The Silent Patient(51)

CHAPTER THIRTY

BARBIE’S HOUSE WAS ONE OF SEVERAL ACROSS the road from Hampstead Heath, overlooking one of the ponds. It was large and, given its location, probably fantastically overpriced.

Barbie had lived in Hampstead for several years before Gabriel and Alicia moved in next door. Her ex-husband was an investment banker and had commuted between London and New York until they divorced. He found himself a younger, blonder version of his wife—and Barbie got the house. “So everyone was happy,” she said with a laugh. “Particularly me.”

Barbie’s house was painted pale blue, in contrast to the other houses on the street, which were white. Her front garden was decorated with little trees and potted plants.

Barbie greeted me at the door. “Hi, honey. I’m glad you’re on time. That’s a good sign. This way.”

She led me through the hallway to the living room, talking the entire time. I only partially listened and took in my surroundings. The house smelled like a greenhouse; it was full of plants and flowers—roses, lilies, orchids, everywhere you looked. Paintings, mirrors, and framed photographs were crammed together on the walls; little statues, vases, and other objets d’art competed for space on tables and dressers. All expensive items, but crammed together like this, they looked like junk. Taken as a representation of Barbie’s mind, it suggested a disordered inner world, to say the least. It made me think of chaos, clutter, greed—insatiable hunger. I wondered what her childhood had been like.

I shifted a couple of tasseled cushions to make room and sat on the uncomfortable large sofa. Barbie opened a drinks cabinet and pulled out a couple of glasses.

“Now, what do you want to drink? You look like a whiskey drinker to me. My ex-husband drank a gallon of whiskey a day. He said he needed it to put up with me.” She laughed. “I’m a wine connoisseur, actually. I went on a course in the Bordeaux region in France. I have an excellent nose.”

She paused for breath and I took the opportunity to speak while I had the chance. “I don’t like whiskey. I’m not much of a drinker … just the odd beer, really.”

“Oh.” Barbie looked rather annoyed. “I don’t have any beer.”

“Well, that’s fine, I don’t need a drink—”

“Well, I do, honey. It’s been one of those days.”

Barbie poured herself a large glass of red wine and curled up in the armchair as if she were settling in for a good chat. “I’m all yours.” She smiled flirtatiously. “What do you want to know?”

“I have couple of questions, if that’s all right.”

“Well, fire away.”

“Did Alicia ever mention seeing a doctor?”

“A doctor?” Barbie seemed surprised by the question. “You mean a shrink?”

“No, I mean a medical doctor.”

“Oh, well, I don’t…” Barbie hesitated. “Actually, now that you mention it, yes, there was someone she was seeing.…”

“Do you know the name?”

“No, I don’t—but I remember I told her about my doctor, Dr. Monks, who’s just incredible. He only has to look at you to see what’s wrong with you straightaway, and he tells you exactly what to eat. It’s amazing.” A long and complicated explanation of the dietary demands by Barbie’s doctor followed, and an insistence I pay him a visit soon. I was starting to lose patience. It took some effort to get her back on track.

“You saw Alicia on the day of the murder?”

“Yes, just a few hours before it happened.” Barbie paused to gulp some more wine. “I went over to see her. I used to pop over all the time, for coffee—well, she drank coffee, I usually took a bottle of something. We’d talk for hours. We were so close, you know.”

So you keep saying, I thought. But I had already diagnosed Barbie as almost entirely narcissistic; I doubted she was able to relate to others except as a function of her own needs. I imagined Alicia didn’t do much talking during these visits.

“How would you describe her mental state that afternoon?”

Barbie shrugged. “She seemed fine. She had a bad headache, that was all.”

“She wasn’t on edge at all?”

“Should she be?”

“Well, given the circumstances…”

Barbie gave me an astonished look. “You don’t think she was guilty, do you?” She laughed. “Oh, honey—I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Alicia was no way tough enough to kill anyone. She wasn’t a killer. Take it from me. She’s innocent. I’m a hundred percent sure.”

“I’m curious how you can be so positive, given the evidence—”

“I don’t give a shit about that. I’ve got my own evidence.”

“You do?”

“You bet. But first … I need to know if I can trust you.” Barbie’s eyes searched mine hungrily.

I met her gaze steadily.

Then she came out with it, just like that: “You see, there was a man.”

“A man?”

“Yes. Watching.”

I was a little taken aback and immediately alert. “What do you mean, watching?”