But there was no record of the demise of one Arnold Brownlaw. Nor was there any evidence he had changed his name. I checked back in the records up to the time he was released from Smethwick. Nothing. Then it occurred to me that this man must have chosen to disappear, in which case that made him not only very clever but also very wealthy. It also made him my number one suspect. It would be almost impossible to trace someone who simply didn’t exist. And no one without considerable resources could pull this off successfully. And, if he had taken the route Jim suggested, then the only way it was possible to trace him would be to go over the records of all males who had died who would today be the same age as Brownlaw, and somehow check if there was evidence that their name was currently still on the records. An almost impossible task. The question also had to be asked, though: “Why?”
Purely on a hunch I rang Smethwick Psychiatric Hospital and asked to be put through to the secure unit. I was first placed on hold, then transferred around a number of unconnected departments, and finally found myself speaking to a Dr Margaret Simpson, the senior psychiatric doctor in charge of the unit. Initially, when I informed her I was seeking information regarding one of the past patients, she was only just short of hostile and managed to avoid answering a single question. It wasn’t until I threatened to refer the matter to her seniors, and also involve the superintendent, that she softened a little and invited me to come over to the hospital.
I let Jim know that the results of my search on Arnold Brownlaw were negative, and that I was on my way to Smethwick, leaving Blake and WPC Fletcher to contact the remaining forces involved in the missing children cases. I’d had another idea on the Brownlaw problem, which I passed on to the two constables to look into when time permitted, and that was an enquiry into any bank accounts that might be held in his name.
As was normal, the weather was atrocious; it was pouring with rain and I found myself stuck in traffic on the M5. It took me the best part of an hour to reach Smethwick, frustrated and short on temper.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dr Simpson was a stern-looking woman in her late fifties. Her greying hair was tied back in a bun, as if she had made a deliberate attempt to neutralise her sex. She peered at me over thick glasses, her face expressionless, her lips pressed tightly as if they had been stitched together. She made it very clear she did not intend to be friendly. Her office and its furnishings seemed to match the woman’s personality in every way: dull curtains hanging alongside an old, worn blind; a desk that at best would be described as utility; and two matching chairs covered with a material that was so worn it was hard to identify.
“I asked you to come over, Sergeant...?”
“...Crossley.”
“Yes; quite. Sergeant Crossley. As I was saying, I asked you to come here because I wanted to avoid the embarrassment of a public inquisition into our patients’ records. But I must make it clear, we don’t reveal information, as a matter of policy, on individuals and their treatment at this hospital.”
“I understand that, Dr Simpson, but I do need to have some information on Arnold Brownlaw, the patient I mentioned on the phone. We’re talking about a potential killer here, and I must make it clear to you that we’ll obtain whatever authority is required to access the records of the patient in question.” I stood up from my dilapidated chair. “Now, if that’s all you have to say on the matter, I’ll report back to my superiors and we’ll go through the official channels. I’m only sorry you’ve wasted police time.”
She coughed nervously and held out a hand as if by way of apology. “Don’t be so hasty, young lady,” she said. “I had to say what I did for the purposes of the official record. Now, if you can give me more information on what this ex-patient is suspected of, perhaps we can make some progress.”
I could cheerfully have hit her, the patronising bitch! Instead, I forced a conciliatory smile and said, “The patient concerned was treated here some years ago after being referred from youth custody. Evidently, the hospital diagnosed him as sexually dysfunctional and he stayed here for about three years. The record I have shows his treatment consisted of a cocktail of various drugs linked to counselling. Shortly after his discharge, on or about his 21st birthday, he simply disappeared. There are no records whatsoever of his whereabouts. As no doubt you’ll have read, we’re investigating the disappearance of a number of children, young girls, some of them going back more than four years (one of them quite recently), and we have reason to believe that your ex-patient may be involved in their abduction. At the very least, we need to find him and interview him, if only to eliminate him from our enquiries. Can you understand that, Doctor?”
She pursed her lips even more tightly, then pressed her hands together as if she was giving the matter her deepest thoughts. “Yes. I can relate to that,” she conceded reluctantly. She pulled a file from the drawer of her desk. “Arnold Brownlaw, 1979 to 1982 – the patient you referred to?”
I nodded. Let her do the talking!
“Hmm. Can we speak off the record?”
Again I nodded, smiling inwardly. There was no such thing as ‘off the record’ when the police were involved.
