Murder in the Mind Read online

  ‘Whoever bought it, Guv – they might not be all that fussed – say they’ve got it as a present – could be a son or grandson’s birthday, something like that.’

  Though DS Leyton is trying to present a sympathetic perspective, this notion only brings a look of consternation to Skelgill’s countenance.

  ‘I’d take the Commissioner over some toffee-nosed kid.’

  ‘No danger of that, though, Guv.’

  Skelgill folds his arms resignedly.

  ‘It’ll be some old buffer – that I’ll have to kowtow to for the weekend.’

  DS Leyton continues to attempt to put a positive spin on the matter.

  ‘Still – can’t do any harm, Guv – impress some geezer in high places.’

  Skelgill does not respond. His gaze has wandered to his computer screen – an alert signals an incoming message. He glowers as he scans its contents. After a minute he turns back to his colleague.

  ‘Maybe you’re right about the Chief – she’s just routed a juicy request through to me.’

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘I’ll forward it – there’s an attachment – you can print it and read it on the way down.’

  ‘Down, Guv?’

  ‘Haresfell.’

  Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to appear alarmed.

  ‘The hospital?’

  Skelgill glances up impatiently.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’s normally out of bounds for the likes of us, Guv.’

  Skelgill stares back pensively.

  ‘Manchester crew want us to interview a patient on their behalf – save them the cost of a trip.’

  ‘A patient.’ DS Leyton says this with a certain trepidation, as though the word is a euphemism for a much more sinister being. He makes an affected shudder. ‘Even seeing that place from the train gives me the creeps, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs indifferently, and rises and reaches for his jacket.

  ‘Look on the bright side, Leyton – I didn’t get much of a breakfast this morning – we have to pass Tebay.’

  DS Leyton gazes sorrowfully at his rather ample stomach, and then falls in dutifully behind his superior.

  3. HARESFELL

  With names like Ashworth, Broadmoor and Carstairs, the ABC of Britain’s high-security psychiatric hospitals evokes images of austerity, bleakness, chaos – and an uncomfortable sense that each socially impermeable unit is a macrocosm of the depraved and deranged mind, where to gain admission is to become trapped evermore in the living nightmare of stark insanity.

  Haresfell in Cumbria shares such qualities: an appellation that hints of Bedlam (albeit an authentic eponym – being built on the lower slopes of Hare’s Fell) and an outward appearance that is at once foreboding and forbidding. Not that it is easily seen – although, as DS Leyton has remarked, there is a fleeting view from the West Coast Main Line for those rail passengers who know where to look. To reach it is even more of a challenge, not least since it is unsignposted. (Unkind variations upon, “Out of sight, out of mind,” have been suggested.) Skelgill’s chosen route takes them off the M6 at Tebay village, and west on the A685 towards Kendal. After maybe five miles he hangars left onto the narrow lane of Old Scotch Road – the traditional drovers’ track from Lancaster to Scotland. Their route is now hemmed in by scudding cloud and chequered black-and-grey stone walls that separate them from rough pasture overgrown with rush and bracken. A couple of miles more finds them cutting back under the motorway and the railway, to pass through the straggling farming hamlet of Hare’s Beck Foot, and thence beneath a striking though disused red sandstone viaduct, that once carried the Ingleton Branch Line. Just beyond they come to the River Lune, marking the boundary of the Yorkshire Dales National Park – which by some peculiar administrative oversight lies partially within Cumbria. One other such topographical faux pas, however, was narrowly avoided when the correctional facility was first conceived a century ago; the powers that be were all set to christen it after its waterside location – until someone pointed out that “Lune Mental Hospital” might not have the most auspicious ring to it (although there is a double irony here, in that the etymology of the river has its roots in a Celtic word meaning clean or pure).

  Reaching this natural landmark – which flows south through the county town of Lancaster before its confluence with the Irish Sea – Skelgill promptly parks upon the bridge, effectively blocking the thoroughfare. He steps out of the car, and his sergeant follows with some reluctance.

