Good and evil. North and south. Black and white. The law recognizes only stark facts; acts in the past – not the future.
What about Roxanne’s parents? Could she rope them in to protect their daughter and grandchild? Claire felt her spirits drop. They were the sort of people to take their son-in-law at face value, think he was charming, hear his smooth phrases without realizing that he was mocking them. Like the poem he had quoted at his wedding reception.
I wish I thought ‘What Jolly Fun!’ Hiding his contempt behind a jovial-sounding ditty. It still made her shiver.
And the guests at his wedding reception – including Kenneth and Mandy Trigg – had stood up, laughed and clapped their hands.
Oh no. Not them. She couldn’t rely on them to have insight into Jerome’s devious maze of a mind. She was on her own here.
More than ever, Claire wished that Heidi Faro, her predecessor, had not been murdered and in such a cruel way, her throat cut in her own office, her body suspended upside down from a hook. She needed an ally and didn’t know where to turn. At one time she would have spoken to a colleague, Edward or Salena, but someone was feeding Barclay with information and she didn’t know who it was, only that it was someone close to her. Astrid seemed the most convenient suspect, but Barclay had information about inpatients as well as outpatients, and that precluded most of the nurses and doctors at Greatbach. Edward and Salena both took clinics and would probably have seen all the patients in Barclay’s folio. To alert the police at this stage was out of the question. On her evidence there was nothing they could do. When she knew who it was, she might take it up with either the General Medical Council or the Nursing and Midwifery Council.
And perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Barclay had no intention of risking his freedom with a criminal act. Perhaps it was all bluff. Maybe he’d got what he wanted – access to plenty of funds and a pliant wife, baiting Claire along the way, enjoying her confusion. Maybe that was enough. For someone like Barclay, a voice growled inside her, there is no ‘enough’.
Was it possible then that this was nothing but an elaborate game of chess? Strategy: Knight to f3?
She looked down at the pile of notes. She needed to move on, dictate her letters. Barclay was not her only patient. She had a great pile of notes needing attention, a plethora of diagnoses: depression, schizophrenia, substance abuse leading to acute paranoia; the list went on and on, each one a problem. And then there were the inpatients. Hayley, patched up by the general hospital, probably about to be transferred back to her care, and Stan. She almost sighed at the memory of Stan’s haunted eyes. She had always liked him, felt sorry for his downward spiral of life and current plight, but she feared there was little hope that he would reverse the cycle, find his lost self somewhere. David Gad had gone home and she counted each day, hoping he would not be readmitted, or worse. It had been a risk to discharge him, and if she’d got it wrong and there was another, maybe successful suicide attempt, blame would be laid at her door. These were the adversaries and the problems she thought she had. She discounted Maylene Forsyte and her poor, unfortunate husband, Derek. She didn’t even spare them a thought. She should have remembered. She could not afford to be distracted.
And for now she had a more pressing matter. She must report the fact that Dexter Harding had failed to attend his clinic appointment. She allowed herself a minute to wonder why. What clumsy mayhem was he organizing now? Another arson attack? On the wrong house again? The thought of him blundering around, possibly plotting another bungled plan, was worrying. What she was forgetting was the basic rule of psychiatry. Of life, really. While all your attention is focused forward, you do not see what lies behind you or around you, left and right. Which means that danger can sneak up, put its hands around your neck and squeeze the life out of you before you are even conscious of its presence.
By the heavy feeling at the bottom of her heart, she knew that she was still grieving for Grant. So often lately she had almost wished she had a recording of his tuneless hums and whistles, the noises he made when he was absorbed in something. She wished she had a can of his own personal scent, a mixture of paint and aftershave, of wallpaper paste and glue, wood shavings and that male scent that men don’t even know they carry.
Physically too, the house seemed so different – dead instead of alive. Too tidy. No cans of deodorant, no empty beer bottles. Why don’t you throw them away when they’re empty? Which had provoked a grinning response: I always forget which ones are empty.
No kitchen counter full of washing-up from the elaborate meals he insisted on cooking. Can’t we wash up in the morning?
His truly appalling taste in music: Is there a tune in this or simply a noise? His response an even-wider grin.
She sat still, frozen for a moment, thinking, feeling her eyes fill with salty tears, trying to stem them. That was no good. Crying wouldn’t bring him back.
Nothing would.
She wanted to ring him. Talk to him. At least she’d known (thought she’d known) she could trust him. Even though Grant had never been much interested in her work, his attitude and presence had been support enough. She hadn’t wanted input from him anyway, just for him to be there. And now he wasn’t.
She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and scrolled through her contacts. No Grant. She’d wiped it off. But not from her mind. She could still remember it. Her finger pressed in the keys. But she knew she would not press Call; neither would she compose some sad plea under the envelope icon. She put the phone back in her bag and used the hospital landline to make another call instead.
TWENTY-TWO
Dexter Harding’s community psychiatric nurse, Felicity Gooch, was a capable woman. Claire rang her mobile and got straight through.
‘Dexter didn’t come for his appointment today,’ she said. ‘Is there any reason why?’
