Twisted

by Lynda La Plante

  Jackson went with his DS to speak with Harry Dunn. Agnes showed them where the garage was and, returning to assist Mrs Fulford, found her walking unsteadily in the hall. She was ashen-faced and shaking but no longer short of breath.

  ‘Let me help you upstairs to your bedroom.’ Agnes reached out to put an arm around Lena, but she recoiled and moved away.

  ‘Leave me alone, just leave me alone.’

  Agnes watched her climbing slowly up the stairs; she could hear her crying and for the first time she actually felt compassion. She had been unable to hear the conversation as the doors to the sitting room had been closed. She wondered if the reason for Lena’s panic attack had been the possibility they had found a body or evidence that suggested Amy had been murdered. She quietly followed Lena upstairs, keeping her distance, as she wanted to make sure she made it safely to her bedroom. At a knock on the front door she turned back and opened it. DCI Jackson told her Harry was not in the garage or outside in the garden. She realized he must be in the kitchen and they found him having a coffee and Penguin biscuit.

  Jackson asked Agnes to leave, but on closing the kitchen door she decided to listen. She could hear Harry explaining about the boxes they had taken and him being questioned about cleaning Mr Fulford’s car. She heard him say that Agnes had told him to valet-clean the Mini as it was in such a filthy state. ‘Little bastard’s putting me right in it,’ she thought.

  Lena sat on the edge of her bed. She suspected Agnes had been trying to listen at the sitting-room door. She had read in Amy’s journal about her hatred of Agnes and had started to monitor her herself, noticing just how intrusive she was around the house. It had never really interested her before, but now it did, and she was becoming irritated by seemingly inconsequential things, like how everything had to be in a straight line and the fridge was full of plastic cartons of meals with handwritten sticky labels on them detailing the date and contents.

  The phone rang, and it made Lena physically jump. She was about to answer when the red light came on and she knew Agnes had picked it up. After a moment her phone rang again.

  ‘Mrs Fulford, it’s your husband.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the lights on the phone, wanting to make sure Agnes put the receiver down, worried the woman would attempt to listen in on the call.

  ‘Lena? It’s me, Marcus,’ he said and still she waited for the phone light to go out.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should talk to you after what you did to me with Gail,’ Lena said in a distressed voice.

  ‘Because right now we need each other more than ever. Gail means nothing to me, she never did. She offered to get the bank documents and I stupidly agreed, and for that I am truly sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for being so underhand, Marcus.’

  ‘I accept that, but right now I need your help.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve just had Simon’s lawyers on to me, he wants to sell Green Street and they have asked me to leave.’

  She said nothing and he asked if she was listening, but she still said nothing.

  ‘Sweetheart, I have no place to stay, and I was wondering if I could come to yours; I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. Lena, please?’

  There was another pause before she agreed and started to tell him about the visit of DCI Jackson, but Marcus was unable to make much sense of what she was saying as she began to sob uncontrollably. He said he would be at the house as soon as he could get there and cut off the call.

  Lena lay back sobbing, still holding the receiver, unable to deal with what Jackson had told her. Amy was her precious baby, her beautiful perfect little girl; the disgusting things Jackson had said were lies, all horrible lies, and she couldn’t understand why they had told her such hideous things.

  Reid had gone straight to the lab first thing that morning with the journal. Once there he had two more copies made, one for Professor Elliott Cornwall and one for DCI Jackson. He had already phoned Cornwall, explained the circumstances of Amy’s disappearance and the existence of the journal. Cornwall said he could see Reid at ten a.m., but could only spare about half an hour as he had patients to attend to.

  Reid took the original journal to the fingerprint section where he spoke with John Reardon, who was the forensic scientist in charge. He briefed him about the investigation and importance of the journal.

  ‘It would be better to get a document examiner to look at it first before we start treating it,’ Reardon said.

  ‘Why?’

  Reardon looked surprised by Reid’s remark. ‘The different handwriting styles – the Questioned Documents section can look at them and compare them against known samples of Amy Fulford’s and tell what is or is not her writing.’

  This was something Reid had not considered; in fact he’d never had the need to use a handwriting expert before. He felt somewhat embarrassed about his lack of forensic knowledge.

  ‘There’s some cards written by Amy in the envelope in the plastic evidence bag containing the journal.’

  Reardon shook his head. ‘I can tell you now they’ll need a bit more than that.’

  ‘I’ve got some old diaries of hers back in my office so I’ll get them brought up.’

  ‘Leave the journal with me and I’ll take it down to the document expert. They need to do their magic first before we can do our light source examination and then some ninhydrin testing.’

  ‘What’s ninhydrin?’ Reid asked, wanting to improve his forensic knowledge.

  ‘A chemical used to reveal fingerprints on porous surfaces like books, magazines, banknotes and so on; it makes any fingerprints turn a high-contrast purple.’

  ‘Will the purple wear off?’ a concerned Reid asked.

  ‘No, though it may fade a bit, and the chemical is harmful, so once we’re finished with the treated document we recommend it’s destroyed.’

  It wasn’t what Reid wanted to hear. ‘Maybe best leave the chemical stuff out. I don’t want to upset the family as technically the journal is their property.’

