Murder on the Short List (23 page)

“You heard him. He's a softie.”

“Soft in the head. The murders seem to have been random and without motive. A sweet old couple who never caused anyone any grief. In a case like this we examine all the options, but I'd stake my reputation this was done by a nutter.”

“That's not a term I use, Inspector.”

“Call him what you like, we both know what I mean. A sane man doesn't go round cutting people's throats for no obvious reason. Nothing was taken. They had valuable antiques in the house and over two hundred pounds in cash.”

“Would that have made it more acceptable in your eyes, murder in the course of theft?”

“I'd know where he was coming from, wouldn't I?”

“What about the crime scene? Doesn't that give you any information?”

“It's a bloody mess, that's for sure. All the forensic tests are being carried out. The best hope is that the killer picked up some blood that matches the old couple's DNA. He couldn't avoid getting some on him. If we had the clothes Nathan was wearing that afternoon, we'd know for sure. He seems to have destroyed everything. He's not so daft as he makes out.”

“The suit he borrowed?”

“Went out with the rubbish collection, he says. It didn't fit, so it was useless to him, and the old man didn't want it back.”

“Makes sense.”

“Certainly does. We're assuming the killer stripped and took a shower at the house after the murders and then bundled his own clothes into a plastic sack and put on a suit from the old man's wardrobe. Very likely helped himself to some clean shoes as well.”

“I'm no forensic expert, but if he did all that, surely he must have left some DNA traces about the house?”

“We hope so. Then we'll have him, and I look forward to telling you about it.”

“What about the other suspect?”

There was a stunned silence. Morgan folded his arms and glared at me, as if I was deliberately provoking him.

“Just in case,” I said, “you may find it helpful to watch the video of an interview I did later this morning with a man called Jon.”

I
knew Jon from many hours of psychotherapy. He sat hunched, as always, hands clasped, eyes downturned, a deeply repressed, passive personality.

“Jon,” my unseen voice said, “how long have you lived in that flat at the end of Steven Street?”

He sighed. “Three years. Maybe longer.”

“That must be about right. I've been seeing you for more than two years. And you still live alone?”

A nod.

“You manage pretty well, shopping and cooking, and so on. It's an achievement just surviving in this modern world. But I expect there's some time left over. What do you enjoy doing most?”

“Don't know.”

“Watching television?”

“Not really.”

“You don't have a computer?”

He shook his head.

“Do you get out of the house, apart from shopping and coming here?”

“I suppose.”

“You go for walks?”

He frowned as if straining to hear some distant sound.

“Just to get fresh air and exercise,” I said. “You live in a nice area. The gardens are full of flowers in spring and summer. I think you do get out quite a bit.”

“If you say so.”

“Then I dare say you've met some of your neighbours, the people along Steven Street, when they're outside cleaning their cars, doing gardening or walking the dog. Did you ever speak to the old couple at number twenty-nine?”

He started swaying back and forth in the chair. “I might have.”

“They have a little toy dog, a Chihuahua. They're very attached to it, I understand.”

“Don't like them,” Jon said, still swaying.

“Why's that? Something they did?”

“Don't know.”

“I think you do. Maybe they remind you of some people you knew once.”

He was silent, but the rocking became more agitated. Momentarily his chin lifted from his chest and his face was visible. Fear was written large there.

“Could this old couple have brought to mind those foster parents you told me about in a previous session, when we discussed your childhood, the people who locked you in the cupboard under the stairs?”

He moaned a little.

“They had a small dog, didn't they?”

He covered his eyes and said, “Don't.”

“All right,” I said. “We'll talk about something else.”

“Y
ou'll get thrown out of the union, showing me that,” Morgan said. “Isn't there such a thing as patient confidentiality?”

“In the first place, I don't belong to a union,” I said, “and in the second I'm trying to act in the best interests of all concerned.”

“Thinking he could kill again, are you?”

“Who are we talking about here?” I asked.

“The second man. Jon. He seems to have a thing about old people. He's obviously very depressed.”

“That's his usual state. It doesn't make him a killer. I wanted you to look at the interview before you jump to a conclusion about Nathan, the other man.”

“Nathan isn't depressed, that's for sure.”

“Agreed. He has a more buoyant personality than Jon. Did you notice the body language? Nathan sits forward, makes eye contact, while Jon looks down all the time. You don't see much of his face.”

“That stuff about the foster parents locking him in the cupboard. Is that true?”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure of it. I'd be confident of anything Jon tells me. He doesn't give out much, but you can rely on him. With Nathan I'm never sure. He has a fertile imagination and he wants to communicate. He's trying all the time to make his experiences interesting.”

“Falling into the pond, you mean? Did you believe that?”

“It's not impossible. It would explain the change of clothes.”

“I was sure he was talking bollocks but now that you've shown me this other man I'm less confident. I'd like to question Jon myself.”

“That won't be possible,” I said.

He reddened. “It's a bit bloody late to put up the shutters. I've got my job to do and no one's going to stand in my way.”

“Before you get heavy with me, inspector, let me run a section of the second interview again. I'm going to turn off the sound and I want you to look closely at Jon. There's a moment when he sways back and the light catches his face.”

I rewound the tape and let it play again, fast forwarding until I found the piece I wanted, the moment I'd mentioned the old couple and Jon had started his swaying, a sure indicator of stress. “There.” I used the freeze-frame function.

Jon's face was not quite in focus but there was enough to make him recognizable.

“Christ Almighty,” Morgan said. “It's the same guy. It's Nathan.”

I let the discovery sink in.

“Am I right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then what the hell is going on?”

