by Blake Banner
We shook his hand and followed him down a short passage to an office with a large window overlooking a lawn at the back of the house. The office was old world, but functional, with leather furniture side by side with sage green, steel filing cabinets that looked like they had been salvaged from World War I. He waved us to a couple of chairs as he moved behind the desk and we all sat.
“You want to talk to Simon Clarence.”
It was more a statement than a question, and it felt like a subtle challenge. I gave him the dead eye and said, “That’s why we’re here. I hope you didn’t have us drive down from London just to tell us we can’t see him.”
He smiled. “Not at all. Lord Chiddester outlined the reason for your visit and I was happy to help. I am just curious about a couple of points.”
“Like how we knew he was here?”
He nodded. “The file is sealed.”
“I worked the original murders fifteen years ago. I went back to the States and almost simultaneously, your investigation here stopped. A recent murder, which has not yet been reported in the press, resurrected that investigation. So I did what I should have done fifteen years ago, I looked to see if there had been similar murders in the States. There had, and the sheriff was pretty sure it was Clarence. So then I looked into why the investigation had stopped. The answer seemed to be, ‘We were told to.’ After that, with Lord Chiddester’s help, it wasn’t difficult to get the abstract from the sealed file.”
“I see. That makes perfect sense.” He gave a small sigh. “Be prepared. Simon is more or less coherent most of the time. He has made some progress over the years, he is…” He frowned at his desk like he felt there was something wrong with it, but he wasn’t sure what. “He is attempting to feel remorse for what he did, but he doesn’t know how to. He is a deeply troubled man, who suffered a great deal as a child.” He frowned at us. “You may ask him about one thing, and he will answer something that to you may seem completely unrelated and irrelevant, but to him it will make perfect sense. This is to be expected in schizophrenics. I don’t know if you will find what you came looking for, but I hope you do.”
“Thank you. We’ll bear it in mind, but it’s pretty much what we expected.” I hesitated a moment, then asked, “Doctor, were you his psychiatrist? Was it you who made the move to have him sectioned?”
He studied me for a moment. “Detective, I authorized this visit on the strict understanding that the secret nature of the file would be respected absolutely. Anything I tell you remains strictly between we three.”
Chiddester hadn’t told me that, but I saw no point arguing, so I said, “That is understood, Doctor.”
He nodded a few times, then seemed to examine Dehan’s face. “Yes, I was his psychiatrist. I don’t know if you realize this, but it is extremely unusual for a schizophrenic to seek the help of a professional. So when Simon came to me, I at first thought that he was simply fantasizing. He had seen the murders in the papers, or on television, and projected himself into them, to make himself feel important. But with the last murder…” He gazed away to his left, trying to remember the name.
I said, “Kathleen Dodge.”
“Kathleen, Kathleen Dodge, he told me about her before the police found the body. The whole thing was plagued with problems: confidentiality, his status—was he fit to stand trial—witnesses; I would be the only witness and my testimony might be ruled as hearsay…” He shook his head. “And then there was the issue of trust. If I reported him to the police, he would feel betrayed and the only person in the world who had access to him, me, would be lost, he would never talk to me again. It seemed to me that the most sensible thing to do was to have him quietly sectioned, a procedure I was able to make him understand was for his own good.”
He made to stand and said, “Why don’t I take you to him? I assure you he is medicated and he is not dangerous. Talk to him for a while, see what you get, and then come and see me again.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s good. Thank you.”
And we rose and went to see Simon Clarence.
FOURTEEN
He was sitting at a table on a stone terrace at the back of the house. A broad lawn swept away toward hedgerows, about a quarter of a mile away, and people, some of them in brilliant white coats and dresses, wandered this way and that, or just sat and stared.
Simon Clarence was dressed in white: white deck shoes, white pants and a white shirt. He looked up at us as we came out. He was thin, with immensely long limbs, and seated in the chair, he reminded me of a bent wire hanger. I figured he must be at least six foot six, with a large, bony face, high cheekbones and a strong nose. He could have been good-looking, but there was something unsettling about his stare, like his eyes were searching for something, and didn’t care what they had to do to find it.
