Summary
The subject proved extremely hard to assess. She is not mentally ill (within the meaning of the Mental Health Act 1983), she is not a psychopath, she is not a narcissist, and she is not delusional; and while she lies repeatedly, and is clearly comfortable doing so, I am not convinced she is a ‘pathological’ liar. I believe there may be a degree of psychological ‘segmentation’ at play, but certainly not to the extent of schizophrenia or Dissociative Identity Disorder (previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder). Many normally functioning people compartmentalise their lives, whether out of fear, self-interest, convenience, or in the interests of privacy; the subject merely does so to an unusually high degree.
I was unable to come to a conclusive opinion as to whether the subject is, or was, capable of intentionally killing her baby. I do, however, believe she is capable of lying about any harm that might have come to the child (whether as the result of an accident or deliberate intent), and doing so convincingly and consistently. It is also perfectly possible that the child is indeed alive and well, as she maintains. That said, I did discern a profound psychological equivocation in relation to the missing child. The version of events the subject gives does not ring true, and while the child must – of course – have had a father, I am unconvinced that the person she describes as ‘Tim Baker’ is that man. It is worth noting in this context that she continues to assert – as she did in police interviews – that there was no sexual assault, and no element of coercion involved in any of her pregnancies. When pressed on the events of the day the child disappeared, both her words and body language became vague and evasive. I was unable to elicit any more information on this than the police have already ascertained.
Appendix: MMPI-2 analysis
* * *
Adam Fawley
24 October
15.45
We have the visiting area to ourselves. Walls a dull sage green, industrial tiling, a tired-looking children’s play area in the far corner. It smells of disinfectant and bad food. We cool our heels for a good five minutes (literally – it’s bloody freezing in here) before the door clangs open at the far end and two warders appear. The woman following them is so different from the image in my head that I have to look twice to be sure it’s her. She must be two stone overweight on starchy prison food, her hair undyed and dark now, hanging in a greasy ponytail, and a blurry tattoo visible on her neck. But the arrogance is the same: the lift of the chin, the head held high. No wonder they call her the Duchess. As she comes towards us the look on her face is hardened, wary, even cruel; the dark shadow of the Shiphampton princess. But whatever she looks like now, this woman is still that girl – the girl they called the chameleon. Perhaps this is just another, even more necessary, change of camouflage.
She drags out the chair opposite us and bangs it down as far back as the space will permit. One of the warders rolls her eyes. I gesture to Quinn and he takes out a small voice recorder and puts it on the table between us.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
The voice has hardened too. And rasped with years of cigarettes; I can smell smoke on her, even from here.
I flip out my warrant card. ‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley. This is DS Quinn.’
She looks him up and down, openly scornful. ‘Fuck me, look at the state of that. Are you gay, or what?’
Quinn gapes, opens his mouth to reply, but she’s too quick for him. She turns to me; I can see the warder with the spiky hair laughing.
‘Thames Valley? You’re a long way from home.’
‘Not so far from your parents’ home.’
She shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.’
‘Have you heard from them lately?’
She looks sardonic. ‘I’m sure the Jailhouse Frock has filled you in on my recent communications, such as they are.’
The Governor, evidently. So the Duchess gives nicknames, as well as takes them. I smile a little. ‘Not bad. Did you come up with that?’
She raises an eyebrow by way of answer.
‘So you’re unaware why we’re here?’
‘Unaware and, frankly, indifferent.’
I let the pause lengthen. Most people will fill a silence eventually, but not this woman. Then again, all these years, she’s had a lot of practice. Quinn shifts beside me. I can hear gates clanging somewhere. The sound of a van engine.
‘Food delivery,’ she says, watching my face. ‘Tuesday chilled, Wednesday ambient, Friday fresh. Not that it usually merits the term. I used to work in the kitchen.’
Another silence.
‘There was an incident at your parents’ house. Involving your father.’
She leans back, crosses one ankle over the other leg, man-style. ‘If you’d been in prison as long as I have, DI Adam Fawley, you’d know that “incident” can cover anything from a bowel movement to a disembowelment, and pretty much anything in between. So what – did the old boy shit himself?’
‘No,’ says Quinn sarcastically. ‘He fucking shot someone.’
A smile ripples across her mouth, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s Quinn or her father who’s amusing her so much.
‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought the old man had so much spunk in him.’
She’s swaggering now, referencing Macbeth, flaunting her intellectual superiority over a pair of clodhopping cops. But two can play at that game, and I’m going to do it on my own terms.
‘It doesn’t surprise you? I’d be staggered if someone told me that about my father.’
‘Your father’s probably an accountant. My dear old dad is an arsey old bugger with a hair-trigger temper and a shotgun.’
She sits back and starts drumming her fingers against the base of the chair. She’s desperate for a fag; trust me, I know the signs.
‘And in any case, what’s any of this got to do with me? I haven’t seen either of them for months. In fact, it might well be years. If I could be fucked to work it out.’
‘The man who was shot was in his late teens or early twenties. According to your parents, he was a random intruder – a burglar.’
She shrugs. ‘Yeah, and?’
‘And, at first, we thought so too. Until, that is, we ran DNA tests on the victim.’
I pause again, scanning her face. Nothing. Her eyes are blank.
‘They were related. This man and your father.’
She swallows, frowns. ‘Related? How?’
‘He’s your son, Ms Rowan.’
Her eyelids flutter and she looks away, drawing a deep breath. Oxygen without benefit of nicotine.
All I can hear now is breathing. Hers and mine.
She swallows. ‘Is he OK?’
Because – as you might have noticed – I’ve made sure not to say. And if she wants to know, she’s going to have to work for it.
‘Who? Your father?’
A flicker of anger, but only a flicker. She’s on the defensive now. ‘No – the other –’
I leave a long pause. ‘No, Ms Rowan. I’m afraid he’s dead. He died at the scene.’
‘Tends to happen,’ snipes Quinn, ‘when you’ve had your fucking head blown off.’