by Ben Oakley
“Which ones?”
“15 of the 17!”
“Really? How can you be sure?”
“I double checked their ages, dates of births and names against social media accounts and posts. I also checked student roll-calls at local Universities and the electoral roll to ensure I was looking at the right people.”
“You've done all that -” I checked the time on my phone, “- in two hours?”
“I told you I can help.”
She certainly could. That was speedy, I was good at my research but not that good. I guess she needed to focus her attention on something. What better than attempting to solve her own kidnapping?
“Whose names can't you find?”
“My own and someone called Jess Ashby.”
“Yeah, that... that would make sense.” I forged ahead, “have you ever been sectioned at Linden?”
“No, I don't think so. I think I was meant to go there but didn't.”
“You don't remember Foster saying he was going to send you there?”
“I vaguely heard someone say it but don't know who or why.”
“Stansey?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep up the good work.”
I heard her chuckle slightly on the other side of the phone and it made me feel good. She deserved a little bit of happiness, I just hoped it wasn't short-lived.
She said, “I'll call you if I get anything else.”
“Send the list over in a message so I can access it, please.”
“Of course, I'll do that now.”
“Oh, and Stansey?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't eat all the eggs.”
I smiled to myself and ended the call. She would come out the other side stronger than before, I'd do my damnedest to make sure of it.
Walking out the park boundary I found myself at the entrance to Linden. It had an National Health Service sign on the side of the drive so at least people knew what it was. There had been an increase in psychiatric hospital's in the UK in the past decade, attributed to the rise in mental health issues.
It was no wonder not all records were updated or saved in the correct manner. The NHS was notorious for its lack of data collection, storage, and privacy concerns. I'd even read that NHS Scotland don't talk to NHS England so hardly any files are shared between the two countries. Typical, if you ask me. The government always seemed to mess things up.
So then maybe it was a little easier for a place like Linden to survive under the radar. It was a thought that had crossed my mind.
It wasn't a huge site, the convex front-side of the building curved off in both directions with a large automatic triple door entrance. There was a sign saying they were closed to visitors on Saturday and Sunday and only those with family members inside were allowed to visit.
As I approached the entrance I saw a middle-aged lady walk out in casual clothing. I would guess a family visitor. She nodded and smiled at me as she walked by. I returned the favour.
I slipped through the doors as they were closing shut and a receptionist stopped me going any further.
“We're closed, sir.”
“You're a hospital and you're closed?”
“To public visitors. Who are you here to see?”
I strolled over to the large reception desk and remarked to myself how quiet the place was. It was kind of eerie, I couldn't hear any patients or any noise. I guess it was on account of the weekend hours but it certainly wasn't helping my nerves.
“Detective Lake to see Doctor Cobbs.”
Forty One
I waited in the deadly quiet reception area for at least ten minutes. I knew I was early but not by much. The digital display on the wall by the entrance displayed the time and scheduling for groups held within the building. On the weekends there were none but it was the time that was playing on my mind. It was nearing ten in the morning.
Paine had 14 hours left.
As I continued to wait, the two snack-dispensing machines opposite me tempted me a little too much. I was virtually leering over the photos of the food that adorned the side of both machines. I was tired enough to almost have a bit of dribble seep out the corner of my mouth.
I was about to raid both of the machines when Cobbs introduced himself.
He startled me, “didn't hear you creep up,” I said.
Doctor Cobbs looked exactly the same as in his picture. He was a 57-year-old white guy from Norfolk. He had big curly brown hair which didn't work so well with his crisp, clearly crafted stubble that accentuated his strong face. He wasn't big or small, just kind of in the middle, like an aged boxer without the flat nose.
He also had a penchant for women's underwear – and I had Jennifer Cane's brother to thank for that bit of information.
“Follow me,” he said in his crisp East Coast accent.
I dutifully followed, “walk and talk?” I asked.
“Walk and talk,” he repeated. “I must admit I was a little concerned when I got the call about your impending visit. We have a lot of police here but not many detectives.”
He scanned his magnetic staff card on the door beside the reception and opened it for me.
“After you,” I said kindly.
“No, after you, the door shuts by itself and it goes with bang if not dropped in the right way.”
“You have a lot of police?” I carried on.
“Oh yes, amongst other things we're home to the 136 cells so we see a fair amount of officers here.”
“136?”
He stopped in the corridor and gently shut the door. “I thought a detective would have known what the 136 cells were? We have five rooms that are for police use when they enact the Section 136 element of the Mental Health Act. It is where the police have the power to remove you from the public or from your home if one is at severe risk to themselves or others.”
“I had heard of that,” I lied, “just never heard it referred to as the 136 cells.”
“Quite understandable, a lot of jargon around here.”
