The Private Patient (33 page)

6

Both Kate and Benton had been on duty for over fourteen hours, and when the body had finally been removed, Dalgliesh had ordered them to rest for two hours, eat an early supper and join him in the Old Police Cottage at eight o'clock. Neither spent those two hours in sleep. In his darkening room, the window open to the fading light, Benton lay rigidly, as if nerves and muscles were tensed, ready at any moment to spring into action. The hours since the moment when, answering Dalgliesh's call, they had first glimpsed the fire and heard Sharon's screams seemed an eternity in which the longueurs of waiting for the pathologist, the photographer, the mortuary van were interposed with moments so vividly recalled that he felt they were being clicked onto his brain like slides on a screen: the gentleness of Chandler-Powell and Sister Holland, half carrying Sharon over the stone wall and supporting her down the lime avenue; Marcus standing alone on the slab of black shale, looking out over the grey pulsating sea; the photographer carefully mincing his way round the body to avoid the blood; the crack of the finger joints as Dr. Glenister broke them one by one and forced the tape from Candace's grip. He lay there, unaware of tiredness but feeling still the pain of his bruised upper arm and shoulder from that final lunge at the chapel door.

He and Dalgliesh together had strained their shoulders against the oak but the bolt hadn't yielded. Dalgliesh had said, “We're getting in each other's way. Take a run at it, Benton.”

He had taken his time over it, choosing a line which would avoid the blood, walking back some fifteen yards. The first assault had shaken the door. At the third attempt, it had burst open against the body. Then he had stood back while Dalgliesh and Kate entered first.

She had been lying, curled like a sleeping child, the knife beside her right hand. There was only one cut in her wrist but it was deep, gaping like an open mouth. Grasped in her left hand was a cassette.

The image was shattered by the clatter of his alarm and Kate's loud knock on the door. He sprang into action. Within minutes both of them were dressed and downstairs. Mrs. Shepherd placed sizzling pork sausages, baked beans and mashed potato on the table and distanced herself in the kitchen. It wasn't a meal she usually served, but she seemed to know that what they craved was hot comfort food. They were surprised to find themselves so hungry and ate avidly, mostly in silence, then set out together for the Old Police Cottage.

Passing the Manor, Benton saw that the security team's caravan and cars were no longer parked outside. The windows blazed with light as if for a celebration. It was not a word any of the household would have used but Benton knew that a great weight had been lifted from all of them, a final loosening of fear, suspicion and the deepening anxiety that the truth might never be known. The arrest of one of them would have been preferable to that, but an arrest would have meant prolonging the suspense, the prospect of a national trial, the public show of the witness box, the damaging publicity. A confession followed by suicide was the rational and—they would be able to tell themselves—the most merciful solution for Candace. It was not a thought they would voice, but Benton, when he returned to the Manor with Marcus, had seen it in their faces. Now they would be able to wake in the morning without the descending cloud of fear of what that day might bring, could sleep behind unlocked bedroom doors, need not measure their words. Tomorrow or the day after, they would see the end of the police presence. They would know that Dalgliesh and his team would have to return to Dorset for the inquest, but that there was nothing left for the team to do now at the Manor. They would not be missed.

Three copies of the suicide tape had been made and authenticated and the original was in the custody of the Dorset police to be submitted as an exhibit at the inquest. Now they would listen again as a team.

It was apparent to Kate that Dalgliesh had not slept. The fire had been stacked with logs, the flames leaping, and as usual there was a smell of burning wood and freshly made coffee, but no wine. They sat at the table and he placed the tape in the machine and turned it on. Candace Westhall's voice was expected, but it was so clear and confident that for a moment Kate could believe she was in the room with them.

“I am speaking to Commander Adam Dalgliesh in the knowledge that this tape will be passed on to the coroner and anyone else with a legitimate interest in the truth. What I am speaking now is the truth, and I don't think it will come as a surprise to you. I have known for over twenty-four hours that you were going to arrest me. My plan to burn Sharon at the witch's stone was my last, desperate attempt to save myself from a trial and life sentence, and all that would involve for those I care about. And if I had been able to kill Sharon I would have been safe, even if you had suspected the truth. Her burning would have looked like the suicide of a neurotic and obsessed murderer, a suicide which I hadn't arrived in time to prevent. And how could you have charged me with Gradwyn's murder with any hope of a conviction while Sharon, with her history, was among the suspects?

