Boyd pressed the bell at the side of the door and waited. If Randall was there he would probably still be asleep. It was several minutes before the door opened and he recognized Randall from the routine description.
“Mr. Randall?”
“Who are you?”
“I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes to talk?”
“No. I don’t know you.”
And Boyd could see the almost empty whisky bottle and the glass on the table inside the room.
“My name’s Boyd, Mr. Randall. I think you could help me and maybe I could help you.”
“I don’t need any help. What d’you want to talk about?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Debbie. Debbie Shaw.”
Randall was shaking his head as Boyd pulled out his ID card and held it up for Randall to see. Randall’s mouth was open and he stank of whisky as he half closed his eyes to look at the card. He belched and looked back at Boyd’s face, his eyes trying to focus.
“They send you from the hospital?”
“No. I’m nothing to do with the hospital.”
“The police?”
“No. It says on my card what I am. I’m an intelligence officer.”
“What’s she … I don’t understand.”
“Can I come in and explain?”
Randall shrugged helplessly and stood aside as Boyd walked inside and closed the door.
“You want a snifter?”
“No thanks. Just a chat.”
“You just chat away, pal. I’ll be listening.”
“Would you like me to make you coffee?”
Randall half-grinned. “You wanna sober me up. Is that it?”
“I’ve read the report you gave to Special Branch, Mr. Randall. They seem to be keeping her in hospital a long time. I’m a bit worried about it.”
“Join the club, old man. I’m out of my bloody mind with worry, but there’s nothing I can do. Not a relative, they say.”
“Has she got any relatives at all?”
“Nary a one. Nary a one.”
“Did you know that she’s being held on a Section 72?”
“What’s a Section 72?”
“It means that she can be held indefinitely in a mental institution and that she has ceased to be a voluntary patient. There’s no appeal against such an order and only the Home Secretary can vary it.”
“Why are they doing this to her?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“How can I help?”
“I don’t know. I just want to talk to you. Talk about her. Every detail you can remember.”
“Why are you interested, Boyd?”
“I want to talk to Debbie myself. I think she could help me with something I’m investigating. You’re the next best thing.”
“Let me take a bath and get sobered up and then I’ll be able to talk.”
He talked with Randall for almost three hours. Not gaining much information that would help his investigation, but he saw photographs of the girl and learned a lot about her. Irrelevant detail so far as his enquiry was concerned, but details that made him feel that he actually knew the girl.
As he sat in the taxi on the way back to Hampstead he thought about Randall. He was a strangely sad man, still with enough show-business panache to try and find some silver lining to his cloud, but so clearly failing. And so patently defenceless and unhappy. Randall seemed to have had a mutually satisfying but odd relationship with Debbie Shaw. He spoke about her as if the relationship was quite normal but it obviously wasn’t. They had several roles for each other. The man was lover, brother and father, and the girl was mother, lover and friend. Neither of them seemed to have demanded much from the other and yet they seemed totally dependent on each other. Their lives had gone on day by day in a routine that suited them both. Both of them secure in their lives of business and pleasure. Not looking for anything more than that it would go on for ever. And then suddenly, shockingly, it had all ended. The girl’s mental disturbance would have been blow enough, but Randall was now the victim as well. A victim of bureaucracy that gave him no status, no part even, in the girl’s life. They were related by neither marriage nor blood and bureaucracy was impervious to claims of affection, love or dependence.
Boyd found it unusually depressing. He never allowed himself to be emotionally involved with anyone connected with his work no matter whether he was for them or against them, but there was something strangely familiar about Randall and his girl. He knew what it was, but he kept it lodged firmly at the back of his mind. Steve Randall and Debbie Shaw reminded him too much of Katie and Jimmy Boyd.
The phone at his bedside rang at three o’clock in the morning, two days after Schultz had gone back. It was Schultz calling from an El Paso number.
“Is that you, Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry if I seemed rough on you the other day. I guess I was being selfish. I thought about it on the plane coming back. Anyway it was wrong thinking on my part. I’ve done some fishing around for you down here in Texas. I gotta talk in parables, you understand?”
“Go ahead.”
“The doctor I recommended to you is right where you are now. You heard of a place called Northumberland?”
“Yes.”
“A town called Craster. The residence is Percy House. And the other doctor on our recommended list is there too. You might think they’re Canadians if you didn’t know any better. OK?”
“Yes. Message received and understood. And much appreciated. Are they here for long?”
“Indefinitely. But I’d guess they’re being well looked after.”
“I owe you, Otto.”
“You sure do.”
And the line went dead. Boyd got out of bed quietly and padded bare-footed into the sitting-room. He sat on the couch, his head in his hands. Not in despair, but to exclude all distractions from his mind. He had arrived, he knew, at the point where he should not only report back to Cartwright, but get his opinion on what the next move should be. But