Fenshaw pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Then he smiled at us and said, “Sit, sit. This is Simon. Simon, these are some friends of mine who have come to visit you. They have some questions they would like to ask you. I told them you’d be happy to help them. Remember we talked about how good it is to help people?”
He nodded. After what Bernie had told me, I had expected a dull, simple voice. The voice of a stereotypic inbred. Instead, when he spoke, his voice was clear and articulate.
“Yes, I remember that. I’ll try to be helpful, Doctor.”
Fenshaw patted him on the arm. “Good man. Give me a shout if you need anything.”
He got up and left. Simon watched him go and then looked at us in turn with oddly incurious eyes. His voice had a hint of an American accent, but not much.
“Are you cops? You look like cops from the U.S.A.”
Dehan answered, “Yup. We came over from New York, but it’s the sheriff of Washington County who asked us to come and see you.”
“I don’t really understand why they’re mad at me. For leaving. They didn’t like me there.”
Dehan frowned. “What makes you think that?”
“Samuel.”
“Samuel?”
“Samuel makes me think that.”
“Who is Samuel?”
“Samuel is dead. He was married to my mother. She said he was my daddy. But I’m not sure. He might have been. Sometime he is. But toward the end, he wasn’t.” He frowned. “I’m still trying to sort that one out. Dr. Fenshaw is helping me on that one.”
I said, “What about the girls?”
He took a deep breath and shifted in his chair. “I am really trying to be cooperative with Dr. Fenshaw on that one, too. But, thing is, I don’t know if anybody understands me, that there weren’t no girls.” He gazed out at the green lawn with the white figures. “Things happen that only I understand. I think that’s the same for everybody, but not everybody realizes it. That’s what makes me special.”
“There were no girls?”
“Everybody else thought there were. That’s the way they saw it. But when I was doing it…” He stared at me a moment, like he wasn’t sure if I knew what ‘doing it’ was. He glanced at Dehan. “You know, when I was helping her to understand, and get away from Samuel? There were no girls then. It was just me and Mom, and she was so relieved that I could help her.”
“I bet she was.”
“She told me she was. But then the problem came up with the girls. Seems every time I helped her, one of them girls got hurt. I don’t know how that happened. And it was the same in London, so there was something going on. I’m trying to help Dr. Fenshaw figure it out. That’s why I asked Dr. Fenshaw to help me.”
Dehan said, “I guess your Mom was a nurse.”
“Of course. That’s why it was always nurses. It goes back to them. Or I couldn’t have helped her. She never was able to help me. When Samuel came for us, in the dark, she could never help me. But I was able to help her. With my mind. I have a special mind. That was how I discovered the doors.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The Doors or Don McLean?”
He stared at me, blinking. Then he laugh
ed. “You don’t understand. The doors in my mind. If I go through the doors, I can go to other places, and other people. So when he was hurting her, I could go through the door in my mind, and go inside her and stop the pain. Stop her from hurting. There were steps you have to follow. The most important one is to still the heart until he’s finished. But she could never help me to still my heart. Only I can do that. That’s why I had to go away. Cause nobody liked me doing that.”
“What about Don McLean?”
“That’s Samuel. He goes away and he comes back singing. That’s how you know he’s going to hurt you. He goes to see the boys, drinking whiskey and rye, and then he comes back singing, this’ll be the day that you die. That’s when I have to go through the doors. I don’t like talking about this.”
I glanced at Dehan, thinking I had seen all I needed to see, but before I could stand up, he started talking again.
“I had a sneaky way of getting out through the doors before he started hitting me. The belt was no good for me. He said that. It didn’t make me cry. That was because I’d gone through the door. So he used the buckle, ’cause that didn’t make me cry but it made Simon bleed.
