Mindgame by Anthony Horowitz Page B

Dr Farquhar tell me about the man who runs Fairfields? ( Pause .) Evidently, he has little interest in interior design. Surprisingly chintzy and old-fashioned. Portrait on the wall some major psychoanalyst perhaps, painted by some minor artist most certainly. Picture of dog even worse — surely provided by the NHS in a job lot. Why the skeleton? A complete human skeleton standing in the corner. Did Dr Farquhar once study medicine…anatomy? In the office of a psychiatrist it seems oddly disconcerting but then maybe that is the idea. To disconcert. To keep you off balance.
    A pause. STYLER continues his tour of the room.
    Books predictable. ( Reading a spine .) Group Psychotherapy, Sociometry and Psychodrama . ( Continuing along the shelf .) Miller. Milner. Mishler. Moreno. Dr Farquhar arranges his books alphabetically. I wonder if I can trust him? ( He picks up the bottle .) One empty bottle of Chateau Mavillion 1966. ( Pause .) Chateau Mavillion 1966. It feels as if it’sbeen placed here like a prop for me to find. It’s a little ludicrous, like the skeleton. No glass. No half-eaten bowl of twiglets. Just the empty bottle. Was 1966 a good year? A good year for Dr Farquhar. The year that he qualified and they gave him a bottle of wine. A personal touch. ( He puts the bottle back .) There’s not very much in this room that’s personal, and nothing at all that connects it with the world outside unless you count the telephone and what I take to be an alarm button. I wonder if Dr Farquhar sleeps on the premises? Sitting here in this office, walled in by his own A-to-Z of analysis, he’s probably as out-of-touch as the inmates and he’s kept me waiting here two hours, the rude bastard.
    STYLER turns off the tape and puts it back in his case. He sits down again. He looks at his watch. A pause. He goes over to the door behind the desk and tries it. It’s locked. He goes over to the other door and tries that too. He’s unpleasantly surprised to discover that the second door is also locked. He tries it again, rattling the handle. And it’s now that the first door suddenly opens and DR ALEX FARQUHAR comes in. Also aged about fifty, FARQUHAR is a strange blend of the saturnine and the benevolent, as if Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson had somehow been blended into one. Penetrating, investigative eyes that have a habit of not focusing on what they’re looking at. Wind-swept hair. A louche quality. None of his clothes quite fit.
    STYLER is a little embarrassed to have been caught, trying the door.
    FARQUHAR: Good evening.
    STYLER: Dr Farker?
    FARQUHAR: It’s actually Farrer. The q is silent and the h is redundant but anyway I prefer Alex. Please, take a seat.
    STYLER: ( Sitting .) Thank you.
    FARQUHAR: I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. We had a little trouble in B-wing. Nothing serious but it still demanded my attention.
    STYLER: That’s alright. It was very good of you to agree to see me.
    FARQUHAR: That’s my pleasure. Think nothing of it. Please…
    FARQUHAR gestures at a chair as he moves behind the desk. STYLER sits opposite him. FARQUHAR gazes at him curiously for a moment.
    Look, this is very embarrassing but I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me exactly what it is I agreed to see you for. The fact is that my secretary is on holiday and what with one thing and another my paperwork has rather got on top of me. I know it’s unforgivable but the truth of the matter is that as I stand here before you, I don’t have the faintest idea who you are.
    STYLER: You don’t?
    FARQUHAR: None at all.
    STYLER: Well, please, consider yourself forgiven.
    FARQUHAR: Thank you.
    STYLER: I’m Mark Styler.
    FARQUHAR: That’s your name?
    STYLER: Yes.
    FARQUHAR: And what is this in connection with?
    STYLER: I wrote a letter…almost a month ago. Your secretary didn’t mention it to you before she left?
    FARQUHAR: I’m afraid not. But then