Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  Headline news.

  But Claire was not looking at the arrest, or the bride and groom, but at the young officer, face chalk white, and the blood pumping out of his chest.

  Doctor clicked in. She pressed on the wound, shouted for an ambulance, checked pulse – a little thready, but then he was shocked. Better to keep the blood pressure low – less blood would pump out of his chest. ‘We need the high-dependency ambulance,’ she said, ice calm now. She looked up. ‘What’s his name?’

  And then Zed Willard was by her side. ‘Dylan,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got blood on you, Claire.’

  She nodded, then heard the scream of an ambulance. A couple of paramedics were kneeling by her in seconds, an oxygen mask on his face.

  ‘Dylan,’ she said, ‘you’re going to be OK now.’

  ‘Penetrating chest wound,’ she said to the paramedic – a girl with a blonde ponytail. ‘Arterial damage. You’ll have to keep the pressure on.’ She met her eyes. ‘Ready?’

  They switched roles. ‘He’ll have to go straight to theatre.’

  Zed Willard touched her shoulder and smiled. ‘We’ll send a copper in with him to give details.’

  Then she rested back on her heels. Her role was over. Job done.

  And he was right. She had blood on her clothes. She didn’t wait, not for the photographs with the lovely old church in the background, the sun sparkling on the crystals of the bride’s dress, the yards and yards of train carried around the churchyard by the patient bridesmaids from one location to another, finally to be bundled into the car to the reception. Claire didn’t wait for any of it. She just went home.

  Her role here was over.

  What, she wondered, would come next?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Her mobile registered a call at six p.m. that evening. Shaken, she’d returned home, wondering what she could or should have done differently. It had been a close call. Armed with a knife Dexter, her patient, her responsibility, had been within yards of his prior girlfriend and might well have murdered a young policeman. It would be touch and go. If the police had been a little slower, if she hadn’t been there, it could have been a different story. In her mind, Dexter would have knifed bride and/or groom. The beautiful dress would have been spattered with blood, just like she’d imagined, and somehow she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that it was, somehow, her fault. She was the psychiatrist in charge of his case, but her problem was always the same one: how do you anticipate a crime?

  Hang on a minute – she just had.

  She had a bath and discarded the bloodstained clothes. She probably wouldn’t wear them again.

  To distract herself she wandered from room to room, trying to move away from her thoughts, to focus on deciding the best décor for each room, and fire herself up to make a visit in the morning to the local DIY store. Do something calming like looking at paint shade cards, fittings and wallpaper books. But she couldn’t stir herself and she had to acknowledge: she had no enthusiasm for the scheme, really. With Grant it had been fun building and feathering this little nest. Alone it lacked colour and excitement. She just wanted out. So when her phone rang she was glad of the distraction.

  ‘Is that Claire?’ The voice was male and tentative and she wasn’t sure initially who it was. Then it registered.

  ‘DS Willard,’ she said, surprised. ‘Zed. How is …?’ she scratched around in her mind. ‘Dylan?’

  ‘Still in theatre, but alive as far as I know.’

  That was when it struck her. Maybe Sheridan hadn’t been the intended target. Maybe Dexter had simply wanted her to suffer – again. Maybe it had just been another warning. She was silent, then said, ‘Well, you got your man.’

  ‘Thank goodness you were there to point him out to our officers. He got pretty near.’

  ‘Well I knew him,’ Claire began, knowing she was sounding a bit prickly. ‘He was under my care. Not surprising I recognized him.’ Then she burst out. ‘I knew he was dangerous, Zed. I fought his release into a Community Treatment Order but nobody was listening. I was always wary of him. I knew what he was capable of. This was my worst nightmare. And you nearly lost an officer.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Dylan will be all right – thanks to you.’

  ‘Thanks to me,’ she said bitterly.

  He butted in verbally to sidetrack her. ‘Claire. Look. This might be a bit out of order.’

  What on earth was he about to say?

  ‘But … I er … I wondered …’ He was having real trouble spitting it out. ‘I was thinking of …’

  She waited. For what, she didn’t have a clue.

  ‘I was thinking. I …’ This was squirmingly embarrassing. ‘Can I come round with a bottle of wine?’

  She was so astonished that she did the usual, stupid thing and asked a stupid question. ‘You know where I live?’

  So stupid. He was a police officer, for goodness’ sake. They could find out anything. Her address was probably one of the easiest, along with her mobile number (she’d given it to him anyway), her car registration, insurance status, tax and MOT.

  ‘Ye-es.’ He was quick to add, ‘I mean, I haven’t been snooping or anything.’

  ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘I could be round by seven.’

  ‘OK.’ She was still too surprised to say anything more – no platitudes, no I’ll look forward to it. She was still gawping.

  He gave a chuckle then an uncertain, ‘Uumm.’ Then, ‘Red or white?’

  In actual fact he was round in forty-five minutes, a bottle of Rioja under one arm, Sauvignon Blanc under the other. He held them out with such a boyish grin it touched her heart.

  ‘I hope he’s all right.’