We slowly made our way along the lengthy curving corridor. I passed many offices and meeting rooms. It looked more like an office building than a hospital.
Then the inner wall gave way to large windows with a beautiful view of Japanese-themed gardens. The perfectly formed shrubbery and landscaping conflicted with the stories I was hearing about the place.
“Wow, not quite what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting, Detective Lake? Stone walls covered in blood and screaming patients? This is the 21st Century, far removed from the barbarism of the previous one.”
Beyond the garden was the middle line of the building with multiple windows and I guessed that's where the private wards were. When I had walked into reception, that must have been the middle ground. One way for the girl's ward, the other for the boys.
“Where are the 136 cells?”
“On the other side, beyond the Orange Ward. Access to them are from the side of the building and are exclusively used by the police. Have you really not been told about how we work before?”
“I've had a long night.”
We reached the door at the end of the corridor and he used his staff card again to access it. He beckoned me through and I didn't try and be kind the second time.
“I must admit,” he said, “I still am unsure as to why you're here but we'll talk in a moment.”
The door closed behind us. I had already seen the blueprint plans but wanted to be sure what I was looking at.
“So you have to pass through locked security doors to access the wards?”
“Three if you include the reception. The area acts like a gateway, many people don't even make it through the first door to the visitor rooms. You've passed through them all in a matter of minutes. Count yourself lucky.”
“I don't feel lucky.”
He led me through another small corridor which had some toilets on the right and a staff base to the left. I noticed some of the care
workers looking intently at me as I walked past. At least I was giving them something different to talk about over coffee and toast.
“Don't worry about them,” Cobbs said, “they're never happy on a weekend.”
“How many people work here?”
“Six staff permanently on each main ward, one to every three patients. If you include the community care team on the second level then you're looking at another hundred or so. But they don't work weekends and they're normally out on home visits.
“Still, two of them remain here on shifts over the weekend to man the emergency phone lines for existing community patients. It's a big operation and we still don't get the funding we deserve.”
“But this is NHS?”
“Exactly,” he said.
We walked past a canteen area where two girls were sitting in slacks, clearly patients. They didn't take much notice of me and just continued talking about the loves of their lives. I saw a TV room ahead, with about five patients just lounging around on the black sofas and armchairs.
“Looks cosy,” I said.
“That's the aim.”
After a few noticeable glances from the younger of the girls, Cobbs led me into the psychiatrist office which was through another locked door to the left of the ward. I walked in and was surprised by how grand it all looked. The curved window looked out to a well conceived if easy to maintain grassy garden.
The large four-metre high walls just beyond the window stood proud with climbing vines adorning the sides. At the top of the wall, a long line of coiled metal barbs ran the length of it in both directions.
The room had a large office desk in the middle with a colourful rug underneath it. Behind his seat, two metres back, there was a handcrafted shelving unit that was full to the brim of research books and files. Behind me on the opposite side of the room there was another bespoke shelving unit which displayed some sensory toys and more books.
“I can see where the budget goes,” I said.
“It looks better than it is.”
“Not as nice as the private wards, I bet. Nice rug, by the way.”
“It's Nepalese,” Cobbs said as he sat in his black leather office chair.
“NHS pay for that then?”
“Sit down, Detective Lake.”
“I'll stand, thank you. If I sit again, I'll pass out and then I'll never escape.”
I heard Cobbs chuckle to himself, as I looked out the window to the garden and the wall just a few metres away from the glass.
“Why are you here?” he said, wanting to get to the point as quick as possible.
“You want the in-your-face truth of it or you want me to beat around the bush?”
“You are a curious one,” he said. “I've looked you up online, I like to know who's coming to see us.”
I turned to face him, crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows, “you or your patients?”
“You're no detective.”
I didn't quite know what to come back with but this guy was getting too clever for my liking already. I had been warned about Linden Psychiatric Hospital and so far it was living up to its impenetrable reputation. He straight away appeared to be on the defensive.
“You found that out online, did you?” I said.
“I have my sources.”
“Then I would suggest you take issue with Superintendent Salt,” I said. “I have full powers here and you will give me full access to whatever I need.”
“Salt?” Cobbs laughed. “The guy's been trying to get in here for years, I told him this is not the place for him. Outside we get along like a house on fire but what he does and what I do require very different executions.”
Cobbs was stalling and I didn't have time to play games – except one.
“And I know who you are,” I said.
“It's not difficult to find out, I am a doctor after all. There's no privacy nowadays.”
“No?”
“I'm afraid not, privacy laws are collapsing by the hour.”
“That's good to know. Then my research on you is perfectly above board and I'll keep your secrets to myself for now.”
