by CJ Carver
He gave a choked snort.
Lucy didn’t think it was particularly funny. She’d liked Karen, wouldn’t have minded having her as a friend, but Karen didn’t like her much. Too abrasive, she’d told Baz.
Mac turned serious. He said, ‘I hate to say this, but we have to put your life under the microscope and this involves looking at your Met colleagues.’
‘Yes.’ Her stomach hollowed but she knew it had to be done. God alone knew what they’d say about her when they learned she was on a killer’s hit list.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Friday 30 November, 6.30 p.m.
Grace put her mother’s computer and cash, spare passports and driving licence in a small leather holdall she’d found in the cupboard under the stairs and placed it with her bag in the hall. She’d tidied the house as much as she could after Dan had left yesterday, but it still looked as though a tornado had blown through. Her mother had been so neat. She’d hate what Grace had done to her house, but perhaps if her mother had been honest with her in the first place she wouldn’t have had to tear the place apart.
She paused for a moment, aware she was already beginning to look back on her life before her mother died as a time of blissful innocence. Or was it ignorance? Everything was skewed, making her feel as though she was looking at life through a prism. Grace picked up the holdall. She should have been in London this morning to see Joe with Dan, but Joe had cancelled last night, saying he had an urgent meeting he had to go to in Amsterdam but could they make it Monday? She’d tried to persuade Joe he didn’t have to be there but when he made it clear her visit would be awkward without him, if not impossible, she found herself almost begging to see her mother’s office over the weekend. I have a deadline! she wanted to scream, and some of her fear and frustration must have transferred itself to Joe because finally he’d relented, agreeing to see her the next day. She texted Dan to let him know.
At least she’d managed to put off that policewoman from coming to Tring. She was dreading meeting her and . . .
Her thoughts abruptly jammed as the pay-as-you-go mobile on the hall table started to ring. The phone Sirius Thiele had left with her. Her heart began pounding so hard that her chest hurt. She put down the holdall and carefully picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Grace.’
His voice was conversational, as though he was a friend ringing for a chat.
Her hands began to sweat.
‘Have you found the money yet?’ he asked.
‘I’ve . . .’ Her voice quavered. She cleared her throat and tried to steady herself. ‘I’ve found some. But I –’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty-five thousand pounds.’ She hastily rounded it upwards in the hope that it would be adequate.
‘It’s a start, I suppose, but certainly nowhere near enough.’
‘Please, I’m doing my best to –’
‘Hold on. I have someone who wants to say hello.’
Brief silence.
‘Hello?’ It was Martin. He sounded exhausted.
Her head went completely light.
‘Martin?’ she said. ‘I thought you were in Norway.’
‘That’s what I’ve told people,’ he said.
‘Has he kidnapped you?’ Her voice was high.
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Martin said wearily. ‘Look, Grace. Just get his money, would you? Then he’ll go away. Get out of our lives.’
‘How did he find out about Simon?’ she suddenly demanded with a spurt of fury. ‘How?’
‘He heard we’d fallen out. He wanted to know why. I would never have told him except he threatened to –’
Martin’s words were snatched away. Sirius Thiele returned to the line.
‘When will you have the money?’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I swear I don’t know –’
‘Those are five words my client does not want to hear.’
‘Please, I –’
‘My client isn’t known for his patience, but . . .’
Silence. Her heart continued to pound.
‘I’ll try and persuade him to stretch things until Monday. Meantime, make sure our arrangement remains confidential.’
Click.
He’d gone.
She hung up and stood shaking, gazing at the burglar alarm panel but without seeing it. She had a reprieve. She had the weekend in which to make this mess go away. Could she do it? Keep the truth hidden? Carry on with her life as before? She couldn’t lose her job, she realised. It was part of her nature, her spirit, her whole being. And what about Ross? She had to keep him out of this at all cost. She couldn’t have him harmed. She loved him deeply, irrevocably. If he moved to Scotland, she would too. If he wanted to move to Bolivia, she would join him. A happy lightness entered her soul for a moment. She was meant to be with him, and he with her. They were good together, really good, and they would make Scotland work. All she had to do was find her mother’s sodding money, and get Sirius Thiele out of her life, forever.
