Into the Blue

by Robert Goddard

  49

  GENEVA, TUESDAY. A small station on the line to Lausanne, at a point where affluent city suburbs gave way to a tamed landscape of vineyards and lakeside villages. Weather dry, cold, still, grey to the very marrow. Harry, the only passenger to disembark, listened to the subsiding rattle of the trains as he plodded up the sloping road that led north-west between shuttered, tree-screened residences, listened to it until it had faded into silence and then to his own footfalls as they carried him towards his goal.

  Thirty-six hours in Geneva had confirmed all his lifelong suspicions of the Swiss. Manically tidy. Infuriatingly polite. Intolerably efficient. He had grudged and growled his way around their manicured city of international understanding and had detested everything he had seen. He would be glad to leave it.

  He reached a cross-roads and turned right. Not far now, as he remembered from yesterday’s reconnaissance. Not far till he had a long-craved chance to lay this matter to rest. The boundary wall of the Versorelli Institute appeared to his left, high and implacable, with only pine trees visible within. It had a cheval-de-frise to deter entry – or prevent escape. The sight of it made him shudder. He quickened his pace.

  A broad, stone-pillared entrance, the gates standing open, an automatic barrier blocking the drive beyond. One of the pillars bore a large and freshly painted sign. L’INSTITUT VERSORELLI. Then a stream of French he could not follow. Hôpital mental. That at least was clear. Les recherches psychiatriques. He had a glimmering of what that meant. Directeur: Prof. K. V. Bichler, Université de Genève. The name on the letter: he checked its presence in his pocket. All was well. He stepped between the pillars and moved towards the gatehouse.

  ‘I wish to see the Director. I have this letter of authorization.’

  The gatekeeper stared at him blankly for a moment. There is nothing to fear, Harry reassured himself, nothing at all. (He was wearing a new raincoat, a clean collar and tie, a jacket and trousers similar enough to be taken for a suit. He had shaved and combed his hair. He was sober and he was smiling. He had never looked more respectable.) The gatekeeper snatched the letter and peered at it, but written English seemed to be beyond him. He made a phone call, held a brief conversation, put the phone down, then nodded glumly. ‘Entrez, monsieur.’ He handed back the letter and pressed a button. The barrier rose.

  The grounds were extensive, paths threading away through the woods, lawns and flower borders leading the eye up the driveway towards a cream-stone château, vast and austere in its parkland setting. Other buildings, lower-roofed and modern, could be seen amongst the trees behind it. Several dozen vehicles were drawn up in a car park to one side of the château, but of their occupants there was no sign. No patients were wandering the lawns, no doctors hurrying about their business, no gardeners pushing leaf-laden barrows: all was still and empty.

  When Harry was about ten yards from the main entrance, the door opened. A young man, no more than thirty, pencil-thin and alert, with wiry hair and a bright-eyed smile that gave him a quirky, vulpine look, stepped out and stood at the top of the short flight of steps to greet him. ‘Mr Barnett?’ His English accent was almost perfect, his lack of a white coat almost reassuring.

  ‘Yes ‘ They shook hands. ‘Professor Bichler?’

  ‘Professor Bichler is on holiday. My name is Junod. I am Professor Bichler’s assistant. Follow me, please.’

  The interior of the château was cheerier than Harry had expected, bright and airy, with light cascading down a monumental staircase. But here again nobody was to be seen or heard. There was not even a smell of disinfectant to prove it was a hospital. Junod led the way down a wide, marbled corridor, opened the third door along and ushered Harry in.

  The room was large and well-furnished, the trappings of administration artfully concealed behind lavish couches, thick rugs and giant Oriental urns. Junod took Harry’s coat, showed him to one of the couches and arranged himself primly on a stiff-backed chair. He sat for several seconds in expectant silence, then, just as Harry was about to speak, said: ‘You have a letter, I gather?’

  ‘From Dr Kingdom, yes.’

  ‘Of course: Dr Kingdom. I know him well. We have worked together. May I?’ Harry handed the letter over and Junod read it, frowning as he did so. But as soon as he had finished, the smile was restored. ‘Thank you.’ He handed it back, paused for a moment, then said: ‘I am surprised Dr Kingdom did not forewarn us of your visit.’

