by A J Waines
‘I arranged unnecessary “check-ups” for those four patients after the normal treatment for their injuries. Then I went to work implanting the false images. You were right about that novel – the one you tracked down. My God – you are clever! I borrowed scenes where innocent victims were trapped and panicking, but I added one important element: the oppressive guilt – memories where each of them ignored innocent people crying out…’
I slapped my hands over my ears, appalled, locked in my own bewilderment. Leo was right here, speaking to me in the room while inside I was silently screaming at him. He said he hadn’t meant for the patients to die – hadn’t meant for it to go as far as causing their suicides. But was that a lie, as well?
‘It only took around forty minutes, involving electric shocks and bright lights activated at intervals as I read out passages from the book. None of them had any idea what had happened once they came round.
‘I was useless in the face of my wife’s illness. I felt guilty that it was her, not me, who was dying. Helena didn’t deserve it. I was so desperate. Can you understand that? I was powerless to do anything about it. I’m a surgeon, for Christ’s sake. I’m used to making everything better.’
And playing God..!
I didn’t know whether to yell or burst into tears. I sank to the bed and hammered my fists into the mattress. More than anything I was bitterly disappointed that this man I admired so much had sunk so low.
Why had he gone to all this trouble to tell me this?
‘It’s only a matter of time before you work everything out. You knew the patients weren’t genuine survivors of the Liverpool Street fire. You’re a smart woman – the novel, the fake signature in Terry’s records. You were piecing it all together.’
There was a hiatus and I wondered if the recording had finished. Then his voice, barely there, resumed. ‘I was the one who left the lead in the bookcase in your office. I was taping your sessions to see how the patients were responding.’
I shook my head.
‘There were only ever four of them and you’re not affected, by the way. Any nightmares you’re still having are purely down to stress. I know I should be punished, but there’s not much time left for that. Is death punishment enough? I wish things had been different. I think you know what I mean…’
There was a click, followed by a prolonged hiss.
I couldn’t move. Nothing was solid any more. Then came an overwhelming surge of despair; an acute sense of loneliness and I sat up.
Everything looked the same; the fluffy bunny Con had won at a funfair on the laundry basket, the coat hanger sticking out from behind the chest of drawers. The half-drunk mug of cold coffee on the carpet waiting to be kicked over. It was as if everything in the flat was mocking me, every item was staring at me with its barefaced normality.
But everything had changed.
Leo had betrayed me.
My thoughts were charging around too fast. I had to tell the police. Didn’t I? If I didn’t explain what I knew, wasn’t I some kind of accessory to the deaths of my patients? Could I be charged for failing to report a crime? Then again, had any crime actually been committed?
I stood and screamed at the audio file on my laptop; a thin white bar across the screen, like a flat line on an ICU monitor.
‘Tell me you weren’t in your right mind, Leo! Tell me it wasn’t you who did this terrible thing!’
Why wasn’t he here, standing in front of me, so he could explain everything? The audio file was defiantly silent.
I wanted to despise him, but all I could feel was a devastating sadness. I finished the last dregs of the brandy, crawled into bed and closed my eyes. But my mind was still alert. I went over and over the facts, trying to work out what I should do next. There had been three suicides, but had there been a crime? Death by proxy? Would that stand up in court? Con wasn’t a credible witness – he couldn’t remember a thing.
I thought of Leo, angry and hurt. He’d taken secret tissue samples and run tests and found that those four individuals were potential donors. When they’d refused to help, he’d implanted false memories in their minds to make them come forward. This decent man had seriously lost his moral bearings under the weight of his grief. But, he’d tried to redeem himself, eager to reverse what he’d done to Con. He’d died trying to save him. That had to stand for something. Didn’t it?
I stayed up most of the night, playing the recording again and again. I wished I’d known he’d briefly come out of his coma. How long had he been conscious? Long enough for this and, now I thought about it, long enough to take steps to make sure I was reinstated from my suspension, too.
I wished someone had let me know. I could have seen him. I had so many questions stored up inside, but perhaps that’s what he couldn’t face.
By the time dawn was oozing through the cracks in my curtains, I was convinced. Leo had certainly committed a grave sin – he had tampered with people’s free will, but he hadn’t known his methods would have had such dire consequences.
That part hadn’t been deliberate, I felt sure of it – or maybe that was just what I wanted to believe.
I made up my mind. I’d wouldn’t go to the police. There was no need to ruin Leo’s name or drag his daughters through an ignominious scandal – they’d suffered enough. It was over – Leo said there were no more than four victims. He was dead. Surely, he’d paid his price.
As for Leo’s USB stick, I wanted to keep it, for the time being at least. Even though the content was hard to hear, I couldn’t part with his voice just yet.
I propped the photograph of Kim on the mantelpiece and dragged myself to the kitchen to make a strong coffee.
Chapter 42
25 September
The car jerks to a halt. My hands make ten-to-two on the steering wheel, but I have no idea what the time is.
