‘Neither was I,’ she said drily. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we, and talk about tomorrow.’
Adam was frowning. ‘Claire,’ he said tentatively, ‘what I don’t understand is, if you think this guy who’s getting married tomorrow is such a nasty piece of work, why are you going to his wedding?’
‘To keep an eye on him,’ she said darkly.
‘But you can hardly,’ he said, even more awkward now, ‘go up to his bride and tell her the guy she’s just married is a psycho.’
‘No,’ she replied, calmly stirring the sauce into the pasta, ‘I’m well aware of that. I just want to see her for myself. I think I’ll know then whether she’s in any danger. I want to know she can take care of herself, Adam.’
‘Hmm. I’m still not sure about this, sis,’ he said dubiously.
‘Don’t you worry.’ She was spooning the pasta on to their plates. ‘Leave it all to me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘He’s not such a nasty piece of work that he might – oh, I don’t know – harm you in any way?’
‘I think he would if he felt I was going to blow the whistle on him. But I’ve never had enough evidence. Not anything proven, anyway, of any crimes or assaults.’ She met his eyes. ‘And I’ve never been absolutely certain that he is dangerous. He could be just playing. You know? Cat-and-mouse stuff. It’s more a feeling and as you know …’ She turned around to face him, ‘feelings don’t put people behind bars.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, still dubious. ‘All sounds a bit thin to me.’
She leaned across and touched his hand. ‘It is a bit thin,’ she admitted, ‘which is why I’m glad you’re coming. You’ll have more of an open mind.’
‘OK.’ He focused one hundred per cent on his food. And that was the end of the conversation.
SEVENTEEN
Sunday, 5 October, 9 a.m.
Barclay’s wedding day dawned bright and cool, the leaves just starting to acknowledge the month and recognize that autumn was beginning. They were pale, green leaching out of them leaving them yellow to brown; some were already starting to drop. Not with the vengeance of autumn, but drifting lazily downwards.
The wedding wasn’t until 11, so they had time for a good breakfast and left themselves an hour to reach The Moat House in case the M6 was misbehaving – again – even on a Sunday.
Adam looked smart – handsome, even – in a dark, well-fitting lounge suit, white shirt and blue silk tie. It looked expensive. And Claire surprised herself by feeling a tinge of curiosity mixed with the unmistakable colour green of envy. Had her mother and his father bought him that?
He looked at her anxiously, passing a hand over his head to flatten the thick, coppery hair. ‘Do I pass the test?’
She stuffed her feelings back inside her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thanks. So do you.’ He fingered the tie, unwittingly answering her silent petty question. ‘Got it with my first pay cheque, so it’s got significance for me.’
‘Oh,’ she said, twice as heartily as she felt.
‘I’m eking out my money by doing some part-time office work,’ he said, making her laugh with his expression of mock disgust. ‘The things I have to do, eh?’
She felt like hugging him.
As she drove down to Junction 13 on the motorway, wanting to avoid Stafford town centre, she tried to explain exactly what it was that she found so threatening about Jerome Barclay. ‘I’d heard about him before I met him,’ she said. ‘They told me that Heidi, my predecessor, kept a tight rein on him, and I was curious to know why. He did have a criminal record but they were minor offences. A bit of shoplifting, forged cheques – the usual. And in his notes there wasn’t really much to suggest he was or could be dangerous. The only real thing was a pretty nasty assault on his girlfriend which had landed her in hospital.’
Adam frowned. ‘He didn’t go to prison for that?’
She switched lanes to overtake, keeping her eyes on the road, busy now with Sunday shoppers. ‘She dropped the charges. She was lucky not to be charged with wasting police time. He tried to run her over. The only person who could know whether it was an accident or deliberate was her – and him. And she wasn’t testifying, although she did confess the truth to me – that she knew it had been a deliberate assault.’
‘Barclay had threatened her?’
‘He didn’t need to. She knew what would happen if she testified. She’d never be safe.’
Adan looked horrified. ‘That’s horrible. Never to be safe. What an awful way to live.’