  Harry endeavoured to look surprised as well. ‘Oh I understood he was to write to you separately. Perhaps the letter’s not yet reached you.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, no matter. We are always anxious to oblige. How may we help you, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘I’d like to meet each of Dr Kingdom’s patients here, if I may.’

  Junod deliberated. ‘It is an unusual request. Most unusual.’

  ‘As are the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps you could enlarge on the … circumstances, Mr Barnett.’

  Harry had expected the question. He launched himself on the answer he had prepared. ‘My niece vanished seven years ago. Her father died shortly afterwards and her mother, my sister, has never recovered from the dual loss. For my sister’s sake, I’ve done all I can to discover if her daughter is still alive, but without success. Three weeks ago, my sister received a telephone call which she is convinced was from her daughter. The call was brief and garbled, but my niece evidently referred to being in Switzerland under the care of Dr Kingdom. Since I did not take the call and since my sister is quite capable of imagining such things, I was sceptical at first. But in view of the fact that Dr Kingdom is a practising psychiatrist who has links with an institution in Switzerland, I felt obliged to check the point with him. He was naturally surprised and thought, as I still do, that my sister must be mistaken. Nevertheless …’

  ‘You decided that only by visiting us could you settle the matter once and for all?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Junod’s brow furrowed. He plucked thoughtfully at his right ear-lobe. ‘What age would your niece be now, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘Twenty-seven. ‘

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Heather King.’

  ‘King?’

  ‘Yes. It could explain my sister’s misunderstanding, of course. King and Kingdom.’

  ‘Quite. You have a photograph of her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry pulled out the snap Marjorie Mallender had loaned him: Heather in a sheepskin coat, Christmas 1980. ‘It was taken the year before she disappeared. Obviously she could look completely different now. Thinner perhaps, with dyed hair. Who knows?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Junod handed back the photograph. ‘I do not recognize her, Mr Barnett. But as you say, that means nothing. As to the likelihood of her being here, I should say it was nil. Did Dr Kingdom explain the circumstances and origins of our patients?’

  ‘No. He said he could tell me nothing without breaching confidentiality. He said that only if I had good reason to think one of his patients might be Heather could the matter be taken any further. Hence this visit.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The ear-lobe was being waggled now, quite violently. ‘I see his point. It is inconceivable, of course. Apart from anything else, our patients have no un-monitored access to the telephone. But even so …’ He seemed suddenly to reach a decision. ‘Wait here, Mr Barnett, if you will. I shall not detain you long.’ With that, he bustled from the room.

  Harry tried to relax, tried not to imagine where the fellow had gone or why. He glanced at the clock. Eleven twenty. Therefore ten twenty in London. Coffee-time in Marylebone, with Zohra Labrooy sitting expectantly by the telephone. Would they check? He could not be sure. Five minutes passed. Then ten. God, this was agony. Sheer, unmitigated agony. He was too old for such playacting, too damned old altogether. And he was sweating. It was cold in the room, yet the sweat was pouring off him. Why was Junod away so long? Why had he not returned? Perhaps be should have had a drink beforehand after all. Perhaps he should have had several
.

  The door opened. Junod was back, smiling as before, eyes twinkling, a folder under his arm. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you, Mr Barnett.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Junod resumed his seat and opened the folder. ‘One or two formalities, you understand.’ The smile became a grin. Harry did not understand. Neither did he care. ‘Dr Kingdom has an interest in twelve of our patients, whose details I have here.’ Relief flooded over Harry: the delay was explained. ‘Of those twelve, five are male. Of the seven females, only three are in the same age group as your niece and none, according to our records, is twenty-seven. The nearest is … twenty-nine.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Twenty-four … and thirty-three.’

  ‘May I see them?’

  ‘Certainly. Come with me, please.’

  They rose and left the room. As they stepped into the corridor, the enormity of what might be about to happen swept over Harry. Heather might be within yards of him, might be waiting in one of the château’s innumerable rooms for his recognition to pluck her from Kingdom’s shadow.