  However, the rain has abated – temporarily, at least – and only a few light drops spot the slick surface that slides beneath them as they lean their elbows upon the parapet. While Skelgill watches the water, DS Leyton’s gaze is drawn inexorably to the eastern bank. Above a narrow strip of floodplain, on a raised terrace – half an island created by a great crook in the river – stands the hospital itself. At some distance there is a substantial collection of buildings, their roofs protruding above a grassy horizon. They are mostly of a low construction, largely modern in design, and the arrangement would present the impression of a 1980s-style university campus – if it were not for the security fence. DS Leyton’s eyes narrow: though painted green, presumably to blend as best possible with the natural environment, it sends a palpable shiver down his spine.

  On closer examination it proves to be not one but three concentric barriers spaced a few yards apart. The outer and inner of these are maybe eight feet tall – and their purpose appears to be to deter any casual approach (from within or without) to the main fence, sandwiched between them in this no-man’s land. It is colossal – as high as a house and topped with an anti-climb cage. At regular intervals galvanised pylons support floodlights and CCTV cameras. Perhaps the most disconcerting aspect, however, is that it is more or less see-through. Constructed from slender steel posts and some kind of wire mesh, it facilitates an uninterrupted view into the grounds of the hospital (and, in turn, out into the surrounding countryside).

  Beyond the perimeter the terrain rises gently. There are no trees or shrubs, just roughly mown grassland – rather like a meadow after the silage has been cut and harvested. Dotted here and there are picnic benches – it seems an extraordinary concept that these could be for the use of inmates, and that a naïve rambler passing along the Dales Way might converse through the transparent barrier with one of Britain’s most notorious serial killers (perhaps believing that the person appealing plausibly for a loan of his coil of climbing rope really is just a fellow hillwalker who has got lost taking a short cut).

  DS Leyton’s expression is one of trepidation as he takes in the scene: all in all it is a depressing sight, the fence that disappears from view, arcing over the rise, embracing the buildings north and south; a miserable backdrop of grey mist and lowering cloud that smothers the desolate hillside beyond.

  ‘Don’t much like the look of that, Guv.’

  ‘It’s all the rain, Leyton – brings down a load of peat from the fells – knackers the fishing.’

  DS Leyton glances at his superior: Skelgill is still gazing intently into the river.

  *

  ‘Better not stare, Guv – might upset someone.’

  The two officers are being led along a corridor of which the walls are largely glass, recalling an airport, where a corresponding arrangement is employed to segregate passengers ‘landside’ and ‘airside’. There, of course, the similarity ends, for those viewed through the partition, aspiring to departure, will not be taking off anywhere in a hurry. The detectives’ transit draws looks ranging from the inquisitive to the suspicious, though DS Leyton’s cautionary reaction suggests he detects an underlying hostility. Skelgill evidently harbours no such concerns, and thus his flagrant rubbernecking probably does raise some hackles.

  Indeed, as they wait to be conducted through a coded security barrier a woman, perhaps in her thirties, watches them – though her expression is impassive and reveals little of her thoughts. She is a little plump, with regular features, full lip
s, and large dark eyes. Most striking is her hair – ginger, and shorn into a tight 1970s suedehead. She faces another female – a slighter blonde with her back to them who has her hair drawn into a tight ponytail – they have drinks on a coffee table and sit upon low modern sofas, though the redhead’s pose is stiff and upright. Her unblinking scrutiny causes her companion to turn, subjecting the detectives to an icy assessment before they are shepherded into the next zone.

  Skelgill shrugs off his sergeant’s warning with a quip from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Couple of women, Leyton – what are they’re going to do, scratch our eyes out?’

  DS Leyton flinches, as though that would be a small mercy.

  ‘Looks like they might be planning it, Guv.’