*
When she arrived home, it felt as though she’d been away for three weeks, not three days. A small clutter of mail sat inside the front door, including two DHL notices. We tried to deliver a package . . . We tried to re-deliver your package . . . She shoved both notices inside her handbag for when she was next in Basingstoke. She wasn’t expecting anything in particular, and since the last parcel she’d collected from DHL turned out to be nothing but a set of low-energy bulbs she’d bought off the Internet, she didn’t consider it a priority.
She put her mother’s computer on the kitchen table, and then made herself a cup of tea and drank it while she considered where to hide the contents of the holdall. By the time she’d finished the tea, she knew there was no hidey-hole in the house that someone like Dan couldn’t find. So she decided on an age-old fallback.
Bury it.
But first she needed bin bags. Air-tight freezer bags to keep everything from the elements. Air-tight food containers. A spade. Simple.
Fortunately, her cottage backed on to a small coppice of beech trees, so finding somewhere private wasn’t a problem. Nor was it overlooked. But digging a hole took more of an effort than she’d expected. Despite the soft, mulchy ground it was almost dark by the time she finished and she was sweating heavily. She raked over some twigs and leaves and stood back. She’d check in the morning, but she reckoned it would be hard to tell there was something buried there.
Inside, she saw she’d missed a call from Dan. She rang him back.
He said, ‘Thanks for the text.’
‘Can you make it tomorrow?’
‘Hopefully, yes. But if not, I want you to keep your eyes out for one of the guys who entered your mother’s home while you were at her funeral.’
Grace blinked. ‘You think someone from her work broke in?’
‘Someone connected, yes. I saw him leaving DCA yesterday.’ He went on to vividly describe a man with sandy hair and pale eyes. A mole on his right cheekbone, another on his chin. Narrow, slightly skewed nose. Small earlobes. By the time Dan finished his description she felt as though she could paint a picture of the man.
‘What if I see him?’ she asked.
‘Text me, ring me, get me there at all costs. I want to know what he does, where he goes. I’m convinced he’s the link that will explain what’s going on. Why Stella had those passports and money. Why she contacted me in the first place.’
Pretty important, then.
Then he said, ‘Anything new?’
She wasn’t sure why, but she told him about PC Lucy Davies wanting to see her urgently about Jamie’s death. ‘I think something really bad happened to him but she won’t say anything over the phone.’
‘If I can help, let me know.’
‘Thanks.’
Grace slept fitfully that night, disturbed by dreams of Sirius and her mother, and when she checked her appearance in the mirror she wasn’t surprised to see a pale reflection of her usual
self with drawn skin and bloodshot eyes. Before she went to the surgery, she checked the site where she’d buried her mother’s things. In daylight, the ground definitely looked as though it had been disturbed. Grace raked a few more leaves over the ground, along with some twigs and a moss-laden branch. There, now it was perfect. Nobody would suspect a thing.
At 7 a.m. she was the first one into work so she disabled the alarm and switched on the coffee machine. Booted up her computer. She’d asked their receptionist to deal with anything that needed attention while she was away, or forward it to one of the partners, so there wasn’t much outstanding. A chickenpox outbreak at one of the schools. A statutory sick note to attend to. She found comfort immersing herself in everyday, ordinary things and when the front door bell rang, she jumped.
Eight o’clock.
Grace opened the front door to a lithe, energetic-looking young woman in jeans and boots and a leather jacket lined with sheepskin.
‘Dr Reavey?’ she said. She showed Grace her warrant card. ‘I’m Lucy Davies.’
‘Grace.’