He sat back in his chair and frowned at me, “I don't have secrets.”
“Oh really,” I said. I thanked deadcalm1978 in my head before continuing. “I don't research the mundane and the obvious. I don't care if you graduated at the age of 25 with honours or married the love of your life in Hawaii, ten Christmas's ago. It doesn't even bother me that you changed your middle name because it reminded you of your father who beat your mother when you were a child.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
I ignored him and continued, “what I do care about is your secret addiction to Quetiapine, you can't sleep without it. You take it during the day then fight its control over you to make working here that little bit easier. I care about the fact you have a predilection to violent porn. I care because you only get hard when you tie your wife to the bed and have your very wicked way with her. I care about all of that.
“But what bothers me is the collection of girls underwear in a secret box on top of your cupboard in the bedroom you share with your wife. She doesn't know it's there and you'd do anything to keep it that way. Some of the panties are small, too small for grown adults or teens. Work with children much recently Doctor Cobbs? Oh that's right, there are girls as young as twelve here sometimes, so of course you have access to them any time you wish. It's what keeps you going.”
He was breathing heavily and had gone bright red, not knowing what to say. He didn't know whether to be angry or fearful.
“Are you here to arrest me?” he said quietly.
“What for?” I shrugged and smiled. “Forging prescriptions, theft of underwear, drug addiction? What colour are the panties you're wearing today?” I beckoned to his crotch area.
“Okay, you've proved your point.” He sat forward, “what the hell do you want?”
“I want you to make this easy for me.” I pulled up the chair and sat in front of him. “I want access to everything.”
Forty Two
Over the next few hours, one by one, the care workers begrudgingly came into Cobbs office with old files and patient information. I had the boss wrapped around my little finger and I think they knew it, judging by some of their moaning.
Cobbs was betting on the notion that if he helped me then I'd give him a pass, or at the very least not tell anyone else. I was going to need Cobbs for something else at the end of all this and he didn't know it, nor did someone who was very close to him. I'd get to them both in good time.
Each care worker did their bit to assist. One of them showed me how to search the system for records I couldn't find but I got the hang of it pretty quickly. It was just database searching mostly. It astonished me a little bit that the NHS still used paper trails and not modern computer systems. I wasn't sure each site was being checked on to the extreme I was doing with Linden. It astonished me further that some records were totally incomplete.
From the list of seventeen names, I corresponded three of them with the intranet database immediately but the others took a little while to find. I was concerned that I couldn't match the names quick enough and wondered what I was doing wrong.
It was in the boxes of files where I finally found the other names and their very limited information. I found almost every single one of them from Jennifer Cane to Ana Fernandez but the files were incomplete; no address for most of them, no forwarding information. There was even no plan of care in them.
I even found a file for the original Stansey King which was a bonus as I hadn't expected to. The only file I couldn't find was Jess Ashby's and it bugged me a little bit as to why she had been chosen as a victim. I could only think it had to do with me and it hurt me more than I wished it to.
But at least it proved that they had all been in Linden at some point. Judging by the top line on each file, it appeared they had all been resident in room 18. I checked the files I had with other patients and
they didn't really match up. Other patients files had enough information in them to sink the titanic but these seventeen were as if they existed in name only.
No wait! I was confusing myself.
I had seventeen files in front of me but I didn't have Jess Ashby's because she never ended up in Linden. I recounted and there were indeed seventeen files. Tiredness must have been setting in so I checked through the names again and after the re-check I had two files, one in each hand.
In my left hand I had a file for Stansey King and in my right hand... I stopped and frowned.
“Well that doesn't make sense.”
There were two files with Stansey King labelled on the top. I squinted to focus my attention on them. I wasn't seeing things, they were both Stansey King's files.
I called Cobbs back in and asked him to sit in front of me as I remained in his seat which I knew must have bugged him. I had come in and swooped the control from under his feet but I wasn't giving him a choice.
“Why do you have two records of the same person?” I asked.
It was his turn to frown. He reached forward, “may I?”
I handed him the two folders and his frown left him pretty quickly. He handed them back to me.
“You don't think it's curious?” I asked.
“Not at all – it's two different people.”
“How can one person be two different people?”
He threw his hands in the air, “you find out all that bullshit about me and you can't see what's right in front of your eyes. It's not one person. It is two different people. Take a look.”
I opened both files and laid them flat on the large desk in front of me. Both read Stansey King but then I noticed the differences. There were no photos so it was tricky to work it out at first. They were both of similar age judging by their dates of birth except one was born in the United Kingdom and one in Slovenia.
“I still don't understand,” I said.
Cobbs huffed and tutted and spoke with a hint of annoyance, “give me the files, I'll explain it to you.” He reached over and took them from the desk.