She was dreading Saturday.
THIRTY-THREE
Saturday, 1 November, 9 a.m.
It was bright and warm, one of those days we don’t expect in mid-November, which is, generally, a month associated with dullness, sulky skies, rain and chilling winds. Just to get you in the mood for winter. But today it was sunny, crisp and beautiful. Not a cloud in a sky of Wedgwood blue. It should have been a perfect day for a wedding. The service was at three, so Claire had plenty of time to take up her position at the church. What she really thought would happen was unclear or unimaginable. Did she really think Dexter would march up the aisle wielding an axe, stab or shoot Sheridan in her wedding dress? Was that really what she expected, a Lorna Doone drama? She sat at her kitchen table musing, wondering whether the seconds were ticking away towards some terrible bloodbath. It was hard to imagine in her quiet kitchen, the clock ticking on the wall a solemn reminder of time passing. And she tried to understand the reason why Dexter Harding had gone underground. Even he would have had a curious logic in his actions, and for once in her life she was afraid of the unknown. Not for herself but for Sheridan and Richard Hadley, the man she hoped to marry. What Claire hoped to achieve by her presence she also had no idea. Throw her body in front of Sheridan’s? Save her life in melodramatic Victorian style? She shook her head and simply knew that she had to be there.
She didn’t need an excuse to stand outside. Weddings are popular. The general public like the spectacle. Families enjoy themselves and plenty of friends would wish them well. Why shouldn’t she be there? But what no one except the police would know was that this wedding would have an uninvited guest, the added frisson of a psycho on the loose, a heavy police presence, and herself standing on the sidelines feeling somehow to blame. Because she knew as sure as sure that Dexter would be there.
She had met Sheridan Riley in person only the once. She would not have recognized her on the street, but that one encounter with her had exposed the danger Dexter posed. Sheridan wasn’t a stupid girl; neither was she timid or weak. But Dexter, even with his bovine stupidity, had made her afraid. He had infected her mind and controlled her; not in the way that Jerome Barclay controlled those around him, with subtle, sly jabs, needling his way into their subconscious with hints and innuendo, but with the blunt instrument of terror. Harding’s was a physically frightening presence. Claire recalled a petite girl with frightened eyes. A girl completely intimidated. Terrified. The relationship and arson attack had been five years ago. Yet it was only now that Sheridan was getting married. What had happened in the intervening years, Claire had no idea. She recalled the girl’s words and the feeling that she’d understood the situation.
‘I met him at a party. I wasn’t really enjoying myself that night. I wanted to go home but the party was one of my best friend’s and I didn’t want to offend her, so I sat on the landing, pretending to drink, and Dexter came up and sat beside me. I didn’t like him. From the first I didn’t like him. There was nothing about him that I liked. His blunt manner, his rudeness.’ She had dropped her head into her hands. ‘His awful language. Every other word a fuck or a – well – even worse.’
And yet, Claire had thought, you ended up with him?
‘He seemed rough and, quite frankly, he smelt, but he could see I wasn’t enjoying myself and he offered to drive me home.’
She had turned dark, troubled eyes on Claire. ‘I just wanted to leave. You know how it is when you’re in a crowd and don’t want to be there?’
Claire had nodded. She’d been to that particular place many times herself.
‘Trouble was,’ Sheridan said, ‘because he’d given me a lift home he now knew where I lived and he pestered me. Just turning up any old time. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes it was threats. A bottle of wine, a takeaway, a thump, a slap. It was all the same to him. He’d just turn up and I couldn’t stand up to him. He’d cancel any engagements I already had, ring people up, just say I wasn’t coming. Little by little my friends bled away. They didn’t like him either.’ She’d met Claire’s eyes. ‘They were afraid of him too. He’d suddenly just smash his fist into something. Break a glass, start shouting. It didn’t seem to matter how much I said I didn’t want a relationship, he just kept coming. He took no notice. It was as though I hadn’t spoken. I was always frightened of what he would do. He was always there. And at irregular intervals. Sometimes every night, sometimes not for a week or even two weeks, but I was still afraid to go out. This went on for nearly a year and then I met Richard, someone I really did like. Just a nice ordinary guy from work.’ She’d worked in an office in the city. ‘And I really wanted to be with him.’
