Twisted (53 page)

‘He was very confident about the divorce, and that he would benefit from it financially, and he wanted Amy to stay with him permanently and not just every other weekend. I was certain Amy wanted to live with him – she never said anything to me about her mother.’

Even though he was beginning to discover more and more about Lena Fulford’s behaviour, Reid was only too aware he as yet had no evidence that she was the author of the journal, or that she had administered poison to the victims. He had no choice but to continue his round of interviews.

He returned to the Harley Street clinic used by Professor Elliot Cornwall. This time he was met at the reception desk by a smiling young woman wearing a short white medical coat and rimless glasses. She stood up to shake his hand.

‘You must be Detective Reid. I am Professor Cornwall’s new assistant and I have to make his apology to you. He has inadvertently been called away on an urgent matter, and asked if you would be able to rearrange the appointment for next week as he is only here three days a week.’

Disappointed, Reid asked if she could contact him and explain that it was very important he see him as soon as possible. She hesitated and checked her watch but then after asking him to wait she went into a room off the reception area. After five minutes she returned and sat at her desk, drew a notepad towards her and wrote down an address and phone number.

‘This is Professor Cornwall’s private address in Chelsea. If it is urgent he could see you later this evening, at eight thirty.’

A meal in the station’s canteen killed some of the waiting time and with still an hour to go before going to Chelsea Reid was just heading into his office when the phone rang.

‘Hi Victor, it’s Andy Morgan from the National Crime Agency. I’ve got some info for you and believe me, it took a bit of digging so the beers are on you next time we meet up.’

‘What you got, Andy?’ Reid asked anxiously.

‘At first I hit a dead end with Miss Polka travelling to Europe, but then I spoke with the UK Border Force who in turn liaised with the FBI. They were able to track Miss Polka from the UK to Florida, and then onto an artists’ group expedition to Peru.’

‘Peru?’ Reid exclaimed.

‘Yeah, she returned and took an internal flight to Texas, and as yet I’ve no further details, but if you want to let me keep going I might get further results. There’s always the problem that she could have hired or bought a car.’

‘Do you know if she was travelling alone?’

‘I can back-track and see who sat beside her on the flights. It will take time, Vic, and the beers are now looking more like a crate of champagne.’

‘Thanks but leave it for now, Andy, and I really appreciate what you’ve done.’

Reid hung up, in some relief that Miss Polka was obviously alive. Thinking about it, as he knew she was a keen artist, her travels made sense.

Parking in the street some way along from where Professor Cornwall lived, he walked back to the elegant property, observing that the professor obviously earned a hell of a lot more than he did. The black and white stone step was immaculate, and the freshly painted front door in a dark shade of maroon had an inlaid frosted-glass window.

The bell rang and as he waited he saw a shadow across the glass, before a very attractive young girl opened the door. She smiled and invited him in, took his coat and folded it over her arm, leading him along a thickly carpeted corridor.

‘My father will be with you shortly. Please sit down, and if you would like a tea or coffee please help yourself as there are flasks on a trolley.’

‘Thank you.’

She gave another polite smile and closed the door behind him. The room was sparsely furnished with wall-to-wall bookcases, a comfortable sofa and a big wingback chair in front of a large decorative fireplace. There were good Persian rugs scattered over the polished pine floor, and numerous watercolours in gilt frames on the walls. There was a low coffee table with
Country Life
magazines lined up alongside copies of the
New Statesman
and
Private Eye
. Although the room appeared to be comfortable there was a rather austere atmosphere and Reid wondered if this was where his private patients waited for their appointments.

He sat in the centre of the sofa, and it was at least ten minutes before Professor Cornwall entered. He was dressed in a dark jacket with pinstripe trousers but had loosened his shirt collar and wore no tie. He was also wearing carpet slippers.

‘Detective Reid, nice to see you again. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope my daughter offered you tea or coffee?’

‘Yes thank you, but I’m fine.’

‘Probably a good thing as I think the flasks were made up a few hours ago. Perhaps a glass of whisky would be preferable?’

