We Don't Speak About Mollie: Book 2 in the DI Rachel Morrison series

by Vicky Jones

  Rachel returned to the interview room and sat down.

  “For the purposes of the tape, DI Morrison has reentered the room,” Chloe said in a well-trained, clear voice. Rachel nodded at her and resumed the interview.

  “Katie, I’ve just checked on the police crime database and for the dates you stated, there is nothing that mentions you by name to have committed this offence. It has the story of a young girl, named Mollie Spencer, at the address you gave, being found dead, but it was ruled as a tragic accident, and an accidental death was logged by the coroner and the pathologist at the post mortem. It was decided by the police that no further action would be taken.” Rachel sat back and spread her hands. “I don’t know if this puts your mind at rest or not, but there’s nothing else to be said on the matter. Officially.” She smiled. “I hope that helps you?”

  Chloe closed her notebook and stretched out a finger to stop the recording.

  Katie looked at Rachel. “Helps? How the hell can it help me? So I ‘accidentally’ killed Mollie? My poor little sister. It doesn’t matter how it happened. I’m still responsible for a death.”

  “Morally, maybe? But legally, no. You’re free to go, Katie. But if it’s something that’s unresolved with you, maybe you could go and see someone to talk it through?”

  Katie leaned forward and licked her lips. “Can I ask…the investigation into Mollie’s death? Was it properly investigated? Statements, witnesses. Were they properly taken and recorded?”

  Rachel’s eyebrows knitted together. “Why do you ask?”

  Chloe gave Rachel a sidelong look.

  “I was just wondering who was spoken to. Who gave witness statements?”

  “Well,” Rachel began. “If it had been my investigation, I would have interviewed anyone who was present that day, who saw what happened.”

  Katie gave a dry laugh. “It would be interesting to read my dad’s version of events. He sent me away not long after, so I’m told. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could read what he—.”

  Rachel bristled. “No. You know I can’t let that happen. Confidentiality and all that.”

  Katie looked down at the table. “I guess. I just have so many gaps in my knowledge. I guess I was just hoping for some understanding of the whole thing. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Look, here’s my card.” Rachel fished into her jacket pocket and passed a business card to Katie. “Call me if you find out anything else that concerns you, OK? DC Sharp here will see you out.” They all stood up and walked out of the interview room.

  At the exit, Chloe whispered to Katie, “Will you be OK?”

  “I’ll have to be, won’t I?” Katie replied with a stoic look. She straightened her back and smiled. “It’s my own stupid fault asking my sister about that bloody photo. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, right?”

  Chloe nodded. “Well, as DI Morrison said, if you find out any more information, let us know. Take care, OK?”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Chapter 17

  A week passed between Katie sitting in the police interview room and the waiting room she was now sitting in back in Brighton. Secretly, she had searched online for the names of hypnotherapists, hoping that in some way they could take her back to that fateful day. Finally finding one, she had booked an appointment and was now waiting for her turn. She answered her name, called by the receptionist and was now sitting opposite a well-dressed, middle-aged man holding a clipboard against his crossed knee. He had sandy brown hair, large brown eyes and a neatly trimmed stubble beard. He wore grey, well-tailored suit trousers, a crisp white shirt and a purple-edged grey wool jumper. After making his preliminary notes, he looked up and gave Katie a soft look.

  “So, Katie. What brings you here today?”

  Katie fiddled with the cuff of her jacket. “Um. I don’t even know where to start. It’s all such a jumbled mess.”

  The hypnotherapist smiled. “Let’s try from the beginning, shall we?”

  Katie took him at his word. “I read on your website that you offer regression therapy. Is that right?” She looked at him through unblinking eyes.

  “That’s right. Only if the client is willing to fully open up, though. It doesn’t work otherwise.”

  “Can you take me back to my childhood?”

  “We can certainly try.” He leaned forward in his black leather tub chair and laid his clipboard on the small side table next to him. “But I want to make it clear from the outset that in the first session we don’t always get results.” He rolled his hand over and over. “It’s like unlocking your subconscious to an extent where you take away the blocks in the memory. It is an ongoing process, even affecting you after you leave here. Your brain will still go through stages of understanding and processing what you’ve recalled.”

  Katie listened as the hypnotherapist continued to explain. “Is it scary?”

  “It all depends what you want me to help you remember.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know what’s in your childhood yet, do I?”

  Katie’s eyes filled with tears. “Nor do I.”

  DC Chloe Sharp slid her tray along the counter in the police station canteen, flashing a bored, indecisive look at the lack of options on the pass. Finally choosing the Monday special, shepherd’s pie, she grabbed a juice box and sauntered over to the cashier. Just as she was paying for her lunch, she noticed Rachel sat at the far end of the canteen scrolling through her phone. Seeing nothing on the table in front of her boss, Chloe reached back to the chiller and picked up a second juice box.

  “Here, you look like you need it,” Chloe said, placing the juice box in front of Rachel and sitting down opposite her.

  Rachel looked up from her phone. Her eyes crossed for a moment while she refocused them on Chloe. “Cheers.” She looked down at the juice box and, seeing it was her favourite orange juice, gave Chloe an appreciative smile. “You really do remember every little detail about a person, don’t you?”

