A Psychiatrist, Screams Read online

  Abbot Peter could not hold back a yawn.

  ‘No, Barnabus always reckoned that the well-qualified Frances would be a better administrator.’

  ‘Well, there is now a vacancy for that position.’

  ‘I suppose there is.’

  ‘Henry House seeks dynamic people-centred individual to build on the work of psychotic predecessor. Grudge-holding knife-murderers preferred. Must also be able to tie a noose.’

  ‘That was Kate.’

  ‘How is your neck, by the way?’

  ‘Feeling very lucky.’

  ***

  And the murderer’s name came to Peter at about 2.00 a.m. that morning.

  Tamsin had dropped him off at Sandy View, but didn’t stay. She needed her own bed to recover from the evening’s events, particularly the leaving-do of Mick Norman, which sat in her psyche like a bucket of cold sick.

  ‘I understand the noose must have been frightening,’ she’d said, as the Abbot got out the car. ‘But believe me, the leaving-do was worse.’

  ‘I suggest you don’t go into trauma counselling, Tamsin.’

  Peter had gone inside, poured a glass of whisky and sat down in his comfortable chair. He decided against lighting the fire, he’d had enough of fires tonight. He eventually picked up a book and started to read, but read nothing. He was reading but not reading, reading but not receiving, re-reading lines, re-reading paragraphs once and then twice, and then again until he gave up and put it down. The book was simply too busy with one set of words when his mind searched for another set, words spoken over these last few days, words spoken by Tamsin just this evening, words spoken by himself.

  He fell asleep to the sound of the waves on the shingle shore, the timeless splash and heave in ascendance again, the whizzing rockets stilled. Other sounds came and went, but the sound of the sea remained. And he dreamed of huge clues being trailed, trailed before him, and Peter chasing, trying to catch up and everyone laughing.

  And then he was following a stream, and then another stream and then another stream until at 2.00 a.m., the three streams joined and became a river and he woke up with sleep-denying clarity - and knew the murderer’s name.

  Eighty Four

  ‘We think it’s best if you go home now, Mrs Simple.’

  ‘It’s Mrs St Paul.’

  The nurse heard no difference, but then she wasn’t paid to listen, not by her reckoning at least. She did nursing shifts to earn money, not save the world.

  ‘It’s best if she sleeps now, Mrs Simple, and there’s nothing to be done until morning.’

  ‘I just want to be with her.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘She was attacked with a knife.’

  ‘And everything has been done for her. There’s certainly nothing you can do.’

  ‘I can be with her.’

  ‘And I’m saying that it’s best that you go home, and return in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t really want you telling me what to do.’

  It was at this moment that the Reverend Ezekiel St Paul arrived in the AMU ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital in Brighton.

  ‘And you are?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘I am this girl’s father,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I was just telling this woman - .’

  ‘That woman is my wife, and the girl lying here is my daughter. ’ Ezekiel spoke assertively, hard to contradict, and for once, due to their target, Rebecca rather enjoyed his words.

  ‘I was just saying to your wife, Mr Simple - .’

  ‘And why is she still dressed as a clown?’

  There was something unnerving about the hospital attire of his daughter: a hospitalised harlequin. It was how he’d last seen her, on that revealing evening at Henry House, but that had been five days ago.

  ‘The medical team thought a change of clothes would disturb her too much tonight.’

  ‘She came in like that?’

  ‘And if you could please keep your voice down, Mr Simple.’

  ‘I will explain, Ezekiel,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to explain.’

  ‘And as I was saying to your wife, it would be best if you went home now and returned in the morning.’

  ‘Go home?’ said Ezekiel, amused. ‘I have only just arrived.’

  ‘These are not visiting hours.’

  ‘The Sabbath is made for man not man for the Sabbath.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Visiting times are there to help people like me.’

  ‘No,’ said the nurse, ‘visiting times are there to help people like me, people who have a job to do.’

  ‘My daughter is your job.’

  ‘And so is everyone else on this ward, and I don’t have time for discussions like this.’

  ‘So what do you have time for?’

  ‘I’d like to continue this conversation outside please,’ said the nurse with finality.

  ‘You can continue the conversation wherever you like, but we’ll be staying here while you do.’

  ‘Then I’m calling security.’

  And with that the nurse strode off down the ward and out of sight.

  ‘You must tell me what happened,’ says Ezekiel, standing at the end of the bed.

  Rebecca sits quietly for a moment.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s over,’ she says, hoping she had strength for more.

  ‘What is over?’

  What does she mean? Has the doctor told her something?

  ‘I’m not going back to how it was, Ezekiel... and nor is Patience. We talked.’

  Ezekiel stays silent, breathing deeply, swaying a little.

  ‘Where’s Michael?’ she asks, as a fresh wave of weariness strikes her.

  ‘You ask questions of me?’ Ezekiel is furious. ‘After tonight, you ask questions of me!’

  ‘Ezekiel, I’ll ask whatever question I like from now on.’ Firm but calm.

