Banks laughed. “I’m not as klutzy as Clouseau,” he said. “Nor, I’m afraid, am I as brilliant as Poirot and Holmes. My name’s Banks. Chief Inspector Banks.”
The vicar frowned. “Banks, eh? I haven’t heard of him.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have, would you?” Banks said, puzzled. “It’s me. I’m Banks.
I’m here to see Dr Preston.”
The vicar’s expression brightened. “Dr Preston? Oh, I’m sure you’ll like him.
He’s very good.”
“Is he helping you?”
“Helping me? Why, no. I help him, of course.”
“Of course,” Banks said slowly.
A nurse paused by the table and spoke his name. “Dr Preston will see you now,”
she said.
The vicar stuck out his hand. “Well, good luck, old boy.”
Banks shook it and muttered his thanks.
“That man back there,” he said to the nurse as she clicked beside him along the corridor, “should he be wandering around freely? What’s he in for?”
The nurse laughed. “That’s not a patient. That’s the Reverend Clayton. He comes to visit two or three times a week. He must have thought you were a new patient.”
Bloody hell, Banks thought, you could soon go crazy hanging around a place like this.
Dr Preston’s office lacked the sharp polished instruments, kidney bowls, hypodermics and mysterious odds and ends that Banks usually found so disconcerting in Glendenning’s lair. This room was more like a comfortable study with a pleasant view of the landscaped grounds.
295
Preston stood up as Banks entered. His handshake was firm and brief. He looked younger than Banks had expected, with a thatch of thick, shiny brown hair, a complexion as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and cheeks just as chubby and rosy. His eyes, enlarged behind spectacles, were watchful and serious.
“What can I do for you, er, Chief Inspector?” he asked.
“I’m interested in an ex-patient of yours called Elizabeth Dale. At least, I think she’s an ex-patient.”
“Oh, yes,” Preston said. “Been gone ages now. What exactly is it you wish to know? I’m sure you realize that I’m not at liberty to-“
“Yes, doctor, I understand that. I don’t want the details of her illness. As I understand it, she was suffering from depression.”
“Well”-the doctor unbent a paper-clip on his blotter-“I suppose in layman’s terms…But you said that’s not what you came about?”
“That’s right. I just want to know where she is. Nothing confidential about that, is there?”
“We don’t usually give out personal information.”
“It’s important. A murder inquiry. I could get a court order.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Preston said quickly. “The problem is, though, I’m afraid we don’t know where Miss Dale is.”
“No idea?”
“No. You see, we don’t keep tabs on ex-patients as a rule.”
“When did she leave here?”
Preston searched through his files. “She stayed for two months.” He read off the dates.
“Is that usual? Two months?”
“Hard to say. It varies from patient to patient. Miss Dale was … well, I don’t think I’m giving too much away if I tell you she was difficult. She’d hardly been here a couple of days before she ran off.”
“Yes, I know.” Banks explained his involvement. “As far 296
as I understand, though, she admitted herself in the first place, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you treated her as if she had escaped from a high-security prison.”
Preston leaned back in his chair and his jaw muscles twitched. “You have to understand, Chief Inspector, that when anyone arrives here, they are given a whole range of tests, and a complete physical examination. On the basis of these, we make a diagnosis and prescribe treatment. I had examined Miss Dale and decided she required treatment. When she disappeared we were naturally worried that she … Well, without the proper treatment, who knows what might have become of her? So we took steps to persuade her to come back.”
“Doctor knows best, eh?”
Preston glared at him.
“How was she when she’d completed her treatment?” Banks asked.