“And while he was giving Simon the buckle, I could sneak through the door and go to help Mom. Cause she was always right there, on the floor. And I’d get to her before he did, through the door to get inside her and help her. Then he’d put his thing in her, but he said that was dangerous because it might make another little shit like Simon. So when he was finished, he would do things to stop that happening, like punch her. That’s why I had to take out her womb. Only till he’d finished beating her. First you still the heart, then you stop the seeing, by making the eyes dark, then take out the womb, so there are no more shits like Simon. Then you bring her to understanding, that it’s the song that’s warning her. When she hears the song, she has to do something to protect Simon. But it never works. It’s always a girl that gets hurt. That’s why I asked Dr. Fenshaw to help. I think he’s helping, but we’re still working on that one.”
I nodded. The shadows were growing long across the lawns. Up on the chimney, a blackbird had started its long, evening song. I wondered if it was the same one, following me around Britain. I said, “I’m sure he is, Simon. I’m sure things are getting better. Do you get many visitors?”
“No, never. Except the man, once. But I’m not allowed to talk about that.”
“The man? You mean Samuel?”
“No. Samuel is dead. Dr. Fenshaw told me Samuel is dead. The man was from the government. He told me I mustn’t ever talk about him, or what we discussed.”
I smiled, then gave a small laugh. “I bet that surprised you, right?”
He nodded cautiously.
I went on, “Not just getting the visit, which was unexpected, but that he should ask you all the same questions as Dr. Fenshaw, and then tell you it’s secret! Right? That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t make no sense to me. But Dr. Fenshaw said it was OK.”
“Can you remember his name?”
“Peters. Dr. Peters.”
“OK, Simon, thank you very much. You have been very helpful to us. One last question before we leave you in peace. If I show you a photograph of Dr. Peters, would you recognize him?”
“Of course.”
I pulled out my wallet and saw Dehan frowning at me. I pulled out the photograph I’d had printed at the hotel and showed it to Simon. He nodded. “Yeah, that’s Dr. Peters. I don’t know why he said the things he did.”
“Well, Simon. Sometimes people are too careful, but I can tell you that you no longer have to keep that a secret. You can tell anybody you like. I’m sure Dr. Fenshaw will say the same thing. You never told him about Dr. Peters’ secret questions, did you?”
He shook his head. “He told me not to.”
“That’s right.” I looked at Dehan. She shook her head that she had no questions—not for Simon at least—and we stood. “Take it easy, Simon.” I patted his shoulder and we went inside to look for Dr. Fenshaw.
We found him in his office, sitting behind his desk reading a file. He looked up and smiled. “Come in. Sit down. Was the interview helpful?”
We sat and while I scratched my chin, Dehan asked what I was about to ask. “Who is Dr. Peters?”
He frowned. “I don’t know any Dr. Peters.”
I said, “Let me ask you a different question. Who was Simon’s visitor?”
He went very still. “I am not in a position to answer that question.”
I grunted. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” I put the photograph on the desk and watched his face. “That’s him, right? It’s OK, Simon already identified him, but he identified him as Dr. Peters. Can you think why he would use a false name to talk to Simon?”
His expression became abstracted. He shook his head slowly, then blinked and shook it more vigorously. “I… Really, I am not in a position to answer that question. Especially as you have no jurisdiction in this country. Have an English detective come, with a warrant, and I will happily answer any questions you like.”
“I understand. Just answer me this, which I am pretty sure is not covered by any kind of privilege. It should be a matter of public record and I am pretty sure you don’t want a lot of cops, American or English, tramping around asking this kind of question—was he appointed by the court, did you choose him, or did he offer himself?”
He sighed heavily. “I certainly didn’t choose him. As to whether he was appointed by the judge or offered his services, I don’t know. It may have been a bit of both. It made sense, anyway, for obvious reasons.”
“OK, thank you, Doctor. I imagine Detective Inspector Green will be in touch in due course. You have been very helpful.”