‘I haven’t seen him since last Tuesday,’ Felicity said slowly. Claire could hear the flip of pages as she leafed through her diary. ‘I reminded him about his appointment today and he said he would be there. I’ll go round to the hostel and see what’s up. He’s been behaving himself lately.’ Her voice was thoughtful. ‘I hope he isn’t planning anything.’
‘It might be an idea if you could come with him next time,’ Claire said. ‘I should keep more up to date with what he’s doing day to day.’
Felicity groaned. ‘It’s so hard,’ she said. ‘I’ve got such a huge caseload that I can’t keep tabs on them all the time. And Marilyn Evans is off on maternity leave and hasn’t been replaced. Quite frankly, Claire, I’m tearing my hair out. I’m lucky that I do get to make contact with Dexter a couple of times a week.’
‘I’m sorry to put more on you, but this is the first time he’s defaulted. Now Dexter’s about as subtle as a blind elephant. You should easily track him down.’
The nurse’s response was a ‘Hmmph.’
Something led her to urge the nurse. ‘Find him, Felicity. Put it number one on your list or else it’ll mean trouble.’
‘I will, Claire. Sorry to grumble.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll put in a request that you have some help.’
‘That’d be great but …’ Felicity laughed. ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’
She rang off and Claire made her way up to Rita’s office. The secretary had gone home now so she simply put the Post-it note on her computer screen.
Can you send Maylene Forsyte another appointment?
She DNA’d today.
It was only as she stuck the note up that something registered. Maylene – the expensive butterfly.
Why had he picked on her?
Tuesday, 21 October, 7.15 p.m.
The phone was ringing as she let herself in. It was only as she picked it up that she realized she’d stopped expecting it to be Grant. So his voice put an earth tremor through her.
‘Claire, I’m so sorry.’ Husky, apologetic, familiar, welcome.
She was so shocked that she didn’t speak and his voice came on a
gain.
‘Claire, I really am.’ Then, as she still simply gaped at the phone, his voice became more urgent. ‘Are you there, Claire?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m here,’ and was stunned at the coldness and hostility in her voice.
‘I want to explain.’
Nearly eight fucking months too late, she thought.
She felt anger then. Hot and wild as a forest fire. Then she managed, ‘I take it you’ve rung because you want your share of the house?’
‘Claire.’
He sounded hurt and she dived in. ‘Well, what else can this phone call be about, Grant?’
‘I want to explain,’ he said again, and now she just felt irritated and foolish.
‘You want to explain why you just vanished out of my life, Grant?’
‘Well—’
‘Oh forget it,’ she said, and slammed the phone down.
She stood in the hall, surprised at her response. She’d really liked him. OK, at first she’d had her reservations, but later she had grown to appreciate his virtues. They’d been together for five years. Bought this house together. But then he had just gone. Not explained, apologized. Nothing. Just gone. And that she couldn’t relate to. His pathetic, cowardly abandonment had made her so unhappy, so lost, so unsure of herself. Work had, initially, been difficult. Then a welcome distraction. And all for … She blinked away the memory of him stroking the girl’s cheek. It hurt more than if she’d caught them in bed together. She knew one thing. She didn’t ever want to go through all that again. That terrible feeling of being swept downriver on a torrent of misery, unable to swim, survive, or reach the river bank.
She took the phone off the hook and started to cook tea: pasta, cheese, onion, tomatoes and bacon. Hardly tasting it, she ate it, chewing mechanically in front of the television, watching a medical soap, but hardly taking it in. She’d always wondered what her response would be if he made contact. Well, now she knew.
She simply felt cold. Numb. Devoid of emotion. So what did that make her? As unfeeling as some of her patients?
Wednesday, 22 October, 9 a.m.
Rita put her head round the door. ‘I’ve sent that appointment out to Maylene Forsyte,’ she said cheerily. ‘Let’s hope she comes this time round. But still,’ she said, comforting as a mother hen, ‘she’s not one that you’re worried about, is she?’
‘No. Although it’s not the first time she’s DNA’d, I’m just puzzled. And it’s odd that both she and Dexter failed to attend their appointments.’ She tried to make a joke of it. ‘Nice, easy afternoon.’
‘Yeah.’
Rita picked up her notebook full of messages. ‘Oh, and you have a message from your favourite patient,’ she said.
‘And that is …?’
‘Mr Barclay,’ Rita said, reading verbatim from her notepad. ‘He wanted me to tell you that he’s bought his boat and will be sailing off into the sunset with his wife and in-laws for a couple of months.’ She watched for Claire’s reaction. ‘Did he mention it to you yesterday?’
‘Yes – I just hadn’t realized he’d be going so soon.’ Something else struck her.
‘He’s learned to navigate in so short a time?’
‘I think he said something about having someone do the sailing for him.’
And that was when Claire decided, as with the messing around by Grant, that she was sick of Jerome Barclay’s games too. She had enough to focus on with her inpatients and the couple of missing outpatients. Let them sink or swim, she thought. It isn’t my problem.
It would be an attitude she almost knew then that she would later regret. She had lost her grip and she kept remembering Grant’s voice on the telephone. ‘Claire. Please …’
What had he been about to say?
