Theo had broken the news after I had paid over the deposit and first month’s rent in advance.
‘Give Lily Cottage as your address,’ he said, tucking the cash he’d requested into his shirt pocket. There was a plant pot outside the door planted up with a fake box shrub. It had obviously been there for years, the faded leaves strung with lacy cobwebs. He tilted the pot on its side. ‘If post comes for you, I’ll stick it under here, okay?’
It seemed odd, but I received so little post it didn’t seem to matter.
The ping of the microwave jolted me from my thoughts. I used a towel to take the fish pie across to the table. I never saw the point in emptying the food onto a plate. It was simpler, and saved on washing up, to eat straight from the container.
The book I’d been reading was on one side of the table. The bookmark I’d left to mark where I’d left off made it easier for me to flip it open one-handed, and within seconds I was lost in the grim story of the dangerous and psychopathic inmates housed in Broadmoor.
Fiction – even the more graphically violent novels – was too tame for me. It was books about serial killers and real-life murders, the more debased the better, that fascinated and enthralled me. Perhaps it said a lot about me that after an hour reading about the horrific details of some of these inmates’ crimes, my thoughts had cleared, and I knew what I needed to do next.
Carol was working straight through to Thursday, so I knew, good girl that she was, she’d go straight home after her shift with the Wallaces that evening. I checked the time on my mobile. It was too early to ring. More relaxed now that I’d decided my next step, I left the empty container and dirty fork on the table, picked up my book and crossed to the bed. Snuggled under the duvet, I was soon back in Broadmoor.
When I finished, I shut the book with a sigh. It was my dream to visit Broadmoor, to see where Peter Sutcliff had spent over thirty-two years, where Ronnie Kray died, and where Peter Bryan, who fried his friend’s brain in butter, was still incarcerated. Sadly, it didn’t look as if I was going to be able to make my dream come true – sometimes I had doubts about my sanity, but even if I did commit a seriously deranged crime, I wouldn’t get into Broadmoor. It only accepted male patients now. Such a shame, but perhaps I was better off staying free.
Climbing from the bed with the book in my hand, I went to the bookshelf and frowned. With my living space so constricted, it was necessary to be strict about what I kept. The book in my hand was a definite keeper and I made space for it on the middle shelf, the one dedicated to institutions like Broadmoor and Wakefield.
The shelf above was given completely to the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world dating back to 1247. Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam as it was commonly called, giving the English language a word that became synonymous with mayhem and madness. One of the top tourist attractions in London of the 1750s was doing a paid tour of the hospital to see the inmates who were generally chained to walls. It was a tour I’d have loved to have done. I’d bought every book I could find on the hospital.
Other shelves were given over to the notorious and infamous. A recent purchase was a book on Jeffrey Dahmer which indicated it had something new to say about the notorious serial killer. It would be my next read.
I put it on the table to start the following day, the bookmark on top carefully aligned with the edge of the cover. For the remainder of the evening, I’d watch some TV.
But first, I’d make that call to Carol.
The phone rang a few times before I heard her soft, hesitant, ‘Hello.’
Her tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly as if she was trying to decide why I was contacting her. We weren’t on ringing terms, our meetings arranged by message, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if I’d given her a reason to be suspicious. It was done, no point now in shilly-shallying. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m ringing.’ I tried to inject a note of humility into my voice. ‘I’m so sorry I was less than helpful this morning. I should have explained that I’ve been having a problem with sleeping recently and I’m so tired it’s affecting my mood.’ I pressed the mobile closer to my ear, straining to hear any reaction. When it came, a sigh that I knew meant she’d swallowed my pathetic line, I relaxed. ‘I feel so bad about it and would love to have the chance to make it up to you. So how about I take you for lunch on your next day off?’ Grovelling was a new act for me. I wondered if I’d pulled it off.
‘Lunch? That’s very kind of you, but really, it’s not necessary.’
There was little gratitude and less warmth in her voice. Either I hadn’t been very believable or more intense grovelling was in order. ‘I know how much you love your garden,’ – this was a complete shot in the dark, she had, in fact, simply mentioned having one – ‘so I was thinking of Prior Park garden centre. They do a lovely lunch and the weather being so good, we could sit outside. Go on, let me treat you to make up for my being less than helpful this morning.’
The sigh I heard this time was more reluctant acceptance than understanding. ‘I was going shopping for some pelargoniums at the weekend, so I suppose I could have a look there.’
‘Great. It’s a date. What day suits you best?’
‘Friday.’
‘Friday!’ I gushed, overcompensating for her less-than-rapturous response to getting a free lunch. ‘Brilliant, that’s perfect for me too. About twelve thirty, that suit?’
‘Yes, that’d be fine.’
‘Okay, great, I’ll see you there on Friday then.’ I hung up, tossed the mobile onto the bed and flopped down beside it. Seriously, Carol could be such hard work, and all this to satisfy my curiosity.
She wouldn’t know the secret that Mrs Wallace was hiding in that locked room; if she did, Carol wouldn’t hesitate, she’d have been on the phone as quick as you could say NMC.
But I was good at ferreting out information people didn’t realise they had, and difficult as Carol could be, as much as she continued to make me uneasy, she was no match for me.
Anyway, I was starting from a positive point; I knew Mrs Wallace was hiding a nasty little secret. I simply needed more information before deciding what I was going to do with that knowledge.
28
Two days later, I was walking along Prior Park Road towards the garden centre that had unimaginatively used the same name. It was a convenient short walk for me from Bath bus station and I arrived with time to spare. A typical modern garden centre, it had lots of indoor and outdoor plants, a well-stocked gift shop, a farm shop, a pet and aquatics section and, of course, a café. Something for everyone.
I half expected to find Carol waiting, but this time I’d beat her to the being first spot. Ignoring the plants which held little interest for me, I wandered around the gift shop. So much stuff: I wasn’t quite sure what some of it was for. The farm shop was of more interest. A loaf of artisan sourdough bread almost tempted me until I saw the price. I poked at it to see if it did anything exceptional, then laughed and moved away when I saw an assistant looking at me with raised eyebrows.
When I checked the time and saw it was twelve thirty-five, I was worried in case Carol had changed her mind. Perhaps I should have sent her a message that morning to remind her, but it was too late. I checked my mobile. There was no message from her; perhaps, unusually for someone who liked to be early, she was simply late. She was coming from Larkhall on the far side of the city, and traffic in Bath could be a nightmare.