‘Yes, it would thank you.’

Reid watched as Professor Cornwall went to a bookshelf, which swung open to reveal a drinks cabinet. He poured two cut glasses of malt, turned to ask if he wanted water, but Reid smiled and, noticing the bottle, said he would take it neat.

‘Good thinking, it’s very mature and watering it down ruins the liquid gold.’

Cornwall sat in the wingback chair, placing his own glass on a small coffee table beside it.

‘Right, this had better be good, I have had one hell of day with back-to-back appointments, but now I am all ears.’

Reid opened his briefcase and removed the journal in its plastic evidence bag.

‘I sincerely hope I am not wasting your time, but I need to discuss with you my feelings about the contents of Amy Fulford’s journal,’ he began.

‘I have read it, and I can’t see how I can add anything now as your investigation is over and done with – that’s why I never did a full report. I was quite shocked when your DCI Jackson told me the father had murdered the daughter.’

‘I just need to ask your opinion as I have concerns that the case might not have unfolded exactly as you just described it. I am also concerned about who may have written the journal.’

‘Concerned?’ snorted the professor. ‘My diagnosis is, I believe, correct and a clear indication of someone suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. As you were made aware when we last met, the journal is written by someone who has multiple identities, with each one having a separate set of behaviours and memories. I referred to them as alters, if you recall.’

Reid found him a trifle overbearing, as if he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, but he knew he had to tread carefully and not insult him.

‘You were told that this journal was written by Amy Fulford.’

‘Yes, by you as I recall, Inspector.’

‘She is or was the fifteen-year-old daughter of Lena and Marcus Fulford.’

‘Sadly I am also aware of the outcome and that her father was arrested and about to be charged with her murder when he fell ill and died.’

‘Yes, and unfortunately we have not as yet recovered her body, so although the investigation will continue, to hopefully bring closure, we have found no trace of her.’

‘Yes, yes, I am aware of that, but I am trying to understand what you are here for and want from me.’

‘What if I said that the journal was not written by Amy Fulford?’

‘Pardon?’ The temperature in the room seemed to drop in an instant.

‘I know you were told that it belonged to Amy, but I need to discuss the possibility that it was actually written by her mother.’

‘Her mother?’

Nervously Reid sipped the whisky and coughed before he continued.

‘Amy was highly intelligent, in fact exceptionally so. This would mean that it was perfectly credible that she’d written it, even more so if you were informed that it belonged to her.’

Cornwall stared at Reid, which made him feel even more nervous, and he stuttered slightly as he continued to explain. He mentioned that Lena was diagnosed with bipolar disorder by Miss Jordan, which got a dismissive wave of the hand.

‘Lena Fulford was abused by her father as a child for many years,’ he went on. ‘She was academically brilliant with a first-class Biological Sciences degree from Oxford, and she got a scholarship to Harvard, but due to a nervous breakdown she had to return to England with her father.’ Reid had the unsettling sensation that the Persian rug was being tugged from beneath his feet as Cornwall continued to stare at him.

Cornwall drained his glass and got up to replenish it, without offering his guest a refill. Whether or not he was taking on board everything he was being told was hard to tell, as he showed no reaction.

‘There is also something that we have contained throughout the investigation as we did not want to cause unnecessary panic.’

‘Just a minute, please.’ Cornwall held up his hand. ‘I need to digest what you have been telling me about Mrs Fulford as it seems to me that you are accusing me of making the wrong diagnosis regarding Amy.’

‘No, sir, I am merely asking you to consider an alternative proposition about the author of the journal. I admit to possibly misleading you into believing that the journal was written by Amy, but it was not intentional, and I also think your diagnosis is correct . . .’

‘For Mrs Fulford, who, if I understand you, is the person you believe has DID.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Even if that is the case, from what DCI Jackson told me all the evidence points to Marcus Fulford abusing and murdering his daughter. So you see the journal may actually be immaterial, even if it was written by Mrs Fulford.’