‘And the most important thing,’ Rita said. ‘Felicity rang. Dexter’s still missing, I’m afraid.’ She looked up. ‘He’s not been seen at the hostel since the weekend.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ Claire said. ‘That means we’ll have to involve the police.’
Rita nodded. She had been Claire’s secretary for almost five years, almost since Claire had taken up the consultant post – two new girls together. The relationship had been close and successful from the first. She was an intelligent woman with impressive computer and typing skills and had an unerring instinct for knowing the patients, understanding their conditions, realizing what was a serious incident and what could be left to work itself out.
Claire could not have managed without her. She would have been diminished. The relationship between consultant and secretary is necessarily close. They know all their secrets – home, family – and because it is they who type all the letters about patients, they are party to all that too. Claire knew little about Rita’s personal life, though. Only that she was married and had one son. Rita returned to her typing and Claire closed her office door. She needed privacy to make this call.
Dexter missing was top of the list of serious incidents. She spoke first to Felicity, hoping he would have turned up, or that she had some clue where he was, what he was up to, but she had heard nothing. He hadn’t been seen. ‘Have you informed the police?’
‘Yep. They’ve put out a “stop and apprehend” and one of them’s coming round to talk to you.’ There was a pause while Felicity obviously juggled with her diary to find the name. ‘A Detective Sergeant Zed Willard.’
‘Do you know when?’
‘No. He just said he’d be getting in touch with you.’
Claire felt suddenly weary. And it wasn’t just the complications at work. Her job had always been stressful. She had chosen it because of the challenges.
No. It wasn’t that. She was weary because she knew she would have to meet up with Grant again – even if only to sort out what to do about the house. She tried telling herself that she didn’t care about the house any more. It meant nothing to her without him. And she didn’t care about him any more either, so … what exactly was the problem?
She knew full well what the problem was. Her damaged heart.
Damaged initially by his abandonment and subsequently by that tender image that had stuck to the front of her eyelids. She dropped her face into her hands. The betrayal made the hurt fifty – a hundred – times worse. No matter how many times she told herself she had hardened her heart and raised her defences, that he was not going to breach them again. Ever. It still bloody well hurt.
2.30 p.m.
She just had time to ring the hospital about Hayley before a case conference about Stan Moudel, whose condition now was giving rise to serious concern. They were going to have to investigate the cause of his deterioration. DS Zed Willard would have to slot in wherever. She was not in the mood for indulgence. She didn’t have time to fret about where Dexter was, why he had vanished from his hostel, where he was now and what exactly his stupid, wicked brain was planning. If anything it was a problem for the police. That much was clear under the terms of his CTO.
She rang the ward where Hayley had been and was told she had been transferred.
Good or bad news?
She was then passed from pillar to post until a young foundation-year doctor came on the line. She explained who she was and he cleared his throat. ‘She’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘She’s been having cardiac problems.’
‘Cardiac? At her age?’
‘Arrhythmias. We’re having a problem getting her to revert to sinus rhythm and keeping her potassium level stable. We’re worried about her, Dr Roget. She’s in an awful physical state.’ He paused. ‘We just hope we can pull her through.’
‘Thanks.’ Claire put the phone down. Another problem to worry about. She sat for a while, feeling both reflective and sad. Fourteen years old and Hayley’s life hadn’t been great from day one. Before that even, if one accepted the Chinese method of calculating age – from the moment of conception. Whoever believed that life should be fair should meet Hayley, she thought. She had forebodings about her future. If she had one.
She recall
ed one day, over the summer, when she had visited Hayley in her room.
Sometimes things were going so well it was tempting to return to a sunny, happier place.
She had never before been greeted by a smile from her. Certainly not one as bright and happy as this. She’d stood in the doorway for a while, wishing she could bottle it and take a sip every time things went wrong.
But that had been one of Hayley’s last good days. ‘I ate all my breakfast,’ she’d said.
‘That’s good,’ Claire said, and sat down beside her. This was an opportunity not to be wasted, Hayley in receptive mood. ‘You know you’ve come close to dying?’
Hayley had shrugged and looked away, the smile already gone. And now, months later, Claire wondered. Had the girl been clever? Had the smile and reassurance been the smoke-and-mirrors manipulation of an anorexic to gain discharge from hospital? They were, after all, famously deceitful. She’d regarded her patient, who had suddenly taken an interest in her duvet cover.
‘When can I go home, Claire?’ Her eyes had been desperate to escape.
‘You know the answer to that. When you reach your target weight.’
‘What if I promise to eat?’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Hayley.’
Hayley was then detained under a Section 2. She had been an inpatient for three weeks when this conversation had taken place. They could keep her in for a further week. Longer if they transferred her to a Section 3. Claire had already known Hayley’s case would take a long time. But for ever?
But then, taking advantage of the girl’s temporary affability, Claire had made her decision. ‘We’ll see how you go,’ she’d said. ‘If by the weekend you’re eating well, you’ve reached your target weight and there are no ill-effects, we’ll think about home early next week.’
Dangerous Minds Page 12