  ‘You will appreciate, Mr Barnett, that I can tell you nothing of these patients. You may see them. You may address them. That is all.’

  ‘It’s all I ask.’

  They headed up the wide baronial stairs, grey light descending from high windows. ‘Also, you will appreciate that they are highly disturbed individuals. I must ask you to do nothing that might alarm them. Do not touch. Do not shout. Do not expect too much.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The top of the stairs had been partitioned off, the path blocked by a stout door in new, white-painted wood. Junod produced a key and unlocked it. They stepped through into a dark corridor. Pools of light from open doors. Institutional paint. And a smell somewhat worse than the one he had anticipated. ‘Lucy is normally to be found in the day-room. This way, please.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Twenty-four. Schizophrenic. Highly suggestible. But warm-hearted and generous. Perhaps too much so.’

  There were two nurses in the day-room. The one by the door nodded to Junod as they entered and spoke to him in French. Apart from Lucy’s name, Harry could catch nothing of what was said. The nurse pointed towards a window-seat, where a girl in a stained pinafore dress was crouched over a jigsaw-puzzle. She looked much younger than twenty-four, long blonde hair falling to her waist. She glanced up as they approached, wide-eyed with apprehensiveness. Then she giggled nervously. She was not Heather. Harry shook his head at Junod. A few desultory words about the jigsaw, then a cheery farewell. They left.

  ‘Juliet, Mr Barnett, is thirty-three. Also schizophrenic. But reclusive with none of Lucy’s sweetness of character. We shall find her in her room. We never find her anywhere else.’

  They climbed a flight of stairs to a silent corridor of closed doors. At the far end, they knocked and a subdued voice replied: ‘Come in.’ She spoke in English. Harry’s hopes rose.

  It could have been a nun’s cell, but for the absence of a crucifix. A tiny cot-bed, a wardrobe, a table, a chair, a basin in the corner, a narrow window propped open for all that it was numbingly cold. Juliet, an angular creature with a swan-like neck and long brown hair, regarded them disdainfully from the head of the bed. She was clad in ill-fitting pyjamas, broadly striped in pink and white.

  ‘Not cold, Juliet?’ said Junod.

  ‘Only when I see you.’ The answer was like icy water thrown in the face. Her expression was calm and ordered, hostile yet strangely peaceful. There was nothing in her of Heather. Not a trace. Not even a faint resemblance.

  ‘Do you know this man, Juliet?’

  She fixed Harry with an imperious stare. ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. The eyes have it, of course.’ She chuckled. ‘Have we met somewhere?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Another chuckle. ‘I knew you once: but in Paradise.’

  ‘Have you heard enough, Mr Barnett?’ said Junod.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If we meet,’ said Juliet as they left, ‘I will pass or turn my face.’

  Junod closed the door. They set off along the corridor. ‘You are positive neither could be your niece?’ he said neutrally.

  ‘Absolutely certain. ‘

  ‘Then that only leaves Maureen, the twenty-nine-year-old.’

  ‘The nearest to Heather’s age. Why didn’t we see her first?’

  ‘Because I assumed she could not be your niece.’

  ‘Why?’

  They paused at the head of the stairs. ‘Let us say I hoped rather than assumed, Mr Barnett. I hoped, for your sake, that you did not know her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Junod’s face grew suddenly solemn. ‘As to that, Mr Barnett, you will soon understand.’

  They left the château by a rear door and followed a narrow path between pine trees and a tennis court compound. Several single-storey whitewashed buildings lay ahead, flat-roofed and of a vaguely military character, with bars at all the windows. Les Malades violents warned a sign. Entrée interdite. An uncontrollable tremor ran through Harry. Could this be where Heather was? So far, so very far, from all she had loved and known.

  They turned down a side-path leading to the second building. At the door, they stopped, Junod sorting through a bunch of keys, clicking his tongue as he did so, whilst Harry glanced about him. The weather was closing in, a freezing mist creeping towards them through the silent conifers. He could feel the weight of the inmates’ collective sadnesses bearing down upon him. What a place. What a truly awful place.

