The Private Patient (24 page)

There was a momentary silence, then Dalgliesh spoke. “When did Shirley Beale get in touch with you?”

“On the thirtieth of November, I received a letter from her. Apparently she had seen a television programme on secondary education in which I had appeared. She recognised me and noted the name of the school where I was working—still work. The letter simply said that she remembered me, that she still loved me and she needed to see me. She told me she was working at Cheverell Manor and how to find my way there, and suggested that we meet. The letter horrified me. I couldn't imagine what she meant by still loving me. She had never loved me or shown the slightest sign of affection for me, nor I for her.

I acted weakly and unwisely. I burnt the letter and tried to forget I'd ever seen it. It was hopeless, of course. Ten days later, she wrote again. This time there was a threat. She said she had to see me and if I didn't come she had found someone who would tell the world how I had rejected her. I still don't know what the proper response would have been. Probably to tell my wife, even to inform the police. But could I make them believe the truth about my relationship with Lucy or with Shirley? I decided that the best plan, at least at first, would be to see her and to try to reason her out of her delusions. She had told me to meet her at a parking place by the side of the road near the Cheverell Stones at midnight. She even sent a little map, carefully drawn. The letter ended, ‘It's so wonderful to have found you. We must never let each other go again.' ”

Dalgliesh asked, “Have you got the letter?”

“No. Again I acted stupidly. I took it with me on the journey, and when I got to the parking space I used the car lighter to burn it. I suppose I was in denial from the moment her first letter arrived.”

“And did you meet her?”

“Yes, we met, and at the stones, as she had arranged. I didn't touch her even to shake hands, nor did she seem to expect that. She repelled me. I suggested we return to the car, where we would be more comfortable, and we sat side by side. She said that even when I had been infatuated with Lucy—that was the word she used—she had loved me. She had killed Lucy because she was jealous, but now she had served her sentence. That meant she was free to love me. She wanted to marry me and have my children. It was all said very calmly, almost without emotion, but with a terrible will. She stared ahead and I don't think she even looked at me as she spoke. I explained as gently as I could that I was married, that I had a child, and that there could never be anything between us. I didn't offer her even friendship; how could I? My only wish was never to see her again. It was bizarre, a horror. When I told her I was married she said that needn't stop us from being together. I could get a divorce. We would have children together and she would look after the son I had.”

He had been looking down as he spoke, his hands clasped on the table. Now he lifted his face to Dalgliesh, and he and Kate could see the horror and desperation in his eyes.

“To look after my child! The thought of even having her in the house, close to my family, appalled me. I suppose I failed again in imagination. I should have sensed her need, but all I felt was horror, the compulsion to get away from her, to buy time. I did that by lying. I said I would talk to my wife but that she mustn't hope, because there was none. I did at least make that clear. And then she said goodbye, again without touching me, and left. I sat watching as she disappeared into the darkness, following a small pinprick of light.”

Dalgliesh said, “Did you at any time enter the Manor?”

“No.”

“Did she ask you to do so?”

“No.”

“Did you, while you were parked, see or hear anyone else?”

“No one. I drove away the minute Shirley got out of the car. I saw no one.”

“That night, one of the patients there was murdered. Did Shirley Beale say anything which leads you to believe that she might be responsible?”

“Nothing.”

“The patient's name was Rhoda Gradwyn. Did Shirley Beale mention that name to you, speak about her, tell you anything about the Manor?”

“Nothing, except that she worked there.”

“And was this the first time you've heard of the Manor?”

“Yes, the first time. There hasn't been anything on the news, surely, and certainly not in the Sunday papers. I wouldn't have missed it.”

“Nothing yet, but there probably will be tomorrow morning. Have you spoken to your wife about Shirley Beale?”

“No, not yet. I think I've been in denial, hoping but without real hope that I might hear nothing more from Shirley, that I'd convinced her that we had no future together. The whole incident was fantastic, unreal, a nightmare. As you know, I borrowed Michael Curtis's car for the journey and I'd decided that, if Shirley wrote again, I'd confide in him. I had a desperate need to tell someone and I knew that he would be wise and kind and sensible, and at least would advise me what I should do. Only then would I speak to my wife. I realise, of course, that if Shirley did make the past public it could destroy my career.”

And now Kate spoke again. She said, “But surely not if the truth were accepted. You showed kindness and affection to an obviously lonely and needy child. You were only twenty-two at the time. You couldn't possibly know that your friendship with Lucy would lead to her death. You aren't responsible for that death. No one is but Shirley Beale. She was lonely and needy, too, but you weren't responsible for her unhappiness.”

