Bay House that's a psychiatric hospital on the edge of town. We've sent someone there to find out if he has a doctor or anyone who can come and talk to him.'
'Do you mind if I ring him?' I asked.
'Be my guest.' He dictated the number and in a few seconds I was listening to the ringing tone, but he didn't answer.
I turned to Nigel. 'Fancy a burger?'
'We passed a place down the road,' he replied.
'Mind if we leave you at it?' I asked the local man. 'You know where we'll be.'
We lingered over the burgers. I rang Annabelle to tell her where I was in case I was delayed, although I was determined not to be, but she wasn't answering, either. We had a couple of hours at the scene of the siege and briefly saw Rodney at a window, brandishing his weapon, whatever it was. A superintendent took charge of proceedings and used a loud-hailer to no avail. I tried on the mobile again, with similar lack of success. Rodney was deaf to our efforts. Unsmiling policemen from the tactical firearms unit, in baseball caps with cheque red bands around them, took up positions in gardens and windows. They brandished their Heckler and Koch MP5s as if they were the latest fashion accessories. We had another cup pa at the burger house, which was rapidly becoming the siege canteen, and went for a last look at Rodney's neat little bungalow, with its pocket handkerchief lawn and plastic window boxes.
'Ah, there you are,' the superintendent said, when he saw us. 'This is Dr… he stumbled over a name with too many syllables it sounded like 'ram in a woolly jumper' to me, '… who is Allen's pychiatrist at North Bay House.'
I shook hands with a plump grey-haired lady who wore a fur coat over pantaloons. 'How do you do, Doctor,' I said, wondering if the fur was fake, deciding it wasn't. We sat in her car and I told her what I understood about the post mortem on Rodney's mother, about the malpractice charges and Dr. Jordan's subsequent murder.
When I'd finished Nigel asked: 'What exactly are Rodney's problems, Doctor?'
She chose her words carefully. 'Exactly is not an expression we recognise in psychiatry,' she replied. 'Rodney came to us for the first time after the death of his mother. He had a morbid fascination for her, possibly brought on by dwelling on the details of the post mortem. He suffers from anxiety, panic attacks and depression. There may be incipient schizophrenia. He has not been sectioned and we do not regard him as violent in any way. He comes to us on a voluntary basis, usually as an out-patient, at the recommendation of his GP. Most of the time he gets by in the community, which is as much as we can hope for, these days. We take him in if we can, when things are getting too much, but generally speaking we don't have room for him and he is quite capable of existing by his own resources.'
'Would you say he was capable of shooting the doctor?' I asked. No point in beating about the cabbage patch.
'No more than you or I, Inspector,' she replied, which wasn't very helpful but made a lot of sense.
Nigel said: 'Has he sufficient nous to travel to Heckley by public transport?'
'Oh, yes. He has certain difficulties, what you might call being slow, but can function normally in society. He's sick, not stupid.'
She started her car engine and set the blower on maximum to clear the condensation. The lenses in her spectacles were thick enough to start a forest fire on an overcast day. It was dark outside, and flakes of sleet slid down the windows. A floodlight illuminated the outside of the bungalow.
'When did you last see Rodney?' I asked.
'New Year's Day,' she replied, without hesitation.
'You were open New Year's day?' I queried.
'We're not a corner shop, Inspector,' she admonished. 'We are there for the benefit of our patients. Holiday times can be particularly stressful for them.'
'And the rest of us,' I sighed.
'Actually,' she said, 'we do not have out-patients at holiday times, but sometimes we have vacancies and can take certain vulnerable cases in for a few days. We felt Rodney fell into that category.'
Why did Nigel shuffle uncomfortably in his seat? Why did I suddenly wish I was somewhere else, like having a prostate biopsy?
'He was with you for a few days?' I said.
'Yes. Some of our regulars went home to their families for Christmas, which meant we had some spare beds. There are many temptations and pressures for someone like Rodney at Christmas, so we felt it desirable to keep him with us.'
'Temptations like alcohol?' Nigel wondered.
'Alcohol and loneliness are a potent combination,' she replied.
'So how long was he with you?' I asked.
'Ten days.'
I couldn't do the sums. 'The doctor was killed on the twenty-third,' I told her, 'at eight thirty in the evening. Was Rodney Allen an in-patient at North Bay at that time?'
'He came in during the afternoon of the twenty-second, Inspector,' she replied. 'The following evening the day before Christmas Eve we had our party. Rodney earned everybody's displeasure by hogging the karaoke machine. If that is when the doctor was murdered then I can assure you it wasn't Rodney who pulled the trigger. I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey.'
I told the superintendent that Rodney had been given an alibi and thanked him for his cooperation. Before the enormity of my words registered in his brain we were in the car and driving away. As we pulled on to the main road an ARV and a van load of the heavy mob sped in the opposite direction. When they'd vanished from my rear-view mirror I slapped my thigh and declared: 'Well, that's nicely cocked-up their overtime budget!'
Nigel laughed. 'I'm just grateful that you were with me,' he said. 'It goes on your record, not mine.'
'Think positive,' I said. 'It's another suspect we can draw a line through eliminate from enquiries, as they say. And it's probably the best bit of excitement they've had since the candy floss stall was condemned by the health inspector. We're asking all the right questions — it's just a pity that we're asking them in the wrong order.'
As we headed inland the sleet turned to rain. There was no moon and the night was blacker than the bottom of a gipsy's chip pan. I was surprised how much commuter traffic was heading east, towards the coast, a pre-dinner sherry and the little woman. Nigel fiddled with the radio and found a country music station. A cracked voice was wailing: 'I left you tied to the hitching rail and my best friend rode you awayee…'
'Do you think that's meant to be a metaphor?' he asked, pressing the off button.
'What's a metaphor?' I mumbled, squinting against the glare of headlights. I was thinking about Rodney, and North Bay House. Did his trustees pay his bills when he was admitted? It sounded to me as if they had a few vacancies over Christmas, so they rounded up their regular reserves to fill them. I'm paid to have a suspicious mind.
'Why,' I wondered aloud, 'did Mrs. Allen have her operation in Heckley when she'd already moved to Scarborough?'
'Waiting lists,' Nigel explained. 'She'd probably been on the General's waiting list for about two years.'
'Of course. Thank you.'
This side of York, heading towards the A1, I swung into a lay by and hit the brakes. 'I'd better ring Annabelle, I'm running late,' I explained, reaching into the back for the telephone, in the pocket of my down jacket. I pressed the last number recall button and held the phone to my ear.
'WHAT YOU WANT?' a voice boomed at me. A male voice, close to hysteria. 'Why not you leave me alone?'
I jerked back in my seat and stared at the instrument. 'It's him!' I hissed. 'It's him!' The last number I'd dialled hadn't been Annabelle, it had been Rodney!
Chapter Ten
'Hello,' I ventured. 'Is that Rodney Allen, please?'
