She visited each of the wards, peeped in through the windows. Hayley was sleeping. If she had had somewhere to go she would have been allowed out for the weekend, but there was nowhere. David Gad, in his chair, was deep in thought. Her patients were healing – or damaging themselves. She tiptoed away. The nurses had no crises to report. Her inpatients, at least, were supervised and behaving themselves. Her weekend went well, her girlfriend understanding but not probing, and after a brief description of Grant’s desertion, they enjoyed themselves, eating in Rusty Lee’s famous Caribbean restaurant before going to see Giselle. Appropriate weekend entertainment for a psychiatrist.
TEN
Monday, 22 September, 8.30 a.m.
On Monday she was summoned to the police cells, where one of her patients had been charged with affray and illegal possession of Class B drugs ‘with intent to supply’. Not if she knew Stan. Stan was another of her patients who was admitted and discharged in a regular cycle. But as she drove to the station to assess him, she recalled Barclay’s phrase: The doomed homeless man. It described Stan Moudel to a T.
Cold water trickled down her spine. She had comforted herself with the assurance that Barclay was not supernatural, but this was unnerving her. Could he possibly see into the future? Was he clairvoyant? Stan hadn’t even been on the radar when Barclay had delivered his list. Common sense told her no. It was not possible. And yet, when she received the call that Stan was in custody, she felt a sense of inevitability. Knowing that Barclay had forecast Stan’s crisis, she felt she too was acting in an orchestrated, pre-ordained act. Barclay was not pulling her strings, she told herself. He was not. And it was possible that his description had not foreseen this crisis and Stan had been referred to because he was part of her caseload. This was what she wanted to believe.
The police knew her well and briefed her with a certain amount of familiarity as they led her to the cell where she would make her diagnosis within seconds. Stan Moudel was suffering from acute paranoia following an ill-advised mixture of meow-meow, skunk and alcohol. He was cowering in the corner when she approached him, his hands batting away at something or someone invisible. Then he jerked his head around and started up a conversation with someone else, also invisible.
‘Yeah, man,’ he was saying when she entered the room. ‘I’m good. I’m good. Yeah. How are you doin’?’ The rapid gunfire conversation was accompanied by a series of jerks.
His eyes widened when Claire’s presence finally registered. They had met before on a few occasions.
‘How are you, Stan?’
‘Not good, doc,’ he said. ‘Not good at all.’ His eyes were still skittering around the cell, his face creased with fright. Who called these poisons ‘recreational’?
She moved closer. ‘What’s up?’
‘With me?’ He jabbed at his chest then looked a bit caught out. ‘Oh.’ His gaze moved past her to the policeman standing in the doorway. ‘Maybe. I guess I’m OK. Good.’ He had all the signs of paranoia, the eyes darting at nothing and no one, staccato speech, inappropriate smiling, sudden grins, hiccupping.
She rested a hand on his shoulder. Stan had once had a life. A wife, a job, a daughter, a home. That had been when he was twenty-eight years old. Only four years ago.
And then he had been picked up on a drink-drive offence and had lost his driving licence. And like many, after that, his life had slowly unravelled, like pulling yarn from a sweater until all that was left was a pile of useless, crinkly wool.
Stan’s life.
It was like the old ditty: For want of a nail …
For want of his licence his job was lost.
For want of a job his wife was lost.
For want of a wife his daughter was lost.
And, the final want: he had been kicked out of his house, making him homeless. The downward spiral had continued. Stan had found solace with drugs and ended up at Greatbach more than once.
Stan was not a bad man. Unlucky, yes. Weak, yes. He had an addictive personality. Hence the alcohol and drugs. And yet, to Claire, he had never been anything other than pleasant and polite.
They had tried many things to help Stan – finding him a half-decent bedsit, trying to find work, even a vain attempt at putting him back in touch with his now ex-wife and daughter. Which had failed. But he had always reverted. Back to the drink. Back to the drugs. Same old.
She smiled at him, recognizing the symptoms. He was coming down now, returning to reality. ‘How do you fancy a little holiday at Greatbach, Stan?’
His grin was pathetic. At some point he had had an incisor knocked out in a fight he couldn’t even remember. That and his nicotine-stained teeth – together with a poor state of hygiene and a dreadful state of nutrition, along with his generally dishevelled appearance – made him look much older than thirty-two. She felt more than a touch of sympathy for him.
Life could have been so very different.
‘Holiday?’ He hiccupped. ‘Sounds a good idea to me, doc.’
She asked the police to arrange transport while she had a room prepared.
She drove back to the hospital, thinking about Stan, wondering where he had got the money from for such a lethal cocktail of poisons. There was one possibility she didn’t even want to consider. And it led her straight back to Jerome Barclay’s prophecy. There was one way he could have known Stan would soon be readmitted, but she didn’t even want to consider it. Not now. Not yet. Not without further evidence. She could not descend into paranoia too and join Stan in this world where she saw demons – or rather, a demon – behind every tree. She smiled at herself. That would never do – a psychiatrist with her own psychotic diagnosis?
