2004 - The Reunion

by Sue Walker

  Police say that they will shortly be releasing further details of the man they are seeking.

  He crushed the cutting he’d hoarded and obsessively reread for the last three months in his fist and threw it to the winds. He was oblivious to the biting cold. It was the most spectacular graveyard anywhere. He looked up at the black bulk of the Auld Kirk teetering on the very edge of the headland. To some it might seem eerie standing here at the witching hour. But not to him. He relished the wind screaming itself hoarse above the rhythmic whoosh of the waves a few feet below. He wrenched down his hood, shaking his hair free, exposing his face, and marvelling at the soft yet stinging spray kicked up by the breakers as they lashed at the rocks.

  He placed a palm on one of the oldest gravestones, the skill of the stonemason’s hand long obliterated by the elements. He’d be happy to be buried here. Yes, happy. Happier than now. In this life. Which held no happiness. He moved to the shelter of the kirk porch, a dim outside light offering a gentle welcome to nocturnal visitors. He heaved at the unwieldy, weather-scarred wooden door and entered. As he dosed it behind him, battling against a final gush of wind and rain, he found himself in the utter quiet. The storm forgotten, at bay outside.

  He opted for a pew halfway down the short aisle. The lighting was low. He was alone. With a smile, he found himself praying yet again to a God he’d never believed in—until three months ago. He added a curse against a devil he’d always believed in.

  Katie’s back. Thank you. Thank you. He reached inside the layers of wool and waterproofs and took out the delicate auburn curl, tied with pale yellow ribbon. He kissed Katie’s hair and held it to his damp cheek. From the same pocket he took the photo. Two symbolic halves of his life. He held one in each hand and stared at them at arm’s length. And then closed his eyes against the tears.

  The jumble of what the police had reported and surmised from the previous abductions, in addition to what Katie’s psychotherapist, Debbie Fry, had got out of his daughter during intensive therapy, was swirling round his head yet again. He’d pieced together something of the mystery of her captivity, but, in the end, it may have been more his fantasy than fact…

  The man would have heard the yelping of the puppy as he unloaded the shopping from his vehicle. A secondhand four-wheel drive: secondhand (and bought for cash in a dodgy, late-night deal) because he couldn’t possibly use his own vehicle, under the circumstances; four-wheel drive because the place was so deliberately inaccessible. Probably the most remote part of the Fife coast. Perfect. He’d lugged the heavy bags into the kitchen and was greeted by the puppy scratching from inside the girl’s locked bedroom door.

  He’d turned the key and there she was. A pretty thing in her new summer shorts, allowing the spindly little legs to be browned by the sun, and a brightly striped t-shirt. Clothes the man had supplied her with. Well, she needed some new clothes.

  “Hiya, Katie. How’s Bobby? Is he behaving himself? Not pee’d in your room or anything?”

  “Nah. Bobby’s a good dog.”

  He’d handed her the ice lolly and watched as she ripped the paper off and started lickingfrantically at it, immediately smearing red and orange all over her face. But it wasn’t going to be enough. He’d known from the frown what was coming.

  “Is Mummy and Daddy coming now? And what about Lily? Where is Lily, is she coming too?”

  “Lily’s just fine, sweetheart. And Mummy and Daddy will be here soon. Very soon, okay? I promise. Now, you and Bobby can play in the back for a while. But don’t throw the ball over the high fence. ‘Cause we can’t get it back. Ifs just the cliffs and the sea over there. Nothing else. All right?”

  She’d nodded and then reluctantly took the ice lolly from her mouth. “They can all see Bobby. Lily’ll like him and we can take him down to the beach at our house, and he can go in the sea with us, because dogs like the sea.”

  He’d kept his patience and smiled at her, patting her soft hair. “Soon, Katie. Soon.”

  He’d finished unpacking the shopping and wandered through to her room. The place was in chaos. She and Bobby had obviously been having a field day with the toys, many of which were chewed and split, their stuffing tumbling out on to floor and bed. He had done a quick tidy, and then moved back into the kitchen and pulled out chicken nuggets and oven chips from the freezer.