‘Mmm.’ She risked a swift glance at him. ‘He assaulted his mother too, but she also refused to press charges and the CPS advised the police that there was hardly any chance of a successful conviction. Again they dropped charges. You can imagine they were grinding their teeth by then. Then he told me tales of animal torture,’ she continued. ‘They were pretty horrible, Ad: slowly roasting a bird and lopping off a rabbit’s ears. Animal torture’s a well-known early sign of psychopathy.’
‘Well, you’re the doc,’ was Adam’s unhelpful contribution.
She frowned, wanting him to understand, but it is hard to explain the threat of potential. She knew what Barclay was capable of, but to try and convey that concept to a lay person like Adam? It was virtually impossible.
‘His baby brother died a cot death when Jerome was eight.’
Adam gave her a swift look and she felt chilled. What did he remember? He’d only been a baby. Babies, surely, have no memory? Or do they? Maybe not a completely formed memory, only a sense of a threat. And could they know from whom the threat was coming?
She hurried on. ‘And his father died with diabetes two years later. I spoke to Barclay’s mother and asked whether she had any suspicions about either death. She said no. She said that Jerome had adored his tiny baby brother and his father. While she obviously doted on her son. But then she died too, of an apparent overdose.’ She was now turning off the motorway. ‘Too much coincidence,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe for a minute that she took an overdose.’ Then, turning to him, ‘I believe that he was responsible for all three deaths. That’s why I want to make sure his bride can look after herself.’
Adam looked alarmed. ‘But you can’t warn her off – can you?’
She was driving through the village of Acton Trussell now, chocolate-box pretty. Neat gardens and clean cars. ‘Not really. Like I’ve told you before, we have be very careful to preserve our patients’ right to privacy. So I’m not going to be stopping the ceremony.’ She grinned at him. ‘You can relax, Ad. I won’t be standing up when they say the bit about “lawful impediment”.’ She gave him a winning smile. ‘I’m just an observer. So – shall we go?’
They’d reached the hotel. They could see several morning-suited men noting their arrival, and a large black Rolls festooned with white satin ribbon. They parked up. Adam touched her sleeve and whispered. ‘Will you point him out to me?’
‘I won’t need to,’ she whispered back.
They weren’t the first to arrive. They made their way through a small knot of people sucking on their cigarettes outside. Barclay didn’t smoke so she didn’t look for him amongst them. They walked through the doors. Claire scanned the guests waiting in the foyer. No sign of him. She turned her attention back to the guests, standing around, and assessed them. They were an ill-assorted crowd: most of the women were either overweight or very skinny, with the poor complexion of heavy smokers. Their clothes were gaudy and looked cheap and there were some pantomime hats. The women looked as though they had had a hard life in one way or another. The men tended to be pot-bellied with coarse features, and a few had the red faces of a person who’d already had a few beers. Their jackets were stretched tight over their stomachs and conversation was loud and raucous. Claire looked around uneasily. These did not look like people who were going to be able to stand up to a clever headcase like Jerome Barclay. She gave Adam a swift, worried glance and placed her wedding card containing the
voucher on the table with the other presents. Then she continued scanning the crowd.
Mainly Roxanne’s family, at a guess. Barclay’s, of course, were all dead.
Most of the people seemed to know each other already. There were gasps of delight as they recognized friends and relations; a few wary glances; a couple of people pushing past, anxious to renew their acquaintance with someone or else avoid an ex-friend or unwelcome encounter. The words that swept the air were the same as at any family social occasion:
Haven’t seen you for ages.
You do look well.
Harry, hello there …! – and so on. Shrieks from the women, firm handshakes from the men. A bit of back-slapping.
She and Adam stood, a small island in the centre, strangers amongst friends, aware that they were being given the covert once-over, unrecognized, then studiously ignored. Claire caught a couple of their comments bouncing around the room.
Some friend of the groom, perhaps?
No, I don’t know them. Do you? Faces looking over their shoulders.
Never seen them before in my life …
Maybe from the groom’s side?
There was an air of effrontery; of invasion – hostility, even. Claire was glad she had brought her half-brother and squeezed his arm with gratitude.
There was still no sign of Barclay.