Reid disagreed. ‘If you look at it all logically there is not a shred of hard evidence, yet it has been accepted that Marcus Fulford murdered his daughter on the afternoon she went missing.’

He was eager for Cornwall to interject, to ask questions, but instead he remained silent, sipping his drink. Reid was starting to sweat under his unflinching gaze.

‘My concerns are that IF it was never Amy’s intention to use the poison, but was instead her mother’s, then far from it being immaterial we have people still at risk, the ones named in the journal as enemies.’

At last Cornwall reacted, raising his index finger and pausing before he spoke.

‘Let me get this right. You originally came to me on the suggestion of Marjory Jordan, correct?’

‘Yes, sir. She read the journal and directed me to you because she didn’t want to break the rules of confidentiality in respect of her patient Mrs Fulford. She’d seen you talk at a conference and said you were one of the most esteemed and experienced men in the field of forensic psychiatry.’

‘But she never at any point implied that the journal was written by Mrs Fulford and not her daughter.’

‘No.’

‘Bloody woman, these amateurs make more trouble for our profession as they rarely if ever know what they are treating, and she should have at least wondered if her own patient was possibly the writer – it beggars belief.’

‘Personally I think she saw Lena Fulford as nothing more than a good money-earner,’ Reid remarked. ‘She said she’d give us free help and advice, but then hit us with a bill for three thousand pounds for treating Mrs Fulford during the investigation. DCI Jackson refused to pay it and she is threatening to take us to the small claims court.’ He wanted to up the ante as at last he was now getting a reaction from Cornwall.

‘Right, let me have the journal.’

Cornwall put out his hand and Reid passed it to him. The professor leaned back, holding it in his hand, as if weighing up the amount of work it would now require.

‘This could be a very long night, Detective Reid. I will go through it page by page and ask you relevant questions. I think we need a fresh pot of coffee and no more of my precious malt.’

Chapter 39

C
ornwall was almost obsessively diligent as he carefully read and re-read each section of the journal. As none of the entries was dated, it was difficult to calculate how much time had actually elapsed between each of them. The handwriting changed so often that Cornwall began to catalogue exactly how many different identities he believed were present. At one point his daughter brought in fresh coffee and sandwiches. Reid felt his eyelids drooping at around eleven o’clock, but it was not until two a.m. that Cornwall gave a long sigh, fetched a malt whisky and downed it quickly.

‘Right, you are obviously aware of my original diagnosis, but on a more in-depth read there are at least ten different identities. I have given each of them a number, and it seems to me the most dominant and controlling one is number three. She, or he, is also the most dangerous and likely to be the one who would cause physical harm.’

Reid, fighting the urge to doze off, asked why he said ‘he’, and Cornwall explained that an alter could actually be male or female, irrespective of the sex of the person suffering DID.

‘Alter three takes over at any given opportunity, but predominantly when the other alters find themselves upset or stressed – basically whenever there is any emotional fear, it will be number three who switches in and takes control. You may recall at our last meeting I spoke about identities “switching” at any moment in time. Alter three is the dominant one, with hatred and a desire for revenge towards anyone whom the actual DID sufferer cannot cope or deal with. The different identities are also of various ages: one is a small child, another perhaps ten or twelve, and then there is the predominantly evil and obsessive “three” who is anywhere between twenty-five and forty and, I would say, female. Her writing is often of a mature style, as against some pages, which are printed, not in joined-up writing. Sometimes the handwriting is so heavy the pen almost cuts through the paper, but . . .’ He closed his eyes.

Reid thought he’d fallen asleep, but after a long pause Cornwall continued, stressing that although there were very derogatory passages referring to Lena, she would not be aware of who she was, or that she was writing about herself.

‘It is also feasible that at times Amy, or someone very similar, was an alter within Lena Fulford.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Reid asked.

‘Some of the contents, but predominantly the fact that the front of the journal has “Amy” inscribed on it, which makes me wonder if one of the alters actually bought it and had it personally embossed.’