  ‘If he is it’s thanks to you. You were amazing. You probably saved his life with your heroics.’

  ‘Just my job,’ she said. ‘Any old doctor around would have done the same.’

  He clinked glasses. ‘Ah, but you were the one on the spot.’

  ‘Not,’ she reminded him, ‘by chance.’

  They were sitting in the garden, wrapped up in fleeces against the chill, drinking their first glass of wine.

  ‘It could have been even worse.’

  And then, like a boil, it had burst out, hot and furious. ‘He should never have been let out, Zed. Never have been allowed to walk the streets. He is dangerous. Always has been and always will be. All his life.’

  Then she raised her observation about the arson attack. ‘He’d been to Sheridan’s house on numerous occasions, practically stalked her. Yet he torched the wrong house?’ Then, as he didn’t appear to have grasped her full meaning, she continued, ‘He murdered that entire family deliberately, just to teach her a lesson, to terrify her. Today was another … lesson. Her wedding day.’

  Zed Willard leaned back in his chair, seeming to absorb this fact. Then he sat up. ‘So obvious,’ he said. ‘So why …?’

  ‘Mistakes are made,’ she said wearily. ‘Even I didn’t think of it until today.’ She turned to him, hands holding the wine glass, warming the Rioja to blood heat. ‘If he hadn’t missed that appointment, I wouldn’t have been alerted.’

  ‘So why did he miss when he’d turned up regularly for a couple of years?’

  She gave a sour smile. ‘I’ve been pondering this point,’ she said. ‘I like to think it’s because he believed I would know something was up. He always had a belief that psychiatrists had almost psychic powers and could read minds.’

  ‘Well, after this, he won’t be walking the streets again. Ever.’

  She turned on him then. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it, Zed. You think you can go against someone with their FRCPsych., and argue that he is and always will be a danger, when they’re saying, under their treatment, whatever it might be, that he is cured of his malady and safe as the family Labrador?’ Anger was making her voice tight. Zed Willard put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Claire,’ he said, ‘loosen up.’

  He was right. ‘I’m sor
ry. I just think – because of Dexter Harding’s evil nature and fixation – that your young officer could so easily have lost his life and Sheridan’s wedding day has been blighted.’

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘She and her husband will be OK.’

  He touched her hand. ‘What more could you have done – really?’

  She took a long deep draught of wine. ‘It’s not enough,’ she said. ‘Never enough. I knew Dexter was dangerous, but I couldn’t do anything to prevent this.’

  Just like Jerome Barclay.

  Zed Willard was silent.

  They poured their second glass and the conversation shifted gear.

  DS Willard looked embarrassed. ‘Claire,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if I should say this.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘What?’

  He looked even more awkward. ‘I mean – are you in a relationship?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to go into it. ‘To be honest, Zed,’ she said, ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked about as confused as she felt.

  Twenty minutes later he stood up, mumbled something about drink-drive limits and left.

  She finished the bottle of wine alone.

  Dexter had been taken care of. So now she only had Barclay to worry about. Was he planning something similar? A murderous attack on wife, baby, in-laws? Only, Barclay being Barclay, it would not be a visible knife attack in full public view. Nothing so obvious. Oh no. It would be something much more devious and subtle, hardly visible on the surface as a crime and impossible to prove. Was she equally powerless to prevent it?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 2 November, 10 a.m.

  A day off but she wasn’t relaxed at all. She felt fidgety and anxious. She had intervened in the Dexter case but the young police constable had nearly lost his life. If she hadn’t been there he probably would have died. He still might do. Without opening up his chest she was aware his injury had been life threatening. Had Sheridan been his real target, she wondered, or the policeman – or just anyone? What was certain now was that Dexter was not currently a danger to the public. He was in police custody.

  Not so Barclay. He was out there, on the loose, plotting something. She felt depressed. She might know what was in her patients’ minds, but she couldn’t be everywhere, with everyone, to try and stop them. How could she protect Roxanne, let alone the unborn child, even her parents, when Barclay was luring them possibly to their deaths?

  What if Jerome Barclay was as dangerous as her worst fear and the whole situation ended up like that of Dexter, with a fatal showdown? She sat and pondered the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. How responsible was she? It was a point that troubled many psychiatrists who deal with forensic patients. They run a constant tightrope between protection of potential victims and preserving the patient’s right to remain innocent until proved guilty. It was all guesswork really. An inexact science. And if they got it wrong, they were culpable in the eyes of the law.

  But for guilt to be proved you first had to have an actual crime, or at least clear intention to commit one. Planning, stalking, acquisition of weapons, etc. After Dexter’s murder of the Kurdish family, at least a second felony had hopefully been averted. She might well not be so lucky with Barclay. He was brighter than Dexter and, she hated to admit it, easily her equal. Capable of outmanoeuvring her.