‘Remember our pact,’ Claire whispered. Not wanting to expose her single state, she wished them all to believe that she and Adam were ‘an item’. Adam nodded, understanding, and whispered back. ‘Split my tongue if I let on.’ She winced. It had been a childhood threat. Nothing more. She never would really have done that.
And then his voice was right behind her, smooth as velvet, an inch from her ear. ‘Claire. You came. How nice.’
She turned around.
Apart from the formal grey morning suit, Barclay was exactly as she remembered him. Quite bland features really. Unmemorable. Unremarkable. Grey eyes, brown hair, bland features. What was there to be so nervous of? Then she caught it, the faint waft of cinnamon, as though he had just drunk a cappuccino. She looked into his eyes and read his glow of triumph. Round One to Jerome Barclay. He couldn’t disguise the delight he felt at her presence as a witness to his marriage.
Why?
Then she worked it out. She was the entertainment today. Not the bride or her gauche family. Not the farmers and peasants of the gathered witnesses but her, with her so-called expert knowledge of his psyche; probably the only one there who had any insight into his personality disorder and how he would use it not to build happiness in his new family but to destroy it. He had needed her here, the only one who knew about his crimes, because now she was even more sure that they had been crimes. He had killed three members of his family. He had almost killed his ex-girlfriend, Sadie, and the poor girl had feared and hated him so much that she had not only refused to press charges but had also aborted his child. The devil’s child, she had called it. One might have assumed that after the accident she had feared for the baby’s condition. But Claire knew that Sadie had had a scan and that, miraculously, the baby and her pregnancy were unharmed.
She saw Barclay’s eyes flicker and dim. And knew why. One thing was spoiling Jerome Barclay’s fun: Adam. He had thought she would attend alone. That would have made her extra vulnerable.
In this tiny area, she had triumphed.
He turned his pale eyes on to her brother then back on her. ‘This is Adam,’ Claire said brightly.
Barclay took it all in: the tall figure, smart suit, his colouring and … narrowing his eyes, Adam’s youth. He licked his lips. ‘How do you do, Adam,’ he said steadily. And Claire knew he knew. He had guessed.
She had just lost round two.
‘And Roxanne?’ she said, looking around her.
‘Oh,’ as if he’d forgotten her existence, ‘I mustn’t see the bride just yet. It would be terrible bad luck.’ He smiled and winked. ‘Something quite awful might happen.’ He turned to smile at them both. ‘See you later,’ he said, and walked away, a bounce in his stride.
As they took their seats, a woman scuttled up the aisle. Roxanne’s mother, at a guess. Claire’s heart sank. Her skirt was tight over an ample rear and her hat had a feather which acted as a beacon for ridicule. She was dressed in an unflattering shade of turquoise – too bright; her hat and shoes were an exact match, and a large, unwieldy handbag, dyed from the same batch, swung from her shoulder. She gave the assembled congregation an abstracted smile as she crept up the aisle and sat down heavily on one of the front seats after beaming at Jerome who returned the glance coolly. Appraisingly. The woman who was about to become his mother-in-law.
Claire glanced at Adam. His eyes were wide open, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She raised her eyebrows for comment but he just shook his head, looking bemused.
And then the Wagner started up. Claire stood up with everyone else and turned her head for a first look at the bride. The woman who would be exposed to Barclay.
Roxanne Trigg was short and plump. She wore a toothpaste-white nylon dress with a long nylon net veil, carried by a bridesmaid in a cherry-red minidress. Both walked with a slow, swinging walk, in time to the music, Roxanne on the arm of, presumably, her father. Another man who would have been more at home sitting in the cab of a tractor than leading his daughter up the aisle of a smart wedding venue. His eyes were bloodshot. Not from crying at losing his precious daughter, Claire surmised, more likely from the beers he’d just downed. She caught a waft of pub as he passed. Roxanne carried a bouquet of blood-red roses and nothing, not even the voluminous dress, could disguise the fact that she was about four months pregnant. She stared ahead of her, looking vulnerable and not quite happy. She already looked a victim, and the glance she cast around at the gathering was of panic and confusion, as though she didn’t quite know what she was doing there. That confused look lasted all the way up the aisle until she reached Barclay’s side, when that look of confusion morphed into one of complete and utter radiant joy. Claire gave Adam a concerned look. This was not a feisty bride who could take on Barclay’s character without it destroying her. Neither was it the fellow psycho, someone with whom he could hatch plots and plans. No. In her mind the new Mrs Barclay was already cast as victim. And she was pregnant, so that vulnerability included an unborn child. Claire watched her stand at her husband-to-be’s side, her misgivings compounding by the minute.
