had just let herself in after an exhausting day. The phone was ringing. She was tempted to let it go through to answerphone – it was probably a cold call anyway. But there was always the chance that it might be Grant. A chance slowly fading into nothing.

  ‘Claire.’ He had her home phone number too? ‘So glad you’re coming. I wondered whether you’d accept the challenge.’ His voice, in an otherwise silent home, made her skin crawl.

  He’d known he didn’t need to introduce himself. He knew he was right inside her mind. He crept around it, tiptoeing through her brain.

  ‘It’s just an invitation to your wedding, Jerome,’ she said, struggling to find a tone that sounded normal.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ His voice was mocking, ‘To the lovely Roxanne.’

  He continued in the same tone.

  ‘Whose parents were farmers but have just sold all their land for fracking, would you believe, and the animals – oh dear – have all gone to the slaughterhouse. So they’ve plenty of money but no pets.’

  This was so typical of his behaviour, the underlying cruelty, dangling a silver lure in the water. Was that why she felt like a fish swimming towards it, taken partly by the current, repulsed, fascinated, but unable to resist?

  She had always had a curious nature.

  ‘It’ll be a modest but stylish affair,’ he continued, ‘no use splashing out on just one day, even though Kenneth and Mandy could e
asily afford it.’ The malice in his voice was rancid oil.

  She refused to rise to the bait and spoke calmly. ‘Perhaps you’ll send me your wedding present list, Jerome?’

  He sniggered. ‘Of course.’ He sniggered again. A disgusting, high-pitched giggly sound which contained no mirth. She hated it. ‘Mainly money. Always handy to have plenty of money behind you.’

  She didn’t react.

  He did by sending another barb to hurt and show her that he knew more about her private life than she would like.

  ‘Glad you’ll be bringing a partner, Claire. I did wonder about that now you’re … alone.’

  She stiffened. How did he know these things? How did he know her address, her phone number, the fact that her partner had left? It had to be the Internet? Surely? How else could he know? She wasn’t on Facebook – it wasn’t a good idea for a psychiatrist. Too many ‘friends’, some of whom had extreme personality problems, like Jerome. But some of her real friends might have posted something – or even Grant himself. She never looked at the site. But maybe that was where the explanation lay. Social media? It had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Remember this, Claire,’ he continued softly, ‘I’ve never been detained under a Section.’

  It was true.

  He continued with his goading. ‘And I never intend to be.’

  She still didn’t respond.

  ‘And whatever I do, you’re going to have an uphill struggle trying to prove anything against me. Ever.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘Whatever your suspicions, Claire, or whether they’re right or wrong.’

  She didn’t react. That was what he wanted, so he carried on, still in that same mocking, challenging tone, trying to provoke her. ‘Heidi Faro never managed to pin anything definite on me, and to be honest she was much cleverer than you, so I don’t give much for your chances.’

  In the same way that one doesn’t move away from a cobra’s dance, she found herself unable to make the obvious move: put the bloody phone down.

  And he continued with his goading. ‘Shame she had to die.’

  Again she did not respond, though the words hurt as though he had picked off a scab and exposed raw flesh, started it bleeding again. She had always been fond of Heidi, and perfectly aware that her predecessor was more intelligent than her. From deep inside, her naughty voice spoke up in her own defence.

  But she still got herself murdered, didn’t she?

  ‘You should have focused less on me, Claire, and put your own house in order. Maybe then he wouldn’t have gone.’

  She stiffened. Of all people, was it Jerome who could explain Grant’s abandonment? She put a hand up to her face. What she wouldn’t have given to be able to get even on this hurt, bang him up, prove he had assaulted his ex-girlfriend, pin something on him and watch him stew in a locked ward – or better still, in prison, which was where he really belonged. Safely away from the vulnerable. But, like teasing a dangerous dog, it could be risky to goad him. If not her, then someone else might be on the receiving end of his displeasure.

  Finally she did put the phone down while he was still talking, and she sat in the dark for a while.

  Why the hell was she going to this bloody wedding? Barclay wasn’t even one of her patients any more. There was nothing more she could or should do. She certainly didn’t owe it to him to play this part.

  But then maybe she’d been wrong anyway, wrong on all counts. Maybe he was just an attention-seeking bully and a tease. Maybe Heidi had been wrong to follow him so closely, and maybe she had followed Heidi’s supervision more out of respect for her esteemed predecessor and an acknowledgment of her terrible death than out of real evidence. Perhaps Barclay was simply a narcissistic personality. Nothing more. He just had a pathological need for attention. Like a disruptive little boy in class, he enjoyed making a noise. Perhaps he wasn’t a real threat. It was all in her mind. It was a comfortable road to saunter along.

  Three things held her back.

  The vicious attack on his girlfriend was fact. Sadie had confessed to Claire that she’d known Jerome had run her over deliberately. ‘He was watching me through the windscreen,’ she’d said. ‘I saw him laughing. And then …’

  She’d met Sadie once. She was a plucky girl. She wouldn’t have backed down from prosecuting her ex-boyfriend unless she’d been really frightened. And who would know a psycho better than his girlfriend?