His face didn’t really reveal whether he was happy about that or not, probably because he himself wasn’t sure.
We stepped out into the evening sunshine and made our way to the car in the small parking lot at the side of the clinic. We pulled out and headed back out the gate, past the small hamlet of Goodnestone and up the long, narrow road through the fields, toward the dark mass of the forest. We had the windows down to let in the warm, evening breeze, and a vast murmuration of starlings swarmed across the sky in the east, seeming to fold over itself and reform like a bizarre piece of giant, flying plasma. Eventually, it seemed to be sucked into the trees and vanished.
Dehan watched it disappear and spoke, still staring at the trees. “I have to tell you, Stone, I am feeling a little lost here. Who the hell is Dr. Peters now?”
We were swallowed by the trees and engulfed suddenly in green-mottled darkness. The headlamps came on and we plunged ever deeper into a long, black tunnel, split here and there by thin slashes of evening sunlight. I glanced in the mirror and saw the glowing portal of light through which we had entered diminishing and withdrawing behind us.
“Dr. Peters was a fake name,” I said.
She looked at me with a face of irony. “Yeah, I’d got that far, Sherlock. I’m asking who he is in reality. Who is the guy in the photograph?”
“Well, I still have to prove the connection, Dehan. But the guy in the photograph was Brad Johnson’s defense attorney back in 2003. It looks like he was appointed to represent Simon Clarence when Dr. Fenshaw decided to section him…”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Holy attorneys, Batman…”
“Have you got your seatbelt on?”
“Of course, why?”
“Things could get bumpy.”
I was watching the mirror and a car had just pulled out from a narrow, overgrown path behind us and was closing fast. I began to accelerate, speeding toward the glowing end of the long tunnel of trees. The car behind us switched on its headlamps and continued to close, gaining speed. Then it was pulling over to the right-hand side of the road, aiming to overtake. I heard a roar of a powerful engine and what I could now see was a dark blue Audi drew level with us. I glanced and saw an extended arm and the gli
nt of metal. I bellowed, “Brace!” and slammed on the brakes.
Dehan lunged forward, covering her head with her arms. The Audi overshot us and I saw a flash of flame inside the cab. Hot rage welled up in my belly. I let out the clutch, floored the gas and climbed through the gears, first, second, third, fourth until I was inches from his trunk. Then I floored the clutch and the gas at the same time. The revs screamed into the red and at six thousand revs, I released the clutch. We were maybe three feet from the Audi. The engine bit, the car bucked and we surged forward, smashing hard into the Audi’s trunk. As the steel bit, I yanked the steering wheel right, dragging his rear axle with me into the middle of the road.
Then I braked steadily, keeping control as he skidded sideways away from me down the blacktop. I growled at Dehan, “Stay down!”
Then I floored the gas again, charging straight for his passenger door. I could see a cowering silhouette inside, covering its head with its arms. I muttered something unprintable about trying to shoot my wife and reached for the hand brake. Then shouted something equally unprintable about the jackasses who decided to replace the handbrake with a stupid button. I spun the wheel hard left and hit the brake pedal.
It wasn’t exactly a handbrake turn, but the car swung its ass in a big arc and smashed hard into the side of the Audi, lifting it onto two wheels and rolling it twice over to the side of the road, where it came to rest on its roof against a tree.
Dehan came out of her brace position and stared at me. “Jesus, Stone!”
I put it into first, then second and gently rolled over to where the Audi was lying, belly up, with its wheels still spinning. I grinned at her. “You like that?”
I climbed out. His automatic was lying on the road, thirty feet back. I went around the mangled trunk of my hire car and hunkered down where he was hanging upside down in the driver’s window. He looked dazed and confused, and very unhappy.
A moment later, Dehan hunkered down next to me, holding the automatic with a handkerchief. She looked at the upside-down face that had started to whimper and said, “Son of a gun, would you look at who it is…”