Now Roxanne had reached her intended, Claire caught the glance Jerome gave her. One of complete and utter contempt tinged with amusement, marked by a triumphant curve of his mouth. So her worst fears had been realized. What was in it for him? Would violence be enough? Would she end up, like Sadie, in hospital with broken limbs? Or would she share the fate of Barclay’s other family members – dead? Baby too?
Claire nudged Adam and caught puzzlement and concern in his face too. He’d seen the look Jerome had given his bride and shook his head. ‘See what you mean,’ he whispered.
When the appeal went out, if any persons present know of any lawful impediment, Claire stiffened. Adam put his hand on her arm and gently shook his head.
What would she have said anyway? It was all conjecture. And she was bound to secrecy. Confidentiality. Not for the first time, the limitations of her role hit her hard. She was powerless to act or prevent a crime she could already anticipate. She could practically see it happening.
Claire’s fears were not allayed when Roxanne stumbled through her vows in an unmistakably rural Staffordshire accent and Jerome responded in pristine English, every enunciation a mockery of his bride’s diction. And then, all too soon, the whole thing was over. Roxanne was Mrs Jerome Barclay. God help her.
To ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, the couple walked back through the aisle of chairs and out into the hallway. Ready for the line-up. As he passed, Barclay met Claire’s eyes and smiled. Anyone not knowing him might mistake that smile for happiness.
It didn’t fool Claire.
At the reception they didn’t stick to the usual order of speeches, but opened with the best man’s, who began with saying what a great friend Barclay was. (Barclay had a friend?!)
He continued with his speech, but it wasn’t the usual leg-pull about what a great stud his buddy was, but a sort of eulogy – more suitable for a funeral than a wedding.
‘Jerome is a wonderful person. Good at figures. (Titter titter.) Clever in the extreme. He’s had his difficulties and more than his share of tragedy. (Claire knew all about that.) People don’t always appreciate what a deep and interesting person Jerome is. Some people are envious of him and others make up stories to cover their own inadequacies.’ (Had Jerome written this himself?)
The friend droned on. ‘And then he has a stroke of good luck. He meets Roxanne (here a ripple around the room from Roxanne’s friends and family), and life turns around for him. I can tell you in confidence that Jerome has told me his life changed for ever when he met Roxanne. So I’d like you to raise your glasses and toast Jerome and Roxanne.’ (A round of applause.) The friend sat down to a continued smattering of more applause.
Trouble was, Claire thought, the friend hadn’t detailed exactly how Jerome’s life had changed.
Next it was time for the bride’s father to make his contribution to the ceremony.
She had misgivings as soon as he stood up. As he stumbled through his words, Claire’s worst fears were realized.
He was poorly educated, his use of English displaying a lack of subtlety and understanding. His stumbling, halting words were an embarrassment, and his praise of his daughter toe-cringingly gauche and clichéd.
‘My beautiful little girl … My sweet princess … My gorgeous daughter …’ and so on. When he added to the eulogy about Jerome, Claire almost stood up, but the moment passed and she was still seated. Again glasses were raised. It was only when she met Jerome’s triumphant stare at her that her heart started to hammer. She looked at Roxanne’s mother and father. Nice people, she thought, without the guile to understand just what their new son-in-law’s favourite game was. She looked at Roxanne, her face flushed with too much red wine and happiness, a stain on the bodice of her wedding dress. Claire almost stepped on her own foot to stop herself from saying anything. She was seeing threats everywhere. Imagining them. But to her the red wine stain over the heart was a portent of a wound to come.
Dangerous Minds Page 9