“But I was responsible. Indirectly and without malice. If Lucy hadn't met me, she'd be alive today.”

Kate's voice was urgent, compelling. “Would she? Wouldn't there have been another cause for jealousy? Particularly when they became adolescents and it was Lucy who had the boyfriends, the attention, the love? You can't possibly tell what might have happened. We can't be held morally responsible for the long-term results of all our actions.”

She stopped, her face flushed, and looked across at Dalgliesh. He knew what she was thinking. She had spoken from pity and outrage but in betraying those emotions she had acted unprofessionally. No suspect in a murder case should be led to believe that the investigating officers are on his side.

Now Dalgliesh spoke directly to Collinsby. “I'd like you to make a statement setting out the facts as you have described them. We shall almost certainly need to talk again when we have interviewed Sharon Bateman. So far she has told us nothing, not even her true identity. And if she has spent less than four years living in the community after her release from custody, she will still be under supervision. Please put your private address on the statement—we shall need to know how to reach you at home.” Reaching for his briefcase, he took out an official form and handed it over.

Collinsby said, “I'll take this over to the desk, the light's better there,” and sat with his back to them. Then he turned and said, “I'm sorry, I haven't offered you coffee or tea. If Inspector Miskin would like to make it, everything necessary is next door. This may take some time.”

Dalgliesh said, “I'll see to it,” and went into the adjoining room, leaving the door open. There was a chink of china, the sound of a kettle being filled. Kate waited a couple of minutes, then went to join him, searching in a small refrigerator for the milk. Dalgliesh carried in the tray with three cups and saucers and placed one with the sugar bowl and milk jug beside Collinsby, who continued writing, and then, without looking at them, stretched out a hand and drew the cup towards him. He took neither milk nor sugar and Kate moved them over to the table, where she and Dalgliesh sat in silence. She felt extraordinarily tired but resisted the temptation to lean back in the chair.

Thirty minutes later Collinsby turned and handed the pages to Dalgliesh. He said, “It's finished now. I tried to keep it factual. I haven't attempted any justification, but there is none. Do you need to watch me signing it?”

Dalgliesh went over and the paper was signed. He and Kate picked up their coats and were ready to go. As if they were parents who had come to discuss the progress of their children, Collinsby said formally, “It was good of you to come to the school. I'll see you to the door. When you need to speak to me again, no doubt you'll be in touch.”

He unlocked the front door and went with them to the gate. The last they saw of him was his pale taut face staring at them from behind the bars, like a man incarcerated. Then he closed the gate, turned, walked with firm steps to the school door and entered without looking back.

In the car, Dalgliesh switched on the reading light and took up the map. He said, “The best route seems to be to take the M
1
south, then the M
5
and the M
3
. You must be hungry. We both need to eat, and this doesn't look a particularly promising place.”

Kate found herself desperate to get away from the school, from the town, from the memory of the last hour. She said, “Couldn't we stop somewhere on the motorway? I don't mean for a meal, but we could pick up a sandwich.”

The rain had stopped now except for a few heavy drops which fell, viscous as oil, on the bonnet. When they were at last on the motorway, Kate said, “I'm sorry I said what I did to Mr. Collinsby. I know it's unprofessional to sympathise with a suspect.” She wanted to go on, but her voice was choked and she simply said again, “I'm sorry, sir.”

Dalgliesh didn't glance at her. He said, “You spoke out of compassion. To feel compassion strongly can be dangerous in a murder investigation, but not as dangerous as losing the capacity to feel it at all. No harm was done.”

But the tears still came and he let her quietly weep, keeping his eyes on the road. The motorway unwound before them in a phantasmagoria of light, the procession of dipped headlights on their right, the moving pattern of the southward traffic, the blotting out of black hedges and trees by the huge shapes of trucks, the roar and grind of a world of unknowable travellers caught up in the same extraordinary compulsion. When he saw a sign saying
Services,
Dalgliesh moved into the left-hand lane, and then pulled off onto the slip road. He found a space on the edge of the car park and switched off the engine.

They moved into a building ablaze with light and colour. Every café and shop was hung with Christmas decorations, and in a corner a small amateur choir, largely disregarded, was singing carols and collecting for charity. They made their way to the washrooms, then picked up sandwiches and two large plastic beakers of coffee and returned with them to the car. While they ate, Dalgliesh phoned Benton to put him in the picture and within twenty minutes they were on their way.

Glancing at Kate's face, strained with stoical determination not to betray her tiredness, he said, “It's been a long day and it isn't over yet. Why not put the seat back and have a sleep?”

