The Private Patient

  There was a prolonged silence. After a minute Dalgliesh asked, ‘At this time, was Shirley Beale, now Sharon Bateman, living in the house?’

  ‘Yes. She was the older sister, a difficult, morose, uncommunicative child. It was hard to believe that they were sisters. She had a disconcerting habit of staring at people, not speaking, just looking, an accusatory look, more adult than childish. I suppose I should have realised that she was unhappy – well I must have realised it – but it wasn’t something I felt I could help. I did once suggest to Lucy, when I’d planned to take her to London to see Westminster Abbey, that Shirley might like to come too. Lucy said, “Yes, you ask her,” and I did. I can’t remember what response I got; something about not wanting to go to boring London to see the boring Abbey with boring me. But I know I was relieved that I’d brought myself to ask and she’d refused. After that, I needn’t bother again. I suppose I should have realised what she was feeling – the neglect, the rejection – but I was twenty-two and I hadn’t the sensitivity to recognise her pain or to deal with it.’

  And now Kate interposed. She said, ‘Was it your responsibility to deal with it? You weren’t her father. If things were going wrong in the family it was for them to deal with the problems.’

  He turned to her almost, it seemed, with relief. ‘That’s what I tell myself now. I’m not sure I believe it. It wasn’t a comfortable house for me or for any of them. If it hadn’t been for Lucy I would have looked elsewhere. Because of her I stayed until the end of my year. After I qualified as a teacher I decided to start on the planned journey. I’d never been abroad except for a school trip to Paris, and I went first to the obvious places: Rome, Madrid, Vienna, Siena, Verona, and then on to India and Sri Lanka. At first I sent postcards to Lucy, sometimes two a week.’

  Dalgliesh said, ‘It’s probable Lucy never received your cards. We think they were intercepted by Shirley. They’ve been found cut in half and buried beside one of the Cheverell Stones.’

  He didn’t explain what the stones were. But then, thought Kate, did he need to?

  ‘After a time I stopped sending them, thinking that Lucy had either forgotten me or was busy with her school life; that I had been an important influence for a time, but not a lasting one. And the awful thing is this: in a way, I was relieved. I had a career to carve out for myself and perhaps Lucy would have been a responsibility as well as a joy. And I was looking for adult love – aren’t we all in our youth? I learnt of the murder when I was in Sri Lanka. For a moment I was physically sick with shock and horror and, of course, I grieved for the child I had loved. But later, when I remembered that year with Lucy, it was like a dream and the grief was an unfocused sorrow for all ill-treated and murdered children and for the death of innocence. Perhaps that was because I now had a child. I didn’t write to the mother or grandmother to commiserate. I never mentioned to anyone that I had known the family. I felt absolutely no responsibility for her death. I had none. I did feel some shame and regret that I’d not continued trying to keep in touch, but that passed. Even when I returned home the police didn’t contact me to question me. Why should they? Shirley had confessed and the evidence was overwhelming. The only explanation anyone ever received was that she had killed Lucy because her sister was too pretty.’

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

  ‘On the 30th 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 to 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 a
nd 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 and, walking with firm steps to the school door, 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 M1 south, then the M25 and the M3. 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-westward 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 a
fternoon. 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 pre-arranged 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 into acting like comparatively civilised beings by the simple expedient of believing that when she was present they could do no other.