  Five minutes later, he’d sat down in the small living room, coffee by his side, reaching over to the table for the morning paper and for the front-page story: ‘Police Concern Grows Over Missing Girl’.

  Two weeks later, that final day, he’d kept her and Bobby out in the back garden for as long as possible. The stench of petrol must have been overpowering. The man would have cast a final, regretful glance at her bedroom, the toys, the books. Then he’d poked his head out of the back door. She and Bobby would have been sitting in a heap on the grass, in the sunshine.

  “Okay, you two. It’s time.”

  He would have had a clear vantage point. The fire would have taken a grip, and the cottage become a ruin before the emergency services were anywhere near it. He’d have walked over to the telephone box, gloved hands making him unworried about anything of himself being left behind.

  The 999 call would have been answered immediately. “Yes, I need the police please. It’s about that missing girl. Katie Calder.”

  A screaming gust that managed to penetrate the sanctum roused him. With trembling delicacy he placed the items back into the warmth of his breast pocket. Closest to his heart. Reluctantly he paced back down the aisle and into the maelstrom outside. He glanced over towards his house, only yards away. A solitary lamp beaconed out into the Firth. The one in his study. The only part of his home he could bear to be in right now. It had been another evening of hell…

  The rumble of family noises. Girls squealing, Rachel shooing them upstairs to get ready for bed. Followed by die wagging-tailed backside of his elderly golden Labrador, the puppy scampering behind it. He’d ignored Rachel as she wandered back into the kitchen, where he was throwing the dried remains of a roast chicken into the bin. “How come you’re back so late with the girls? Dinner’s inedible.”

  She was staring at him, waiting for him to look at her. Instead, he’d turned his back and began washing the roasting tin, over-vigorously rubbing and scraping.

  Her voice was glacial. “We’ve eaten. I took the girls to a movie and dien we went for a pizza, after the session. Your mother met us with the dogs.” Then, a bitter staccato laugh. “Hah-hah! Ironic, isn’t it? Those dogs’ve been so good for your mother. Keeping her company while we’re in France. And Katie adores them too. Absolutely ironic. So, Simon? Why didn’t you turn up for the session? Dr Fry said you’d rung her twenty minutes before we were due to start. Said you had a work emergency. I wasn’t aware that you were on call this weekend. That’s the whole reason Dr Fry agreed to offer us a Saturday appointment. At considerable inconvenience to herself, since she doesn’t normally consult on Saturdays.”

  He’d swivelled round, roughly drying his hands on the tea-towel. “Really? I know a number of child psychotherapists who consult on Saturdays, simply because they don’t want their patients dragged out of the routine of school. Evidently Debbie Fry is different.”

  He’d followed her in silence out of the kitchen, catching her words as she headed for the stairs. “I’m going to put the girls to bed. By the way, Dr Fry says that Katie’s lack of progress these past three months is a direct result of your failing to attend the family-therapy sessions. I hope you can live with that. Goodnight…”

  He walked unhurriedly through the sea-mist and icy rain, back to the house, unzipped his waterproof and left it dripping on the coat-stand. Unconsciously, he took a right turn into his study and closed the door, sliding the newly installed bolt across. He still needed air. The window was flung open, the wind catching his papers and performing its usual whirlpool of chaos. He sat down and began the ritual twisting of his fountain pen, screwing and unscrewing the top. Then he laid
it down and headed for his safe.

  The letter was only a few months old but his repeated handling had left it torn and grubby.

  Dear Simon,

  I want to say how very sorry I am about your little girl. Iread the dreadful news about your daughter in the paper lat night. I really could not believe what I was reading. It seemed unreal. But I know that it is. Of all the places for something like this to happen. I’d never have imagined it happening in your part of the world.

  I’ll never forget the day we all had that reunion picnic in St Monans. You chose the place and you said that one day you were going to own the old manse up by the church. And you said you were going to be a psychololist. You were in your second year at university and studying psychology, I think. You said bith things with such a serious face that I believed you. It’s funny what things stick in your mind, isn’t it.