“I'm all right, sir.”

“There's no need for both of us to stay awake. There's a rug on the back seat, if you can reach it. I'll wake you up in good time.”

He resisted tiredness when driving by keeping the heating low. If she slept she would need the rug. She jerked back her seat and settled herself, the rug huddled close to her neck, her face turned towards him. Almost at once she was asleep. She slept so quietly that he could hardly hear her gently drawn breath, except that from time to time she made a small contented grunt like a sleeping child and snuggled deeper into the rug. Glancing at her face, all anxiety smoothed away by the benison of life's little semblance of death, he thought what a good face it was—not beautiful, certainly not conventionally pretty, but a good face, honest, open, pleasant to look at, a face that would last. For years, when on a case, she had worn her light-brown hair in a single thick plait; now she had had it cut and it lay softly on her cheeks. He knew that what she needed from him was more than he could give, but what he did give he knew that she valued—friendship, trust, respect and affection. But she deserved much more. About six months ago, he had thought that she had found it. Now he was not so sure.

Soon, he knew, the Special Investigation Squad would fold or be absorbed into another department. He would make his own decision about his future. Kate would gain her overdue promotion to detective chief inspector. But what then for her? He had sensed of late that she was tired of travelling alone. At the next service station he pulled in and cut off the engine. She didn't stir. He tucked the rug close round her sleeping body and settled himself for a short break. Ten minutes later, he slid back into the stream of traffic and drove south-westwards through the night.

5

Despite the exhaustion and trauma of the previous day, Kate woke early and refreshed. On Dalgliesh's and her late return from Droughton, the team's usual review of progress had been intensive but brief—an exchange of information, not a prolonged discussion of its implications. The result of the autopsy on Rhoda Gradwyn's body had been received in the late afternoon. Dr. Glenister's reports were always comprehensive, but this was uncomplicated and unsurprising. Miss Gradwyn had been a healthy woman with all that implied of hope and fulfilment. It had been her two fatal decisions—to have the scar removed and the operation performed at Cheverell Manor—which had led to those seven stark decisive words:
Death by asphyxia caused by
manual strangulation.
Reading the report with Dalgliesh and Benton, Kate was seized by the familiar impotent surge of anger and pity at the wanton destructiveness of murder.

Now she dressed quickly and found that she was hungry for the breakfast of bacon and egg, sausages and tomatoes served to her and Benton by Mrs. Shepherd. Dalgliesh had decided that she, not himself or Benton, should meet Mrs. Rayner at Wareham. The supervising officer had telephoned late the previous night to say that she would take the five-past-eight train from Waterloo and hoped to arrive at Wareham at ten-thirty.

The train was on time and Kate had no difficulty in identifying Mrs. Rayner among the small number of alighting passengers. She looked intently into Kate's eyes and shook hands with a brief pumping action, as if this formal meeting of flesh was a validation of some prearranged contract. She was shorter than Kate, stout-bodied with a square clear-skinned face given strength by the firmness of the mouth and chin. Her dark-brown hair, greying in streaks, had been well and—as Kate knew—expensively cut. She was without the usual symbol of bureaucracy, a briefcase, and carried instead a large linen bag with a drawstring and straps slung over her shoulder. For Kate everything about her spoke of authority quietly and confidently exercised. She reminded Kate of one of her schoolteachers, Mrs. Butler, who had transformed the dreaded fourth form into acting like comparatively civilised beings by the simple expedient of believing that when she was present they could do no other.

Kate made the customary enquiry about the journey. Mrs. Rayner said, “I had a window seat with no children or obsessive squawkers on their mobiles. The bacon sandwich from the refreshment car was fresh and I enjoyed the scenery. That for me is a good journey.”

They didn't speak of Shirley, now Sharon, on the drive, although Mrs. Rayner asked about the Manor and the people who worked there, perhaps to put herself in the picture. Kate guessed that she was saving the essentials until she was with Dalgliesh; there was no point, and there might be misunderstanding, in saying things twice.

In the Old Police Cottage, Mrs. Rayner, welcomed by Dalgliesh, declined the offer of coffee and asked for tea, which Kate made. Benton had arrived and the four of them sat round the low table in front of the fire. Dalgliesh, who had Rhoda Gradwyn's file in front of him, briefly explained how the team had come to know of Sharon's real identity. He handed the file to Mrs. Rayner, who examined the picture of Lucy's battered face without comment. After a few minutes' scrutiny she closed the file and handed it back to Dalgliesh.