  If Roxanne and her parents hadn’t been that lethal combination of naive and wealthy. And if Roxanne hadn’t been exactly Barclay’s sort of girl: compliant, easily intimidated and vulnerable, she would have let them work the situation out for themselves and hope that no harm came to them. She would trust they could protect themselves and that Roxanne would protect her unborn infant. At least there were three of them against Barclay’s one. But the near tragedy on Saturday with Dexter had thumped home to her the responsibility of her position. She had actually seen what a violent patient could do – first hand. She felt a certain anger and frustration. She was not a magician; neither was she a medium or a visionary. She could not peer inside her patients’ minds and anticipate death. She could not grade evil on a scale of one to ten and incarcerate anyone scoring over a five. Patients could be devious. She was supposed to be able to foresee the future, but she had no supernatural powers to call on. Only simple psychiatry. She spent half of Sunday tussling with the problem of what to do about Barclay, and the other half moving from room to room, trying to work out how best to present the house and sell it quickly and for a good price.

  And was that what she really wanted? She didn’t even know that.

  As a consultant one was, to some extent, a lone worker. She needed someone to talk to about Barclay but she couldn’t trust anyone in the hospital. Someone there was feeding Barclay his information.

  Would, she wondered, DS Zed Willard take her a bit more seriously now if she raised the subject with him?

  It was worth a try.

  Feeling instinctively that it wasn’t a good idea, she rang him. She knew it had been a bad idea when a woman answered. She bottled out and apologized for having rung a wrong number.

  Monday, 3 November, 7.30 a.m.

  Paul Mudd was as good as his word. In fact his knocking at the front door was what got her out of bed. Predictably she’d had a restless night imagining all sorts of scenarios, as well as recalling the young PC’s face as the knife had driven home. She saw again and again his colour leach away, felt the thready pulse, watched him slowly lose consciousness. In her nightmare she watched him die, arms pinned behind her back, powerless to save him, while Dexter drove the knife home again and again. And then her mind took her to the sea, to a boat bobbing on the waves. Roxanne and family – and Jerome Barclay sliding on the deck as wave after wave hit. She was in the front seat watching a disaster movie, eyes wide open.

  Paul Mudd’s cheery face was a good start to the day, particularly as he told her, in business-like terms that he would ‘start at the top, Claire, and work my way downwards. OK with you?’

  What did he think?

  Even better, he’d brought some shade cards with him so she could choose her colours without even having to trawl the DIY shops. And even better than that, he assured her that he could get a ‘very good trade discount’.

  Happy, she left the house.

  8.30 a.m.

  One of the first things she did on arrival at work was to ring the hospital and ask how PC Dylan Salisbury was. The bright mood intensified when she was told he was out of danger and back on a general ward.

  Thank God, she thought.

  Next she searched out Edward Reakin. He was a few years older than her and more experienced. Not only that but his viewpoint, as a clinical psychologist rather than a psychiatrist, was different; she needed his perspective to help her to understand what she should do next to avert further tragedy. There was another benefit. He knew Barclay, had met him on a number of occasions as he covered her clinics when she was away. Bearing in mind that he might be the mole, she would be guarded in her questions.

  She found Edward in his office and gained entrance with a tentative knock.

  He grinned across at her. He was a friendly guy, very approachable. Of all the people in the hospital, she least wanted him to be Barclay’s informant. She couldn’t imagine him being friends with a worm like Jerome anyway, so she thought she was safe trusting him. She was really fond of him. He was about forty and had suffered a very traumatic divorce a year or two ago when his wife had publicly flaunted an affair. At that time he had lost weight and looked older and anxious and very unhappy. It had taken many nights out at the pub and a lot of heart-searching, but he had eventually settled down and now he appeared content.

  Today he looked the part, dressed in a smart grey suit, cream shirt, blue tie. Not the usual work garb for a psychologist who tended, as a group, to dress like Freud or Einstein – in baggy tweed jackets and old trousers, sometimes completing the picture with scuffed suede shoes – rather than like the CEO of a major company. E
dward was a slim man with long bony legs, and a thin face which easily looked tired, even haggard. His best feature, in Claire’s opinion, was his eyes, very clear and grey, set wide either side of a sharply hooked nose. He also had a warm, genuine smile. The other thing she really liked about him was his gentlemanly, almost public school, manners. He stood up smartly as she entered. ‘Claire,’ he said gladly. (That was yet another thing to add to the list: he always looked glad to see her.)

  Please, she thought, don’t let it be him.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Edward? I could do with some advice.’

  ‘Of course.’ His grin was warm and genuine as he patted the chair in front of the desk. ‘What is it? You look bothered about something.’

  ‘That’s because I am,’ she responded, sinking into one of his very comfortable chairs.

  As succinctly as she could, and without emotion, she related the drama that had surrounded Saturday’s wedding and she watched his face deepen into worry. He put his hand out and brushed hers in sympathy. ‘Every now and then, Claire,’ he said, ‘we come across the real meaning of our job, don’t we?’ His eyes lit on hers. ‘The bit about protecting the general public?’

  She nodded and he continued.

  ‘It’s beyond us. I mean, how can you possibly know how far some of our patients will go? They brag and get expansive. How can we know when their threats will translate into action?’