  I also know that I should not be contacting you but I have. I think it is obvious why. (Although there has always been provision for emergencies like this, hasn’t there, outside the normal contact arrangement? Surely?) Otherwise—anyway, I hope you know what I mean. Please, if you want to contact me, that’s totally fine with me. I might be the best person to talk to, if you see what I mean. If not, that’s okay.

  As you know, I live a long way away, on the Isle of Lewis. I lead a quiet life. One that has caused me to think a great deal. Maybe I can help.

  Anyway Simon, I hope all goes well.

  Danny R

  018513 0055787

  Tonight had convinced him. Not from some dramatic spiritual revelation assailing him in the church. More a slow-burn realization. It was time to answer the letter. But first, he had to mark the evening with an entry in his journal. The formal daily record of his dismal life.

  Mine is a double guilt. It is now confirmed that Katie is not getting better because I will not, cannot, attend the sessions with her psychotherapist. So, now it’s not just me blaming myself for Katie but Rachel too, and Dr Fry. How dare Debbie Fry say as much to Rachel? Bloody cheek. I have a good mind to—but no. I don’t suppose she actually put it literally like that. Rachel will have exaggerated. Taken enjoyment in seeing me hurt.

  But what can I tell her? What can I do? How can I sit through those family-therapy sessions? Ifd be a mockery! Like some diabolically cruel joke! Yes indeed, Nemesis—or God—or the devil—or them all—sits prettify by my side all the time now—for eternity? My little darling’s abduction and return was the sign. The sign that it’s time for me to do that infamous thing.

  The Right Thing.

  SIXTEEN

  Morningside. He reckoned there must be nearly as many psychotherapists per square inch in this part of Edinburgh as Manhattan. It was a sign of the city’s affluence that it could support so many. Some, of course, were better than others. Debbie Fry was, by all accounts, one of the best child psychotherapists around. He’d done his homework on her. After studying psychology to Ph. D. level, she’d switched to psychotherapy, training at the Tavistock in London, initially specializing in treating adolescents. She’d then become involved in child therapy, particularly victims of child abuse and other serious crimes. She was an acknowledged expert witness, and the police used her a lot.

  Sheena, his boss, had offered die entree, for which he was grateful. And not. That Katie was being seen by the best had to be a force for good. That he hadn’t attended any of the sessions and been politely but effectively summoned to her practice to explain himself was tricky. He had die distinct feeling that Dr Fry and his wife had been having quite a few conversations about him, behind his back. The thought added to his feeling of dread as he tugged at die old-fashioned bell pull.

  He checked the clock on her mantelpiece. They’d been pussy-footing around for ten minutes. She’d outlined Katie’s progress and prognosis. Both favourable, despite Rachel’s claims to the contrary. However, there was a ‘but’. He sat back and waited for Debbie Fry to expand, though he knew what was coming. He took another look around the beautifully appointed therapy room. High ceilinged, with two long sash windows giving out to the garden. And what a garden. It had a wild look. Grasses, rowan trees, a couple of rockeries where two blue point Siamese cats were slinking about. Focusing back on the interior, he wondered where the usual tools of a child therapist’s trade were. The anatomically correct dolls and suchlike. Maybe this wasn’t her working room after all.

  He met her eye again. He guessed her to be mid to late forties. Extremely attractive, much of that attractiveness stemming from the fact that she looked so fit and bursting with health. To add to that impression, she obviously spent a fair bit of time in sunnier parts of the world, judging by the tanned face and arms. And what else’was coming through? Yes, she had a definite air of self-confidence. Sexual self-confidence. Clad unseasonably for an Edinburgh autumn in tight t-shirt, Levis and sandals, she had an athletic body and didn’t mind showing it off. And she was happy to let her dark cropped hair show its grey streaks. A good decision, he thought.

  “The thing is, Simon, as I’ve said to Rachel, I do feel that Katie’s progress, which will in any case be slow and long term, would be bettered if the whole family was involved. I know that you, of all people, understand the vital importance to a traumatized patient of having those who love her highly visible during the healing process. Would it help if I changed the session times to accommodate you? Are you back to full clinical duties now? I know that’s a heavy workload.”