  Chloe felt her cheeks redden as she tucked into her limp looking pie. “No bad thing. You OK?” she asked, diverting the conversation away from herself.

  Rachel let out a long, deep sigh and popped the straw into her juice box. “Yeah, just trying to make some headway on this latest case. I’ve gone through all the digital case notes and spent most of the morning in archives. But the filing in this place is shit.” She took a long drink and sat back in her chair, fiddling with the straw.

  Chloe chewed slowly and twirled the fork around her plate, her stare not lifting from Rachel. “You can only do your best.”

  Rachel looked at Chloe with mock severity. “I get measured by my hit rate. And it doesn’t help when everything I need is not in the right folders.”

  Chloe gave a wry smile. “I guess Mags isn’t the best person old Jenkins could have put in charge of archive filing, is she? I’d have put everything on a database by now.”

  Rachel let out a deep, frustrated groan. “I swear they’ve brought me up here just to fail.”

  Katie sat in the same black leather tub chair she’d sat in a week earlier, her face set in an unenthusiastic grimace. It had been forty minutes since she’d arrived, and the hypnotherapist had tried all the soothing words he could think of. He paused, checked his watch and asked Katie to open her eyes. She met his brown-eyed stare and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry to be glum, it’s just I’m worried. Nothing’s happening again, like last time. I’m trying to delve deep in my memory bank, but nothing is standing out to me.”

  The hypnotherapist clasped his hands on his knee and smiled. “It can take time. I told you that last session. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Do you want to stop? I won’t charge you for this session if you want to give it some time before we try again.”

  Katie clenched her teeth in determination and laid her head back. Her hands gripped the ends of the armrests. “No. I want to try again.”

  The hypnotherapist pressed the play button on his m
usic player and the therapy music gently washed over the air in the room.

  “I come bearing gifts. Thought you could do with an evening on the hard stuff,” Chloe said, holding up a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. Rachel held her front door open and stepped to the side to let her in, taking the bottle from her.

  “Tropicana. The finest vintage, I see,” Rachel said. “You’re spoiling me now, Chloe.”

  “Well, it is Friday night. Let’s go wild,” Chloe replied, a mock manic grin on her subtly made up face. She was out of her usual well-tailored trouser suit and wearing casual blue jeans and a pink wool sweater. She took her converse trainers off by the door and stepped into Rachel’s living room. “Finally got unpacked, then?” she remarked, noticing that Rachel had put her books on the shelves and a few family photographs on her oak sideboard.

  “Yeah,” Rachel called back from the kitchen down the hallway. She returned moments later with two wine glasses filled with orange juice.

  “Nice touch,” Chloe said, clinking glasses with Rachel. “How’s it going with Adam?” She nodded over to a picture of Rachel with a dark curly-haired man about the same age as her. They were sitting on a bench in a park, with Buckingham Palace in the distance behind them. The smiles on their faces took Rachel’s mind back to happier times. She looked inward for a moment, then back at Chloe, the sadness in her eyes thinly veiled.

  “A little bit of progress yesterday. He actually replied to a text. First time in, ooh, I don’t know how long.” Rachel took a long drink from her glass.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Rachel smacked her lips. “Small steps. Anyway, what’s the latest with that Tinder guy?”

  Chloe sat down on the sofa and sipped her juice. “Didn’t bother meeting him in the end.”

  Rachel’s eyes swiveled. “Why? You were raving about him last week. What changed?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t fancy it in the end.” Chloe’s tone had an edge to it that made Rachel’s ears prick up. Ever one for noticing body language change, she watched Chloe carefully as she took a seat on the sofa next to her.

  “You should give Johnny Bradley a chance. He seems a nice guy. Underneath all that aftershave, that is,” Rachel joked. “He thinks you’re quite a catch.”

  “Oh, what is it with everyone in that office trying to match me up with every guy that walks by?” Chloe blurted out. Rachel recoiled and held her hands up. Before she could apologise, Chloe beat her to it. “Sorry. It’s just…well, I get that from Mags as well.”

  “Don’t apologise. It’s your personal life. You can see who you want to see. Or not see.”

  They both laughed, and the awkwardness between them melted away.

  “What do you think of Mags?” Rachel asked. “Honestly.”

  Chloe made a face. “On or off the record?”

  “Off, of course. You’re off the clock now, Chloe.”

  “Ditzy, lazy and a pain in the arse, actually. Oh, we all pretend to get on with her, and she comes across as everyone’s mum. But we all know she’s just biding her time until she can cash in her pension and sod off to Brazil. I guess she was a good copper once but she’s lost the love for it now. Spends more time showing us holiday photos and making us jealous.” Chloe took a big intake of breath at the end of her rant.

  “Wow, don’t hold back there, will you, Chloe. Feel better?” Rachel said, smiling.

  “Sorry. But you did say to be honest. I know I was brought over to the Task Force to hoover up all Mags’ knowledge as part of the handover of duties between us, but I’d much rather just learn from you. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something when I came over here tonight. I have a bit of a confession to make.” Chloe ran a fingertip around the top of her glass. “You know the Spencer case?”