  Ezekiel is now swaying again.

  ‘He’s at home,’ he says.

  ‘I left you assaulting him.’

  Ezekiel is uncomfortable.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘He is fine.’

  ‘Getting stronger, is he? Fighting back?’

  There’s a pause. Rebecca now becomes conscious of the disturbance their voices are causing to other patients, who groan or sigh in the dark. One says ‘Shut up with your talking!’

  ‘Do you understand why we’re here, Ezekiel?’ she whispers.

  ‘Because our daughter has been attacked. Why else would we be here?’

  ‘One day you will need to wake up.’

  ‘Unless the Lord builds the house, the labourer builds in vain.’ Rebecca puts her head in her hands, as one quite spent.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Ezekiel is not immediately sure.

  ‘We’re here tonight, Ezekiel, because you are a bully and I am weak, and I don’t know which is worse. But that’s why we’re here tonight; not because of a mad woman with a knife, but because you and I have crucified our children.’

  Ezekiel begins rocking again, back and forth on his heels, holding on to the bars of the bed.

  ‘Will you stop doing that? You’re disturbing Patience.’

  Ezekiel pulls his hands away from the bars. Rebecca is wondering how far she can go.

  ‘I can’t stop you being a bully,’ she says, voice low. ‘But I can stop being weak. I’m going to the foyer to ring Michael, and then we’ll go home. We’ll leave Patience to sleep. If you want to wait for security - .’

  She looks down on the sleeping form of her daughter and bends to kiss her forehead. The moment she does, Patience opens her eyes.


  ‘Well said, Mum,’ she whispers. ‘Ten years too late, but well done.’ A half-smile crosses her face before she drifts back into medicated sleep.

  ‘Did she speak?’ asks Ezekiel.

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘We can talk about that. But now we get back to our son.’

  ***

  It was strange to be leading the way to the staircase, strange for Rebecca to be leading.

  Eighty Five

  Thursday 6 November

  ‘It was like three streams joining to become a river,’ said Abbot Peter, as the car drove through the sea fog that had swallowed Stormhaven this morning. Passing headlights were smudges of light in the murk, as Peter told Tamsin of his dream. The detective was sceptical.

  ‘There’s no Dream Squad in the police force for one very good reason: they’re nonsense.’

  The drive continued for a while.

  ‘We will have support?’ asked Peter.

  ‘It’s all in hand. But I need you to tell me more... much more than you’ve managed so far.’

  ‘It started with something you said last night.’

  ‘And what did I say last night?’

  ***

  ‘We’ll run the story in our evening edition’ said Martin Channing to his editorial team, gathered for the morning briefing. The editorial team was another name for Martin, but also present were Rupert Brooke, his deputy editor, and Fortune Chivas, the paper’s lawyer.

  ‘The Evening Argus has had free rein for much too long.’

  The on-going investigation into the murder at Henry House had been on the front page of their Brighton-based rival for the last three days. And he hated their Brighton-based rival.

  ‘Its coverage has been pretty good,’ said Rupert Brooke.

  Martin said their coverage had been appalling, absolutely appalling, and made another note - if another note was necessary, with so many already made - to get rid of his old friend Rupert Brooke, as soon as the chance arose.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Rupert, because he did disagree, and wanted to say so. The Evening Argus had done a responsible job.

  ‘Always remember that I’m the editor, Rupert.’

  Unknown to Rupert, the wheels of dismissal had been turning for a while. Martin had been speaking to younger journalists, sounding them out; he liked youth, fresh blood from university, hungry to succeed and cheap to employ, grateful for the break rather than questioning how he ran his empire. Rupert had been too long in the game, had a mind of his own, not helpful, it clouded his professional judgement. And perhaps, on reflection, Rupert had never had newspaper ink in his veins, that was possible - and that’s where it had to be to survive in the trade, the dark ink pumping through your veins, keeping you scrabbling on the treadmill of the moment.

  But whether he had or he hadn’t, in the land of today, Rupert was a newsprint corpse and only his burial remained to be sorted. His redundancy was being worked on by Mr Chivas sitting opposite, an ex-London lawyer of no fixed belief, beyond the trinity of pounds, shillings and pence. When everything was done, Rupert would be out. He, Martin Channing, was the editor and Rupert best remember that.

  ‘I understand the supremacy that role gives you in our professional setting,’ said Rupert in response.

  ‘Good,’ said Martin.

  Rupert would have walked out then and there... but for his mortgage.

  Martin’s restlessness extended beyond the failings of Rupert Brooke, however. His own part in the Henry House murder story had been irritating and not without irony. The one story he knew about, he couldn’t print; the one story he wouldn’t have to invent - a circumstance as rare as a white crow - he wasn’t allowed to tell. Instead, he’d had to watch the Argus pick at the scraps like a grateful hyena. But no more: with yesterday’s arrest of Bella Amal for murder, Martin was going for broke.

