HARGREAVE SAT IN the darkened observation room waiting for the officers to lead Donald Wingate from the chamber next door. He was unable to light his cigar until the room had been vacated, because the lit end would show through the two-way glass that stood between them.
For the past two hours they had listened to Wingate answering questions in a flat exhausted monotone. It was Boxing Day afternoon, and the third psychiatric session that week which had been attended by Hargreave. He swung the chair around to face Raymond Land, who was not looking at all pleased.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Ian, I’m a forensic doctor, not a psychiatrist. This isn’t my area. You should talk to the chaps who’ve been conducting the interviews with him.’
‘True,’ agreed Hargreave, searching his jacket for matches, ‘but you were directly advising the original officer in charge of this case, and as he was killed in the course of duty I think you’ve inherited an extra share of the involvement. Besides, if I question the interviewing doctors they’ll just give me psychiatric gobbledygook until their reports are ready, and you know that won’t be until the New Year.’ He lit the cigar and sat back, loosening the knot of his garish tie. Land looked at him doubtfully. Nevertheless, Hargreave noticed that he had made notes while observing the interview.
‘You saw his charge sheet, arrested for shooting Father Christmas, and his claims to the murders of half a dozen people. He’d have been kicked out of here if it wasn’t obvious that he’d actually used live ammunition. Now I need to know if this man has a classifiable mental disorder.’
‘That won’t be so easy to define,’ said Land. ‘There’s not much of a line between neurosis and mere unhappiness. He’s self-centred, manipulative, insensitive; classic signs of a personality problem. How was he when they picked him up?’
Hargreave checked his file. ‘Sweating, pale, fast pulse-rate. The arresting officer thought he was having a heart attack.’
‘That would merely be an advanced anxiety state, consistent with the action of firing a gun, tells you nothing. Psychopaths rarely understand the consequences of their actions. They don’t learn by experience, don’t really care what happens to them. They have no conscience. They tend to be defiant toward society, and successfully resist therapy. Shooting at Santa Claus suggests paranoia to me. He’s in the right age bracket, forty-five, and from his responses today he would seem to be sexually maladjusted. Paranoics often set off on what they see to be their mission in life by basing all their logical thinking on a single accepted false premise.’
‘In other words, Wingate could think he’s been placed on earth to remove a particular type of person who might harm him . . .’
‘Exactly. There are many types of psychosis, brought on by everything from alcohol to rogue hereditary genes, but you’ll have to consult an expert for those.’
Hargreave looked around the tiny anteroom. ‘There’s supposed to be at least one observing psychiatrist in here acting as a control, but there’s no one available. They’re all away for Christmas, probably skiing.’
‘I always prefer to work through,’ said Land. ‘The West End’s nice and quiet. I assume the tie you’re wearing was a Christmas present.’
‘From my ex-wife,’ said Hargreave. ‘That’s how much she hates me. What did you get?’
‘The hits of Andrew Lloyd-Webber, sung in Welsh.’
‘Stone me. Someone’s got it in for you too.’
They both turned back to the window, and the empty room beyond.
‘You know, listening to the inconsistencies in Wingate’s answers, it sounds to me as if someone’s spun his compass so hard he has no idea which way he’s facing. Mentally, that is.’ Hargreave lit his cigar with relish. Janice had bought him a box of them for Christmas, the one decent gift he’d received.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s scrambled up over everything in his life – except the murders. He’s got times, places, details that half the investigating officers aren’t even aware of. It’s the testimony of an eye witness, plain and simple. I’d swear he was there.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll have to accept that he did it,’ said Land, irritably wafting the smoke aside. It was common knowledge that the only factor still delaying the case was Hargreave’s reluctance to accept Wingate’s guilt.
‘Believe me, Raymond, I want to accept it.’ Hargreave knew that he had to be more circumspect in his findings than anyone realised. The Home Office had taken an unhealthy interest in proving Wingate’s guilt, partly because one of the murders had occurred within the vicinity of the royal household, but also because Wingate seemed to have obliterated his personal background so thoroughly that some form of organised terrorism was suggested.
Checking through the interview transcripts he had noted Wingate’s deep-seated belief in Satan, and his conviction that the Devil could perform his work through human channels. But he still didn’t buy it. Watching as the broad, shuffling man had been led from the room with his head bowed, hands knotted together with rubberised straps, he had been assailed with the feeling that far from seeing the Devil at work, he was merely being palmed off with one of his disciples. Before each session, he had watched their suspect sizing up his interrogators, readying his replies in measured tones. Something about the performance just didn’t ring true.