  Rachel sat up “Yeah, but we’re not looking into that one, though.” She raised a stern eyebrow.

  “Officially, no. But I have a mate down in archives and I got curious.”

  “I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me, am I?” Rachel said with a grimace. “How many paid police hours have you spent in archives with your pal?”

  “None. I went in on the weekend. You want to know what I found out, or what?” Chloe said with a glint in her eye.

  “Go on, then.”

  “Well, I took a closer look at the Spencer file and there was a medical report tucked in the back of it. I almost missed it until it fell out when I was putting the file back on the shelf. There’s a reason why Katie can’t remember anything about the day her sister died. She was drugged afterwards.”

  Rachel recoiled. “Drugged?”

  “Yeah.” Chloe sat up in her seat. “You see, she was given medication after the incident, to basically remove her short-term memory. She had therapy afterwards to insert false memories of that time, the idea being to fill the gap in her timeline and in effect protect Katie from the horrific reality of what had happened. They knew they couldn’t help Mollie, but Katie still had a chance of a normal childhood if they could stop her remembering. It was a really controversial plan at the time and had never been done before. But the doctors thought they had nothing to lose by trying. They decided the stigma of being a child killer was worse for Katie than any side effects or downsides of the medication. This way, Katie wouldn’t suffer with any PTSD and would hopefully make a valuable contribution to society. It was all in the case notes and the medical report. You could argue that the experiment worked. She remembered nothing and just got on with her life.”

  “I’m not sure Katie would appreciate the idea of being a lab rat, though, regardless.” Rachel said. “What was the drug they gave her?”

  “Can’t remember off the top of my head. It had a really long name. Not used anymore, though, for obvious reasons and because of the side effects.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well, the main one is, and Katie probably won’t even know it, but it makes female test subjects infertile.”

  Rachel closed her eyes. “Bloody hell.”

  “I know. The medication was deemed as a trial. And it hasn’t been done since. Social workers and other health professionals deemed it too unethical, so it was the only case of its kind.” Chloe smiled hopefully at Rachel. “So you’re not mad at me for digging into this case, then?”

  Rachel looked impressed. “Not at all. It shows diligence. Aptitude. And I can hardly be mad with you researching the case on your own time, now, can I?” She fixed her stare on Chloe more intently. “Are you looking for promotion or something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re great at what you do. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Have you thought of going up through the ranks and applying to take the sergeants exam next time around? I know it would take months of study to learn the syllabus, and it’s a bloody hard exam, believe me, I remember. But I reckon you’re more than capable. I’d provide you a written statement of support if you decide to go for it. It’s the least you deserve after these last few weeks of hard work and ingenuity.”

  Chloe tilted her head, as if weighing up that idea, but shook her head. “Of course I’ve thought of it. But I’m really enjoying what I’m doing at the moment. And who I’m working with,” she added, focusing her eyes on Rachel. “Getting promoted too fast would get in the way of gaining valuable experience, so there’s no rush at the moment. I want to learn from the best.”

  Katie returned to a house pitched in complete darkness. Apart from his work boots on the mat inside, there was no sign of Tom. She took off her jacket, hung it up and walked into the kitchen where the light clicked on and made her jump.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been leaving you messages.” Tom was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a concerned yet quietly angry expression. His voice matched his composure.

  “I already told you in my text earlier. I went to Lauren’s.”

  Tom shook his head and clenched his mouth. His hand raked through his messy brown hair. Katie didn’t notice, turning
to the sink to fill the kettle.

  “She’s having trouble with her boyfriend, so asked me to come round for a drink and moan. You know how she is. Tea?” Katie asked.

  Tom stared at her back. Finally, he spoke through tight lips. “Did you give her money?”

  Katie spun around, still holding the kettle while the tap gushed out freezing cold water. “What? No. Why would I give her money?”

  “I checked our latest bank statement earlier.”

  “Why?”

  Tom bristled and leaned forward across the table towards her. “Remember us discussing the other night about me needing some new tools for work? After we’d decided together that I should get them, I checked to see if we had enough in the joint account. We have. Just. But the account is £150 down.” His statements were short but loaded. “I know I didn’t take it out. So, what did you need all that money for? Money we can’t afford to shell out without good reason. I was going to call the bank, because I thought your card had been cloned or something. Until I noticed that it had been drawn out in three separate chunks of £50. What’s going on, Kate?”

  Katie let her body rest against the kitchen counter. She put the kettle down. “I was going to put it back as soon as I got paid,” she said, her voice even so as not to agitate Tom even more.

  Tom stood up and set his face. “I’m only going to ask you this once, Kate.” He puffed out his chest. “Are you seeing someone else?”

  Katie rushed over to him. “Of course not, babe. Why would you draw that conclusion?”

  “Because you took a lot of money from our account without telling me. We don’t do secrets, Katie. We always said that. Why couldn’t you tell me what you needed that money for?” He pushed her cloying arms away from wrapping themselves around his waist.

  “It’s just something I needed to do. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of what you’d think,” Katie said, trying not to cry.