“This may be hard for you to accept. Nathan and Jon are two distinct identities contained in the same individual, a condition we know as Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder, but we've moved on in our understanding. These so-called personalities are fragments of the same identity rather than self-contained characters. Jon is the primary identity, passive and repressed. Nathan is an alter ego, extrovert, cheerful and inventive.”

“I've heard of this,” Morgan said. “It's like being possessed by different people. I saw a film once.”

“Exactly. Fertile material for Hollywood, but no entertainment at all if you happen to suffer with it. The disturbance is real and frightening. A subject can take on any number of personality states, each with its own self-image and identity. The identities act as if they have no connection with each other. My job is to deconstruct them and ultimately unite them into one individual. Jon and Nathan will become Jonathan.”

“Neat.”

“It may sound neat, but it's a long process.”

“It's neat for me,” he said. “I wasn't sure which of the two guys is the killer. Now I know there's only one of them, I've got him, whatever he calls himself.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” I said.

He shot me a foul look.

“The therapy requires me to find points of contact between the alter-personalities. When you came to me with this double murder, I could see how disturbing it would be for Jon. He carries most of the guilt. But this investigation of yours could be a helpful disturbance. It goes right back to the trauma that I think was the trigger for this condition, his ill-treatment at the hands of foster-parents who happened to own a dog they pampered and preferred to the child.”

“My heart bleeds,” Morgan said, “but I have a job to do and two people are dead.”

“So you tell me. Jon thinks he may have murdered them, but he didn't.”

“Come off it,” he said.

“Listen, please. Nathan's story was true. He really did have that experience with the balloon and the little dog and falling in the pond. For him – as the more positive of the identities – it was one more entertaining experience to relate. But for Jon, who experienced it also, it was disturbing, raising memories of the couple who fostered him and abused him. He felt quite differently, murderous even.”

“Hold on,” Morgan said. “Are you trying to tell me the murders never happened?”

“They happened in the mind of Jon and they are as real to him as if he cut those old people's throats himself. But I promise you the old couple are alive and well. I went to Steven Street at lunch time and spoke to them. They confirmed what Nathan told me.”

“I don't get this. I'm thinking You're nuts as well.”

“But it's important that you do get it,” I told him. “There's a third identity at work here. It acts as a kind of conscience, vengeful, controlling and ready to condemn. It, too, is convinced the murders took place and have to be investigated. Recognizing this is the first step towards integration. Do me a favour and have another look at Jon's face. It's still on the screen.”

He gave an impatient sigh and glanced at the image.

“Now look at this, inspector.”

I handed him a mirror.

“T
here is a window in your life. All you have to do is open it and let the sunshine in.”

Nikki listened, fascinated. She'd come here expecting a con, but the man spoke like a prophet. He had his audience enthralled. He was a brilliant speaker. Looks, perfect grooming, charisma. He had it all.

“How many times have I heard someone say, ‘You should have been here yesterday. It was glorious'?” He smiled. “A comment on our English weather, but it sums up our attitude to life. You should have been here yesterday. My friends, forget about yesterday. We are here
today.
Seize the day. Open that window and let the sunshine in.”

The applause was wild. He'd brought them to a pitch of excitement. And this wasn't evangelism. It was about being effective in business. The setting was Lucknam Park in Wiltshire, where the government held its think-tank sessions. Companies had paid big bucks to send their upcoming executives here. Lives were being changed for ever. Not least, Nikki's.

This was her window of opportunity. She'd been sent here for the weekend by the theatrical agency to help with the role play. Inspired by what she had heard, she was about to act a role of her own. She stepped to the front, scythed a path through the admirers and placed a hand over his arm. “If you don't mind, Julian, there's someone you should meet upstairs, in your suite.” To his adoring fans she said, “He'll be back, I promise.”

It worked. In the lift, he said, “Who is it?”

“Me.”

His amazing blue eyes widened. “I don't understand.”

“I've seized the day.”

The moment he laughed, she knew she'd succeeded. He was still high on the reception he'd got. When they entered the suite, she put the
do not disturb
sign over the doorknob. The sex was sensational.

T
hey had a weekend in Paris and a Concorde trip to New York. Nikki found herself moving in circles she'd never experienced before. Royal Ascot. Henley. Her drama school training came in useful.

They married in the church in rural Dorset where her parents lived. She arrived with Daddy in a pony and trap and after the reception in Dorchester's best hotel, she and Julian were driven to the airport in a stretch limo. The honeymoon was in Bermuda. Julian paid for almost everything. Daddy couldn't have managed to spend on that scale.

“It's no problem,” Julian said. “I'm ridiculously well off. Well,
we
are now.”

“You deserve to be, my darling,” Nikki said. “You've brought sunshine into so many lives.”

They bought a huge plot of land in Oxfordshire and had their house built to Julian's design. As well as the usual bedrooms and reception rooms, it had an office suite, gym, games room and two pools, indoors and out. A tennis court, stables and landscaped garden. “I don't want you ever to be bored,” Julian said. “There are times when I'll be away.”

Nikki was not bored. True, she'd given up her acting to devote more time to homemaking, but she could not have managed both. When Julian was at home, he was forever finding new windows of opportunity, days to seize. His energy never flagged. He got up at five-thirty and swam a mile before breakfast and made sure she was up by seven. Even in her drama school days she hadn't risen that early. Actors work to a different pattern.

He had each day worked out. “We'll plant the new rockery this morning and clear the leaves out of the pool. This afternoon I'll need your help fitting the curtains in the fourth bedroom. This evening the Mountnessings are coming for dinner and I want to prepare an Italian meal, so we'll need to fit in some shopping.”