by Nicci French
She read the intro: ‘A disturbing new report suggests that therapists are failing to protect the public from potential rapists and murderers.’
She moved her finger down the page, searching for Frieda’s name.
When confronted with a patient showing the classic signs of a murderous psychopath, Dr Frieda Klein offered no treatment and made no attempt to report him to the authorities. When questioned about why she had failed to report a psychopath to the police, Dr Klein responded that she had ‘had some concerns’ about the patient but that she ‘wouldn’t discuss them with anyone but him’. In fact, Dr Klein had refused to treat the patient.
Frieda Klein, a 38-year-old brunette, hit the headlines earlier this year when she was involved in a shocking incident in which two women were knifed to death and Klein herself was hospitalized. An eighty-year-old woman, Mary Orton, was killed in a crazed attack by a knife-wielding schizophrenic, Beth Kersey. Police accepted Klein’s explanation that she killed Kersey in self-defence.
The leader of the research project, Dr Hal Bradshaw, commented: ‘While it is understandable to feel sympathy for what Dr Klein has gone through …’
‘That’s nice of him,’ said Sasha.
‘Of who?’ said Frieda.
‘Bloody Hal Bradshaw.’ She turned back to the paper.
‘While it is understandable to feel sympathy for what Dr Klein has gone through, I think there is a serious question of whether she is a risk both to her patients and to the public at large.’
Dr Bradshaw spoke of the urgent issues that his research has raised. ‘It brings me no pleasure to expose the failings in the analytic community. We tested the responses of four psychoanalysts and of those only one acted responsibly and called the authorities. The other three failed in their responsibilities both as healers and as protectors of the public.
‘When he talked to me, one of the patients in the study, Seamus Dunne, is still angry about his experience: “I was told that Dr Klein was a top expert, but when I gave her the story that showed I was a psychopath, she didn’t react at all. She just asked irrelevant questions about food and sleeping and things like that. She seemed like her mind was on other things.’”
Sasha threw down the paper. ‘I know I’m supposed to say something comforting to you, but I literally don’t know how you can bear this. You’ve become this object out in the world that people kick around and throw things at and tell lies about. The idea of this guy coming to you and saying he was in need and asking for your help and it was all a trick – don’t you feel violated?’
Frieda took a sip of her coffee. ‘Sasha, if it wasn’t you, I’d say it wasn’t a problem and that it comes with the territory. And I’d say it was all quite interesting if it wasn’t happening to me.’
‘But it is me, and it is happening to you.’
Frieda smiled at her friend. ‘You know, sometimes I wish I wasn’t doing this job at all. I’d like to be a potter, that’s what I’d like. I’d have a lump of clay on my wheel and it wouldn’t matter what I was feeling or what anybody was feeling. At the end of it, I’d have a pot. Or a cup. Or a bowl.’
‘If you were a potter,’ said Sasha, ‘I’d be lost or worse. And you don’t want to be a potter anyway.’
‘That’s nice of you to say, but you would have got better on your own. People usually do, you know.’
Frieda pulled the newspaper back to her side of the table and glanced at it again.
‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ Sasha asked.
Frieda took a notebook from her bag and flipped through it until she found the page she wanted. ‘You know people who are good with technical things, don’t you? Finding things on the Internet.’
‘Yes,’ said Sasha, warily.
‘I want to see Seamus Dunne. I’ve got his phone number but I don’t know where he lives. There must be ways of finding out.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Sasha. ‘If you’re going to get into a fight again and get arrested, Karlsson may not be able to get you out again.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Frieda. ‘I just need to talk to him. In person. Can that be done?’
Sasha looked at the notebook. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. She took her phone from the table and punched the number into it.
‘What are you doing?’ Frieda asked, but Sasha just held up her hand.
‘Hello,’ she said, into the phone, in a nasal tone quite different from her own. ‘Is that Mr Seamus Dunne? Yes? We’re actually trying to make a delivery to you and our driver seems to have the wrong address. Can you confirm it for me?’ She picked up a pen and started writing in Frieda’s notebook. ‘Yes … Yes … Yes … Thank you so much, we’ll be right with you.’ She pushed the notebook across to Frieda.
‘That wasn’t quite what I meant when I said I needed technical help.’
‘No violence, please.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
EIGHTEEN
‘No,’ said Seamus Dunne, when he saw Frieda. ‘No way. And how do you even know where I live?’
She peered over his shoulder. Student house. Bare boards. Bikes in the hall. Still-packed boxes.
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘Talk to the newspaper. Or Bradshaw. It wasn’t my responsibility.’
‘I’m not interested in any of that,’ said Frieda. ‘Or the article. It was just something you said.’
Dunne’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Is this a trick?’
Frieda almost laughed at that. ‘You mean, am I coming to see you under false pretences?’
