A Plea of Insanity (10 page)

But rob an attention-seeking person of the attention and he quickly becomes frustrated.

She knew that at some point he would reappear at outpatients and she would have to face him. She could not refuse.

But the question that underlay her professional interest was: was he a danger to society?

Answer: She didn’t know.

She cupped her chin in her hand and stared at the emulsioned wall. How could
anyone
know until
after
an act had been committed? She was not God to peer into the future. And Barclay was perfectly capable of teasing her, letting her
believe
he was a danger when in reality he was not.

Ah yes, argued the voice of conflict from inside. But he is also capable of doing the exact opposite – encouraging you to believe he is not a danger when the converse is the truth.

How can you know?

Answer: you cannot.

She didn’t even really know whether he had revelled in the supervision order or resented it?

Later still she remembered something else Kristyna had mentioned and found another fear.
Did he know where she lived?

Had he followed her home from the hospital?

Was her home safe?

In her worst fears she even recalled his interest in the arson case and wonderd how safe she was in her bed at night.

Because however we try to protect ourselves if someone wishes us harm we are not safe.

The phrase echoed around her skull.

We are not safe.

She was not safe. If Barclay had really decided to get to her she didn’t have a chance. The acid attack proved that. And that was its purpose. To show her how vulnerable she really was
.

It all came down to the question. How dangerous was Barclay? How far would he go? What was his intent?

Look for the clues, Claire
.

He had all the characteristics of a psychopath. He failed to make close relationships, despised any human being within his sphere.

Except his mother who was simply a means to an end. No –
particularly
his mother because he had complete control over her. Which led her to another realisation. If he had forbidden Cynthia to attend the clinic she would not have come. Had it been
her
threat then which had forced his hand? Had she then some power over him?

So – again the continual question – how dangerous was Barclay?

She tried to be professional, to study the question from all angles, knowing that Heidi was her guide through the tortuous mind of Jerome Barclay.

And Heidi was dead
.

She wished that when she even thought the name, Heidi, she did not have this vision of her mentor, a gaping wound in her throat, swinging – ever so slowly and rhythmically – against the door, as steady and regular as a metronome.

Tick – tock – tick – tock. Back and forth, her mouth still moving. Directing her. ‘
Questions, Claire. You must ask questions
.’

But they must be oblique, subtle enough for him not to realise she was on to him.

She didn’t
know
how much the acid incident had upset her until three weeks later when she saw Barclay’s name on her outpatient list and began to shake. And she knew that she had lost the professional armour that should protect her. She had discharged him, flung him back into the world, like a fish with a torn mouth. She had wanted him to swim away into oblivion. So why had he come back?

For nothing particular, it seemed.

He chatted about the usual subjects, interpersonal relationships, work ethic, the way he viewed women and more specifically how he saw his mother, while she wanted to ask only one question. Why have you come back to see me?

His chatter was less than satisfactory.

‘Friends? Yeah.’ Today he was well-dressed in black jeans, a white T-shirt, an expensive-looking Oakley watch, black, suede trainers that looked brand new.

Had he been on a shoplifting spree or had he wangled extra money out of his mother?

Whatever – his hair was slicked back and he looked pale and a little tired.

‘I got mates,’ he said.

‘Tell me about them – your friends – the people you socialise with. What do you do with them? Go clubbing, down the pub?’

The subject of the spoilt car lay fallow between them
.

He looked at her as though he pitied her. ‘You don’t
know me very well, do you, Doctor Roget? I thought you understood a little bit more about me than that. Clubbing and pubbing isn’t exactly my scene.’

‘So what
is
your scene?’

‘I like to play records.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Surf the net.’

She wondered what websites he visited
.

‘What are your interests, Jerome?’

He thought about that one. ‘I suppose what makes people tick.’

‘Tick?’

He merely smiled. That irritating, supercilious bend of the mouth.

‘So what do you do in the evenings?’

He moved his chair softly over the carpet towards her. ‘I like to go to the theatre,’ he said.

He was baiting her. That was why he had come. To draw her closer, burrow beneath her skin, like a scabious worm.

