‘With a psychiatrist?’
‘Not from the hospitaclass="underline" our tests are to be strictly medical. Neurological. We’ll take blood, faeces and urine samples and I also want to do a spinal tap now.’
Jennifer curled herself up in a ball, as the man instructed, but continued talking over her shoulder. ‘Are they bringing a psychiatrist?’ She’d intended dismissing Perry and Hall without the concrete assurance of a QC, she remembered. Not important, this early. The absolute essential – the essential upon which everything hinged – was to be declared sane. The insistence upon a senior barrister could wait.
‘ The Lord Chief Justice himself can’t save you! You’re lost. Can’t prevent yourself being lost.’
‘Call them,’ ordered Jennifer, straightening herself as she was told and lying flat, without a pillow, to prevent any headache or nausea after the lumbar puncture. ‘Tell them I want a psychiatrist, as welclass="underline" that I won’t have a neurological examination unless I have a psychiatric one.’
Precisely what the hospital board wanted, accepted Lloyd: the responsibility – and any unforeseen repercussions – that of the woman’s advisors, the hospital’s accountability tightly limited to scientifically provable and universally acknowledged medical criteria. ‘That’s your definite wish?’
‘That’s my positive instruction. Tell them that I demand it. And that I want it today.’ There was a sudden rush of confidence, a feeling of being in charge. She had other feelings – other impressions – but refused to let herself think of them.
‘ What? ’
‘Not things for you to know,’ refused Jennifer, embarking on another experiment.
‘I beg your pardon?’ frowned the doctor.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ smiled Jennifer, apologetically.
Lloyd gestured for the nurse to leave with him. ‘I’ll call your solicitor.’
‘ Think it! ’
‘Make me!’
The numbness worsened, into a burn, but Jennifer easily resisted. ‘I’m finding weaknesses about you all the time, aren’t I, Jane? My mind was always better than other people’s. I’m going to prove it.’
‘ And I’m going to enjoy taking that arrogance from you, like I’m going to take everything else from you.’
It wasn’t Jennifer’s demand but Julian Mason’s insistence that a neurological screening was necessary that persuaded Jeremy Hall to change his mind about a joint examination. It wasn’t, explained Mason, a shared discipline but a complimentary one. Hall was as impressed by the man as he was by the argument. Julian Mason was a past President of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, a senior lecturer at Essex University and the author of two acknowledged reference books on forensic psychiatry. Hall also liked that the man didn’t look an absent-minded, long-haired psychiatrist, baggy jacketed, shapelessly trousered and meerschaum-piped. Mason wore a crew cut, jeans and an Essex university T-shirt under an unzipped cotton blouson: Hall hoped he had a different outfit for court. What Hall appreciated most of all was the absence of any condescension at their meeting in his cramped rooms overlooking the car park at the rear of the chambers, identifying him as the most junior member of the practice.
Mason listened intently to the facts of the murder, not interrupting until Hall linked schizophrenia with the voice in Jennifer’s head. At once the man raised a halting hand, ‘You’re the lawyer. I’m the psychiatrist. I’ll make the diagnosis.’
‘Bentley thinks she’s faking.’
‘People try.’
‘How difficult is it for you to tell?’
‘Sometimes impossible. Sometimes easy.’ Seeing the reaction on Hall’s face the other man grinned and said, ‘It’s very difficult to fake genuine mental illness. People who try usually make lots of mistakes.’
‘Her husband was having an affair,’ reminded Hall. ‘Could she have gone temporarily insane at discovering it?’
‘There’s no insanity as temporary as that. You’re talking of enormous, hostile rage.’
‘But she would have known what she was doing, no matter how enraged?’
‘In my opinion, yes. You’ll probably find others who disagree, if that’s the way you want to go.’
‘I want to defend her, to the best of my ability.’
‘That’s refreshing,’ said Mason, in what could have been the first reference to Hall’s inexperience.
‘Let’s hope I can do it.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Lomax hopes the same.’
They rose at the announcement of Humphrey Perry’s arrival with the car. Perry and Mason greeted each other with the familiarity of long association and Hall remained silent for most of the journey while the other two men brought each other up to date with personal happenings. Mason, it emerged, was a bachelor but Perry had six children, all boys but none in law. Both the youngest two had dropped out of university, one ironically from Essex. Mason said he didn’t know the boy but that Perry wasn’t to worry unduly: a lot of kids rebelled at the educational grind at university level and most returned after a year out.
From the greeting Mason also appeared to know the neurologist waiting for them at the hospital. George Fosdyke was a fussy, quick-speaking man with a wet handshake who made a specific point of quoting a psychology as well as a medical degree when he was introduced to Hall. The man’s stiff white coat glistened from starch and his baldness was practically identical to that of Humphrey Perry, who stood slightly apart during the initial meeting. Hall thought the solicitor and the neurologist looked as if they had come off the same assembly line.
‘How is she?’ he asked Lloyd.
‘Had quite a trauma this morning,’ said the doctor. ‘She became very distressed at what she described as a terrible noise she thought was going to make her head burst. But no collapse, like yesterday. Heart and blood pressure are quite normal.’
‘All the other tests done?’ interrupted Fosdyke.
‘I did the spinal tap myself.’
As they walked towards the elevators Mason said, ‘Is she mobile?’
‘She hasn’t been, so far,’ said Lloyd. ‘But she’s not on any intravenous treatment any longer and she’s off the heart monitor, so there’s no reason why she couldn’t be.’
‘You’re going to do a brain scan?’ Mason asked the neurologist, expectantly.
‘Of course,’ said Fosdyke.
‘You any objection to her walking to the scanner?’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Fosdyke.
It was Fosdyke who slowed first, bringing the group to a halt at the sight of Bentley and Rodgers outside the guarded ward: the woman police sergeant was with them. Lloyd said, ‘I didn’t know they were here. I gave no permission to resume the interview.’
Hall eased his way through the group to confront the detectives. ‘This is a medical and psychiatric examination.’
‘So she’s well enough to be interviewed.’
‘Not by you. My client declines to talk to you.’
‘This is obstruction.’ Bentley felt his temper slipping and made a conscious effort to stop it happening.
‘It’s her right. And my advice…’ It needed Hall’s professional control to avoid his annoyance at Bentley’s presence becoming obvious and abruptly he determined to end the interference. Careless of the effect he knew it would have upon the other man he said, ‘We’d appreciate no more irritations like this. There will be no further police interviews with my client…’ He indicated the uncertain policewoman who had obviously warned Bentley of the examination from overhearing the arrangements being made. ‘… Nor will I accept the introduction in any later court hearing of anything my client says or does…’
Bentley moved to speak but Hall refused the objection, anticipating it. ‘… Your initial caution does not extend to remarks or actions overheard by police escorts, which you well know. Or should know. If you didn’t, you’ve been officially told now. I want your policewomen outside my client’s ward from this moment. If you ignore what I have just said… any of it… I shall complain through a judge in chambers to your Commander. Is there anything about which I’ve left you unsure, Superintendent Bentley?’