  And just how did she know about his resuming work duties and its implication that he’d reduced them in the first place? Educated guesswork? Rachel? He hoped Sheena Logan wasn’t discussing him with Debbie Fry. That would be entirely unethical. Furthermore, his refusal to attend Katie’s sessions might indicate to Sheena that he wasn’t up to resuming work. No, Debbie Fry had better not be discussing anything with his boss. He decided it was time.

  “I’m sorry, Debbie. Let me clarify a few things, which of course will remain entirely confidential, like the rest of this conversation. I have my own reasons for feeling that it would be best to proceed with Katie’s treatment without my input. Personal, deeply held reasons. It’s not that I can’t make the time to attend. I just do not wish to.”

  She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her armchair, the look penetrating. “Can I ask, is it that Katie’s experience has echoes for you, perhaps in your own past?”

  The accuracy of the question floored him. Sheena Logan had told her. It had to be. Had told her that he’d had treatment in the past, even though it was more than a quarter of a century ago. Outrageous! And what if Debbie Fry tells Rachel? It was a nightmare! He’d have to confront Sheena about this. She didn’t know the details, but probably when Sheena and Debbie Fry had discussed him, they’d assumed, quite wrongly, that his adolescent illness was linked to that holy grail of child therapy—sexual abuse. He had been abused, all right. But in a more invisible way, psychologically bludgeoned and undermined by a bullying mother.

  He had to close this conversation down. “You’re perfectly entitled to make an assumption of that sort, but I’m really not prepared to expand on what I’ve said. Whatever my issues are, I’m dealing with them elsewhere.”

  He knew it sounded near to a rebuke, but she seemed far from offended. Instead, she gave him a warm smile and stood up. “That’s absolutely fine, Simon. Katie will be okay anyway. Be assured of that. We’ll work on, and please, feel free to ring me any time you want an update.”

  He was relieved beyond words at her reaction. Of course, as a therapist, it was the right thing to do. She had no other leverage. If he was saying he didn’t want to attend his daughter’s sessions because of overwhelming personal reasons, there was bugger all she could do. And she had to keep him on side, as part of the therapy. The last thing she needed, in an already fractured family, was to open up another crack.

  As they reached the wide hallway, he heard the clink of keys.

  “Oh God, sorry, Deb. I didn’t think you were going to be wor
king this afternoon.”

  He looked at the smiling woman who’d come in. She appeared remarkably similar to Debbie Fry. Fit, tanned, casually dressed. A sister?

  Debbie Fry was smiling back at the woman. “No, no problem. I’m not working. Eh…sorry, Simon. This is my partner. Sarah…Sarah Melville.”

  The barman was beginning to look at him anxiously. It was his third double in less than twenty minutes. He took himself and his drink to the back of the pub, and sat in the darkest corner. The nearest pub to Debbie Fry’s house was the Hermitage, one he’d known well, and it brought back fleeting snatches of his courtship with Rachel. They’d had a Saturday-afternoon ritual of going to the art-house cinema up the road and then walking down here for a pint or few. Happy days. Past days.

  He analysed his feelings. He’d tried to be rational about what had just happened. The world of psychological medicine was pretty small and tight-knit in the central belt of Scotland. The world of psychotherapy, operating around the axis of Edinburgh and Glasgow, at elite level anyway, had to be minute. Debbie Fry was renowned. He didn’t know about Sarah Melville, but she’d said something about lecturing in the discipline, so she was probably pretty well thought of. No, it wasn’t really surprising at all.

  God, he was reeling! But he’d dealt with the encounter in a quick-thinking way and, he hoped, with aplomb. He’d been completely up front…

  “Good grief! Sarah Melville? Yes, it is you. You won’t remember but I was your patient once. Nineteen seventy-seven? The APU?”

  And after a few exclamations and hand-shakings and slightly tense laughs from both women, she’d rallied. “Simon, don’t be so modest. You were one of our star patients. We watched and admired your progress into clinical psychology. Actually, we might well have bumped into one another if I’d stayed nursing, but I got the call to psychotherapy and haven’t looked back.”