Dunne shook his head nervously. ‘Bradshaw said we were all in the clear. It was completely legal.’
‘I told you,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t care. I’m here to say two things. Let me in and I’ll say them. Then I’ll go.’
Dunne seemed in an agony of indecision. Finally he opened the door and let her in. She walked through the hall to the kitchen. It looked as if a rugby team had had a takeaway and not cleared up, then had a party and not cleared up, had got up the next morning, had had breakfast and not cleared up. And then left. Seamus Dunne was a bit old for this.
He noticed her expression. ‘You look shocked,’ he said. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of being a student.’
‘Well, I’m still a student,’ he said. ‘It may not look like much, but it’s better than the alternative. So, I guess you’ve come to shout at me.’
‘Do you think you deserve to be shouted at?’
Dunne leaned back on the counter, almost dislodging a pile of plates topped by a saucepan containing two mugs. ‘Dr Bradshaw told us about an experiment where a researcher sent some students to different psychiatrists and they just had to say they had heard a thud inside their heads. Every single one of them was diagnosed with schizophrenia and admitted to a psychiatric hospital.’
‘Yes, I know the experiment,’ said Frieda. ‘It wouldn’t be allowed today.’
‘Maybe that’s a pity,’ said Dunne, ‘because it was pretty revealing, don’t you think? But you don’t want to hear that.’
‘The way I see it,’ said Frieda, ‘people who weren’t really psychopaths were sent to therapists and only one of them made the mistake of taking them seriously.’
‘So what were the two things you wanted to say?’
‘I was interested in what you said in the article.’
‘I thought so.’
‘No, not the way you think. You said I asked you about irrelevant things, food, sleeping. By the way, ho
w is your sleeping?’
‘Fine.’
‘No, really. Do you sleep through the night? Or do you still wake up?’
‘I wake up a bit. Like most people.’
‘And what do you think about?’
‘Stuff, you know. I go over things.’
‘And your appetite?’
He shrugged and there was a pause. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘You’re probably about to tell me.’
‘When you came to see me, pretending to be looking for help, I think you subconsciously used that as an excuse to really ask for help.’
‘That’s just Freudian rubbish. You’re trying to catch me out.’
‘You’re not sleeping properly, you’re not eating properly. There’s this.’ She gestured at the kitchen.
‘That’s just a student kitchen.’
‘I’ve seen student kitchens,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ve lived in student kitchens. This is a bit different. And, anyway, you’re – what? Twenty-five, twenty-six? I think you’re slightly depressed and finding it difficult to admit to anyone or even yourself.’
Dunne went very red. ‘If it’s subconscious and you think I don’t want to admit it even to myself, then how do I disprove it?’
‘Just think about it,’ said Frieda. ‘And you might want to talk to someone about it. Not to me.’
There was another pause. Dunne picked up a dirty spoon and tapped it against a stained mug. ‘What was the other thing?’ he said.
‘That story you told me.’
‘Which? The whole thing was a story.’
‘No. About cutting your father’s hair and feeling a mixture of tenderness and power.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘It felt distinct from everything else, like an authentic memory.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. It was just something I said.’
‘It wasn’t your memory?’
‘I learned it.’
‘Who told you to say it?’’
‘It was in my pack – I don’t know. Dr Bradshaw, maybe, or whoever made up our characters.’
‘Who actually gave you your instructions?’
‘One of the other researchers. Oh – you want his name?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Why? So you can go and make him feel guilty as well?’
‘Is that what I made you feel?’
‘If you want to know, I felt really nervous, coming to you like that. A bit sick. It wasn’t easy.’ He glared at Frieda. ‘His name’s Duncan Bailey.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘You want his address as well?’
‘If you have it.’
Seamus Dunne muttered something, but then tore off the top of an empty cereal box that was lying on the floor and scribbled on it before handing it to Frieda.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And remember what I said about talking to someone.’
‘Are you going now?’ Seamus Dunne seemed taken aback.
‘Yes.’
‘You mean that’s the end of it?’
‘I’m not quite sure it’s the end, Seamus.’
Jim Fearby had gone back through his files to make sure he had all the facts in his head. He always made notes first in the shorthand he had learned when he’d joined the local newspaper in Coventry as a junior reporter, more than forty years ago. Nobody learned shorthand now, but he liked the hieroglyphic squiggles, like a secret code. Then, on the same day if possible, he would copy them into his notebook. Only later would he put it all on to his computer.
