‘There’s no one I can trust. And if I could trust them, I wouldn’t be able to protect them.’
‘You can trust me.’
Sabira shook her head violently. ‘No, you’re the last person I can confide in – surely you must see that?’
Longbright had serious doubts about introducing the subject of Waters’s death, but there were computers and televisions scattered throughout the clinic, and the last thing Sabira needed to see right now was a sensationalistic report on the murder of an acquaintance in broad daylight.
‘Sabira, we know you befriended the photographer assigned to cover your public appearances. We spoke to him.’
‘He has nothing to do with this.’
‘You know what? If I had a problem and needed someone to help me out, he’s the sort of man I would have picked to confide in. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, before you heard it from anyone else. Someone attacked him yesterday.’
‘Is he injured?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Sabira said nothing. For a moment Longbright thought she had failed to understand. Finally she looked up at the detective sergeant and said, ‘His killer is outside the window right now.’ The casualness of her tone was chilling.
Longbright looked out, but the garden was veiled in rain.
‘It’s the same man who was there last night. Can’t you see him?’ Her voice began to rise. ‘He’s right there, you must be able to see.’ And then she was yelling in a thin, high voice, ‘He’s there! Right in front of you! He’s there!’
Longbright ran to the French windows and unbolted them, running out into the downpour, but there was no one in sight. The rain had beaded on the grass, giving it a silvered sheen that held no other footprints but her own. She searched inside the bushes and under the trees, but it was clear no one had been standing there. She headed back to the house, soaked.
Sabira had turned away from her, expecting failure. ‘I knew he’d vanish before you got there. You must go now,’ she said. ‘Go and never come back.’
‘Sabira, if there’s anything I can do—’
‘Just go. You can see how mad I am. Even I don’t know what I’m saying any more. Go fast. It is safer for you.’
There was no point in remaining any longer. Longbright slipped her business card into Sabira’s hand. ‘This has my home contact details on the back. Please use them at any time.’
She said goodbye and went to speak to Amelia Medway, the centre’s senior nurse.
‘It may be more than just mental exhaustion,’ Medway told her. ‘Sabira is free to come and go as she pleases, but she’s exhibiting quite serious symptoms, and may require more specialized health care. We’re not a psychiatric unit, Miss Longbright. We’re not secure, and don’t provide long-term pharmacological solutions.’
‘How long do you think she’ll be here?’
‘Certainly until Monday, when she’ll be assessed by a King’s College psychiatrist who’ll decide the next step. If he thinks there’s a genuine risk of self-endangerment, he’ll refer her to the private ward of the Bethlem Royal Hospital in Bromley. She’ll be well cared for there. If he thinks she’s out of danger he may allow her to return home, providing she remains under local supervision.’
‘There’s one last thing,’ Longbright said. ‘I know your concern is for Sabira’s mental wellbeing, but we need to make sure that she’s not physically at risk from anyone else.’
‘The doors of the centre are locked at night, but we’re not legally allowed to restrict her movements. If she wants to go out, we have no way of stopping her.’
‘Then perhaps you could keep me informed of her whereabouts.’ Longbright gave her a card with the unit’s number, and then took her leave.
Lucy Mansfield’s school was just off England’s Lane in Belsize Park. It was privately run and so smart that it looked like an upmarket restaurant from outside. It was popular with executive couples, who placed their children’s names on its waiting list years in advance.
Longbright caught up with Lucy’s father by the main gates. The girl who came running up was slightly built and small for her years, but clearly filled with confidence and energy. Lucy had reached the age when she had just discovered the power of her opinions, and was already used to being heard.
They went to the Caffè Nero on Haverstock Hill. Andrew Mansfield bought his daughter low-calorie chocolate cake and explained why Longbright was here.
‘I was playing with Tom,’ Lucy explained between greedy mouthfuls. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a real game, with a rulebook and everything. It’s called Witch Hunter and you have to ride across the countryside and find witches to kill.’