“Oh yes, I knew. I was there when she was interviewed for a job at the Manor. Flavia Holland was with me, but she early saw that Sharon wouldn't be suitable for any work with the patients, and left me to decide whether there was a place for her with the domestic staff. And we were desperately short at the time. We needed her. Of course I was curious. A twenty-five-year-old woman with no husband, no lover, no family, apparently no history, no ambition to be more than the lowest in the domestic pecking order? There had to be some explanation. That mixture of irritating desire to please interposed with a silent withdrawal, a sense that she was at home in an institution, that she had been used to being watched, that she was in some way under surveillance. There was only one crime for which all this was appropriate. In the end, I knew because she told me.

“And there was another reason why she had to die. She saw me as I was leaving the Manor after I had killed Rhoda Gradwyn. And now she, who had always had a secret to keep, knew another's secret. I could sense her triumph, her satisfaction. And she told me what she planned to do at the stones, her final tribute to Mary Keyte, a memorial and a farewell. Why wouldn't she tell me? We had both killed, bound together by that terrible iconoclastic crime. And then in the end, after I had wound the rope round her neck and poured paraffin over her, I couldn't strike the match. I realised in that moment what I had become.

“There's little to tell you about the death of Rhoda Gradwyn. The simple explanation is that I killed her to avenge the death of a dear friend, Annabel Skelton, but simple explanations never tell the whole truth. Did I go to her room that night with the intention of killing her? I had, after all, done all I could to dissuade Chandler-Powell from admitting her to the Manor. Afterwards I thought not, that I meant only to terrify her, to tell her the truth about herself, to let her know that she had destroyed a young life and a great talent, and that if Annabel plagiarised about four pages of dialogue and description, the rest of the novel was uniquely and beautifully hers. And when I lifted my hand from her neck and knew that there would be no communication between us ever again, I felt a release, a liberation which was as much physical as mental. It seemed by this one act I had washed away all the guilt, frustration and regret of the past years. In one exhilarating moment it had all passed away. And I still feel some remnant of that release.

“I believe now that I went to her bedroom knowing that I meant to kill. Why else would I have worn those surgical gloves, which I later cut up in the bathroom of one of the empty suites? It was in that suite that I had hidden myself, leaving the Manor by the front door as usual, re-entering later at the back door with my key before Chandler-Powell locked up for the night, and taking the lift up to the patients' floor. There was no real risk of discovery. Who would think of searching a vacant room for an intruder? Afterwards I went down by the lift expecting to have to unbolt the door, but the door wasn't bolted. Sharon had left before me.

“What I said after the death of Robin Boyton was essentially true. He had devised this extraordinary idea that we had concealed my father's time of death by freezing his body. I doubt that this was his idea. This, too, came from Rhoda Gradwyn and they planned to pursue it together. That's why, after more than thirty years, she decided to have the scar removed and chose to have the operation here. That's why Robin was here both on her first visit and when she came for the operation. The plan was, of course, ridiculous, but there were facts which might make it believable. That's why I went to Toronto to see Grace Holmes, who was with my father when he died. And I had a second reason for the visit: to pay her a lump sum in lieu of the pension I felt she deserved. I didn't tell my brother what Gradwyn and Robin were planning. I had sufficient evidence to charge them both with blackmail, if that's what they intended. But I decided to play along until Robin was thoroughly implicated and then enjoy the pleasure of disabusing him and taking my revenge.