I switch off the engine. Tiny spots of rain spatter the windscreen, gradually coating it with liquid fog and I marvel at the way each drop looks like it is heading straight for me and then is caught, just before it reaches my face, by the intervening glass.
I get out and begin the ascent, following the narrow winding path, but it’s not steep like the first time. The rain spits, pricking my cheeks; the wind is fierce, pressing my trousers against my legs as if I’m under water. Just like before. Only now it’s no struggle.
I have all the time in the world.
The air is crystal clear with a mossy undertone and there is a vague aroma of freshly caught fish. With every breath I feel renewed, emancipated, expansive.
Being back here in Stockholm, where my life began, is like completing a perfect circle.
I cast my mind back to St Luke’s. When those four patients turned their backs, I had to do something. It was devious and against all my better judgement, but I never wanted them to die – Sam must know that, surely – it wasn’t meant to go that far.
Some might say staging my own death was a cop-out, but I’d got myself into a tight corner in the end. I couldn’t risk carrying out the reversal on Con and then turning round to find my wrists in handcuffs. Sam was smart – she would have worked it out sooner or later, but I wouldn’t have left unless I’d known one thing for sure. That everything had been set up so she could carry on without me. She didn’t need me anymore. And I was forced to run – I had no choice. I could never have been sure that Sam would understand.
I head towards the rocky outcrop, soaking up the view across the lake – it’s breathtaking. Islands are dotted here and there on the horizon, like broken chunks of tarmac, stretching north-west towards Norway, towards other worlds.
The fall from the roof came at the right time. It looked worse than it was; I had a broken rib and internal bruising, that’s all. I turned it to my advantage – into my escape route.
I understand how hospitals work and Lian helped everything along even though she knew I wasn’t taking her with me. I made it clear my feelings weren’t the same. How could they be? Helena is still the b
lood running through my veins.
Leaving Felicity and Kim was the hardest thing about my entire plan – and so soon after their mother’s death. After I was seen at A&E, Lian made sure I had a private room and that my daughters were my only visitors. She made sure they arrived at the right time and applied clever make-up to make me look like I was at death’s door. Having to lie there, frozen and mute, while they leant over me, weeping, nearly destroyed me.
Then it was a matter of Lian finding a corpse of similar age and build, and swapping toe tags at the right time. An admin ‘mix up’ we engineered meant I was sent for cremation, before the coroner got to hear about the death and by then I was reduced to dust.
I stare out over the sheen of untroubled water. The sun will set here in a couple of hours.
In the long run, my demise will be better for everyone. Felicity and Kim always thought I was a useless father. They’ll get the money from both properties and can do what they want with their lives. Best for them to start again with a clean slate; there is too much ground to make up.
Then there’s Sam. She intrigues me in so many ways; calm on the surface, but complex and troubled underneath. We are both made the same. If things had been different, who knows what might have happened between us.
I come across a pool and pick up a smooth stone. I skim it across the water and it kisses the surface six times before taking a final dive into the depths.
Sam has probably told everyone about my misdemeanours by now – only ‘Dr Leo Hansson’ is dead and the story is over. Such a shame she is too morally squeaky-clean to be let into this final secret. Maybe she could have been part of it, but we are all making sacrifices.
The outcome is I live and breathe. Not as before, but with a new name, Anders Olsson. I’ve still got the off-shore account and I’m free to take my place in the world again, only here, no one knows who I am. My forged papers mean I’m no longer a plastic surgeon. Or a closet psychologist. I can leave all that behind me and start something new. I’ve no idea what that will be, but I will do my utmost to make a difference.
I wait until the minute hand on my watch reaches 4.30pm precisely before turning back. I’ll return to my apartment via the indoor market at Östermalms Saluhall. Stop for a coffee at that cinnamon bakery Helena loved when we came here, years ago.
I get into the car, lay my jacket carefully on the back seat and wait a minute before starting the engine. My mind rewinds to the day I climbed the cliffs in Dover. My other life. I was in shreds then, trying to find a way out. Now, I don’t need gravity to claim me. I am a new man. With a new beginning.
I adjust the gold cufflinks in my crisp shirtsleeves and flip the key in the ignition.
THE END
About the Author
AJ Waines is a number one bestselling author, topping the UK and Australian Amazon Charts in two consecutive years, with Girl on a Train. The author was a psychotherapist for fifteen years, during which time she worked with ex-offenders from high-security institutions, gaining a rare insight into abnormal psychology. She is now a full-time novelist with publishing deals in UK, France, Germany, Norway, Hungary and Canada (audiobooks).
Her fourth novel, No Longer Safe sold over 30,000 copies in the first month, in twelve countries worldwide. In 2016 and 2017, the author was ranked in the Top 10 UK Authors on Amazon KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing).
AJ Waines lives in Hampshire, UK, with her husband.