She said, “It would be interesting to find out how Rhoda Gradwyn managed to get hold of some of this material, but as she's dead there seems little point in instituting an enquiry. Anyway, that won't be for me to do. Certainly we've had no instances of anything about Sharon being published and there was a legal prohibition when she was a minor.”

Dalgliesh asked, “She didn't notify you of her change of job and address?”

“No. She should have done, of course, and I should have been in touch before now with the retirement home. I last met her by arrangement ten months ago, when she was still there. She must have already decided to move. Her excuse will probably be that she didn't want to tell me and saw no need. My excuse, less valid, is the usual one: a too-heavy workload, and the reorganisation following the splitting of Home Office responsibilities. In common parlance, Sharon fell through the net.”

Falling Through the Net,
thought Dalgliesh, would be a perfect title for a contemporary novel. He said, “You had no particular anxiety about her?”

“None in the sense of seeing her as a public danger. She wouldn't have been released if the Parole Board hadn't been satisfied that she wasn't a danger to herself or others. She was no trouble when she was in Moorfield House, and has been none since release. If I had anxiety—indeed, still have—it's about finding a satisfying and suitable job for her, helping her to make a life for herself. She has always resisted taking any form of training. The job at the retirement home wasn't a long-term solution. She should be with people of her own age. But I'm not here to discuss Sharon's future. I can see that she presents a problem for your investigation. Wherever she goes, we'll ensure she's available if you wish to question her. Has she been co-operating so far?”

Dalgliesh said, “She hasn't been a problem. At present we have no prime suspect.”

“Well, obviously she can't stay here. I'll make arrangements for her to go to a hostel until we can arrange something more permanent. I hope to be able to send someone for her in three days' time. Of course I'll keep in touch.”

Kate asked, “Has she ever expressed remorse for what she did?”

“No, and that has been a problem. She only repeats that she wasn't sorry at the time and what was the point of being sorry afterwards just because you've been found out.”

Dalgliesh said, “There's a certain honesty in that. Shall we see her now? Kate, would you find her please and bring her here.”

They were kept waiting for Kate to return with Sharon and when, after fifteen minutes, they arrived, the reason for the delay was apparent. Sharon had taken trouble over her appearance. A skirt and jumper had been substituted for her working overall, her hair had been brushed to shininess and she was wearing lipstick. There was an immense gilt earring in each ear. She came in belligerently but with a certain wariness and took a seat opposite Dalgliesh. Mrs. Rayner took a chair beside her, an indication, Kate thought, of where her professional concern and loyalty lay. She herself sat beside Dalgliesh and Benton, notebook open, close to the door.

On entering the room Sharon had shown no surprise at seeing Mrs. Rayner. Now, fixing her eyes on her, she said without apparent resentment, “I thought you'd be along sooner or later.”

“It would have been sooner, Sharon, if you'd told me about your change of job and Miss Gradwyn's death—as, of course, you should have.”

“Well, I was going to, but fat chance with the cops all over the house and everyone watching me. If they saw me phone they'd ask why. Anyway, she was only killed on Friday night.”

“Well, I'm here now and there are a number of things we need to talk about in private, but first of all Commander Dalgliesh has some questions and I want you to promise to answer them truthfully and fully. This is important, Sharon.”

Dalgliesh said, “You have the right, Miss Bateman, to ask for a solicitor to be present if you think it necessary.”

She stared at him. “Why would I want a solicitor? I haven't done anything wrong. Anyway, Mrs. Rayner's here. She'll see there's no funny business. And I told you everything I know when we were in the library on Saturday.”

Dalgliesh said, “Not all. You didn't say then that you left the Manor on Friday night. We now know that you did. You went out to meet someone at about midnight, and we know who it was. We've spoken to Mr. Collinsby.”

And now there was a change. Sharon started from her chair, then sat back and clasped the edge of the table. Her face flushed and the deceptively mild eyes widened and seemed to Kate to darken into pools of anger.

“You can't pin it on Stephen! He never killed that woman. He wouldn't kill anyone. He's good and he's kind—and I love him! We're going to get married.”

Mrs. Rayner said, her voice gentle, “That isn't possible, Sharon, and you know it isn't. Mr. Collinsby is already married and has a child. I think in asking him to come back into your life you were acting out a fantasy, a dream. Now we have to face reality.”

Sharon looked at Dalgliesh, who said, “How did you discover where Mr. Collinsby was?”

“Saw him on TV, didn't I? I was watching it in my room after dinner. I just turned it on and I saw him. That's why I kept on watching. It was a boring programme about education, but I saw Stephen and I heard his voice, and he was just the same, only older. The programme said how he'd changed this school, so I wrote down the name and that's where I sent the letter. He never replied to the first one, so I sent another and told him he'd better meet me. It was important.”

