Ann Cleeves - The Crow Trap

“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to give me a list of the patients who attended the same group as Bella and Edmund? I can see if there’s a name I recognize.”

Christina paused again, chose her words carefully. “It might be simpler but I don’t think you’d find it useful.”

“You’re saying there’s something relevant in these notebooks?”

“I think you should read them.”

So Vera read. Bella and Edmund were founder members of the first group. Christina had taken detailed notes of each session. Bella was referred to by first name and Edmund by initials. In the beginning it was clear that Christina was frustrated by the way the group was operating. She even considered packing the whole thing in. A male patient was dominating every discussion. He talked constantly about his destructive relationship with his mother. She’d overprotected him and became ill every time he wanted to leave her. The other patients were too polite or too apathetic to shut him up. Vera was surprised no one had thumped him.

Only in the third meeting was some progress made and then it was Edmund who had interrupted. Christina had written down his exact words.

“For Christ’s sake, do you think you’re the only person to have had a shitty childhood? Haven’t you ever read Larkin?”

And he had gone on to talk angrily about his life at Holme Park, about the mother who was always too wrapped up in her social life and her elder son to give time to him, the succession of incompetent nannies, the restrictions and the boredom. “There was only one person who cared for me and the rest of them treated her like shite. Just because she couldn’t read or write very well.”

Nancy Deakin, Vera thought. And she cared for him until the end.

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.”

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.”