  ‘We’ll print nothing to pre-judge the trial of course,’ he said, with a knowing wink towards legal guru, Fortune Chivas. ‘But we’ll pay a rather more colourful visit to Henry House than the Argus has so far managed.’

  The door then opened and a junior appeared.

  ‘The police are refusing to confirm that Bella Amal has been charged with murder, Sir.’

  ‘Well she isn’t being questioned about her flower arranging.’ Chivas smiled darkly as Channing continued:

  ‘And I’m hearing pretty lurid accounts of what happened there last night. A kind friend at the Royal Sussex rang to say a harlequin was brought in with severe shoulder wounds, after being attacked by Bella Amal. The clown in question was Pat Strong, so you don’t have to be Poirot to see a pattern here. Of course she’ll be charged with the murder of Barnabus Hope.’

  Rupert and Fortune Chivas stayed silent.

  ‘They say that with regard to the murder,’ continued the dogged junior, ‘the investigation is still on-going, and that further arrests may be made shortly.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Martin, but he felt unease pass like a ghost through his thin soul.

  He wasn’t looking for further arrests. He had the truth; he didn’t need the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  Eighty Six

  Henry House appeared only slowly from the mist, the surrounding trees and fields lost in the wandering haze.

  Tamsin parked the car and turned off the headlights. As it turned out, with regard to the murderer’s name, it hadn’t just been a dream. Peter had offered further explanation on the way:

  ‘It started with something you said last night.’

  ‘And what did I say last night?’

  ‘You said you’d never go to Frances for counselling.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Reminding me that Barnabus once said she’d be a better administrator than therapist.’

  ‘You’ve told me this.’

  ‘So I began to wonder about Frances’s credentials.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘My Chief Inspector would be better employed as car park attendant. It doesn’t mean he didn’t pass the Inspectors’ exams.’

  One thing had become another in Peter’s mind, streams joining. He’d remembered, for instance, a conversation with Barnabus, the outlines at least. It had been when he first told Peter about the Mind Gains adventure. Peter had celebrated him finding a well-qualified partner and such historic premises, ‘a twin blessing!’ Barnabus had simply replied, ‘It isn’t all it seems.’ At the time, he’d thought Barnabus was speaking generally, that nothing’s ever quite as good as it looks.

  ‘But then I thought: what if he was speaking specifically? What if something I’d said wasn’t as it seemed?

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And if that were so,’ he continued, ‘there was only one possibility: no one’s doubting the antiquity of the building.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Which just leaves the qualifications.’

  ‘Okay again,’ said Tamsin, sounding bored. This was her case, not his, she’d focus on her driving, adding only: ‘Not gripped, but okay.’

  But like an explorer in deep snow, Peter battled on.

  ‘And then there was my conversation with Martin Channing. We were discussing his attempt to buy into the business, but he was also managing to question the efficacy of therapy.’

  ‘Do you make these words up?’

  Peter paused, a cold pause, and feeling uncomfortable, Tamsin says he’s made his point.

  ‘Psychotherapy is a relatively new discipline,’ he continues.

  ‘Well thank God you’re not calling it a “science”. That’s a joke.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Tamsin, just listen for a moment, will you?’ Genuine anger. Tamsin pulls the car over to
the side of the road.

  ‘I am listening.’

  ‘No, you’re behaving insecurely and the insecure can’t listen.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘The thing is, no one quite knows what qualifies someone to be a therapist.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘And then I remembered what Martin said, “It’s a profession where qualifications mean nothing - particularly at Henry House”.’

  ‘Barnabus.’

  ‘My thought at the time, yes, and I said that, to which Channing replied, ‘Believe me, whether or not I like Barnabus has got absolutely nothing to do with it.’’

  ‘So if it isn’t about Barnabus?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then Frances Pole MSc, PhD might simply be Frances Pole? Well, that would be very funny.’

  ‘Not for the person who found out.’

  ‘And that might have been Barnabus?’

  ‘Quite possibly. What if he became suspicious, who knows why, and rang around the various professional bodies - only to discover that no one knew of Frances Pole MSc, PhD?’

  ‘It’s supposition.’

  ‘But worth a punt, given that Frances was the last person in the office on the night of the murder. As Bella told us as much in the kitchen, remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We were talking about job titles, and she said, “Frances likes to appear professional”.’

  Tamsin’s resistance was crumbling.

  ‘The sober Ezekiel was with her when she left. She wasn’t caving in anyone’s head then.’

  ‘He was outside warming up the car. Frances had told him to leave while she set the alarms. It was perhaps a spontaneous murder, not planned. She saw him in the cupboard when collecting her coat - perhaps the cupboard door was open and she went to close it - and there’s the body of Barnabus, semi-conscious, dying of knife wounds. And she thinks ‘Why not?’ She had his money, didn’t want him holding her to ransom over the qualifications issue - and here was a happy way out. I suspect she knew about Barnabus and Bella, and guessed what had happened.’

  ‘Speaking as a professional, it is all circumstantial.’