  His psychiatrist. That’s who. Initially Heidi and then her.

  The notes Heidi had left had instructed close supervision. Underlined. Heidi was smarter than her. In this she agreed with Barclay. And Heidi had felt the need to keep a very close eye indeed on her patient. You didn’t just check on people every fortnight unless you suspected something was seriously wrong or was about to go seriously wrong. But, Claire thought, fighting back on her own behalf now: Heidi Faro might have been smarter than her, but Heidi was dead. Not so clever then. She hadn’t sensed the threat in another patient, her killer. So was her judgement to be relied on at all? Claire straightened, feeling a surge of confidence.

  But of course there were the untimely deaths of the three family members. As the saying goes: one death could be carelessness. Two suspicious, and the third …? Downright proof. But she had not been able to prove anything, and Barclay, as sole beneficiary, had gone on to benefit very nicely from his mother’s ‘suicide’ and the sale of her house.

  Something told her that Jerome Barclay had not done his worst yet. It was still up his sleeve. The trouble was, she did not have a clue what his worst could or would be.

  To distract her from the pointless ruminating, Claire switched the television on. It worked until 11 p.m., when she took a shower and went to bed, reading a novel until she fell asleep.

  FIVE

  Outpatient clinic, Greatbach Secure Psychiatric UnitTuesday, 9 September, 2.00 p.m.

  If Barclay was a rapier, subtle as a virus with the deadly bite of an asp, Dexter Harding was a lump hammer. The strict terms of Harding’s Community Treatment Order would apply until he was deemed to be no threat to society. In other words, in Claire’s opinion, that would not be until he was decrepit and staggering along on a Zimmer frame. In other words, never. If he broke any of the conditions of his CTO, Claire had the authority to have him detained all over again.

  She couldn’t wait. In her opinion he should never have been released from prison; he should have been detained for life. He had never shown any signs of mental illness. He was simply a thug.

  His appointment was at 2 p.m., the first afternoon appointment of a very busy and overbooked outpatient clinic.

  C’est la vie et la mort.

  He was a big man, in jeans which never quite fitted, hanging below a large, low-slung belly which swung, ape-like, as he walked. The illusion of an orang-utan was furthered by his large, long arms and the slightly forward lean to his gait. Today his ill-fitting jeans were accompanied by a well-washed navy sweatshirt size XXL and grubby trainers. At thirty-one years old, Dexter should have been in his prime, but already his hair was thin and wispy. He had a pale, unhealthy complexion and was usually about a week off a shave. He was supposed not to drink alcohol but the scent of cider generally clung somewhere around him. That and body odour and cigarettes.

  He had an ungainly shuffling walk, rolling from side to side with each step, landing heavily on his feet. Enough of a sailor’s roll that if you watched it for more than a minute you began to feel seasick. His bulky presence seemed to fill the tiny consulting room and the rank stink of his trainers made the atmosphere even more oppressive.

  They went through the same rigmarole every fortnight.

  ‘How are you today, Dexter?’

  He lifted his eyes; they were an indeterminate colour – brown, green, hazel, grey; a mixture of all these tones – which made it strangely difficult to see what he was thinking. ‘I’m OK.’

  His voice was always the same: part mumble, part slurred speech. Nothing hurried or precise. She had the authority to
test his alcohol levels but rarely bothered. He was on enough medication to keep him vaguely sedated. More than a couple of ciders and he would probably pass out.

  She consulted her previous notes. ‘We enrolled you in a job training exercise. Did you go?’

  She already knew from Felicity that he hadn’t.

  ‘I weren’t great that day,’ he mumbled.

  ‘OK. Well that’s your decision. But we don’t want you just sitting in your room. We want you to get out and about.’

  He gave a slow, lopsided smile. ‘Do you? Why?’

  Because it’s my job. That’s why. Don’t think it’s because I care. I don’t really.

  She’d seen some of the forensic photographs taken after the arson attack: four bodies, in various states of cremation, two of them children. The outside of the house had borne scars too, the roof having fallen in and heavy scorch marks rising like widow’s peaks above the windows. When the glass had cracked, the flames had shot out.

  Considering his mental limitations, Dexter had made a good job of arson, Molotov cocktails through both doors, front and back. The family had had no means of escape. It had been cold-blooded, cruel, senseless murder.

  If it had been left to her, Claire had long ago decided, Dexter Harding would never have been free. She wasn’t even convinced that his crime was the result of stupidity or any other mental state. He might have the intellect and instincts of a bull, but even he wasn’t that idiotic. He’d known exactly what his actions would result in. Death. He simply hadn’t cared.

  ‘OK, Dexter,’ she said wearily, ‘I’ll see you in a fortnight. Try and attend the day centre, even if you don’t get to the job training.’

  Well aware of the format, Dexter rose and shuffled out, leaving Claire with an acute sense of pointlessness. Another waste of time.

  Thursday, 11 September, 9 a.m.