As they’d left the pub to head for their cars, too drunk to drive legally, but reckless, Lawrence had said, “I mean it. Stay away from him. Look what happened to Marty Shaw. He was no friend of mine, but I’d not wish that on anyone. Mantel was behind it, you know.”
Michael hadn’t heard of Marty Shaw and had no idea what Lawrence was talking about, but he’d made enquiries, found out that he was the man who’d been washed up on the riverbank. Michael had heard about that. Some poor sod from Crill who’d walked into the river and drowned himself. It had been all they’d talked about in the Anchor the day he’d been found. He hadn’t realized at the time that there’d been a link with Mantel, or he’d have taken more notice.
It hadn’t been difficult to pick up the rumours. Michael had had friends everywhere then. He’d been sociable, famous for it. Not like now, when he hid away in his bungalow built for sad old people, drinking alone. Then there’d hardly been a pub on the peninsula where he’d not been known. Everywhere he went there’d be people he’d gone to school with, or served on the lifeboat committee with, or done a favour for. He sat now in the quiet library staring at lines of print through the microfiche machine. They told one story. The memories of those conversations of years before fleshed out the details.
Back again in time. He found the report of the inquest into Shaw’s death. Suicide. He’d left a note so the verdict was inevitable. They hadn’t said what had driven him to it. Poor stupid bastard, Michael thought now. Then he’d been less charitable. He’d always thought suicide was a coward’s way out. The report said the dead man had left behind a wife and a son. Michael couldn’t remember if he’d picked up on that at the time. It felt suddenly grubby, this digging around in the past, and he was tempted to give up. Then he looked out through the long window across the square at the men who were still trying to string up the tacky lights and thought he had nothing better to do.
He almost missed the significance of the photograph. It seemed at first like the more recent stories. Keith Mantel as local hero. This showed the opening of a sheltered housing complex for elderly people. The sort of place Michael would end up living if he didn’t take more care of himself. The picture was taken in a courtyard, paved with plants in tubs. Behind the party the brick building looked brutally new and hard-edged. In the centre the mayor, a plump middle-aged woman, held a pair of scissors to cut the ribbon strung across the front door. Beside her stood Mantel, but around them were crowded a number of councillors and their families. There must have been a free lunch, Michael thought, to have brought so many people out. He read the names idly, putting off the time when he’d have to leave the comfort of the library. Councillor Martin Shaw. James Shaw. James stood next to his father. It was obvious that they were father and son. The resemblance was striking. Marty Shaw’s face seemed familiar and Michael thought perhaps he’d seen pictures at the time of his death. Then an image flashed into his mind of the man in uniform. A pilot’s uniform. Not Marty of course. But Marty’s son.
Then the old paranoia took over and he imagined Keith Mantel and James Bennett working together, a web of conspiracy, which took in Jeanie’s suicide, his own enforced retirement from the pilot service and two murders.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The psychiatrist was a pompous bastard. As soon as she walked into his office in the big new general hospital, Vera saw this would be a waste of time. He seemed too young to be a consultant, with his dark hair and his clipped black beard which looked as if it had been painted on. There wasn’t a trace of grey. She spent a moment wondering if it had been dyed. He looked up from his desk.
“Inspector Stanhope.” He was a man who liked rank. He’d call the nurses sister or staff nurse just to put them in their place. “My secretary said it was urgent.”
“I’m leading an enquiry into the Abigail Mantel murder case.”
“Yes.”
“One of the detectives working on the investigation was a patient of yours.”
He said nothing.
“Daniel Greenwood,” she said. “Is he still your patient?”
“You know better than that, Inspector. I can’t discuss individuals.”
But he was interested, she could tell. He’d been hooked by the drama of a famous murder case, just like the people who slavered over the same story in the tabloids, then said how disgusting they found the publicity. Murder had a glamour all of its own.
“Of course not.” She settled comfortably into the leather chair. She might as well take the opportunity to take the weight off her feet. “I was after more general advice. The benefit of your expertise.”
He smiled, pulling his narrow lips back from his teeth. There was a gold crown on an upper molar. She found it hard not to stare. “Anything I can do to help the police, which doesn’t compromise me professionally, Inspector… Of course.”
“I’m interested in…” pausing, an attempt to find the right words, ‘… a person with an obsessive personality.”
“Yes?”
“I’m talking a stalker. Someone who is fascinated by a young woman. Follows her maybe…”
“Such a man could be dangerous.”
The psychiatrist smiled again. Under her polyester trousers, Vera felt her flesh crawl.
“It would be a man?” she asked suddenly.
“No, no. Not necessarily.” He stroked his beard very slowly. “There have been many recorded cases of women taking an unhealthy, delusional interest in a man. Often an ex-lover. Most commonly, they refuse to believe that a relationship is over.”
i Jeanie Long never accepted Mantel didn’t love her, Vera thought. She wasn’t mad.
“But if the object of the obsession was a young woman?” Vera said.
“Then the stalker is more likely to be a man,” the doctor conceded.
“In what way could the obsessive become dangerous?”
“His fantasy would be that the object of his desire shared his feelings. If the fantasy was shattered, he could resort to violence.” He looked at her. “We are talking still in general terms here. I must make it clear that I have no evidence of such behaviour in any of my patients.”
What does that mean? That you suspect Dan Greenwood of stalking and killing Abigail Mantel, but you have no evidence for it? Or that he wouldn’t hurt a fly?
She contained her impatience. She knew he would only enjoy it if she lost her cool. “Is there such a thing as a serial stalker?”
“In what sense?”
“Suppose the scenario you’ve described were played out. The obsessive killed the young woman and got away with it. Is it possible that he could transfer his attention to another victim?”
“Certainly it would be possible.” He paused. She suspected he enjoyed making her wait for the rest of his answer. “He could have been excited, aroused by the violence. While that might have been unintended in the first instance, it could become an integral part of the fantasy in the second.”
“So he’d dream of killing her? That would be his intention?”
“As I’ve said, it’s possible. Certainly not inevitable. As I’m sure you’re aware, very few mentally ill people, not even those who are seriously disturbed, commit acts of violence.”
“Would I know if I met him?” Vera demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“If it was someone I met in the street, or socially, or at work, would I realize he was mad?” She threw in the last word as a provocation. He didn’t rise to the bait.
“In the street, almost certainly not.”
“Would someone be able to function normally, hold down a regular job, and still behave in this way?”
He considered for a while and still couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. “I’m not a forensic psychiatrist. This isn’t really my area of competence.”
“Give me an opinion.”