  Reardon shrugged. ‘Well that’s up to you, but if you miss a fingerprint that could have helped to solve your case then don’t blame me.’

  ‘You’re right, finding Amy is the most important thing.’

  ‘Tell you what, let me do some non-destructive tests first and see what we come up with, then we can reassess the use of ninhydrin.’

  En route to Cornwall’s, Reid decided that he would put off telling Lena Fulford about the Ninhydrin testing until after the damage was done, as it might not come to anything anyway. He contacted the murder squad office to speak to DCI Jackson about the journal but was told he’d gone to Lena Fulford’s house and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was urgent. Reid said he was going to see a forensic psychiatrist in Harley Street and ended the call.

  Professor Elliott Cornwall was waiting impatiently for Reid in the reception area and took Reid straight to his office, which was white and very clinical, with the inevitable couch, large pot plants and minimal furniture. Bookcases were filled with reference journals on psychiatry, psychology, profiling and similar topics; some of them looked very old.

  Cornwall sat at his desk and gestured for Reid to take a seat opposite him. He was a short dapper man in his fifties with combed-back black and grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked immaculate in a blue three-piece pinstripe suit and carried himself with an air of authority. He was well spoken, polite and seemed genuinely interested in examining the journal and giving his professional medical opinion on the contents.

  Reid handed the photocopies to Cornwall, who asked how quickly he needed a report. Without wishing to appear pushy, Reid said as soon as possible. Dr Cornwall flicked through the pages, quickly scanning them. He then turned the pages back and forth, back and forth, paying close attention to some; others he virtually ignored.

  ‘I agree with you, Inspector Reid, the h
andwriting in the journal is varied and remarkably different in some sections.’

  ‘So Amy let someone else write in her personal journal?’

  Cornwall smiled. ‘You misunderstand me, officer. I believe Amy is suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID as we now call it in the profession. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder, a severe condition in which two or more distinct identities are present in a person and they alternate in taking control of the mind and actions. We call the different identities “alters” and certain types of circumstances can cause a particular alter to emerge within the subject.’

  ‘So you’re saying the various handwriting styles in the journal are done by different “alters” inside Amy?’

  ‘Yes, and although I’ve obviously not as yet had an opportunity to study the journal thoroughly, I have identified at least three or four alters so far. When a different personality takes control of an individual’s behaviour and thoughts it’s called “switching” and this can take from seconds, to minutes, to days. The sudden change in handwriting midway through a page is indicative of the switching of Amy’s alters.’

  ‘Would an aggressive alter ever cause actual physical harm to someone?’

  ‘I have known it to happen, and given evidence in some extremely violent cases.’

  ‘So if Amy is alive she could be a danger to her family and friends?’

  ‘Most certainly, yes. If you find her, my advice would be to have her sectioned immediately under the Mental Health Act and have her assessed in a secure clinic,’ Cornwall said and looked at his watch.

  Reid realized Cornwall was in a hurry as he had patients to see. There was so much more he wanted to ask, but he knew for now his questions would have to wait until Cornwall had time to do an in-depth study of the journal. He also knew he’d better get back to the station and so tucked his notebook and pen into his jacket.

  ‘I’m so glad I brought the journal to you, Professor Cornwall, and I can’t thank you enough for your help. It puts a whole new perspective on the investigation.’

  ‘You need to understand that often people with DID are depressed or even suicidal, and self-mutilation is common.’

  ‘What?’ Reid stopped in his tracks. ‘Someone else in Amy’s head will make her cut or attempt to kill herself?’

  ‘Yes, and Amy will not even be conscious of why or when it happened.’

  ‘This is really frightening stuff to take in, Professor, but what causes DID?’

  ‘Trauma and stress, but research has shown that predominantly it’s physical or sexual abuse in childhood and dissociation then becomes a form of defence mechanism. As time passes they begin to develop more and more different personalities.’

  ‘Do you think Amy may have run away and still be alive?’

  ‘If she has totally adopted the persona of an “alter” then most certainly yes,’ Cornwall said with assurance. ‘She, or rather one of her personalities, could have orchestrated the disappearance very carefully, even down to changing her appearance, dyeing her hair and living somewhere else as that person.’

  ‘I don’t think Amy’s had the journal very long and we’ve found nothing else, not even in her old diaries. These were kept when she was quite young and do not give any indication of what you described as “alters” or abusive writing.’

  Cornwall looked at his watch again. ‘I’d like to see the original journal when your forensic people have finished with it. I’m really pressed for time, Inspector, but I will get back to you when I’ve made a more detailed study of what’s written in the journal.’

  Reid stood up and thanked Cornwall for his time.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector Reid, why did you come to me?’

  ‘I met a psychologist called Marjory Jordan after discovering Amy’s mother is bipolar and she recommended you.’

  ‘She spoke to you about a patient?’

  ‘No, she was quite cagey actually. I don’t think she wants to get involved in giving expert opinion on the journal.’

  ‘If you’d like to leave me Ms Jordan’s phone number I will give her a call; it may well assist me.’

