A Psychiatrist, Screams Read online

  ‘You haven’t opened your post,’ said Tamsin, as the kettle boiled. It lay on the side, forgotten, having coincided with Poppy’s arrival.

  Sarah had been in a fluster, Poppy had needed her bottle, one thing had led to another but nothing had led to the post... until now. It was a dramatic appearance however, because looking at the clean white envelope, something was immediately apparent to Peter:

  ‘That’s Barnabus’s writing.’

  Fifty Five

  ‘It can’t be.’

  Tamsin was suddenly interested in the post.

  ‘I’ve just been reading his client reports. That’s his writing. And same pen.’

  ‘Well open it.’

  Peter took hold of the envelope, peeling the flap carefully. He drew from it a white card, on which a poem was written in Barnabus’s hand, no question.

  ‘It is Barnabus.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Tamsin had forgotten the smell.

  ‘It’s a poem.’

  ‘A poem? Did you speak in verse together?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Peter was elsewhere, gazing at the words before him.

  ‘So read it then.’

  ‘It looks uncomfortably pertinent:

  What will the burial of my body be?

  The pouring of a sacred cup of wine,

  Into the tender mouth of earth.

  And making my dear sweet lover laugh one more time.

  And then the words, Happy days, Peter!

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s like he knew he’d die.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘So who was his lover?’

  ‘I have no idea - he never spoke of one to me.’

  ‘Looks like she - or he - was the killer, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Can you say anything other than “possibly”? Abbot Peter raised his eyebrows.

  ‘And what’s the “Happy days, Peter’’?’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You’re on good form this morning.’

  ‘You’d prefer me to pretend knowledge?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Peter. Tamsin took the card.

  ‘It’s like he expects you to know.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘So it can’t be difficult.’

  Again Peter heard the distant bell of recognition... a distant bell... and knew that in silence he would make the connection. But Tamsin did not offer silence, always pushing too hard, too insecurely for silence to settle anywhere nearby. It was an irony, noted by Peter, that the demand for results frequently ensured none appeared. And then the phone call, answered immediately by the DI.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘Okay. We’ll be right there. Just keep him happy, give him some tea - fresh water in the kettle - and we’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘We’re going to Stormhaven Police Station,’ she said, definitively.

  ‘You’re going to Stormhaven Police Station,’ said Peter. ‘I’m here with Poppy until Sarah collects her in about half an hour.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want six months’ paternity leave?’

  ‘Who’s the big draw?’

  ‘Doctor Minty, used to own Henry Hall. He says he has important information.’

  ‘I’ll join you in a while.’

  ‘Well, you may miss the action.’

  ‘If you’re trying to punish me, it isn’t working.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘And so am I, Tamsin. I’ll be with you shortly.’

  The policewoman took her leave in some irritation. She didn’t like it when there was a job to be done and other people’s plans did not coincide with her own.

  ‘And remember to change her nappy. She stinks.’ The door slammed shut.

  Fifty Six

  And it was shortly after Tamsin’s exit that Abbot Peter took a call from Bella. His attention was only half on the conversation, for he didn’t want Sarah returning with things as they were. Peter was hardly a man in the grip of moral compunction, he sometimes wished for more; but written deep into the laws of the universe, engraved in rock on some distant star, was the one about mothers returning to a clean nappy. And it was far from clean at present.

  ‘I’m concerned for Pat,’ said Bella.

  ‘We all are,’ replied Peter. How did she know?

  ‘And I understand it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Well, we all carry each other in a way, Bella; it’s not a crime to be concerned.’

  Being nosy was different, that was an appalling crime, but on this occasion, he’d give Bella the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I ought to declare an interest,’ she said.

  ‘Which particular interest?’

  ‘Pat and I, we were friends.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean close friends, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Well, possibly.’

  Various images passed through Peter’s mind.

  ‘She was a close friend who gave you a false address?’ he said.

  ‘She was like that.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like that close a friendship.’

  ‘I always knew there was a hidden side to her.’

  ‘That’s quite a lot to hide.’

  ‘She’d been badly treated and trust did not come easily.’

  ‘I understand. But friend or not,’ - and Peter wasn’t too sure - ‘the evidence is stacked high against her, Bella.’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘So why is she so afraid to come forward?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pat didn’t murder anyone, Abbot, and when you find her, you’ll discover that for yourself.’

  ‘If she’s alive, of course.’

  Abbot Peter was not inwardly hopeful.

  ‘If she’s alive?’