  The interior of the hospital is clean and bright, with new-looking fixtures and fittings – it has the feel of a well-funded care home, and only subtle clues such as furniture bolted to the floor and framed pictures without glass that hint at precautions unobtrusively taken. They pass an inviting conservatory, afforested with tall pot plants and trailing hanging baskets and lush greenery, its centrepiece a fountain that splashes into an artificial pond; an IT laboratory has the latest screens ranged at workstations around the walls; and a library is patronised by a handful of seemingly assiduous students. There are many people moving about; staff and patients dress in their own clothes, and so the distinction is not necessarily obvious – though the former bear photographic ID badges strung on lanyards around their necks. Skelgill is surreptitiously studying that worn by their chaperone, and he nods to himself as he sees that it has a safety breakaway, and indeed is made from a papery fabric that looks like it would easily rend under strain.

  In due course they are shown into a pleasant, airy room, with comfortable seating and large original oil paintings of variable merit adorning the interior walls. A tall man in his mid-fifties rises to greet them; he wears suit trousers and polished black brogues, a matching leather belt with a shiny silver buckle, and an open-necked shirt draped with the regulation ID. He has a large nose with flared nostrils, wide-set greenish eyes beneath crescent brows, a rather broad mouth, and short black hair that has resisted the aging process.

  ‘Inspector, Sergeant – I am Dr Peter Pettigrew – the Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist responsible for the patient you are here to see on behalf of the Greater Manchester police – welcome to Haresfell.’

  His frame is a little bowed and stringy, and his manner, though business like, is certainly friendly, indeed kindly, and seems designed to create a good impression without pretence. He is well spoken, though his short Lancastrian vowels suggest a more modest provenance. They exchange handshakes, and he indicates they should be seated – but Skelgill has already drifted to the windows that line the external wall. He presses a palm against the reinforced security glass, and notes the absence of vent lights – but what wins his attention is an area of well-tended allotments immediately outside, where several men are at work with hoes, forks and shovels.

  ‘You are no doubt wondering who they are, Inspector.’

  Skelgill turns to face the doctor; they exchange rather shrewd expressions.

  ‘My cabbages are knee-deep in weeds and covered with caterpillars.’

  The man grins understandingly. ‘We have a full-time horticultural team – it can be very effective occupational therapy.’

  ‘Can anyone garden, sir?’

  ‘Sixty-two of our patients presently have grounds access of some kind – out of a total of one hundred and seventy-four. There are different levels of supervision.’

  That the doctor delivers these numbers with such precision seems to impress Skelgill. He nods appreciatively and moves back to take a seat – though as he does so it becomes apparent to both men that some thought has disturbed DS Leyton, for he stares at the ‘gardeners’ with a look of dismay fixing his features. It is reasonable to conclude that their wielding of the tools has called to mind a particularly gruesome escape involving similar implements that made national news headlines almost two decades ago.

  Dr Pettigrew evidently decides not to skirt around the matter.

  ‘Gentlemen, in line with similar institutions, we have a staff-to-patient ratio of over five to one – and as you can imagine the safety of our personnel is the number one criterion in the taking of any such decision.’

  Skelgill prefers to dwell upon the current statistic rather than the historic horror.

  ‘Five to one.’

  Dr Pettigrew, somewhat apologetically, spreads wide his palms. He has long fingers with neatly manicured nails, and skin that looks untroubled by manual work.

  ‘Since our patients cannot access services in the wider community, we have to provide them. These include many aspects of learning, sports and fitness, craft and design, art and drama, a health centre, a bank, a shop, a library, chaplaincy, dentistry, hairdressing, a dietician – and so on.’

  DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks, though he does not remark. Their host, however, remains sympathetic, and his tone is philosophical.

  ‘Such is the cost to an enlightened society of treating the mentally disabled with humanity.’

  Skelgill is regarding the doctor in a manner that suggests he has yet to make up his mind how he feels about this burden upon the taxpayer. But his next question is more pragmatic.

  ‘Dr Pettigrew – you said you are a Forensic Psych –’

  Skelgill suddenly succumbs to a cough – but if it is affected in lieu of the elusive ending, the doctor is content to fill in the gap without being patronising.

  ‘Psychiatrist – yes, that is correct, Inspector.’

  Now Skelgill nods as if the word had never escaped him.