‘Anything else?’ It annoyed her that her throat was dry. Unable to manufacture saliva she wanted a glass of water. But to leave now would be interpreted as a cop-out, the doctor backing down. But if she had heard the crack in her voice, so had he.

He simply studied her before adding, ‘And I like to walk.’

‘In the evenings? In the winter too?’

‘Best in the winter, Doctor Roget.’

‘Why?’

The eyes searched hers. ‘I thought you’d have worked that one out.’ A pause. Just long enough for her to summon up a faint smear of spit to moisten her tongue.

‘Because people leave their curtains open. They switch their lights on. And I can see in.’

‘What do you see?’

‘Plenty. People coming home to an empty house. Throwing their bags on the chair.’

She knew he was talking about women. Only women
.

‘Coming out of the shower. Dripping wet. Drying themselves. Sitting on their settees, thinking no one’s watching. Talking to their friends on the phone. Watching television. Meeting in restaurants, eating, drinking, thinking no one is watching.’

That was when she understood. While Barclay was a free man no one was safe. As he had planned the acid attack over her car so he plotted other events, intimidations
.

‘Why do you like watching women?’ she asked in a low voice.

If he said something – pathological – she could have him committed. She waited for him to fall into the trap
.

She had a chance. Barclay was in a trance. Outside himself. Unconscious. His pupils were dilated, his tongue visible between his lips, a faint, pink show. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was excited.

But he was smart, in control. Too clever not to see she was setting traps. He came to. ‘I like people-watching,’ he said in the affected, social way folk do at parties, confessing to an odd habit which isn’t odd at all. ‘It’s quite a common pursuit, isn’t it, People Watching.’

‘Every time I think I have him he slips away. But one day …’ Heidi’s words
.

Claire shared the thought. But one day I shall ensnare you
.

Now she was the one who stared back boldly.

And it was for Barclay to take up the challenge.

Claire gave a bland smile. Such a useful facial expression
to cover up a whole host of reactions. Shock. Fear. Unease. And sneaking in on the wings of these a superiority which Barclay recognised. His eyes widened in surprise as he stared back at her.

She took advantage of the moment. ‘How do you get on with your mother, Jerome?’

The mouth closed. The pupils shrunk. On the arms of the chair his hands clenched.

‘We get on fine, Doctor Roget. How do you get on with yours?’

‘Equally fine,’ she said easily but sensed that he would have picked up on the sudden tightness of her own hand.

It was all a game
.

His eyes flickered. He would save this up and use it later.

‘So when do you want to see me again?’

She didn’t
.

‘I don’t think I need to,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘Not ever?’

‘No.’

‘No follow up?’

‘No,’ she said again.

For the second time she had thrown down the gauntlet, the challenge. How would he respond this time?

He walked deliberately to the door, turned just as deliberately and ran his index finger lightly across his throat.

She watched, mesmerised, as the door swung closed behind him.

How little of himself he gave away. How clever he was.

It was all so well-covered – just beneath the surface, hidden from view. And yet it was there, as subtle and elusive as a butterfly fluttering behind a muslin curtain.

And was her response tinged – only a very little – with admiration?

Long after he had gone she breathed in the faint scent of him. Coal tar soap. It reminded her of her childhood, the happy time before she had a brother, creeping out of bed across a cool carpet, to prop the door open with books, Treasure Island, Moby Dick, Anne of Green Gables, Pollyanna, and listen to her mother’s fingers dancing over the piano keys to play Schubert and Chopin, Beethoven and Dvorak.

But the feeling of happiness, that wonderful colourwash that all was well with the world, was gone. For ever. Destroyed.

After Adam had been born her mother had stopped playing the piano – even though she had begged her to. Something of that happiness had vanished and never ever returned. It had gone for ever.

So – back to the problem. How dangerous was Barclay?

That was when she began to understand the nature of what had spooked Heidi Faro, the reason why she had kept the supervision order up on Barclay for years, keeping it closely, and warily, like a python. Keep a tight rein on its tail, the dangerous bit, or it will wrap itself around you, crush all life from you.