Her eyes had stayed unfocused. ‘Dexter didn’t seem to mind. He just said, OK. But I saw something in his eyes and I knew it wouldn’t be OK. I knew something would happen.’
She’d swallowed. ‘And then that happened. Dr Roget, I felt responsible for the family’s deaths. They’d had an awful life. I knew them a bit. They were Iraqi Kurds. The children were six and four.’ She’d smiled. ‘Babar and Harika. They were lovely. They’d fled death and …’
It was only now, as Claire was dressing in a blue wool dress and navy coat, that she realized something she should have understood years ago, when she’d first taken on Dexter Harding’s case. She’d had it at the back of her mind lying dormant, itching her brain, yet somehow she had skipped right over it.
Dexter Harding had been to Sheridan’s house hundreds of times. He knew where it was. Even as stupid as he was, he wouldn’t have made a mistake and torched the wrong house. He’d set the fire as a warning to her. A statement: This is what I can do. And as for the family he’d murdered, they could have been picked deliberately or been a random choice. But now, Claire understood. He’d known Sheridan was fond of the family. He had set that house ablaze – not hers – to teach her a lesson she would never forget. That was Dexter’s way of thinking. He never had had any intention of killing Sheridan. He’d merely wanted to teach her a lesson. Why hadn’t the original hearing taken this into account? Why hadn’t she realized the significance? She was a psychiatrist, for goodness’ sake. He was, as Barclay had said with more insight than she, the stupid clever. Claire looked at herself in the mirror, pale now with apprehension.
She understood now.
Sheridan’s intimidation had only stopped because Dexter had been in custody, and then in prison, arrested within hours of the arson attack. With typical Dexter stupidity, he had been picked up on CCTV at the petrol station from where he had bought his petrol just a hundred yards from the scene. He hadn’t physically had any chance to get at Sheridan after the fire. So she’d been safe, protected from his attentions. Then, when he’d been released, he’d pretended to abide by the rules of his CTO, kept away from her, lulling them into a sense of false security which Claire had never quite believed in. Had Sheridan read the message behind his crime? Part of the terms of his release had been an injunction not to approach her. And so, with patience most unlike Dexter, he had bided his time, waiting for what? A special day. So what was he planning in that clumsy, limited mind of his? Why had he suddenly gone AWOL when even he must have known it would end up in his being arrested again? What made this risk worth it?
Claire forced herself to concentrate. She was his psychiatrist. She had seen him every fortnight for two years, except for the couple of weeks when she’d been on holiday and her locum or Edward Reakin, the clinical psychologist, had seen him instead. If anybody could understand his mind and anticipate his actions, it should be her.
But her mind was a blank. She only knew she was apprehensive. And if she had been Sheridan today she would have been terrified.
Scared stiff.
2.30 p.m.
Her feeling of foreboding persisted as she drove towards Blurton, that this tranquil happy scene, a young couple marrying in a city church, would be transformed into horror.
She lectured herself. Look, Claire, there’s no point shrinking into a corner. You’ve
got to make a plan. So she did.
The best strategy, she decided, would be to mingle in with the crowd outside the church, invisible, acting the part of a curious bystander, a nosey wedding-watcher. And maybe, knowing him so well, she would have an opportunity of pointing him out to the police before he had a chance to go inside. Then they could deal with him, bundle him away and the wedding could proceed as normal, perhaps even before Sheridan knew anything was amiss.
That was the plan.
And so, for the second time in as many months, she found herself apprehensive at the wedding of one of her more worrying patients, uncertain what the outcome of the nuptials would be.
Should she ring Zed Willard? She fingered her mobile phone, found his number in the call log – and put it back in her pocket. He might think she was overreacting.
Her worry was that she was not.
She parked at the bottom of the hill, in the supermarket car park, and walked up to the church, arriving early, giving herself twenty minutes before the ceremony was due to start.
She stood on the edge of the few gathered people and observed the arrivals.
The groom made an appearance at a quarter to two, a good-looking young man, immaculate in a grey morning suit, eyes looking nervously around him. Claire watched him. Simple bridegroom’s nerves, or something more? How much did he know about his bride’s troubles? What exactly had Sheridan told him?