  ‘No problem, Professor, and thanks for all your help; it also gives me renewed faith that Amy may actually be alive and well.’

  ‘Physically, yes, Inspector,’ said Cornwall grimly, ‘but psychologically, I fear not.’

  ‘Once a thief always a thief,’ Jackson said to DS Styles as they left Lena Fulford’s house. ‘Dunn’s nervous and I don’t trust him. Get a search warrant for wherever he lives. Just look at his record – what on earth is she doing employing him?’

  Styles reckoned that if Harry had stolen anything he’d be shrewd enough, as an ex-con, to get rid of it after almost two weeks of the police sniffing around. In fact DCI Jackson was seething, taking it out on Dunn because he was furious about this so-called journal that Reid had not mentioned to him either verbally or in any report.

  Jackson rang the station to enquire if DI Reid was there, only to be told that he had phoned in earlier but had gone to an appointment with a forensic psychiatrist.

  ‘What the fuck’s that about, and who authorized it?’ he snapped.

  ‘Reid didn’t say and I assumed you authorized it, sir.’

  Jackson cut off the call, saying that Reid would need a fucking ‘shrink’ after he was through with him. He then instructed Styles to drive to Green Street as he wanted to interview Marcus Fulford.

  Marcus had started to pack two suitcases; he would return to get the rest of his belongings some time later. He had tried to call Simon but his phone was continually on answer phone. He was taken aback at how abruptly the lawyers had asked for him to quit the flat, and at first had presumed it was some mistake. However, when he spoke to them they made it clear that it was Mr Boatly’s decision and the flat would be cleared of furniture and put on the market. They also requested that he submit the rent arrears forthwith.

  Halfway through packing, Marcus received a disturbing call from his solicitor Jacob Lyons’ secretary. She had asked for payment due and said that if he wished for Mr Lyons to continue to represent him then he should submit by cheque or electronic transfer the amount outstanding. She also said that Mr Lyons wished to know when they could put in the diary the next meeting to discuss the settlement, and that this would incur a separate payment.

  Marcus had said that Mr Boatly was overseeing payment, but he was told that to the contrary they had now been instructed to request payment directly from him. Marcus was at a loss as to why Simon had changed his mind, as he had no funds whatsoever and it was impossible for him to cover the high costs requested by Lyons.

  He had just finishing packing when the doorbell rang. Marcus walked out onto the landing to meet Jackson.

  ‘I am sorry, Detective, but this is really not a very convenient time.’

  Jackson flipped open his ID with a flourish. ‘It’s convenient to me, sir,’ he announced bullishly. ‘I am with the murder squad and am now handling the investigation into your daughter’s disappearance.’

  A shaken Marcus took a step back and asked if he was there because they had found her.

  ‘No news as yet,’ Jackson said and introduced DS Styles.

  ‘I was just packing, but come in.’

  From the look on Jackson’s face he felt he had better quickly explain that he was going back to be with his wife. Jackson noticed Marcus appeared very agitated as he looked round the flat, pushing open Amy’s bedroom door, and then peering into Marcus’s bedroom with the packed cases on top of his bed.

  ‘Going permanently, are you?’

  ‘The owner of the flat wants to put it on the market.’

  ‘Really, and what would a place like this bring to Mr Boatly?’

  Marcus shrugged and said probably in the region of three million plus, due to its location, and gestured for them to go into the sitting room. He then confronted Jackson.

  ‘My wife is very distressed and I feel she needs me to be with her. I pr
esume you were the detectives that were at the house earlier, and upset Lena with some very disturbing allegations about my daughter. I think under the circumstances it would have been more diplomatic to speak me first, because you brought on her panic attack.’

  Jackson sat on a wingback chair, his legs apart like a sumo wrestler. He explained his murder team were under pressure to get a result.

  ‘Mr Fulford, you have admitted to paying prostitutes and entertaining them here. Then there’s the discovery of a peephole and pornography in your daughter’s bedroom, as well as female underwear stained with your semen. We even have CCTV footage clearly showing your daughter attempting to pick up a man virtually on your doorstep. Let’s stop the bullshit and get to the truth, shall we?’

  ‘I have nothing to add to the many statements I have already given,’ Marcus said, hardly able to contain his anger.

  ‘I agree that you have given statements, but I don’t believe what you told DI Reid about your movements from the Saturday when your daughter disappeared to when she was reported missing.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you trying to accuse me of?’

  ‘I believe you did meet with your daughter, and that she was here in this flat to look for her watch. There was some kind of altercation between you – possibly she threatened to report you for sexually abusing her – and as a result you killed her. Let’s be honest, you had more than enough time to dispose of her body over the weekend.’

  Marcus was across the room and dragging Jackson to his feet by the lapels of his raincoat. He was in such a fury his face was puce and his fist was clenched to punch Jackson, but Styles pulled him off before Marcus could swing at him.

  ‘You have quite a temper, Mr Fulford. Is that what happened – she made you angry enough to attack her and—?’

  Marcus yet again attempted to get to Jackson and this time Jackson pushed him in the chest so hard he fell backwards, landing on his backside. He was panting with rage and gasping for breath.