Heidi had been afraid that if she relaxed the supervision order Barclay would kill.

Maybe he had.

She had been the one to uncork the bottle, let the evil genie out.

What now?

It took her less than a day to work out how she could penetrate Barclay’s armour.

She looked up Sadie Whittaker’s address and drew a blank. Undeterred, she found that of her parents and contacted them. Naturally, once they’d found out who she was they weren’t too helpful. All they would give her was a mobile phone number which gave her no clue as to where in the country Sadie Whittaker had settled.

It took four tries to finally track her down and find out she was living in the garden city of Letchworth.

Sadie had put miles between her and her one-time boyfriend.

And she didn’t sound at all pleased to learn that he was still around and that Claire was the psychiatrist in charge of him. The last thing she wanted was to meet up. Claire tried to persuade her.

Eventually Sadie capitulated but she still didn’t want Claire to come to her house. It was a stalemate until Claire suggested she take the train down to London and meet her at a hotel in Leicester Square in a week’s time.

From newspaper articles she had a vague idea what Barclay’s ex looked like but Sadie had changed. Into a pale, slim girl with a chill resolve and an odd sort of detachment from life. A woman who could fade into the background, with her neat, dull clothes, pale brown hair, eyes not quite brown, not quite grey, yet not hazel which never quite focused on you. She was a woman of negatives. Not positives. Claire realised this as soon as she saw her enter the room, scan its occupants and meander towards the bar.

It was hard to figure out just why Barclay had homed in on her.

Claire approached, ordered them both a Diet Coke and they settled into a quiet corner of the room, sinking into soft, leather armchairs.

Sadie gave a vague smile as Claire introduced herself more fully. Her gaze slid past her and roamed the room as though wondering whether Barclay was somewhere around.

‘I didn’t want to meet you,’ she confessed quickly. ‘I want to put it all behind me.’

‘I do understand,’ Claire said, in accepted psychiatrist’s empathic talk. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you to come unless I’d felt it was necessary – important.’

Sadie’s eyebrows rose.

‘I don’t understand Jerome,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether he is a danger to the wider community or not. I hoped you might give me some insight.’

Sadie’s response was a cynical ‘Humph,’ and her lips tightened.

‘How did you meet?’ It seemed as good a starting point as any.

Sadie drew in a tired, reluctant breath. ‘At a club. My boyfriend had dumped me a month or two earlier. I was out, getting pie-eyed with my mates. I lost my balance and toppled against the bar. And suddenly – there he was. Catching me before I hit the floor.’ She gave a hint of a smile. ‘I can’t say I remember much about that first night except somehow – I don’t know how so it’s no use your asking me – we ended up together in the back of a taxi. I didn’t feel threatened,’ she added.

Claire met her eyes.

‘You’re right,’ Sadie admitted. ‘I didn’t feel anything. I
was too pissed.’

‘So? When you sobered up?’

Sadie looked almost ashamed. ‘We were back at my flat,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I woke up quite late the next morning and he was staring out of the window.’

Claire waited.

‘He said something about it being a busy road. My flat was at Cobridge by some traffic lights but convenient for Hanley. I did have a flatmate.’ Her face was a blank. ‘But she was going to Australia anyway. She had a job to go to.’ Sadie went pale then red. ‘I feel such a fool,’ she said suddenly. ‘I should have realised.’ Her voice tailed off and Claire knew that she was going to learn something.

‘You should have realised what?’

Sadie’s eyes held something dark, something frightened, something unsavoury. Her pupils contracted.

‘What?’ Claire prompted the girl gently.

‘You won’t mention the fact that you’ve seen me?’ There was an urgency in her voice.

‘No – I promise.’

‘It was all there in his lovemaking.’ She moved her head violently shaking away the memory. ‘No. Who am I kidding? It wasn’t lovemaking. It was –’ Her eyes almost bounced off Claire in one, short stare. ‘He enjoys inflicting pain, Doctor Roget. He likes to be in control and he likes you frightened. The sex act means nothing to him unless it involves terror.’ She put her hand on Claire’s arm, giving her words emphasis. ‘I don’t want you to underestimate this. I don’t just mean he’s rough. I mean he whispers.’

