Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

then I looked into why the investigation had stopped. The answer seemed to be, ‘We were told to.’ After that, with Lord Chiddester’s help, it wasn’t difficult to get the abstract from the sealed file.”

“I see. That makes perfect sense.” He gave a small sigh. “Be prepared. Simon is more or less coherent most of the time. He has made some progress over the years, he is…” He frowned at his desk like he felt there was something wrong with it, but he wasn’t sure what. “He is attempting to feel remorse for what he did, but he doesn’t know how to. He is a deeply troubled man, who suffered a great deal as a child.” He frowned at us. “You may ask him about one thing, and he will answer something that to you may seem completely unrelated and irrelevant, but to him it will make perfect sense. This is to be expected in schizophrenics. I don’t know if you will find what you came looking for, but I hope you do.”

“Thank you. We’ll bear it in mind, but it’s pretty much what we expected.” I hesitated a moment, then asked, “Doctor, were you his psychiatrist? Was it you who made the move to have him sectioned?”

He studied me for a moment. “Detective, I authorized this visit on the strict understanding that the secret nature of the file would be respected absolutely. Anything I tell you remains strictly between we three.”

Chiddester hadn’t told me that, but I saw no point arguing, so I said, “That is understood, Doctor.”

He nodded a few times, then seemed to examine Dehan’s face. “Yes, I was his psychiatrist. I don’t know if you realize this, but it is extremely unusual for a schizophrenic to seek the help of a professional. So when Simon came to me, I at first thought that he was simply fantasizing. He had seen the murders in the papers, or on television, and projected himself into them, to make himself feel important. But with the last murder…” He gazed away to his left, trying to remember the name.

I said, “Kathleen Dodge.”

“Kathleen, Kathleen Dodge, he told me about her before the police found the body. The whole thing was plagued with problems: confidentiality, his status—was he fit to stand trial—witnesses; I would be the only witness and my testimony might be ruled as hearsay…” He shook his head. “And then there was the issue of trust. If I reported him to the police, he would feel betrayed and the only person in the world who had access to him, me, would be lost, he would never talk to me again. It seemed to me that the most sensible thing to do was to have him quietly sectioned, a procedure I was able to make him understand was for his own good.”

He made to stand and said, “Why don’t I take you to him? I assure you he is medicated and he is not dangerous. Talk to him for a while, see what you get, and then come and see me again.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s good. Thank you.”

And we rose and went to see Simon Clarence.

FOURTEEN

He was sitting at a table on a stone terrace at the back of the house. A broad lawn swept away toward hedgerows, about a quarter of a mile away, and people, some of them in brilliant white coats and dresses, wandered this way and that, or just sat and stared.

Simon Clarence was dressed in white: white deck shoes, white pants and a white shirt. He looked up at us as we came out. He was thin, with immensely long limbs, and seated in the chair, he reminded me of a bent wire hanger. I figured he must be at least six foot six, with a large, bony face, high cheekbones and a strong nose. He could have been good-looking, but there was something unsettling about his stare, like his eyes were searching for something, and didn’t care what they had to do to find it.

Fenshaw pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Then he smiled at us and said, “Sit, sit. This is Simon. Simon, these are some friends of mine who have come to visit you. They have some questions they would like to ask you. I told them you’d be happy to help them. Remember we talked about how good it is to help people?”

He nodded. After what Bernie had told me, I had expected a dull, simple voice. The voice of a stereotypic inbred. Instead, when he spoke, his voice was clear and articulate.

“Yes, I remember that. I’ll try to be helpful, Doctor.”

Fenshaw patted him on the arm. “Good man. Give me a shout if you need anything.”

He got up and left. Simon watched him go and then looked at us in turn with oddly incurious eyes. His voice had a hint of an American accent, but not much.

“Are you cops? You look like cops from the U.S.A.”

Dehan answered, “Yup. We came over from New York, but it’s the sheriff of Washington County who asked us to come and see you.”

“I don’t really understand why they’re mad at me. For leaving. They didn’t like me there.”

Dehan frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“Samuel.”

“Samuel?”

“Samuel makes me think that.”

“Who is Samuel?”

“Samuel is dead. He was married to my mother. She said he was my daddy. But I’m not sure. He might have been. Sometime he is. But toward the end, he wasn’t.” He frowned. “I’m still trying to sort that one out. Dr. Fenshaw is helping me on that one.”

I said, “What about the girls?”

He took a deep breath and shifted in his chair. “I am really trying to be cooperative with Dr. Fenshaw on that one, too. But, thing is, I don’t know if anybody understands me, that there weren’t no girls.” He