That had stimulated a more general discussion. Others had come in with halting stories of their own. There were hints of abuse and bullying.
One woman had been brought up believing her mother was her sister.
Another’s father had thrown himself under a train.
Very jolly, Vera thought. She hoped Christina was happy in her work.
There was no mention of any contribution from Bella until the fifth session. Then, prompted by Edmund who had already befriended her, she had told the story of her father’s death. It was much as Vera had expected. Charles had always made her feel guilty she at least had escaped for a while, made friends, found a job she enjoyed. And Arthur Noble had never hit her. All his frustration had been taken out on the boy. When she returned to the family home Bella’s little brother had increased the pressure relentlessly.
In her notebook Christina described the scene as Bella told her story.
It was remarkable. Until Edmund persuaded her to speak Bella had always been a passive member of the group, sometimes supporting other people but never seeking attention for herself. Now it seemed she couldn’t stop talking and she moved physically into the centre of the circle. She began to act out the attack. which killed her father, starting with receiving the phone call from her brother and ending with raising her arm to smack the heavy bronze onto his skull. She was in tears, saying that she should have been charged with murder and not with manslaughter. She had planned to kill him. The group gathered round to offer support.
Vera looked up briefly from the notebook. “She could have left them to it. Gone back to teaching. She was still responsible.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she should have got away with it?”
“Do you think she did?” Christina stood up, stretched. “I’ll make some more tea, shall I?”
When she returned with the mugs Vera was engrossed, hunched over the table frowning. Eventually she looked up furiously, pushed the notebook towards the psychologist.
“Why didn’t you do something about this at the time?”
“Because I didn’t believe it.”
“Didn’t you recognize the story?”
“Of course. But it wasn’t unusual. The patient had experienced a number of psychotic fantasies, had imagined, for example, being famous.
Those were triggered by news events, movies, even TV soaps. Later we managed to control the episodes but at the time I couldn’t be expected to take the story seriously.”
“How did the rest of the group respond?”
“They didn’t believe it. They were sympathetic but sceptical.”
“What do you think now? Do you believe it could have been true?”
“I think it’s far-fetched but you have a right to know what was claimed. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” Vera stood up, walked to the window. There was a full moon which lit up the meadow. Patrick and the baby were silhouetted against the light.
“Could that sort of illness reoccur after a period of normality?”
“You’d need to check with a psychiatrist, but no, it wouldn’t be unusual. Do you think that’s what’s happened here?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not sure,” Christina said. “As a way of surviving, these murders make perfect sense. I don’t think that’s madness.”
“Well, it’ll not be for me to decide. Thank God.” Vera turned back into the room. “You’ll have to let me see the patient’s notes. You do realize that. I have to know who this lunatic is. If it is a lunatic.”
For a moment Christina hesitated. Through the open window they heard footsteps on the lane as Patrick approached. He was singing to the baby. Some sort of lullaby.
“For Christ’s sake,” Vera hissed. “You of all people can’t let this go.”
“No.” Christina took a single sheet of paper from her file and left it on the table. She went out of the house to meet Patrick. When they returned the paper was back in its file and Vera was on the telephone.
The baby was fast asleep, her mouth slightly open, her head tilted back. Vera replaced the receiver.
“Will you make an arrest?” Christina asked.
“Not yet. As you said the story’s too far-fetched to accept without proof. But there’ll be no more killings either, I hope.”
She walked with them to the van. It was just starting to turn from moonlight to dawn. There was a pale grey flush on the horizon. In the distance a single blackbird began to sing.
“It was an obsession, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes.” Christina was cradling Miranda in one arm, sliding her into the baby seat without waking her. “If we’re right, that’s exactly what it was.”
Chapter Sixty-Five.
Vera’s instinct was to wait. The Black Law Fells seemed empty but they were exposed. There was no way she could drive to the site without the chance of being seen by a gamekeeper, a shepherd or a walker and the last thing she wanted was a rumour in Langholme, spreading like a moorland fire, that the police were snooping around again. It was a small place. Soon everyone would know.
She spread her Ordnance Survey map on her desk. In this way Hector and Connie had planned their raids, looking for cover, the best route to the nests of ospreys or black-necked grebes, avoiding local volunteers and wardens. Again she felt she was reliving her past.
The only way she could see of getting to Baikie’s and the mine without risk of being seen from a distance was to park up the track in the Forestry Commission plantation. Then she could walk out onto the hill by the crow trap. But that would be impossible. That was the way she expected the murderer to go.
It was Friday morning. After Christina and Patrick had left she’d slept, very deeply, for three hours then woken to the sound of the neighbouring cockerel and the first train. She’d phoned Edie, obviously wakened her.
“Can I speak to Rachael?”
“She’s not here. She was out with Neville yesterday evening and stayed the night.” There was a pause. “Look, she’s all right. She phoned to say what was happening, gave me Neville’s number. If you want I can get it for you.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got it.”
“Has anything happened?” Now Edie was sufficiently awake to start to panic.
“No.” Vera sounded reassuring, even to her own ears. “Will she be at work today?”
“No, she’s taken a day’s leave. They’re going up to Black Law.”
“Of course.” As if she’d forgotten about that. “Do you know what time they intend to set off?”
“After lunch I think. Look, do you want me to phone them? I can find out what their plans are.”
Vera considered the idea but only briefly. Better not to interfere. No one must know she was interested in Black Law today.
“No. Don’t do that. Let them have a couple of days away without thinking about the investigation. I don’t want to spoil things for them.”
So she sat in the green, cell-like office with the map spread across her desk, planning her campaign. Aware that time was passing, that if she wanted to get in before Rachael and Neville, she’d have to move quickly, that she might already be too late.
She hit some buttons on her phone and spoke to Ashworth, who had been sitting parked in his wife’s car by the side of the road since Vera had phoned him after reading Christina Flood’s file.
“Any movement?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m going to walk in, down the public footpath from Langholme like all the other ramblers. If I dress the part no one will know any difference.”
“You’ll need back up.”
“You can organize that later when we know what’s happening. I don’t want half the force on standby without cause. I’d look a right bloody prat. There’s not enough to go on.”
“Would you rather I went in?”
“Don’t be daft. You don’t know the way. I practically grew up in these hills.” She paused. “I’m going now. I’ll call at home on the way to change. I’ll park the car near the church at Langholme. That’s what all the walkers do.”