  ‘It was the forensic aspect – what’s that about, sir?’

  Dr Pettigrew glances patiently from one detective to the other.

  ‘Forensic literally means belonging to courts of law – but of course you would know this in your profession.’ (DS Leyton nods enthusiastically, if unconvincingly; Skelgill is more circumspect.) ‘And so I am charged by the court to carry out its will: to act at the interface between law and psychiatry. In the first instance this can concern competency to stand trial, and subsequently the provision of treatment such as medications and psychotherapy. At a more practical level I oversee the clinical team that cares for each patient – it will typically comprise a ward manager and nurses, a social worker, a psychologist, a psychotherapist, an occupational therapist, and other therapists as needed.’

  DS Leyton looks increasingly bewildered as this list lengthens; Skelgill, however, is keen to get down to business.

  ‘Dr Pettigrew – your patient,’ (he leans across to glance at the papers that DS Leyton has placed on the table) ‘Meredith Bale – what sort of state is she in?’

  ‘To all intents and purposes you will find her completely normal – articulate, calm, endearing even.’ The doctor bends forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘However, the difficulty with a person who is suffering from psychosis is that they are unable to hold the same view of reality as those around them. In common with many of our patients Meredith’s primary diagnosis is one of schizophrenia. She experiences delusional beliefs and paranoia – and we suspect auditory hallucinations, although she is unwilling to be forthcoming in that respect. She insists there is nothing wrong with her.’

  Skelgill gestures to the documents. ‘You’ve had a copy of the questions they want us to ask – any problems with those, sir?’

  The doctor sits back and folds his hands on his lap. After a moment’s delay he shakes his head.

  ‘I do not think so, Inspector. Of course, it is always difficult to predict how a patient will react. Our concern is the rehabilitation pathway – but I do not anticipate anything relating to your inquiries that might disrupt our current progress.’

  ‘To be frank, sir, I’d say we’re going through the motions – but these things have to be done.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector. I shal
l call her through.’ He rises and stalks over to an intercom unit mounted beside the door. But before he presses the first button some thought must strike him, for he hesitates and inhales to speak once more. ‘And, gentlemen – please do not be disconcerted by the fact that she is Britain’s most prolific female serial murderer.’

  4. PEEL WYKE

  It is five to nine and Skelgill is ready for Dr Walker.

  He propels his boat into the narrow mouth of Peel Wyke harbour and trails his oars to avoid clashing with the walls. The craft slides smoothly beneath the great concrete lintel that carries the A66 – for motorists affording a momentary glimpse uninterrupted across Bassenthwaite Lake. The tiny inlet, large enough to moor perhaps three boats, lies in a wooded arbour at the end of an overgrown track; rarely patronised, it is an arrangement that suits Skelgill well. And still his car is the only one there.

  He steps ashore and secures the painter to a staff gauge that tells him the lake is lapping at its highest summer level for many years. He gives this fact a moment’s consideration, and then digs his mobile phone from a breast pocket of his battered Barbour. He consults the weather app; there is a small hope that the rain will ease this afternoon. He returns the handset and adjusts his hat – it has a broad floppy brim that just about keeps the drips from penetrating his upturned collar. His practical if somewhat rustic ensemble is completed by wellingtons rudely cut off at the ankles and threadbare waxed-cotton leggings, of the single-limb type held up by belt straps, rather like a cowboy’s chaps.

  He glances up as a lorry passes. The trunk road emerges only briefly from the thickly timbered western bank of the lake – perhaps a twenty-yard section that is exposed, an incongruous urban intrusion into the ancient natural environment. As each vehicle makes its unheralded and fleeting passage the sound of tyres upon the wet tarmac comes like the crashing of a wave upon a shingle beach, a sudden abbreviated crescendo, an illusion rendered authentic by the proximity of the lake. However, the Saturday morning traffic is sporadic, and mainly there is silence, the air still and resonant, and just the occasional urgent trill of a wren, or the languid lilt of an off-duty blackbird, half-hearted now that his brood has fledged and his job is done for the time being.