  ‘We have to prepare ourselves for all possibilities.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill her?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me, Bella. You see everything at Mind Gains from your hideout in the hall.’

  ‘Hardly a hideout.’

  ‘A recess, then.’

  ‘And I don’t imagine this is anything to do with Mind Gains. She was only here 25 hours a week. Who knows what she did with the rest of her time.’

  ‘Well, if a close friend doesn’t know -.’

  ‘Like I say, there was much that was hidden; we didn’t meet away from the place.’

  ‘So where did you meet?’

  ‘Henry House has various rooms, Abbot.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘She never spoke of any enemies.’

  ‘But perhaps she saw something, found something or knew something. If she hid her home life from you, she might have been hiding something else.’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Or perhaps she had an enemy she didn’t know about.’ Bella paused.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, it’s just a frightening thought, someone close by who - .’

  ‘The hidden enemy?’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’

  Bella seemed genuinely disturbed.

  ‘Well, Bella,’ said Peter glancing at the clock. ‘This may sound strange, but I have a nappy to change; not mine, I hasten to add, I’m still managing to steer clear of incontinence - but we can talk more when I next see you.’

  ‘I understand,
’ said Bella, gathering herself as one determinedly cheerful through the tears. ‘But you will let me know if you hear anything?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I mean, I know you can’t reveal things but, well - .’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I just want to know she’s okay.’

  ‘As I say, I’ll - do what I can.’

  ‘That’s all I want to know.’

  Would she ever get off the phone? And of greater weight, would Pat ever be found? The belief that the missing will one day return is natural - but often mistaken.

  Fifty Seven

  ‘You sold Henry House at a very reasonable price, Doctor.’

  Tamsin sat with Doctor Minty in Interview Room 2 at Stormhaven Police Station. Though not entirely clear, it was the room that least smelt of Dettol - or Poundland’s version of it.

  ‘I’d earned a very good living being a not very good doctor.’

  ‘Wasn’t this every doctor?’ thought Tamsin.

  ‘It seemed the least I could do.’

  Tamsin disagreed. The least he could do was take the money and run. Why were people occasionally charitable? It seemed so against every animal instinct and left Tamsin confused. There must be a scientific explanation for altruism but it wasn’t immediately apparent.

  ‘And remember I was down-sizing to Wales, not moving to Knightsbridge. I didn’t need the money.’

  ‘So Frances and Barnabus sold you the idea - and you sold them the house?’

  ‘Well, it was Frances, really.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Barnabus wasn’t in the picture at that time. He was brought into the equation for the money, as far as I could tell, because Frances didn’t have it.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tamsin saw a whole new line of enquiry opening up.

  ‘Very nice man though, Barnabus; never looked the banker sort to me.’

  At this moment, Peter knocked on the door and entered.

  ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire,’ he said, smelling the Dettol substitute. ‘And given the choice - .’

  ‘This is Abbot Peter, Doctor Minty. He’s a Special Witness on this case.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’

  ‘We all wonder sometimes.’

  ‘But I have seen you around, Abbot. You’re not hard to spot in Stormhaven - though I’m not a church goer myself.’

  Why did people feel obliged to say that to him? It presumed an interest in the issue that simply wasn’t there.

  ‘Doctor Minty was just telling me about the sale of Henry House to Mind Gains; he was saying that Frances needed Barnabus for his financial resources.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Peter, catching his habit on the splintered formica on the chair.

  ‘And was that what you wanted to tell us, Dr Minty?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You said you had something you wished to speak to us about.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘I was wondering if it was the financial arrangements of the purchase?’

  The doctor seemed to be drifting off. Never work with animals, children - or pensioners.

  ‘Oh no, that’s quite by the way,’ he said, and seemed happy to leave it at that.

  ‘And anyway, it was just an impression - and maybe a wrong one. A misdiagnosis, as they say! I’ve made a few of those!’

  ‘You mean about the money?’

  ‘About the money, yes.’ There was a pause.

  ‘So what did you want to tell us?’ asked Tamsin, patience strained.

  ‘I read about the case in the Evening Argus.’

  ‘Not the Sussex Silt?’

  ‘Toilet paper.’

  The distaste in the words was almost physical: ‘Used toilet paper,’ he added.

  The energy in his disdain showed life had returned, a relief to Tamsin:

  ‘You read about the death of Barnabus?’

  ‘A former neighbour sends it to me; the Argus, I mean. It’s a way of staying in touch with my old territory.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I lived here for 35 years, you know.’

