'Not quite,' she replied. 'But he was the cricket umpire!'
They laughed together, gently, until the policeman's face grew serious once more. 'Now to the most difficult area,' he said. 'Was your husband faithful to you?'
Laura Davey drew a breath and swept her blue-blonde hair back from her right temple. 'I can say, categorically, that there were no other women in my husband's life. Is that a straight enough answer?'
Martin nodded. 'Couldn't be straighter. Did he ever mention a woman named Ariadne Tucker?'
`Maurice Noble's wife? Yes, a couple of times.'
`What did he say about her?'
She gave a brief laugh. 'He said that he had never met a lady who had her husband more firmly by the balls.'
`Mmm,' said Martin. 'What did he think of Noble?'
‘Ah, poor little Maurice. Colin thought that he wasn't up to the job. Not totally committed, forgetful, too easily rattled, too easily bullied by the civil servants; those were just some of the things he said about him. Why, I recall him saying just last week, "I can't imagine why Morelli put that bloody man into the job!" He was going to fire him, at the first suitable moment.'
And did Noble know this?'
`He must have had more than an inkling.' She stopped, and looked hard at Martin. 'You think Maurice did it, don't you?' she said quietly.
The way things are shaping up, Mrs Davey,' he replied, evenly and frankly, 'it's difficult to see who else could have. The trouble is my boss up in Scotland, Bob Skinner. When he's faced with a situation like this he reacts by looking all the harder for that someone else.
He's ill just now, but I know that's what he would want me to do!'
SIXTY-FIVE
‘Look, Kevin. You are the only obviously sane shrink I have ever met, but I've just had my body carved up, so I'd like to keep my mind in one piece right now… if that's all right with you.
O'Malley looked at the big figure in the bed. His face was drawn, pain lines were set around his eyes, and he looked frailer than the psychiatrist could have imagined, yet there was still something formidable about Skinner.
`You're the patient, Bob,' he said. 'So it's your choice at the end of the day. I'm not going to Section you, or anything like that. But in the past, when you've consulted me about suspects, you've always taken my advice. Why should it be different now that you're the patient?'
Skinner growled. `Gerrout of it, man. Don't try logic on me — it won't work. I'll see myself through this thing. I slept fine last night, after Braeburn gave me that happy pill.'
O'Malley sat on the bed, and looked out of the window of the private ward into which the policeman had been moved. 'How do you know that you slept okay, Bob?' he asked quietly.
I didn't waken up in a sweat. I had no dreams.'
As far as you know, you didn't.'
`But I would bloody know, man; they're my bloody dreams!' `Yet you can't remember them when you have them.'
`So who does, always?' He paused. 'Look, man, don't cross examine me. I'm too old a campaigner for that. My memory even is back. I recall every detail of what happened last Friday, every last victim.
`So what? Your memory was working on Saturday night, but you still had the nightmare, to the point at which you were prepared to go out running twenty-four hours later, just to stay awake.'
The studious, bushy-haired O'Malley pushed himself to his feet and looked over to Sarah, who sat in a chair by the window, with a lively Jazz wriggling in her arms. 'This is my diagnosis, Doctor. Tell me whether or not you agree with it.
`The patient is suffering from a form of mental toothache. There is an abscess in there, in the form of a suppressed emotional reaction. So far you've prescribed Prozac as a form of analgesic, and that has worked.
`But the abscess is still there, and it will not go away. It has to be drawn out and exposed to the light, if the patient is to be restored to a state of what passes in him for total mental and emotional equilibrium. The man, the doll, the perfume… we have to find out about them and to show Bob what they are and what they mean.' He leaned against the window frame and looked down at Sarah.
`My proposal is that the patient should be placed under hypnosis. However, this must be voluntary on his part and free from constraints on mine if it is to be effective. Do you agree, Doctor?'
She nodded vigorously, smiling as Jazz, in her arms, tried to mimic the gesture. 'I couldn't agree more,' she said. Now tell me, without this treatment, what's your prognosis?'
O'Malley looked directly at Skinner. 'Without this treatment, the patient will form a dependence upon the palliative drug or will become a chronic insomniac, inefficient at work, and liable to fits of severe depression. Conceivably, these might require in-patient care. With my proposed treatment, the patient should make a full recovery. Without it, I am quite certain that he will never be the same man again.'
Sarah stood up, her child cradled in the crook of her arm, and came over to the bedside.
'There's no choice, Bob, really — is there? Come on, agree, for our sake'
Skinner sighed, then winced as a shaft of pain from his wound shot through him. 'Okay,' he said. 'Let's do it. But on one condition, Kevin. There's something in my head that only Sarah knows about. The only other person who was in on the secret died two months ago.
That story is dangerous in a way I can't begin to tell you, and it mustn't become public property. Therefore I will agree to hypnosis on the condition that only you and Sarah are present, and that you agree that anything I may say under hypnosis will be kept as secret by you as if it was a confession made to a priest. Will you give me that promise?'
Of course. In this situation, anything you say will be in the context of a doctor-patient relationship. It'll be totally privileged. I'd be struck off if I ever breathed a word.'
`Right. I agree. When do you want to do it?'
O'Malley scratched his chin. 'As soon as Mr Braeburn says I can. That should be in a couple of days. Let's pencil it in for Friday. In the meantime, just rest up and keep taking the happy pills.'
`Can I start to look at some paperwork?'
Absolutely no way,' said the psychiatrist, anticipating Sarah's open-mouthed protest.
'Listen to music, or read some of that Terry Pratchett on your bedside table, but do nothing associated with work. Don't even watch a crime show on television!'
He moved towards the door. 'See you on Friday, subject to Braeburn'
Sarah settled Jazz into his push-chair and followed O'Malley outside. But when the door re-opened, it was Alison Higgins who appeared.
'Hello, boss,' she said with a smile, holding out a bunch of chrysanthemums. 'Sarah said I could look in for a minute.'
‘Hi, Ali. Good to see you. How are things going?' he asked, weakly but eagerly. 'Has Andy got anyone in the frame yet?'
Higgins frowned. 'Boss, Sarah said that if I even whispered anything about work, she'd throw me out. So don't ask me.'
Skinner sighed. 'That's how it's to be, is it? Okay: how about wee Mark? You can tell me how he's doing, can't you?'
She smiled. 'I think that's allowed. Mark's great.'
'How about his mum?'
'She's fine too. She dropped a bombshell last night, all right.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. Did you know there's going to be a snap by-election?' Skinner looked puzzled. 'Yes, three weeks from tomorrow. Well, Leona had a few of us round for supper last night — me, Marsh Elliot and the Constituency big-wigs: Over the coffee she announced that she wanted to fight the seat in Roly's place.'
'What did they say?'
'After they recovered from the shock they agreed. There's a special meeting of the Dean Conservative Association tonight to adopt her as the candidate. It'll go through unanimously. She's already been granted leave from her teaching job, for the duration of the campaign.'