‘I’m going to draw up a new list of questions for Mr Wingate,’ he decided. ‘I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’m going to catch him out.’
It was John’s first Christmas without visits from argumentative relatives, without lounging in front of the television after too much turkey, complacent in the knowledge that his next meal was already being prepared. He and Ixora hid themselves away on the first floor of the house in Sloane Crescent, planning and speculating, looking to the future and carefully avoiding any mention of the past. They attempted to cook, with Ixora exhibiting total ignorance of typical British Christmas cuisine, and were finally forced to rely on takeouts.
John carried out some minor repairs to the roof, but the bad weather prevented him from tackling any major work. It had been mutually decided that they should not buy presents for each other. Instead they added to the nest egg, that small amount of money they had pooled in their joint account from a handful of John’s surrendered insurance policies and the sale of Ixora’s few stocks left to her by her mother.
‘There are a couple of paintings on the landing that might be valuable,’ Ixora suggested, tearing off a section of pizza and folding it into her mouth. ‘And there’s the furniture.’
‘We’re not that desperate yet,’ John replied, knowing that they soon would be. Outside, the snow that had settled on Christmas Eve had ripened to sienna-coloured slush. As it was too expensive to heat all of the rooms, they confined themselves to the bedroom and the kitchen. With so few hours of daylight, they rose late in the day, reluctant to forsake the warmth beneath the golden quilt.
On the day after Boxing Day, Ixora was called back for a second audition and John found himself seated before the telephone, wondering whether to call Helen. He couldn’t believe that they hadn’t spoken to each other over Christmas. Finally he lifted the receiver and dialled. To his surprise, the call was answered.
‘Mum’s just come back from her prayer meeting,’ said Josh. ‘Why didn’t you call us?’
‘I tried your number lots of times, Josh. I thought you must have gone away to Nan’s.’
‘Maybe there was something wrong with the phone. I tried to get Mum to call you but she wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘There was an accident here on Christmas Eve. A power line came down and some windows broke. It killed the cat and Mum’s knee got cut.’
‘That’s terrible. I can’t believe she didn’t call. Are you okay? Is everything all right now?’
‘Yeah. I spent Boxing Day over at Cesar’s house because our lounge windows were boarded up. His stepfather bought him a load of Nintendo stuff for his PC. We played Super Mario a lot. Mum’s been out with the church most of the time. Dad . . .’ Josh allowed a silence to fall between them.
‘Yes?’
Josh lowered his voice. ‘Mum’s in the next room. She’s acting really strange. Praying all the time. It’s not much like home any more.’
A sickening wave of guilt swept over him. At least they’d still be a family if he hadn’t torn them apart.
‘Josh, let me speak to her.’
‘I don’t think she wants to. She’s changed.’
‘Is she there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ask her to come to the phone.’
There was the sound of the receiver being set down. A minute later, Josh returned.
‘She won’t speak to you, Dad.’
It made no sense. Things had been improving, hadn’t they? He spoke to Josh for a while longer, but too much remained unsaid beneath their conversation. He promised to ring the boy again in a few days.
Depressed by the call, John decided to go out and buy Ixora a present. Their Christmas had been too frugal, he decided. It was time to put a little joie de vivre back in their lives. He had seen a slim silver bracelet in the window of a jeweller’s in the Fulham Road. It would be his engagement gift to her.
At Barclays Bank in Sloane Square, the cashier looked at him blankly. ‘There’s not enough money in your account to cover this withdrawal,’ she said simply, sliding the cheque back beneath the glass.
‘That’s impossible,’ he said angrily, drawing out his chequebook and checking the stubs. ‘There’s over two thousand pounds in there.’
‘The computer says not.’
‘There must be a mistake. Can’t you double check?’
‘Wait a minute.’ She pushed away from her desk and consulted the central computer. A woman in the queue behind him released a theatrical sigh. Finally the cashier returned with a slip of paper in her hand.
‘That’s your balance,’ she said, passing him the slip.
He glanced down at the amount. Five pounds. The bare minimum required to keep the account open. How could that be?
‘Can you tell me when the last withdrawal was made?’ he asked. The cashier consulted with her colleague at the next window, while the woman behind him blasted out a hiss of annoyance that was the product of a lifetime spent on the stage.