Richard Hadley was a little under six feet tall, with a sharp new haircut and shiny brown hair, strong shoulders and a clear gaze. No bridegroom hangover evidence from the stag night. And – something else which comforted Claire – he looked brave, one of these clear-eyed, challenging sorts who would shoulder responsibility and slay the dragon.
He didn’t recognize her, of course, which gave her an advantage. She could observe him without being noticed as he posed for the obligatory photographs, jiggling nervously from foot to foot.
She watched the file of people, all in wedding finery. Hats and suits and some very smart clothes, the women like a flutter of butterflies. What a very appropriate collective noun that was. And, like the women whose movements and outfits did indeed flutter like butterflies, so too did Claire’s thoughts, flying around, settling on one anxiety and then another.
Superimposed by Dexter Harding’s character, dark as a crow’s.
If butterflies fluttered then crows murdered.
She scanned the smiley, happy faces, all waiting for the bride. No Dexter.
Yet.
After a few awkward photographs (best man, ushers in attendance, very like Jerome Barclay’s wedding – aren’t all weddings the same? Not all weddings. Not this wedding), finally the groom disappeared inside the church. Safe for now – at least he was. She heard the organist playing a Bach cantata, the music sombre, cadences as threatening as storm clouds.
The ushers hovered outside, showing some more self-consciously smartly dressed people to their seats. Passers-by gathered, hovering expectantly. Waiting for the bride.
The organ continued playing, now another Bach cantata, which rippled out on to the pavement as a white Rolls-Royce pulled up and two bridesmaids in midnight-blue dresses tumbled out. The crowd shuffled and made a slight movement towards them. Claire hung back and looked around anxiously.
Still no sign of Dexter.
The car behind was another Rolls, silver this time, with white satin ribbons over its bonnet, and here she was, Sheridan Riley, looking gorgeous in an ice-white, huge-skirted dress, crystals dazzling in the sunshine, train trailing, face veiled, helped by her father in a grey morning suit, a splash of a red carnation with untidy petals on his lapel, just over his heart, pinned like the scrap of material meant to help soldiers take aim at a victim in a firing squad. Please no.
The bridesmaids patted Sheridan’s wedding dress down, pulled out any creases, extended the train to its full, glorious length, holding it just above the pavement so it retained its sparkling, pure whiteness. Sheridan scanned the crowd but didn’t appear to recognize Claire or see anyone else to concern her. So she focused on the wedding. There were the obligatory photographs. Flowers in the foreground, Sheridan flanked by the two girls in blue, both of them giggling self-consciously but looking ethereally happy. Claire remained in the background, her focus not on the bride, her nervous father or her pretty bridesmaids, but scanning the rim of curious members of the general public, the uninvited ones. Maleficent: the one who could cause havoc. Dexter.
She tried to spot the police in the crowd. No one obvious. Certainly no uniformed presence and not a sign of DS Zed Willard. She fingered her mobile phone in her pocket and felt let down. Something was going to happen and they just didn’t care. They hadn’t taken the threat seriously – or her warning. She should have warned them again. Now, when that something happened, they wouldn’t be there to protect anyone. Had they not realized that Dexter Harding was a mad bull? She felt angry now as well as apprehensive, and kept her head down. She felt nothing but relief when the bride finally disappeared inside the church to the strains of Wagner.
For a moment Claire could breathe. Nothing had happened. Sheridan was safe and the ushers had checked everyone who’d entered the church. Perhaps the police had briefed them to be extra-vigilant and considered that was enough. Perhaps she had been wrong. Maybe Dexter had vanished for another reason. Claire stood still and wondered. So many possibilities.
The sounds of the service drifted out on to the pavement, plenty of members of the public hovering, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bride. The crowd was gathering, waiting to see the happy couple emerge.
‘Dearly beloved …’ ‘Ave Maria’ … ‘Trumpet Voluntary’, as they (presumably) signed the register. And then she saw him. Well, the truth was, she felt him, smelt him and knew he was there. Somewhere behind her, not far away. The back of her neck felt ice cold.