Hazel Barton had been strangled in July 2004; her body had been found lying by a roadside not many miles from where she lived. Apparently she had been walking home from the bus stop, after the bus had failed to arrive. She was eighteen years old, fresh-faced and pretty, with three older brothers, and parents who had indulged and adored her. She had planned to become a physiotherapist. Her face smiled radiantly from the newspapers and TV screens for weeks after her death. George Conley had been seen standing over her body. He had been arrested at once and charged soon after. He was the local weirdo, the blubbery, unemployed, slow-witted loner, who lurked in parks and outside playgrounds: of course he did it. And then he confessed and everyone was happy, except Jim Fearby, who was a stickler for detail and never took anyone else’s word for things that happened. He had to read the police reports, had to rake through the files, thumb through law books.
He was sitting in front of the TV, not really watching it, when the phone rang.
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Philip Sidney.’
Fearby fumbled for a pen.
‘Yes?’
‘Vanessa Dale,’ said the voice, then gave a phone number and made Fearby read it back to him. Fearby started to ask something but the line was already dead.
Frieda poured two whiskies and handed one to Josef. ‘How’s it going?’ she said.
‘The joist is good. It is strong. But now after I take the floor up, I think it is better to do tiles. Tiles on the floor. Then new floor make wall look old and bad. So maybe tiles for the wall as well. You should choose.’
Josef seemed to have forgotten about his glass, so Frieda clinked hers against his to remind him. They both drank.
‘When I asked, “How’s it going?” I was asking about you, not just the bathroom. But I want to say that I’m going to start paying for all of this. You can’t afford it.’
‘Is fine.’
‘It’s not fine. I’ve been thinking about myself too much. I know that you were close to Mary Orton. It was very sad for you, I know, what happened.’
‘I dream of her,’ said Josef. ‘Two times maybe four times. It’s funny.’
‘What do you dream?’
Josef smiled. ‘She was living in Ukraine. In my old home. I tell her I’m surprised to see her living. She talk to me in my own language. Stupid, no?’
‘Yes. Very stupid. But not stupid at all.’
Darling Frieda – It’s too late to phone you. I’ve just checked out the link you sent me. Who is this fucking Hal Bradshaw anyway? Can we do something about this? One of my oldest friends is a lawyer. Should I have a word with her?
But I hope you know how highly you’re regarded by all the people who matter – your friends, your colleagues, your patients. This story is just a vicious charade that makes no difference to that.
I’ve had an idea for the summer – we can hire a longboat on the Canal du Midi. You’d like that. I went on one before and they’re very cosy (some people would find them oppressive; not you. They are a bit like your house, except they move). We could drift along the waterways and stop for picnics and in the evenings go to little brasseries. Of course, in my mind it’s very sunny and you’re wearing a sundress and drinking white wine and you’ve even got a bit of a tan. Say yes! Xxxx
NINETEEN
‘We were all so shocked,’ said the woman sitting opposite Munster and Riley. ‘I can’t quite believe it. I mean, Ruth was so …’ She stopped and searched for a word. Her face screwed up. ‘Down to earth,’ she supplied eventually. ‘Cheerful. Practical. I don’t know – not someone who things like this happen to. I realize how stupid that sounds.’
They were in the low-rise modern building from which Ruth Lennox had worked as a health visitor, sitting in a small room off the open-plan office with her line manager, Nadine Salter.
‘It doesn’t sound stupid, said Chris Munster, after Riley had failed to respond. He looked a bit dazed this morning: his face wa
s creased as if he had only just woken up. ‘It’s what most people say about her. That she was a friendly, straightforward woman. How long had she worked here?’
‘About ten years. Mostly she was out, seeing people, not here in the office.’
‘Can you show us her desk?’
‘Of course.’
They went into the large room, past desks of avidly curious people pretending to work. Ruth Lennox’s desk was scrupulously tidy, which was what Munster and Riley had come to expect – her folders, her notebooks, her work diary, her correspondence and her stationery had been put away in the drawers. Apart from the rather old computer, the only things on the surface were a small jug of pens, a little pot of paper slips and staplers, and a framed photo of her three children.
‘We’re going to have to remove her computer and her correspondence,’ said Munster. ‘For now, we’re just interested in the Wednesday she died. April the sixth. Was she here?’
‘Yes. But just for the half-day. She always had Wednesday afternoon off. We have a general staff meeting in the morning, at about eleven, and then she leaves after that.’
‘So she was in the office that day, not out on visits?’
‘That’s right. She came in at about nine, and left again at midday.’
‘Was there anything different about her that day?’
‘We’ve been talking about that. She was just her normal self.’
‘She didn’t mention anything that was troubling her?’
‘Not at all. We talked about how awful it is for young people trying to find jobs, but just in a general way – her kids are too young for that to worry her. Poor things. And she gave me a recipe.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘No. But Vicky, over there, was having a cigarette outside. She saw her getting into a cab.’
‘A black taxi?’
‘No. As I said, a cab.’
‘Do you know which firm?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hang on,’ said Riley.