  Junod unlocked the door. They entered a scrubbed and spartan lobby. A man in a small office nodded to Junod, who marched ahead and knocked on a set of double doors. A grim female face glared out through a panel of barred and wired glass, then unlocked one of the doors and opened it just wide enough for them to pass through.

  A dozen or so beds, six either side of a central aisle, separated by head-high partitions, occupied a room that could have been a second-rate public school dormitory but for the bars at the windows and the keys clanking at the hip of the nurse who had admitted them. There were rugs by some of the beds, a few sickly potplants on one of the windowsilIs and a couple of armchairs visible beyond a curtain at the far end. Otherwise there was nothing that could comfort or console: no pictures, no books, no entertainment of any kind.

  Not that Harry had much chance to assess his surroundings, because his senses were invaded simultaneously by two overwhelming forces: noise and smell. Somebody in the room was laughing hysterically, yet without an ounce of joy. The sound was frenzied, piercingly pitched and hopelessly permanent. This, and the acrid stench of stale urine that gagged in his throat, struck Harry like a club. He reeled back before it.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Barnett?’ said Junod.

  ‘Yes … Yes … Fine.’

  Junod broke off to speak to the nurse, their conversation drowned beneath the hyena laugh. Harry scanned the cubicles for its source without success. A red-haired woman lying on one of the beds caught his eye and smiled. He smiled nervously back, at which, to his horror, she dragged down the front of her gown and exposed one of her breasts.

  ‘We are in luck, Mr Barnett,’ said Junod. ‘Maureen is in one of her more tractable moods. This way, please.’

  They set off along the aisle between the beds. Harry kept his eyes trained on Junod’s back, aware even so of the redhead mouthing and gesturing at him as he walked by. When they had nearly reached the end, Junod stopped and smiled at the occupant of one of the left-hand beds. ‘Bonjour, Maureen,’ he said in his brightest tone. ‘I have a visitor for you.’

  Harry turned and looked. Maureen was propped up on several pillows, the blankets gathered about her, her hands splayed out on the counterpane, each finger stretched and spaced to the maximum. Her face was gaunt, the mouth compressed, with deep shadows beneath the eyes, her hair shoulder-length, an unkempt brown; perhaps, Harry could
not deny, perhaps it had once been flaxen. He stepped closer. There were spots of blood on the front of her gown. Her jaw was trembling faintly, as if she were about to cry.

  ‘Do you know this man, Maureen?’ said Junod.

  Her eyes moved to focus on Harry. Large, mournful, far-seeing eyes. In that instant he was certain. She could not be Heather. Yet when she raised one hand and beckoned for him to draw nearer, he did not resist. She opened her mouth and tried to speak. He had to stoop to hear her words.

  ‘Please,’ she said falteringly, ‘please take me away from here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘I can’t do that.’

  A final rake of her sorrowful eyes, then she turned her face to the pillow. He stepped back. ‘Well?’ said Junod.

  ‘No. It’s not her.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Can we leave now, please?’

  * * *

  The open air. The fresh, free, open air. Harry stood gulping it into his lungs as the mist rolled down across the tennis courts. He wondered why he could not hear the hyena laugh out here, why that dormitory full of the addled and abandoned could seem so many miles away when it was only twenty yards behind him. He tried to think of anything that would keep a dreadful conclusion at bay. But Junod would not let him.

  ‘She is not here, Mr Barnett, is she?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What do you mean? You personally assured me none of the three bore any resemblance to your niece.’

  It was true. But to accept it was true meant more than Junod could possibly imagine. It meant the trip to Geneva had been a wild goose chase. It meant Kingdom was innocent after all. It meant the mystery of Heather’s disappearance was as impenetrable as ever. Against this, in the teeth of logic, Harry rebelled. ‘What about Dr Kingdom’s other patients?’

  ‘They are too old, Mr Barnett. All of them are over fifty, one in her eighties.’

  ‘There could have been a mistake about their age.’

  ‘That is preposterous and I think you know it.’ Junod’s tolerance was wearing thin. His smile had given place to a tight-lipped frown.