‘This morning,’ said the colleague. ‘A lady in a red dress. The co-signee on your account. Said she was going away. Can’t blame her in this weather.’
All of his old fears came flooding back. It was as if they had never been away. He ran out into the street, his soaked shoes splashing water over his trousers, muddying his coat. By the time he reached the house he was badly out of breath. The house was in darkness. She was taking his money and running out. And to think he had finally begun to believe in her!
He sat in the kitchen, his wet clothes steaming, trying to tamp the flames of his anger, trying to remain rational. The attempt failed. He ran to the bedroom, climbing on a chair to check the suitcases on top of the wardrobe. Where was the large one with the handle, the Samsonite? He couldn’t tell from looking at the endless clothes hangers whether she had packed anything or not. Where was the black outfit she said she couldn’t travel without? He pulled out drawer after drawer, his frenzy building with each new revelation of supposedly missing clothes.
She’d gone from the house, then, never to return, vanishing into the cool dark drizzle just as she had arrived, with no trace of her origin or her destination. Perhaps he could still catch her. She’d never get a taxi in this weather. How would she get to the airport?
Without realising what he was doing, he found himself outside, heading down the path, running the length of the Crescent, turning past the Royal Court Theatre. On the far side of the street he spun around, starring into the distance to watch for cabs. Nothing was stopping in the rain. No amber hire lights shone from taxi roofs. As he turned back he almost collided with her.
Ixora’s eyes were wide with surprise. He was obviously the last person she expected to see. Unable to think, unable to see through the rain and his own tears, he seized her arms and began to shake her back and forth.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
She looked guiltlessly up at him. The rain had plastered her hair to her forehead. Instead of a suitcase, she carried a plastic Sainsbury’s shopping bag.
‘What do you mean? I’ve been to the audition. I’m coming home.’ She tried to pull free, twisting from one side to the other. ‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Tell me where you’re going, damn it!’ He shook her harder. ‘Why did you steal the money?’
‘Let go before I scream!’ Her eyes widened and she pulled an arm from his grip, pushing him in the chest until he released her and stood panting in the rain.
‘I didn’t steal the money,’ she shouted at him, ‘I took it out – to pay for our wedding! It was supposed to be a surprise but you’ve ruined it!’
John was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
She furiously threw the shopping bag to one side. ‘I mean I’ve done it, I’ve arranged everything, and because some of the bills have to be paid in advance I withdrew the money to cover them. I was going to replace it before you found out . . .’
John held up his hand. He’d had enough of this. ‘You don’t have any money to replace it with, how could you . . .’ Then he saw the paleness of her bare neck. The necklace was gone, the heirloom of perfect pearls that her mother had bequeathed to her.
‘Are you happy now?’ she screamed at him, tears sheening her eyes as she thrust her hand deep into a pocket and withdrew a fistful of paper slips. ‘I pawned the necklace to cover the loan. I didn’t know how much I’d get so I took the cash out first to meet the bills. Do you want to see the receipts?’
John took a step back, aghast. ‘Oh, Ixora, I’m so sorry,’ he murmured.
‘No,’ she cried, bursting into tears. ‘I’m sorry, because you’ve ruined everything. All the hard work, all the planning, all ruined.’ With her hand over her eyes she shoved past him and ran off along the road. The shopping bag lay on the pavement, bright oranges rolling to rest in the gutter.
By the time he reached the house she had gone, and this time there were real signs that she had left – clothes tipped out, suitcases missing. The china money jar on the kitchen mantelpiece that contained their emergency funds lay shattered and empty on the floor.
The front door stood open, water pooling in the hallway. He searched the street in both directions, calling her name, slipping in the puddles, his soaked shirt stuck to his chest. There was no one on the street, not even a shadowed figure in the distance. Ixora had vanished into the darkening afternoon, and this time he knew he would not discover her so easily.
Perhaps his arid years in suburbia had blunted his ability to love and be loved. He had been given a second chance to live, and he had managed to screw it up. All that had been asked of him was to trust and love unquestioningly, to prove his faith in one woman.
He knew that if he was ever to see her again, he would never let her leave his sight, for fear of losing her completely. Reaching the gate of the house he bent double and vomited, filled with the horror of his loss, a stomach-dropping hurt that deepened with each passing moment.
Ixora had gone. She had gone, forever.