“I asked him to meet me in the old pantry. The lid of the freezer was shut. I asked what sort of arrangement he proposed, and he said that he had a moral right to a third of the estate. If that were paid over, there would be no future demand. I pointed out that he could hardly divulge that I'd falsified the date of death without himself being accused of blackmail. He admitted that we were in each other's power. I offered one-quarter of the estate, with five thousand as a start. I said it was in cash in the freezer. I needed his fingerprints on the lid, and I knew that he was too greedy to resist. He might have doubted but he had to look. We moved over to the freezer, and when he lifted the lid I suddenly grasped him by the legs and toppled him in. I'm a swimmer, with strong shoulders and arms, and he wasn't a heavy man. I closed the lid and fastened the clasp. I felt an extraordinary exhaustion and was breathing hard, but I couldn't have been tired. It was as easy as toppling a child. I could hear the sounds from inside the freezer, shouts, banging, muffled pleading. I stood there for a few minutes leaning on the freezer, listening to his cries. Then I went next door and made a pot of tea. The sounds grew fainter, and when they stopped I went into the pantry to let him out. He was dead. I meant only to terrify him, but I think now, trying to be totally honest—and which of us can ever be that?—that I was glad to find that he was dead.

“I can't feel sorry for either of my victims. Rhoda Gradwyn subverted a genuine talent and caused hurt and distress to vulnerable people, and Robin Boyton was a gadfly, an insignificant, mildly amusing nonentity. I doubt whether either of them will be mourned or missed.

“That's all I have to say, except to make it plain that at all times I worked entirely alone. I told no one, consulted no one, asked for no one's help, involved no one else either in the acts or in my subsequent lies. I shall die with no regrets and with no fear. I shall leave this tape where I can be confident that it will be found. Sharon will tell her story and you already suspected the truth. I hope that all goes well with her. For myself, I have no hope and no fear.”

Dalgliesh clicked off the tape player. The three of them leaned back, and Kate found that she was breathing deeply, as if recovering from some ordeal. Then, without speaking, Dalgliesh brought the cafetière to the table and, taking it, Benton filled the three cups and pushed forward the milk and sugar.

Dalgliesh said, “Given what Jeremy Coxon told me last night, how much of that confession do we believe?”

After a moment's thought it was Kate who answered. “We know she killed Miss Gradwyn; one fact alone proves that. No one at the Manor was told that we had evidence that the latex gloves were cut up and flushed down the lavatory. And that death wasn't manslaughter. You don't go to the victim wearing gloves if your object is only to frighten. Then there's the attack on Sharon. That wasn't faked. She was intending to kill.”

Dalgliesh said, “Was she? I wonder. She killed both Rhoda Gradwyn and Robin Boyton and she has given us her motive. The question is whether the coroner and the jury, if he chooses to sit with one, will believe it.”

Benton spoke. “Does the motive matter now, sir? I mean, it would if the case came to court. Juries want a motive and so do we. But you've always said that physical evidence—hard facts not motive—prove the case. Motives will always remain mysterious. We can't see into another's mind. Candace Westhall has given us hers. It may seem inadequate, but a motive for murder always is. I don't see how we can rebut what she says.”

“I'm not proposing to, Benton, at least not officially. She has made what is essentially a deathbed confession, credible, supported by evidence. My difficulty is in believing it. The case hasn't exactly been a triumph for us. It's over now, or will be after the inquest. There are a number of odd things that come to mind about her account of Boyton's death. Let's take that part of the tape first.”

Benton couldn't resist the temptation to break in. “Why did she need to tell it all again? We already had her statement about Boyton's suspicions and her decision to string him along.”

Kate said, “It's as if she needed to record it on the tape. And she spends more time on describing how Boyton died than she does on Rhoda Gradwyn's murder. Is she trying to divert attention from something far more damaging than Boyton's ridiculous suspicion about the freezer?”

Dalgliesh said, “I think she is. She was determined that no one should suspect forgery. That's why it was vital for her that the tape should be found. To leave it in the car or on a heap of clothes on the beach would have risked its loss. So she dies with it clamped in her hand.”

Benton looked at Dalgliesh. “Are you going to challenge this tape, sir?”

“To what point, Benton? We may have our suspicions, our own theories about motive, and they may be rational, but it's all circumstantial evidence and none of it can be proved. You can't interrogate or charge the dead. Perhaps it's arrogant, this need to know the truth.”