Perhaps part of her had been watchful all the way through the service. And now she saw a couple of uniformed police, bright in their hi-vis jackets, cross the road towards the church. She saw them scanning the watching crowd, communicate on their walkie-talkies, speaking surreptitiously into microphones attached to their lapels. One of them had a head-cam and was sweeping the images somewhere. Back to a central station? So they were taking the threat seriously. She made a silent apology to DS Zed Willard and watched.
Dexter was hovering on the periphery of the onlookers, standing at the very back of the crowd, a bulky figure in jeans and donkey jacket. He was standing quite still and yet giving out vibes. Maybe it was his appearance or his animal scent – or the pungent smell that Sheridan had complained of. A few people glanced across and moved away from him. Just a step or two, but enough to put them beyond arms’ (or fists’) reach. She lifted her gaze to his face. He was fixed on one spot – the church door through which the happy couple would soon emerge. She inched closer, staring at the floor, pulling up the collar of her jacket, making herself appear smaller, insignificant, invisible.
Some hope.
Had the police spotted him? She couldn’t be absolutely sure. There seemed no urgency in the two officers’ casual stroll. She focused back on the arched doorway. Still empty, then risked another look at Harding. His chin was jutting out, his expression determined, his hand in his pocket.
What did he have in there? Not an axe. A knife or a gun or even acid spray for the girl who had spurned him. Whatever he was planning, in minutes, she guessed there would be no happy couple but a scene of destruction, devastation.
She manoeuvred herself next to one of the uniformed officers and spoke in a low voice.
‘I’m Dr Claire Roget,’ she said, hoping he would have been briefed so she wouldn’t need to go into any explanation.
He looked down at her. He was young. Twenties maybe, oddly innocent-looking for a police constable. She continued in the same low voice, ‘I think some of you at least are here because of a previous boyfriend of the bride?’
He turned surprised eyes at her.
&nbs
p; ‘I know him,’ she said. ‘He’s a patient of mine who has absconded. He’s here,’ she said. ‘At the back of the crowd, in a brown jacket and jeans.’
The constable looked around.
‘You mean that guy there?’
She turned and looked straight into Dexter’s eyes. He’d moved right behind her. It would be futile to pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘Hello, Dexter,’ she said, smiling. ‘You missed your last appointment.’
The look he gave her was one of utter contempt, and she knew then that her initial instinct – for him to remain in prison or Broadmoor for ever – had been right. He was not someone who should ever have been released. It had been a terrible mistake. And now there would be a terrible price to pay.
Dexter shoved his way through the crowd towards the front, while the policeman spoke into his lapel microphone. She could hear the strains of ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. The newlyweds were leaving the church and there was no way to stop them. Claire wondered if she could dart forwards and slam the door. Keep them in the church – safe. She again had that terrible Lorna Doone flash – a wedding dress and a spreading stain – and stood paralysed. Afterwards she was full of remorse. She should have warned them.
She had said nothing, done nothing, except alerted one policeman to his presence. And Dexter knew she was here. Now he was warned. Probably carrying a weapon. She should have told the officer he might have a knife. He’s dangerous. But all she felt was panic. Then events happened fast. By the time she had formed these thoughts the constable had rallied two of his colleagues and they were closing in on him.
As the bride and groom emerged, laughing in a cloud of confetti, underneath the ancient arch of the church, Dexter lunged, knife in hand, slashing. And at the same time the three officers in their Day-Glo hi-vis jackets also lunged. The young officer clutched his chest and Dexter was on the floor, spitting and cursing, while the bride in her still beautifully spotless, perfect white wedding dress and the groom, swanky in his morning suit, blue cravat, white shirt and winged collar, simply stood, gaping. For a further minute, Dexter spat and struggled on the floor, the crowd frozen at the drama, not understanding. Then Sheridan née Riley, now Mrs Hadley, threw herself into her husband’s arms to the cheer of the crowd, who still didn’t understand what was going on. The cuffing of Dexter, the frog-march to the police van and the flashing blue light and screaming siren seconds later almost went unnoticed in the joy and romance of the occasion and the clicking of cameras and phones.
Dangerous Minds Page 19