“Well,” she continued, “it might interest you to learn, Sergeant, that I was the doctor responsible for this particular patient, and, although it was a long time ago, there are certain aspects of his behaviour I do remember very clearly.”
“What can you tell me, doctor?” I pressed.
“One thing I can you tell you, unequivocally, is that he was one mean son of a bitch! I wouldn’t have wanted him anywhere near my children. When he transferred to us from youth custody we were given no choice but to accept him. It wasn’t that we were asked to diagnose him and then give our recommendations. In fact, we all had the impression they were simply trying to dump him. So we treated him; for three years we kept him partly sedated on drugs, but even that didn’t entirely suppress his violent tendencies. He still gave us problems.”
“What kind of problems?” I asked
She studied the file for a moment. “Shortly after his arrival, in ’79, he attacked one of the junior nurses and indecently assaulted her. She was lucky we were close at hand, otherwise it could have been a lot worse. Then, a year or so later – and bear in mind by this time we had him on heavy doses of tranquillisers – he tried to rape one of the children of a ward sister; it was a little girl who was spending the day here with her mother. Again, he was stopped, but he damaged the child psychologically. And that wasn’t the end of it: there were two more attacks while he was in our care.”
“Why was he released then?” I wanted to know. “If he was so dangerous, why was he allowed back into the community?”
“Because, during the last 12 months of his incarceration (and that is what it was), he changed. He became more subdued, much more placid; he even developed a sort of charm, which he used to good effect on the senior doctors. But, in my professional view, he was just being devious; it had finally dawned on him that the only way he was ever going to get remission was by assuming a veneer of normality. And of course it worked. Finally, he managed to convince the board that he was no longer a risk to society, so he was given a clean bill of health and released under a supervision order in the care of his mother.”
“His mother? You wouldn’t have an address by any chance, would you, doctor?”
“It won’t do you any good, Sergeant. She’s dead. She was killed, by all accounts, in an accidental fall at her home, shortly after Arnold’s release. It was a tragedy, in more ways than one.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, she absolutely worshipped Arnold. At first I put it down to her being a widow; you know the sort: a lonely, middle-aged woman who was lost without the attention of her only child. For instance, she never missed a visit to the hospital, and – to tell you the truth – I came to regard it as downright unhealthy.”
“Could you elaborate on that a little?”
“She was … How shall I put it? … Too tactile. She never had her hands off him; in fact, it was becoming so obvious that I eventually had to insist that her visits were always supervised. And Arnold didn’t seem able to do anything about it.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to,” I suggested.
“It’s a point of view, I suppose. Anyway, as I said, shortly after his release she slipped one evening and fell down the stairs; broke her neck, unfortunately. And the tragic part about that was that her son inherited her not inconsiderable wealth – her late husband was a very successful industrialist. Arnold was only twenty-one, suddenly incredibly wealthy and totally unequipped to deal with it.”
I made a note to look into the circumstances of the ‘accident’, if that’s truly what it was. To my suspicious mind it was a very fortuitous coincidence. “And then he disappeared,” I added.
“So, you tell me. I do know he didn’t comply with his supervision order, but as to whether it was followed up seriously by the authorities, I wouldn’t know. That was beyond my remit.”
“I don’t know whether or not this is a fair question, doctor, but I’m going to ask it anyway. Is it your professional opinion that this man’s still capable of the crimes I outlined?”
She looked at me over the top of her glasses, as if she was trying to read my mind. “Very definitely! As I’ve already said, as his psychiatrist, in contact with him on an almost daily basis, I was in a better position than any board member to assess his mental health. And I was not deceived by his so-called metamorphosis; he was playing a game and he won.
“If you asked me to sum him up in a word, I’d say he is a psychopath. And going by the way he behaved in his first two years in Smethwick I’d have to go further and suggest that this man would enjoy killing.”
“Did you consider reporting your fears to the police?”
“I didn’t have to. A copy of the appropriate files, which gave a detailed record of his stay at Smethwick, was passed on to the authorities. That was as far as I could go.”
“I understand, doctor. And thank you for your time – you’ve been very helpful.”
“Jesus!” I thought. “She certainly doesn’t pull any punches.” But she had given me far more than I had expected; without doubt, Arnold Brownlaw fitted Paul’s profile almost to a tee. All we had to do now was find him, and that was a different matter altogether.
I said goodbye to the uncharismatic Dr Simpson, and as I walked out of the hospital door I realised I had left my brolly in the car, so, for my sins, I received another soaking.