  ‘35 years?’

  Tamsin could not imagine living anywhere for thirty five years, and certainly not Stormhaven.

  ‘Which makes me 97 per cent sea water, of course.’ He chuckled at his joke.

  ‘That’s a good length of time,’ said Peter, reflecting on his own move from the desert. He’d have enjoyed news of his old haunts but the Daily Desert had yet to reach the news-stands. And his closest neighbour had been fifty miles away, so no strong links there.

  ‘Though I have to say,’ said Doctor Minty, ‘the news that consumed me while I was here, seems a funny little thing from afar.’

  ‘Local news can suddenly look very - well - local!’ said Peter.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘One earth - but we inhabit different planets.’

  ‘That’s exactly how it is, Abbot! I moved planets.’

  Charming gentlemen’s chat and all that, but Tamsin wished to re-focus:

  ‘You came here to tell us something.’ This time she would get it out of him.

  ‘My son,’ he said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s just that you may not realise who he is. I mean, you’ve interviewed him but he probably didn’t tell you he was my son.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He’s not enormously proud of the fact.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who are you talking about?’

  ‘Virgil - Virgil Bannaford, as he now calls himself.’

  ‘He’s your son?’

  ‘Yes, he took his mother’s name when she walked out, or however you like to describe it, left me, whatever.’

  ‘He went with his mother?’

  ‘Rather hurtful really - but he could be like that.’

  ‘And how old was he when he left?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘So much unresolved at that age.’

  ‘Maybe; that’s not my territory. I suppose his mother and I never offered him a very happy home at Henry House, and he was always a rather disappearing boy... who knows where he went off to. But he went with his mother when finally she left.’

  ‘And why do you think this is important?’ asked Peter. Doctor Minty looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘The only communication I’ve had with him since then, and that includes Christmas, was when he wrote urging me not to sell the house to Mind Gains.’

  ‘Did he want the house?’

  ‘I don’t know - but he certainly didn’t want them to have it.’

  ‘And what did you do in response?’

  ‘I didn’t reply to him. He wasn’t speaking to me so I didn’t bestow a great deal of authority on his plea.’

  Harsh, thought Peter... while Tamsin nodded in approval.

  ‘I don’t know if that was right.’

  ‘But now you’re concerned?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘A little’

  ‘You really think that’s a motive for murder?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m merely saying that Virgil is not a casual client, as one newspaper report suggested.’

  ‘He told us he was just doing it for a laugh.’

  ‘Well, maybe, he is a bit of a loose cannon. But Mind Gains has taken over his old home and while he didn’t want it while I was there - .’

  ‘Maybe now you’re not there, he does?’

  ‘As I say, it could be nothing.’

  ‘It’s hardly nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know if these things are important.’

&nb
sp; ‘Was your son ever violent, Dr Minty?’ asks Tamsin.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, no. Enthusiastic when stirred, loved rugby at school, throwing himself at people, broke his nose on four separate occasions, plenty of fights - but not violent, as such.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Dr Minty.’

  It was a dismissal, which the doctor failed to notice.

  ‘Will you be visiting friends while here?’ asked Peter, rising from his chair. Now the doctor noticed.

  ‘Er, no, I’ll be getting the train back to London - and then heading west,’ he said, rising himself. ‘There’s nothing for me here but sadness.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Things that might have been better. Wish I could do it all again!’

  ‘Perhaps you will,’ said Peter, who never believed anyone’s story to be over.

  There were tears in the doctor’s eyes.

  ‘You seem upset, Dr Minty.’

  Abbot Peter touched his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said the doctor, a quivering eight-year-old all over again, hunched on his bed, telling his mother he didn’t want to go to school because everyone there was horrid.

  ‘You miss Stormhaven?’

  ‘I miss Henry House.’

  Fifty Eight

  ‘Well, he was a bundle of laughs,’ said Tamsin as they sat alone in Interview Room 2.

  ‘Probably not destined for the London Palladium.’

  ‘But interesting.’

  ‘I liked him.’

  ‘You would, he was a loser... just your type.’

  ‘He seemed like a man in a dream, a soul cast free from its moorings and wondering who or what it is now.’

  ‘Spare us the autobiography.’

  ‘Very insightful, Tamsin.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I should pay for a session with you.’

  ‘No, I’d just be sitting there wondering whether our first visit should be to the previously insolvent Frances, or the less-than-honest Virgil. I like it when the lies start to appear.’