Body Politic (23 page)

‘
Three times as common in women as men. The essential problem is a fear of something awful happening. Panic attacks occur when sufferers feel that something awful is about to happen to them—usually asphyxia, heart attack or some other means of dying. They may be aware, especially if they’re long-term sufferers, that these disasters aren’t likely to happen. But whilst they accept that intellectually, fear will override logic—hence the condition.’

‘
Could it be brought on by some disastrous occurrence in the life of the patient?’

‘
Yes. In practice, it usually is. A death of someone close, a serious accident at work or on the road, a broken love affair. These things make people subject to irrational fears. They feel that there is now no reason why one unpredictable disaster should not be followed by another one. The mind may react to such fears in a variety of ways. In the case of agoraphobics, it is a retreat into environments which are familiar. Sometimes they are all right in their own cars, as if they are travelling in a capsule which is part of their homes. In extreme cases, they feel unable to leave their houses; occasionally they even confine themselves to one or two rooms in their homes.’

‘
Is it treatable with drugs?’

The
specialist’s uncoordinated hands fluttered in front of him like escaping pigeons. ‘Drugs are certainly resorted to. Self-prescribed alcohol is one of the things doctors need to watch out for: people confining themselves to their homes have their own hideaways for bottles, and can become dependent without anyone realizing it until it’s too late. The most commonly prescribed drugs would be benzodiazepines, like diazepam—our old friend valium.’

‘
And could an effect of such drugs be a kind of heightened awareness, a sort of unnatural confidence in social exchanges?’ Lambert was thinking of the strangely brilliant Moira Yates and the way she had seemed to be positively enjoying their exchanges. Zoe Renwick had described what seemed to be a similar effect when she had spoken of her visit to the house with Keane on December 18th.

‘
Certainly. Indeed, the condition itself can sometimes lead to short-term effects like that. When panic threatens, it brings an excess of adrenaline surging into the system. That can bang about and have all kinds of effects; the commonest are dizziness and physical sickness, but a surface confidence couldn’t be ruled out as an effect. But valium could certainly lead to a brilliant but artificial performance: artificial in the sense that it is drug related. Was the subject warned in advance of these meetings?’

‘
Yes. In both cases, I think.’

‘
Then if she was anxious, she probably took medication immediately before these meetings. Even overdosed mildly, perhaps, if she perceived them as important or threatening. These things are not always predictable, of course. But what you have postulated to me so far is a classic case of agoraphobia.’

‘
One more query, then you’re rid of me. Would someone suffering from agoraphobia be able to use drugs to build up to a supreme effort to overcome the condition? For a special occasion. Let’s say to go into the town on her own after not leaving the house for months.’

‘
No. Almost certainly not, in my experience. If the drug was as effective as that, there would hardly be a problem in the first place, would there?’ The psychiatrist, who had been addressing the ceiling as an aid to thought, switched his wild eyes back to Lambert’s face disconcertingly. ‘If the agoraphobia was as intense as you describe, she wouldn’t get further than the garden gate. She’d be looking for support, for a start. And even then she wouldn’t be able to do it, unless she was so drugged as to be almost insensible.’

In
which condition, thought Lambert, Moira Yates would certainly not have been capable of the violent physical action involved in the murder of Raymond Keane.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Joe Walsh was talking to his daughter. An observer would have seen only a man in scruffy garb muttering over a headstone, but Joe knew what he was about.

‘
The police haven’t been to see me yet, but they will, Debbie. But don’t worry, they won’t be able to do anything to me. Lack of evidence, they call it. You remember that, don’t you? Lack of evidence. That’s what Keane said. Well, he’s dead now. And they won’t get me for it, because of lack of evidence.’

He
laughed a little, listened for a while to her reply, looked round the deserted cemetery, thrust his cold hands deep into the thick woollen pockets of his duffle coat. ‘I went to the inquest, you know. But don’t worry, I sat at the back. No one saw me. Murder by person or persons unknown, they said. Well, we could have told them that, couldn’t we? Raymond High-and-Mighty Keane’s going to have a burial, not a cremation. Over at the family vault, near Chipping Sodbury. Next Tuesday, it is. I might go and see him put into the earth. Finish the thing off.’

He
stood up, looked round again at the rows of stones, the mostly neglected graves. ‘Bit warmer today. No frost now. I might be able to bring you a little plant tomorrow. Brighten the place up a bit. ’Bye, Debs.’ He walked briskly away from the grave, with its fading flowers beneath the glass dome, waved cheerfully from the gate, and got into the van with the big patch of brown on the door.

He
felt better than he had for months. Hungry, even. He pulled into the car park at Sainsbury’s and walked into the brightly lit interior, cringing a little at the prospect of moving among people, though to most eyes the store was quiet with an early-afternoon hiatus. In another hour, the place would be crowded with young mothers and their clamorous children, newly released from school. But to Joe Walsh, unused for so long to any form of contact, this seemed a very public place.

He
filled his basket quickly, impulsively, snatching at whatever caught his eye on the brightly lit shelves. Cereals, tins, eggs, milk, bread, potatoes. He had no list and there was nothing systematic about his selection. He was a curious, scarecrow figure, even to the checkout girl, who had trained herself to look at purchases rather than purchasers. But he produced two new ten-pound notes to pay, which was all that really concerned her. She plucked the notes fastidiously from his dirty fingers, provided him with plastic bags as his goods accumulated beyond the till, and turned a professionally blank face to the next customer.