But even thinking about him had brought her to the realization that the wedding was fast approaching. She did not want to go alone. As soon as she reached her office she knew she could put it off no longer.
She picked up the phone.
ELEVEN
Luckily he picked up on the first ring. Or she might have bottled out. It had been a long time since they had spoken.
She could hear the surprise in his voice. ‘Hello there, sis. How’re you doing?’
‘I’m fine, Adam,’ she said, more heartily than she felt. ‘And you?’
‘Yeah. Good too.’ She could hear the question. What is she calling me for?
So she might as well get straight to the point.
‘Adam, I wondered if you’d do me a favour?’
He was instantly wary. ‘If I can, sis,’ he said, caution slowing his voice.
Claire bit her lip. Had he, even as a small child, been aware of her jealous hatred for him?
‘Go on then,’ he prompted. ‘What is it?’
‘I wondered if you’d come to a wedding with me?’
Now he was curious. ‘What about Grant?’
This was a humiliating admission. ‘Grant walked out on me six months ago.’
Adam’s response was predictably blunt. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well – shit – sis – didn’t you ask him?’
She was stung. ‘Of course I did.’
‘Well, what did he say?’
‘That it was time for him to move on. That life was too complicated.’
Nothing that explained his actions.
‘We-ell.’ For once even her younger half-brother seemed at a loss for words. Then his conscience kicked in. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d have kept a bit more in touch if I’d known you were on your own. I just thought that everything was – well – hunky-dory, you know?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘I thought you guys,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I thought you guys would be together for ever, you know.’
‘Me too.’
His next words were spoken heartily. ‘So when’s this wedding?’
She told him and gave him a potted background, that Barclay was a devious psycho patient of hers, who now appeared to have acquired supernatural powers, knowing facts about some of her p
atients even before they had happened; that three of his family members had suffered strange and untimely deaths, and that she had concerns over this marriage and the safety of his bride-to-be and in-laws.
‘Wow. He sounds …’
‘I know.’
‘So why are you going, sis?’ He made an attempt at levity. ‘It’s not part of the job, is it?’
‘No. No. In a way I’m going – to keep an eye out. To find out what he’s up to. I need to know how he knows about my other patients. It suggests a breach of confidentiality. A leak …’ She paused. ‘Somewhere.’
‘Someone on your staff?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s a nasty piece of work, Adam, who hides it well, and I want to stop him committing any more crimes.’
‘How exciting. Tell me what I should look out for. Is he likely to flip during the service? Start wielding an axe or something?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ she said, smiling. ‘Mr Barclay is much more subtle than that, but that makes him dangerous. If he wielded an axe …’ She couldn’t help smiling even more broadly at the thought of Jerome Barclay ‘flipping’, to use her half-brother’s words. ‘If he wielded an axe we’d have him banged up for life, maybe even reinvestigate the suspicious deaths of his family members and get his ex-girlfriend to admit he did try to kill her. Oh no. Mr Barclay is someone who keeps himself well under control. I’ve never known him lose his rag.’
‘Hmm.’ Then cheerfully and with a tinge of optimism, ‘Always a first time, sis.’
‘Not with him. You can stay here the night before, if you like, Adam, so we can go together.’ She couldn’t stop herself from adding, with a note of bitterness. ‘There’s plenty of spare rooms. Ad,’ she said tentatively, ‘will you do me another favour?’
This time he was more sure, more jaunty. ‘Two? In one morning? And on a Monday? You’re pushing your luck, aren’t you?’ He was laughing. She could picture him. A tumble of coppery hair, thick glasses, a slightly hesitant air. Pale skin – as far removed from her swarthy features as was possible. She laughed with him.
‘Yeah. Go on then, but you already owe me dinner and a bottle of decent wine.’ He gave a mock sigh and grumbled. ‘It’s one of the worst things of being a student – having to drink cheap wine.’
She smiled. This was Adam, her half-brother, who seemed to be making a career out of being a perpetual student. She resisted the temptation to point out that actually he didn’t have to drink wine at all.
‘Don’t let on that you’re my brother.’
‘OK.’ He couldn’t resist pulling her leg. ‘But I’m not going to snog you during the first dance – or propose.’
She felt a lot happier putting the phone down.
Now she only had to think up a suitable wedding present. She was even smiling as she dreamed up the scenario. What do you buy a psychopath for a wedding present? A set of knives, a chopping block, a cheese grater, an electric drill? Chainsaw?
In the end she settled for a John Lewis voucher. Let the psycho choose for himself.
TWELVE
In the meantime she had a hospital to run, patients to see, targets to meet and her own personal life to sort out.
She knew she would do a better job at Greatbach if she could settle something with Grant. The entire unsatisfactory situation snagged at her, night and day. But she couldn’t ring him. She wouldn’t ring him. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to. In moments of weakness she’d texted him once or twice in the early days and he hadn’t responded. But she did need to talk it over with someone. Who better than her very best friend, Julia Seddon?
