‘The worst thing about it,’ Dr Fischer said, ‘is when I think back over those eleven years. Of the many patients who’ve been with us at Løkka during that time. That perhaps he tortured all of them, in some way or other. Perhaps he’s killed several people, without us discovering it. Perhaps he’s been carrying on without our knowledge for all that time, while we’ve been totally blind to it. I suspect this is the case. And the notion is unbearable. I’ve puzzled so often over prescriptions that didn’t have the intended effect, but now I know why. There’s been a lot of uneasiness amongst the patients, often when Riktor was in the room and close to the bed. But we never managed to put two and two together. We ought to be thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, the whole lot of us, but we were never thinking along those lines, we thought of him as able and unflagging. It’s terribly unpleasant to be so wrong about a person. It threatens my self-esteem. Because I’m the one in overall charge of the ward.’
‘I’ve always thought there was something quite different about him,’ said Anna. ‘He’s the sort who used to slink about. Suddenly, he’d pop up from nowhere, with that peculiar smile of his, as if he’d been standing there waiting. And there he was, with a touch and a friendly word. But now I see everything in a different light, and it’s so horrifying. And when I think of poor old Nelly, lying there gasping for breath, I just feel total despair. For that long, rich, eventful life to be terminated in such a base manner. Sometimes I don’t know if I can carry on in the job. It’s so hard to go into the room where all this happened. I thought we ought to clear that room, remove the bed and lock the door, and leave it empty for ever.
‘But life isn’t like that.
‘I had no choice.
‘I was forced to wheel in another patient.’
Chapter 33
‘I didn’t know they were going to place me in a position like that,’ I said apologetically to de Reuter, when at last we were alone together. He claimed I’d broken my side of the bargain, and asked if I had any more secrets, which I denied.
‘We’ll have to alter our strategy now,’ he said, ‘and tighten up our defence. You’re going to need every bit of help you can get. Is there anything else I should know?’
‘No. From now on, I’ll lay all my cards on the table,’ I promised. ‘I know I’ve said this again and again, but I’m not guilty. I mean, as regards the murder. The other thing is a regrettable problem I’ve struggled with for many years. But that’s over now, everything’s behind me, and I promise to control myself.’
He barked a farewell as he headed for his car and drove off.
The prosecution ordered psychiatric tests, to find out if I was responsible for my actions. The forensic psychiatrist was an elderly man, a little over sixty perhaps, with hair that resembled a silver lid on the top of his head. He wore glasses with emphatic frames and thick lenses, a polka-dot bow tie, a suit that was a couple of sizes too large, and stout brown shoes scuffed at the toes. A couple of shiny hairs stuck up from the top of his head and formed a small antenna. I sat there staring at it, fascinated by the two unruly hairs that wouldn’t lie down. He had that knowing melancholy typical of psychiatrists, visible as a tint of sadness in his grey eyes.
‘Presumably you think I’m suffering from a personality disorder,’ I began.
We were in one of the prison’s meeting rooms. He smiled and smoothed his hair, the tiny antenna prostrated itself neatly. But only for a couple of seconds, then it sprang up again.
‘Is that the category you want to belong to?’ he asked. His voice was mild and friendly. ‘Would it make everything that’s happened easier to bear? If that was the conclusion I reached?’
I thought for a moment. ‘It makes no difference. Because I know who I am. But what I don’t know is how I got to be the way I am. Don’t ask about my childhood,’ I added. ‘There’s nothing to say about it. Nothing at all.’
‘So you weren’t mistreated in any way, or neglected?’
‘No, I was simply overlooked. Perhaps that’s almost as bad.’
‘But was it a difficult time?’
‘No, but not very much happened. My childhood was long and uneventful. My father went to work before I got up in the morning, and he returned home long after I’d gone to bed. I hardly ever saw him. He was home at the weekends, of course, but then he was ensconced behind a newspaper. Or sleeping on the sofa. My mother kept house, she was forever washing, or cleaning or polishing. She didn’t say much. She’d answer me if I asked about something, but only quite perfunctorily. They were both very reticent. I did well at school, at least in terms of schoolwork. There’s nothing the matter with my head, just in case you’re wondering. My schoolmates called me The Pike. And I found that quite difficult. The school dentist announced that he’d never seen teeth like mine before, but we didn’t have the money to do anything about them. The first time I sat in the dentist’s chair, the dentist shouted to his assistant who was working in the next room: “Vera! Come and take a look at this! I’ve never seen teeth like these in all my life.” There,’ I added, ‘that was my childhood. I don’t remember much more than that.’
‘Well then, let’s leave it. We can return to it later. Now I’d like to hear you say something about helplessness. What do you feel when you’re faced with a dependent person?’
‘Irritation. Resignation. I get angry, and I despise them for clinging to others, for begging and whining and complaining. I’m being totally honest now, and that’s no easy matter as I work in one of the caring professions. But now I really want to be understood.’
‘What about despair? Do you feel that too?’
‘After only a second or two, I feel completely inadequate. I’ve got to do something, and do it straight away. I’ve got to find an outlet for my own frustration. There’s a name for that, isn’t there?’
‘You really do want a diagnosis, don’t you,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘And perhaps we’ll arrive at one before we’ve finished. But what about you? What if you became ill or incapacitated, or needed help in some way. How would you manage?’
‘Pretty badly,’ I admitted. ‘I’d despise myself as much as I despise others. I’d go to the dogs. I’d go into a decline, and never get up in the morning again, never look at myself in the mirror. Never!’
The psychiatrist had a folder. He opened it now and took out a sheaf of papers.
‘What about the videos? What was going through your mind when they were shown to the court? What do you imagine people think of you after that?’
‘They’re probably disgusted. People can’t take very much. But sometimes those of us who work with dementia lose patience. It’s not just me, there’s a number of us.’
‘So you’re saying that others on the ward might also have tortured the patients?’
‘That’s obvious. Somebody killed Nelly Friis. Someone who lost patience. Or someone who wanted to take pity on her, I don’t know, but it wasn’t me. Almost anything could have happened in that room. And in the other rooms. We’re only human after all.’
The psychiatrist made notes. His antenna waved every time he nodded, two thin streaks of silver.