Claire waited.

Sadie’s face changed as she whispered, stroking the words backwards and forwards as though with the edge of a blade.
‘I could hurt you. I could cut a slice of these thighs. I
could puncture your throat. I could kill you. I could rape you. I can make you scream and then stop you screaming. Do you know how much blood is contained in that pale body of yours? Just think, Sadie, of all the things I could do without anyone knowing
. I used to tell myself he was kidding. Then occasionally he would do something and every time we were together I would be waiting. Usually something quite small. A hard pinch of the nipple, a sudden movement. It wasn’t the pinch or the thump in itself. I began to realise that over the weeks we were together. It was simply that he knew he was able to make people frightened, that he had power over them to manipulate their thoughts, to control the dark rooms of the mind that normally you shut away behind locked doors. He seemed to know what to do, what to say, to exert the most control. He is very insidious.’ She lifted the Coke glass to her lips. The slices of lemon and ice cubes bumped around as her hands shook. ‘Sometimes I would think I would pretend to be more frightened than I was but he knew. He knew. And then I didn’t need to pretend any more. I knew something was coming. I knew I was going to get hurt one day and yet I couldn’t pull away. It was like a snake holding you in its gaze. You know you should move – get out of the way – but you don’t. You just stand there and wait and it bites you.’

Claire interrupted. ‘Why on earth did you get into this in the first place?’

Sadie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. When Guy dumped me – went off with a so-called-friend – they rubbed my face in it – I felt hopeless. Useless. I lost all confidence. I felt that people were talking about me, laughing behind my back. Even strangers. I could be on a bus or walking in the Potteries Shopping Centre or even at work and I would hear them making fun. In the end I found it hard to go anywhere. The night out with my friends was my first night
out for ages. I was a mess. He seemed to latch on to it as though this was exactly what he wanted. I guess if I’d had more about me he wouldn’t have got such a hold in the first place. I’d have moved on.’

‘And then after the assault he threatened you if you gave a statement to the police.’

Sadie nodded. ‘It was out of my hands at first. I was badly hurt and gave statements to the police from my hospital bed. I felt safe in hospital. There were people around twenty-four hours a day and I felt protected. When I realised what I’d done I was frightened.’

She drew in closer, held Claire’s eyes with a stare. ‘He had this little saying that went round and round my head. “Imagine a funeral pyre,” he’d say. “The body burning in a car. Nothing left except splintered bones and melted jewellery, and those lovely teeth of yours.” He’d watch me while he was speaking, seeing the effect every single syllable had on me. I’d start to shake. It was so graphic, Claire, and personal. He knew I always wore an underwired bra. He knew my jewellery. He knew the fact that my dress had caught fire when I was a child – from a firework – and that of all things I was most frightened of fire. Of being burnt. It felt so directed towards me. Tailor-made. The more he knew about me the better the hold he had. And I knew he was capable of doing it. All. So when I got out of hospital I retracted my statement. Terror, Doctor Roget, is a powerful tool and he knew how to use it to its greatest effect.’

She stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, politely, but there was an undercurrent of panic. ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t help you. I can’t help you decide whether Jerome was a danger purely to me or to the public at large. I don’t know. It’s your decision,’ she said brutally. ‘You must make up your own mind. All I can say is that I never want to see
him again. Not in my life. And not in Hell either.’

Claire watched her slip out of the hotel, this slim, almost invisible girl and wondered.

There was no doubt about it. Sadie Whittaker’s words had unnerved her too.

A week later she applied for an interview with Stefan Gulio.

For which she had to give a valid reason.

And for that she could only tell the truth. That, filling Heidi’s post, made vacant by such a violent crime, apparently caused by one of her own patients, she felt she must convince herself that the conviction was sound, that Gulio had done it and therefore no one else was under suspicion. And by extrapolation she was in no danger. Further that by understanding the assault she might, in the future, recognise some of the warning signals. She penned a careful letter to the prison governor deliberately using emotive words.

She must see Gulio, convince herself he really was guilty.