They shook. Lucy’s grip was much stronger than Grace’s and made her feel oddly weak and insubstantial. She gestured Lucy inside.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ said Lucy, following Grace down the hall. ‘It’s tough when a parent dies.’
Something in her tone made Grace turn. ‘You lost someone?’
‘Sort of.’ The policewoman gave a wry smile. ‘My dad ran away when I was ten. It was like he died. Mum never remarried.’
‘My father died when I was a baby,’ Grace admitted. ‘My mother didn’t remarry either.’
Both women appraised one another.
‘I guess we’re living proof that you don’t necessarily need a father to do OK,’ Lucy said. She gave Grace a quick smile.
‘I guess so,’ Grace agreed. She smiled back.
In her office, she offered Lucy coffee but the policewoman declined, settling herself straight away on the chair next to Grace’s desk. She was focused and intent, making it obvious that she didn’t want to be deflected.
Feeling oddly nervous, Grace sat down. ‘How can I help?’
‘I need you to tell me about Jamie. As much as you can, no matter how small the detail. Anything could be important.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he was murdered in a particularly brutal way. We want to find his killer.’
Dear God. Poor Jamie.
She looked at Lucy. Lively, deep brown eyes met hers. Lucy said, ‘How about I start with some questions, OK?’
‘Sure.’
They covered Jamie’s family and relationships before turning to his medical history. Standard stuff, Grace guessed.
‘Was he on any medication?’ Lucy asked. She was looking at her notebook, appearing to be ticking off a set list of questions.
Grace brought up Jamie’s file. She’d had a quick look earlier and now she felt the same small shock beneath her breastbone. She may be a GP but she’d had no clue about Jamie’s medical history. She’d simply seen him as a vibrant young man, not bipolar, proving how things could work really well for patients if they sought help at the right time and took the right advice.
‘Jamie was taking a drug called Zidazapine.’
‘He what?’
If Grace had stabbed the policewoman with an electric cattle prod she couldn’t have had a more startled response.
‘Jamie was bipolar,’ Grace said. ‘Severe mood swings.’
The policewoman was still staring at her. ‘You’re kidding,’ she said.
‘No.’ She checked the notes again. ‘He’s actually bipolar 1 and is, apparently, pretty much symptom-free. But he still needed medication.’
The policewoman’s gaze turned distant. Eventually she said, ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned on Jamie’s missing person’s report?’ Her tone was calm but there was an underlying tension that made Grace anxious.
‘I don’t know,’ Grace replied, her tone indicating she shouldn’t have to know either. ‘But it might be an idea to talk to the officer who spoke to me when Jamie went missing. Is his name on the report?’
Lucy’s attention narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘He was in a hurry. He wanted to know if Jamie was vulnerable or not, and although I said he probably wasn’t vulnerable, I’m not sure if he really took on board my insistence that he speak to Dr Smith, let alone get another doctor to check his file . . .’
‘Are you suggesting this officer didn’t do his job properly?’
Grace swallowed. ‘All I’m saying is that he was in a hurry. He didn’t seem particularly worried about Jamie either. He told me he’d probably return home by the weekend.’
Lucy squeezed her eyes shut briefly. She gritted her teeth and Grace sensed she was battling an urge to scream.
Wanting to help, Grace added, ‘But I wouldn’t say that being bipolar made Jamie particularly vulnerable. Especially if he was taking that particular drug. He’d still be low risk.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Lucy. Her tone was strangled. ‘We should have known this right from the start. Why didn’t you know?’ Lucy was accusing. ‘You’re a GP. You say you knew Jamie.’
‘Not as a patient,’ Grace reminded her. ‘There was no reason for Dr Smith to tell me Jamie’s medical condition, just as if you were my patient I wouldn’t tell Dr Smith that you were suffering from, say, diabetes. We don’t discuss individual cases unless it’s necessary, for example, if there’s another partner in the practice who may have a special interest in a particular field, or we feel we need help with a particular patient.’