Joe
Walsh found he was beginning to notice things again. True, he hardly registered the streets of terraced houses and allotments between the store and his council house. But when he turned the van between the drunken gates of his council house, he saw the uneven row of sprouts in the garden at the side, the grey-green tufts of January grass on the lawn that should have been mown in the summer and autumn, the peeling light-blue paint on the front door as he inserted his key. Things to do. He had not thought of things to do for a long time now.

As
he turned his key and pushed the door open, the thought that he was going to be able to get on with his life again entered his mind for the first time. Well, soon, anyway. Once Raymond Keane, MP, had been safely committed to the ground.

*

Lambert felt very tired when he got into the house. It felt strangely empty without Christine there. He often popped in during the day, when his wife was out at the secondary school where she taught, but the place had never then seemed as deserted as it did now.

He
rang the hospital, got the news that Christine was resting comfortably, sent the message that he would be in that night. Then he checked his answerphone. There were three messages from friends of Christine, showing their concern, hoping things had gone well, promising visits when the time was appropriate. He would have to ring them back in due course. Or perhaps he would give that job to Jacqueline, when she called that evening as she had promised. Nothing more important than effective delegation, they told you at all the police management courses.

Then
came a call which cheered him up, even in his fatigue. It was the pro at the municipal golf course, grassing on Bert Hook, as he had agreed to do. ‘Your sergeant popped in here whilst you were in the hospital. Hit a basket of balls.’

‘
I thought he might. I’d let him know my clubs were in the back. He didn’t say anything when I came back, though, crafty old bugger.’

‘
And there’s more. He’s booked a lesson with me.’

If
the professional had had any scruples about informing on a detective sergeant, his reservations were surely removed by the delighted superintendent’s laughter with which this revelation was greeted.

*

DI Rushton parked the police car immediately behind the battered van in the drive of Walsh’s council house. Off the road was best, in an area like this. Though the street looked respectable enough at the moment in the twilight, there was plenty of unemployment on the estate, and the devil found work for idle young hands.

The
inspector took in the stuccoed walls with their small cracks, the rotting windows with their grubby curtains, the neglected garden, the blue front door badly in need of a coat of paint. He had visited hundreds of houses like this in his thirteen years in the police force. Too many for the dinginess of this one to depress him now; coming armed with what he knew, he scented a result here. He was surprised the super had let him do this one. But Detective Superintendent Lambert, whatever else he might be, was never predictable, as far as Chris Rushton was concerned.

He
paused for a moment by the van, looking with satisfaction at the big brown patch on the driver’s door, testing the lock on the back doors. He would like to have examined the vehicle more closely, but you never knew what eyes were watching from within houses like this. He might bring Walsh out to open it for him, in due course.

He
rapped hard on the door. It opened within two seconds. ‘Mr Joseph Walsh?’

The
narrowed brown eyes took in the tall figure in the grey suit, the old-young, arrogant face, the police car in the drive, blocking in his van, as though to imprison him. ‘Come inside.’

Rushton
followed him. He had been prepared for more resistance, had been ready to thrust his way in, to begin with a burst of aggression. It was almost a disappointment when these things were unnecessary.

There
was a scratched oak table, upright chairs covered with vinyl, a threadbare Indian carpet from which the design had all but gone, a three-piece suite whose draylon had long succumbed to grease and dirt. The television set had a film of dust over its face. The tiled fireplace within a wooden fender was occupied by a two-bar electric fire which glowed dully; the only object in the room which seemed to be polished and shining was the crucifix on the wall above it. After the cold in the hall, the room was unpleasantly hot.

‘
Sit down, won’t you?’ said Walsh, and Rushton had again the feeling that his visit was almost welcome. Perhaps the man was at the end of his tether, was waiting to confess. Confession always brought a kind of relief. That was why it was such a pillar of the faith in which Christopher Rushton had been brought

up; to which it appeared that Joseph Walsh might still be committed.

Rushton
sat in one of the armchairs. He had been in much worse places than this. His experienced eye told him this was neglect, not real squalor. Not yet, anyway. There was no smell, no expensive damage to the property. Nothing malicious. The place had just been let go. Like its occupant. ‘You live here alone, Mr Walsh?’

‘
Yes. Now I do. For the last year.’

‘
Since your daughter died.’ Rushton had done his homework, as always.

‘
Since she was killed by a drunken soldier, yes. Killed by a man who got away with murder.’

‘
Not murder, Joe. It would have been manslaughter, even if we’d been able to make it stick.’

‘
He hit her with a car when she was riding home. Debbie never had a chance. Killed her in the gutter. Never even stopped. I call that murder.’

She
had died on the way to hospital, in fact. And it seemed likely that the vehicle had stopped briefly, a hundred yards beyond the point of the impact. But there was no way Rushton was going to get involved in the detail of an old tragedy which had not even been his concern. He said, ‘I might well feel the same, in your place. Nevertheless—’

‘
Have you a daughter?’ The eyes blazed at him from beneath the lank hair; the listless figure was almost on its feet, transformed by the passion which had driven out all else for a year.

‘
I have as a matter of fact, yes, Joe.’ Rushton was relieved to be able to deflate the man. No need to tell him that she was only four, that he scarcely saw her now, since the divorce, that her absence gnawed at him as harshly as this man’s tragedy affected him, even if the loss was different.

‘
You’ll know what it feels like, if you ever lose her.’ Walsh sank sullenly back into his chair, and Rushton knew suddenly that he was right: his own loss was as nothing compared with the devastating, final severance of death.