Find out more at www.ajwaines.co.uk. She’s also on Twitter (@AJWaines), Facebook and you can sign up for her Newsletter at http://eepurl.com/bamGuL
Copyright © 2018 A.J. Waines
The right of A.J. Waines to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Prologue
Friday, June 15 – Three weeks earlier
It’s not often a journalist is offered first bite of the cherry – not on a plate like this.
Pippa French glanced over her shoulder, wondering if anyone else could feel the dynamic shift in the air. The water-cooler gurgled. Someone behind the photocopier sneezed, but no one seemed to notice the electric charge fizzing around her. No one spotted the way she tightly squeezed the receiver, nor heard the galloping thud of her heartbeat.
Her secret was safe.
He was speaking again. ‘It’s a genuine Cézanne and it’s been hanging in a lawyer’s front room for a decade. She’d mistaken it for a copy all this time. Make a great headline don’t you think? Interested?’
Interested? Of course she was interested! This was the real McCoy. The exclusive that could take her career to the next level.
When Mr Morino told her not to say where she was going, to keep the whole thing hush-hush, it didn’t ring any alarm bells. Pippa wasn’t listening out for them. All she heard was the velvety voice in her ear telling her what she wanted to hear.
‘You can bring your colleagues up to speed once you’ve seen the painting and have something to squeal about,’ he said. ‘We don’t want anyone else jumping the queue.’
His caution was understandable, to be expected. It was common practice for journalists to follow a lead without even telling their boss – to make sure no one else snatched the glory. Journalism is a cut-throat business. Everyone knew that.
So, she didn’t say a word to anyone.
Pippa’s follow-up checks were just as convincing as the phone call from Philippe Morino. She’d heard of the Sotherby’s expert before. One of her rivals from Art Monthly had done a piece on him. Still, she’d decided it would be better to call him back on the main Sotherby’s number just in case – she’d been scammed before by fake leads.
But by the time she’d finished her meeting with the editor, Mr Morino had left for the day. Just missed him, apparently. She checked her watch. That would add up. In his earlier call, he’d arranged to meet her at Languini’s wine bar, only a short walk away, in ten minutes time. He’d be on his way by now. There was no question in her mind. She had to follow this through, before anyone else got their hands on this exclusive.
It wasn’t difficult to slip away. Most of her colleagues had already gone home. Before she left, she wrote the time and location on a Post-it note and stuck it to the computer monitor. It was just a precaution. The office operated a hot-desking system, so whoever got to the spot first in the morning would see it. Then she realised it was Friday and no one would see it until Monday. It would be a bit late by then if she’d run into trouble. She screwed it into a ball and threw it into the bin.
As she rounded the corner of the street and the green-striped awning of the bar came into view, Pippa got another call.
‘Ever so sorry… change of plan,’ he said, his voice plummy and polite. ‘Much better if you come straight here. I’m sending a taxi for you. It’ll pick you up outside the wine bar any minute now.’
She slowed her step, a flicker of doubt crossing her path. It was all getting a bit cloak ’n’ dagger. Some tiny part of her knew it was too good to be true. She should turn around. Let it go. Something wasn’t right.
But she ignored the niggling voice and didn’t turn back. She was blinded by the prospect of her own personal scoop and wasn’t thinking straight. Part of her – the ambitious, tenacious, go-getting side of her – hung on to the belief that she’d struck it lucky.
But her instincts were wrong.
This was a well-coated honey trap.
Chapter 1
&nb
sp; Present Day – Thursday evening, July 5
I should have known it was never going to happen. As I rolled up two more T-shirts and tucked them under my gold sandals, I ignored the niggling voice that said this suitcase wouldn’t be leaving the flat tomorrow morning.
Getting away on holiday is straightforward for most people, but that’s rarely the case in my experience. Something always gets in the way; a terrorist attack, hospital colleagues calling in sick or Miranda – my effervescent but unpredictable sister – having a mini meltdown. This time, I’d been forced to cancel twice due to work and Miranda had begun making snide quips about me finding excuses to not go. But this time I was adamant. We were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent going to make that flight.
I dragged my case to the front door, ready for the crack-of-dawn taxi I’d ordered and returned to my checklist. Sun-cream, passport, European plug adaptor; all ticked.
I’d originally hoped for a week in Prague, sightseeing, but my sister wanted ‘more fun’, so scuba diving, beach-volleyball and jet-skiing on the Greek island of Lefkas won through.
I emptied the bins, made sure there was nothing in the fridge that would turn green in my absence, pegged up the last of my washing on the indoor airer and flicked on the TV in the sitting room to catch the late-night news. A map of north London filled the screen, then cut away to the newsreader in the studio, but my mind was elsewhere; did I need to leave a note for Mrs Willow upstairs to remind her to water my plants or would she remember? Were there any online deliveries I should have re-arranged?
That’s when it happened.
A camera zoomed in to reveal a scene I knew only too well, cordoned off with blue police tape. I snapped to attention. The outside broadcaster sounded grave: