Her hair is cut shorter than I remember. Instead of long rope-thick tresses, she has a chin-skimming bob that sweeps over her cheekbones and ends at the nape of her neck.
“I’m frightened that he’ll harm himself.”
“Tell Drury.”
“He won’t listen to me.”
She glances at my left hand. My thumb and forefinger are brushing together in a pill-rolling motion.
“Do I make you nervous?” she asks.
“I have Parkinson’s.”
Her mouth forms a lipstick circle. She tries to apologize.
“You weren’t to know,” I say.
“I’m doing everything wrong today. Can we start again? I could buy you lunch.”
“Or we could go halves.”
A smile this time… dimples.
“I know just the place,” she says, marching ahead of me. I check out her figure, forever hopeful. She takes me to the Head of the River, a pub alongside Folly Bridge. Pushing open the heavy door, she takes my coat and hangs it on a hook. Then she chooses a table away from the fire. Orders mineral water. Asks about wine.
“I don’t drink.”
“Your medication.”
“Yes.”
“What are you on?”
“Levodopa for the symptoms, carbidopa for the nausea, Prozac to stop me being depressed about having a major degenerative illness.”
“How bad does it get?”
“This is a good day…”
We sit a bit, staring at the table as though fascinated by each other’s cutlery.
Victoria Naparstek is a little different from what I remember. Her clothes are less feminine, more practical. A string of pearls makes her look older. Maybe she grew tired of being objectified, which would make her unusual among women.
“Are you here alone?” she asks.
“With my eldest daughter Charlie… she’s out somewhere spending my money.”
“You’re married?”
“Separated. Three years. Two girls. Fifteen and seven. They live with their mother, but I see them quite a bit; less now that I’m in London.”
“Mmm.”
“What?”
“It’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“I asked a simple question and you gave me your entire life story—everything except your favorite color.”
“Blue.”
“Sorry?”
“My favorite color is blue.”
I look at the menu. Victoria orders the soup. I do the same. Terrible choice. My left arm trembles.
I change the subject and ask about her practice. She lives in west London, but travels to Oxford two days a week, working mainly for the NHS.
“How did you come to treat Augie Shaw?”
“He turned up at a police station two years ago and confessed to raping a woman, but it was a false complaint.”
“She wouldn’t press charges?”
“She’d never seen him before. Augie fantasized about raping her. I think he genuinely believed that he’d done it. He was mortified. Shocked. Angry at himself.”
“You stopped him in time.”
“He stopped himself.” She runs her finger around the edge of her glass. “Augie started having problems in his late teens. Auditory hallucinations. Blackouts. Disorganized thinking. Chronic headaches. Insomnia. He claimed to get contrary messages whenever he had to make an important decision.”
“Messages?”
“From his twin brother.”
“Drury said he doesn’t have a brother.”
“His twin died at birth but Augie believes he’s still corded with his brother’s soul. He says it’s like his twin is trapped inside him and won’t leave.”
“Paranoid schizophrenia.”
“Delusional ideas—some grandiose, others paranoid.”
“Medication?”
“Anti-psychotics: olanzapine fifteen milligrams and sleeping tablets. During our sessions, I tried to get Augie to mentally cut the cord, but he’s resistant. He thinks half his personality will disappear if he loses contact with his brother.”
“You mentioned claustrophobia?”
“Augie’s father used to lock him in a cupboard when he was a boy. He still suffers nightmares. He hates confined spaces. He also believes that inside air is poisonous and that’s why his brother died in the womb.”
“You said he had no history of aggression.”
“He doesn’t.”
“He fantasized about raping a woman.”
“He was delusional.”
“He was sacked by the Heymans for going through their daughter’s underwear.”
“Augie said that was a misunderstanding.”
“His fingerprints are all over the murder scene. His hands were burned. He didn’t report the fire. Instead, he went home to bed.”