Dalgliesh said, “Did you make threats—either he met you or you'd tell someone that he'd lodged with your family and had known both you and your sister? Had he harmed either of you?”

“He didn't do any harm to Lucy. He's not one of them paedophiles, if that's what you're thinking. He loved her. They were always reading together up in his room or going out for treats. She liked being with him, but she didn't care about him. She just liked the treats. And she only went up to his room because that was better than staying in the kitchen with me and Gran. Gran was always picking on us. Lucy said she was bored with Stephen, but I cared about him. I loved him. I've always loved him. I never thought I'd see him again but now he's back in my life. I want to be with him. I know I can make him happy.”

Kate wondered if either Dalgliesh or Mrs. Rayner would mention Lucy's murder. Neither did. Instead Dalgliesh asked, “So you arranged for Mr. Collinsby to meet you at the parking space for the stones. I want you to tell me exactly what happened and what passed between you.”

“You said you'd seen him. He must've told you what happened. I don't see why I should have to go over it all again. Nothing happened. He said he was married but he was going to talk to his wife and ask for a divorce. And then I went back into the house and he drove away.”

Dalgliesh asked, “And that was all?”

“Well, we weren't going to sit in the car all night, were we? I just sat there beside him for a bit but we never kissed or anything like that. You don't have to kiss when you're really in love. I knew he was speaking the truth. I knew he loved me. So after a time I got out and went back to the house.”

“Did he go back with you?”

“No, he didn't. Why would he? I knew my way, didn't I? Anyway, he wanted to be off, I could tell that.”

“Did he at any time mention Rhoda Gradwyn?”

“Of course he didn't. Why would he talk about her? He never met her.”

“Did you give him keys to the Manor?”

And now she was suddenly angry again. “No, no, no! He never asked for the keys. Why would he want them? He never went near the place. You're trying to pin murder on him because you're protecting all the others—Mr. Chandler-Powell, Sister Holland, Miss Cressett—all of them. You're trying to pin it all on Stephen and me.”

Dalgliesh said quietly, “We're not here to pin this crime on the innocent. Our job is to find out who's guilty. The innocent have nothing to fear. But Mr. Collinsby may well be in trouble if the story about you becomes known. I think you understand what I mean. We don't live in a kind world and people might very easily misinterpret the friendship between him and your sister.”

“Well, she's dead, isn't she? What can they prove now?”

Mrs. Rayner broke her silence. She said, “They can't prove anything, Sharon, but gossip and rumour don't rely on truth. I think when Mr. Dalgliesh has finished questioning you we'd better have a talk about your future after this terrible experience. You've done very well so far, Sharon, but I think it may be time to move on.” She turned to Dalgliesh. “Could I have the use of a room here for a time, if you've finished?”

“Of course. It's straight across the hall.”

Sharon said, “All right. I'm sick of the cops anyway. Sick of their questions, sick of their stupid faces. Sick of this place. I don't see why I can't leave right away. I could come with you now.”

Mrs. Rayner had already got up. “I don't think that will be possible immediately, Sharon, but we'll certainly work on it.” She turned to Dalgliesh. “Thank you for the use of the room. I don't think Sharon and I will need it for long.”

They didn't, but the forty-five minutes or so which passed before they reappeared seemed long to Kate. Sharon, who was no longer truculent, said goodbye to Mrs. Rayner and meekly enough returned to the Manor with Benton. As the gates were unlocked by the security guard, Benton said, “Mrs. Rayner seemed a very nice person.”

“Oh, she's all right. I'd have been in touch with her earlier if you lot hadn't been watching me like a cat with a mouse. She's going to find a place for me, so I'll be out of here soon. In the meantime, you lay off Stephen. I wish I'd never called him to this bloody place.”

In the interview room, Mrs. Rayner put on her jacket and took up her bag. She said, “It's unfortunate that this is happening. She was doing very well at the geriatric unit, but it was reasonable for her to want a job with younger people. The old patients liked her, though. They spoilt her a bit, I imagine. But it's time she got some proper training and settled into something with a future. I hope to find a place for her fairly soon where I think she'll be happy to spend a few weeks until we can settle the next move. And she may need psychiatric help. Obviously she's in denial about Stephen Collinsby. But if you're asking me whether she killed Rhoda Gradwyn—which of course you aren't—I'd say it's extremely unlikely. I would say impossible, except that one can never use that word about anyone.”