Her explanation didn’t seem to appease Lucy who appeared to be struggling to keep her temper. Several seconds ticked past before the policewoman took a breath and exhaled, obviously trying to calm herself. ‘How do you diagnose bipolar disorder?’ she asked.
Grace glanced outside to see a lone blackbird perched on a branch, its plumage puffed against the cold. ‘There’s no definitive medical test, which makes an immediate diagnosis problematic. There are several conditions – both physical and psychiatric – which can present symptoms that can be confused with those relating to bipolar disorder.’
‘It’s easy to misdiagnose?’ For some reason Lucy seemed to brighten.
‘It’s a complicated issue,’ Grace said carefully.
‘How did Dr Smith diagnose Jamie?’
Grace read through the notes. ‘After a period of depression, followed by a manic phase, Dr Smith sent him to a psychiatrist to review Jamie’s history and his mood swings, among other things.’
‘What things?’
Grace spread her hands. ‘Personality changes and lifestyle habits. Detailed questions would have been asked about reasoning, memory, his ability to express himself and maintain relationships. Mood swings from day to day or moment to moment don’t necessarily indicate bipolar.’
Lucy’s attention sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘OK. Let’s say Jamie had hypomanic episodes when he was exceptionally energetic and animated, needed only three hours’ sleep instead of his usual eight, spent more money than he safely should and spoke faster than usual. This behaviour was noticeably different from his own stable mood, yet there are energetic, animated people who need little sleep, spend a lot and talk fast who don’t have bipolar disorder. Which is why Jamie needed to be fully assessed using specific criteria.’
‘Such as?’ The policewoman was leaning forward, expression intent.
Grace checked the screen. ‘Jamie filled out a mood questionnaire to help guide the psychiatrist’s clinical interview when he assessed Jamie’s mood symptoms. Changes in sleep, energy, thinking, speech and behaviour were monitored closely. In addition, blood and urine tests helped to rule out other causes of symptoms.’
Lucy stared at her. ‘Would a GP be able to diagnose someone bipolar without all these checks?’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘Christ.’ The word was muttered. Then
Lucy said, ‘Sorry,’ but she didn’t look sorry. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering. She was, Grace realised with a stab of alarm, furious.
‘I know some people think we’re becoming a prescription culture,’ Grace said, wanting to alleviate Lucy’s mood. ‘I also know some GPs view such drugs as harmless and prescribe them far too easily, but in Jamie’s case the Zidazapine suited him really well. His appears to be a classic example of successful diagnosis and treatment.’
A door banged and Grace glanced up, surprised to see it was past 8.30, when the surgery officially opened. She’d been so absorbed with Lucy that she hadn’t heard the staff arrive, nor the first handful of patients, but now she could hear people chatting, the phone in reception ringing.
Lucy cleared her throat. Brought out a piece of paper. A photocopy. To Grace’s relief, the policewoman seemed to have regained her composure. Lucy said, ‘There’s another reason why I wanted to see you.’
Grace nodded but didn’t say anything.
‘You see,’ Lucy said, ‘this piece of paper links Jamie’s murder and Bella Frances’s vicious attack to three more murders.’
‘Three?’ A feather of frigid breath trailed down Grace’s spine. ‘Are you talking about a serial killer?’
The policewoman held Grace’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And your name is on the same piece of paper as the victims. We need to know why.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Grace couldn’t stop staring at the photocopy Lucy had shown her.
Jamie’s handwriting.
Talk to Dr Grace about this?
‘He wanted to talk to me about a friend of his going missing,’ she told Lucy. ‘It didn’t cross my mind that it might be Bella Frances. I don’t think the policeman filling in Jamie’s missing person’s report gave it a second’s thought either.’
Lucy’s eyes gleamed. ‘What else?’
‘He said he’d only met her once, but she was really nice. That’s it, I’m afraid.’
Lucy made a note in her notebook while Grace looked at the photocopy once more. ‘Why is your name there?’ she asked again, unable to get her head around it.