‘If there is any doubt – any doubt at all in my mind that Gulio is the guilty party you realise my own misgivings could multiply and that it would make it difficult for me to function at Greatbach.
’ And two paragraphs later,
‘I use the same office that Heidi Faro was butchered in.
’

She smiled to herself. Sometimes simple phrases were the best.

She promised not to upset or quiz Gulio unduly but to use the interview merely to put her own mind at rest, adding the titbit that it would be a useful learning curve and may, in the future, forewarn her of a patient who was likely to commit an offence. The buzz phrase was bound to tip the scales in her balance.

She signed the letter, Claire Roget, leaving out none of
her qualifications. MB CHb; FRC Psych. MRCP.

You don’t expect Broadmoor hospital to be in the leafy lanes of Surrey. But that is where it is, and that was where Gulio was being held. A Victorian, Gothic monstrosity which houses the most diseased brains in our country. Men and women who will tear you limb from limb and are directed to commit every perversion known to man – and some our minds are unable to imagine. She had set out in the early morning, anxious to avoid the inevitable jam on the M25, reaching a late dawn through mists and sleeting rain, flicking the radio from news analysis on Radio Four, through some beaty rhythms of Radio One, accidentally a local golden oldies’ station, Classic FM and finally moving through the tracks of a Robbie Williams album. The traffic was light then heavy, then stop-start, nose to bumper, unreal through the windscreen until she turned off the motorway when the chill of who she was about to meet and the crime he had committed seemed to enter the car and made the horror vivid and the music merely a backtrack. She switched the crooner off, followed the signs to Crowthorne – and arrived.

There it lay, granite-grey, sinister as you imagine in your nightmares, inspired by old black and white chiller films like
Great Expectations
, with Magwitch ready to spring from behind a tombstone. She hugged her briefcase to her, locked the car and reached the huge door, under the CCTV camera eye, while her own eye wandered across the grey slabs of stone and towering turrets. And she wondered: how many different shades of grey are there?

Hundreds.

The door was guarded by an intercom and swiftly opened by a round-faced man of about fifty who had obviously been briefed.

‘Doctor Roget,’ he said, cheerily pumping her hand. ‘So you’ve come on a social visit to Gulio, have you? Well – he’s one of our quieter inmates. Reads his books all day. No trouble at all.’

He ushered her into a small, square office, messy with the typical government noticeboard, objectives and notices pinned to cork.

From plaintive, ‘
And will the joker who nicked my diary please let me have it back because I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing
’ to the humorous comment underneath,
‘Forgetting which doll you’re meant to be out with, Marty
?’

And finally artistic, two tits and a bum with an arrow. ‘
This one
.’

Obviously the government directives on sexual predation didn’t apply here. She signed in and pinned a security badge to her jacket. ‘Trouble is,’ the officer offered, ‘Gulio forgets everything he reads. So he could go over the same book over and over again. Shame really. Probably was quite bright, once upon a time.’

Once upon a time
.

The opening words to every single fairy story and fable. And the closing words to a promising life.

So was this another fable?

The officer gave her a brief, curious look, beetling his eyebrows. ‘Are you here because you think he didn’t do it?’

She knew what his next sentence would be – that no one in here had ‘done it’. That prisons were, famously, full of people who were innocent.

She forestalled him. ‘I don’t think that,’ she said briskly. ‘I simply want to interview him.’

The officer was miffed at this and led her without further comment along the corridor, jangling his keys along the way, fastidiously locking, waiting, unlocking, locking
again.

The visitors’ room was suitably spartan, tables, chairs, more CCTV, grills over the windows, guards at the doors. Painted mushroom with grey floors there was nothing in it to lift the feeling of crushing depression.

Which hurtled Claire into wishing she had worn something other than the plainest brown Next trouser suit. Something pink – or red – or orange to introduce colour.

The door opened.

During the drive she had formed a picture of Stefan Gulio. We all do in circumstances like this. He would be tall and thin, prematurely bent up. His eyes (colour indeterminate) would slide from side to side, never quite settling, like a butterfly on a hot day. His hair would be dark and scraggy, greasy even. He might smell.