Julia and she had been medical students together at Birmingham. She was now a GP in a very busy practice in Hanley. She had never married but lived with another woman, an artist named Gina Aldi.
Monday, 22 September, 7 p.m.
They met at a wine bar a few hundred yards down the road from her surgery, which had recently started serving tapas, which suited both of them. Since Grant had abandoned his role as chief chef, Claire was finding it easier to pick at food rather than sit down to a full-blown meal, so the tapas appetizers were welcome. Julia strode in, wearing tight jeans, ankle boots and a multicoloured Fair Isle sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbows exposing tanned, muscular forearms. Julia was an outdoor girl. Claire was surprised she hadn’t chosen veterinary medicine. She greeted Claire with a kiss on both cheeks and a hug before sitting down. Knowing her friend’s taste, Claire shoved a glass of Rioja across the table towards her. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you.’ They clinked glasses.
Claire felt reluctant to start talking about herself immediately, so opened the conversation by asking how Gina was.
Julia grinned. ‘She’s great,’ she said. ‘Absolutely great.’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘She’s branched out into pottery, making plates, ginger jars, stuff like that.’ She stuck her cocktail stick into a cube of manchego, speared an olive and popped both into her mouth, chewing happily.
‘She has such talent, you know,’ she said, smiling with pride. ‘I’m so happy with her.’
Claire nodded in agreement and Julia continued, her eyes shining.
‘We’ve bought a house in Hanley,’ she said. ‘It’s a neglected old place but has a lovely garden. How’s your place coming along, by the way? Has Grant finally finished painting the Forth Bridge?’
Claire had kept the news of Grant’s departure from her friends, thinking that, possibly, he would be back before they found out and it would spare her the explanations. But she was realizing that was not to be the case. Grant was not coming back. As succinctly as possible, she told Julia the sorry tale, and watched her eyes widen, puzzled, before she made a sound of exasperation. ‘What is wrong with these guys?’ she said. ‘Had you had a row or something?’
‘No. He just upped and left.’
Julia put her hand on her shoulder. ‘Oh poor you,’ she said. ‘Here’s me extolling my domestic ecstasy and there’s you suffering. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ Claire said awkwardly. ‘Really. I can’t say I’m over it but I’m learning to live.’
‘What about the house?’
‘Half done,’ Claire said ruefully. ‘I haven’t decided what to do with it. And to be honest, unless Grant makes a move and tells me what he’s intending doing, I can’t sell, move on, or complete the job. We’re both on the mortgage. I’m not even sure whether the area will stand the house being done up to the nines. It’s going downhill. The ladies of the night have returned.’
‘Oh well,’ Julia shrugged. ‘This is what happens. Areas go up and some go down but Burslem will always win through in the end. Aren’t they redeveloping the town centre? Doing some arts project?’
They talked for a while, discussing various changes taking place in and around Burslem, mutual friends and planned events, and then Julia returned to the subject of Grant.
‘I should wait and see,’ she advised. ‘He’ll have to get in touch at some point.’
‘At some point. But when, Julia? I can’t wait for ever.’
‘Well – he’ll want some sort of settlement, won’t he?’
‘I would think so. He did all the work. Look,’ she said, ‘let’s change the subject? I wanted to run something else past you?’
Julia smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘You remember a few years ago my having suspicions about a patient of mine.’
‘I do,’ Julia said, frowning, ‘but if I remember rightly you were wrong.’
‘I was, but I wasn’t wrong about his diagnosis, and Heidi thought the same.’
‘Hmm,’ Julia said dubiously. ‘So?’
‘He’s getting married.’
‘Yes. And?’
‘First of all, he seems to know a little too much about my professional and personal life. Even about my patients.’
Julia’s eyebrows lifted. ‘And second?’
‘He’s invited me to the wedding. Don’t you think that’s a little unusual?’
‘Not sure. Are you going to go?’
‘Yeah. I’m taking Adam.’
‘Adam?’ It sounded an expletive.
‘Yep. I’m building bridges.’
‘Well good for you,’ Julia said. ‘I’ll be interested to hear how you get on both with Adam and your psycho patient. Let me know, won’t you?’
‘Yeah. Of course. But … why do you think he’s asked me?’
Julia laughed out loud and hid behind the usual. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said. ‘You’re the psychiatrist.’
Claire laughed too. ‘This is when I wish I’d chosen a different career path,’ she said. ‘No one will ever give me an opinion.’ She paused and then told her friend the contents of his telephone call. ‘How can he know these things? Stan Moudel, the homeless guy, hadn’t even been readmitted. And as for the expensive butterfly …’ She thought for a minute. ‘I’m not absolutely certain who he means.’ She frowned. ‘I’m assuming it’s a patient called Maylene Forsyte. But why would he choose her?’
Julia looked worried. ‘I don’t know. Is she in – danger?’
‘Not that I know. Maybe. Aren’t they all?’
Dangerous Minds Page 6