Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

I halted, suddenly cautious. Was Terry looking for a counsellor? Was this the reason he wanted to see me? Getting shot, then coping with a long-term disability must have been a tough ordeal for him. Not only his leg, but his career in the Met had been shattered. I’d learned via social media that he’d been forced to give up his role as a detective for a position in data training instead. He must have had support through work at the time, but it would have only been for a few months.

  I stayed on course with his question, remaining neutral. ‘Any sort of trauma. I’m brought in when the nightmares and flashbacks won’t go away. When patients jump at the slightest noise, lose their appetite, withdraw into themselves… can’t cope any more.’

  ‘So, your work involves all kinds of accidents, terrorist incidents, domestic and street crimes?’

  I couldn’t play the game any longer. ‘What’s this about, Terry? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Me?’ he snorted. ‘No. I’m just interested, that’s all.’ He snatched a sip of water too quickly and I knew he was covering something up.

  I carried on, hoping all would be revealed eventually. ‘I’ve been doing research into art and play therapy; not with kids, but with adults instead. To recover repressed or distressing memories.’

  He fingered his chin looking thoughtful. ‘You get them to draw or paint?’

  ‘Not just drawing; some patients would run a mile if I gave them a blank sheet of paper and a crayon. We use lots of different methods.’ I laughed. ‘My office looks like a toy shop. I’ve got Lego bricks, pebbles and shells, a sandpit, Tarot cards, dolls, model cars – you name it. You should come and see sometime. It’s all about symbols. I often work using fairy tales or ask patients to describe themselves using characters from a soap opera or film. Sometimes it’s easier for them to describe what happened through another persona.’

  He tapped his lip. ‘Wow...’

  Was this really an idle interest? It was rare for anyone to be this enthusiastic about what I did, but Terry seemed genuinely entranced. It spurred me on to tell him more.

  ‘I had one guy last week who could only tell me about himself if I referred to him as Captain Picard. I had to be Counsellor Troy.’ Terry gave me a dubious look. ‘I know – it can sound a bit kinky at times, but this guy was above board. He talked me through various scenes from Star Trek, through the eyes of the ship’s captain. Using that means of separation he was able to explain how he felt in a way that was safe for him.’ I leant forward. ‘That’s confidential by the way. I use all kinds of approaches to help patients express themselves, often without using any words at all.’

  ‘You have patients who don’t speak?’

  ‘They can – but they don’t have to. Words can get in the way sometimes. Speaking can seem too direct and confrontational at times. Sometimes it’s easier, safer, to show…’

  He stared into his glass. ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Okay, Terry. Spill. Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’

  I saw his chest rise and fall. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Oh, come on, all you’ve done is fire one question after another at me. It’s very flattering, but I’m rather mystified. What’s going on?’

  For one strange moment, it crossed my mind that Terry might have fancied me since our paths crossed at Manchester University, and had only now chosen this obscure moment to pluck up the courage to tell me. My life was certainly low on love-interest at the moment, but with all the will in the world, Terry wasn’t ‘the one’. I was starting to panic about how I was going to let him down without offending him.

  He got to his feet. ‘Let me get you another drink,’ he said.

  I was still standing in the sitting room, holding the phone in my hand when it rang again. In the light of that odd lunch date, Claussen’s request now made perfect sense. At least I didn’t need to worry about any possible romantic interest from Terry; instead I’d walked straight into his trap. Once he’d realised I was just the person they needed, he’d confirmed with Claussen and I’d been ‘requisitioned’.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Claussen said, her tone clipped. ‘Drugs bust just gone tits up.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Right – we’ll send a car over at seven-thirty tomorrow morning for the briefing, okay?’

  I paused, trying to gather my thoughts. We hadn’t actually had the part of the conversation where I’d agreed to anything, but I knew there was little use in pointing that out.

  ‘Let me make a call,’ I told her. ‘Let me do that first – one call – before I agree to this.’

  ‘Sure,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll wait for you to ring me back.’

  It was after 10pm. I hit redial, with an entirely different quality of trepidation to twenty minutes ago. This time she answered.

  I jumped straight in. ‘Miranda, I’m really sorry to call so late, only I’ve got bad news…’

  ‘So have I, as a matter of fact.’ There was tremor in her voice; she’d been crying. ‘I was going to call you.’

  ‘Why? Are you okay?’ I said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t go… on the trip…’ she spluttered, ‘something terrible’s happened.’ She’d borrowed the words I was about to use, almost word for word.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’ She broke down into heaving sobs. ‘It’s Kora … someone’s tried to kill her.’

  Chapter 3

  Friday, July 6 – Day One

  The patrol car pulled up at Stanhope Street Police Station in Camden promptly at 8am. As a ‘civilian’, I wasn’t allowed into the major incident room, so I was taken by the desk sergeant into a space reserved for general meetings; comfy chairs, a white board, coffee in silver pots in the corner. There was an oily smell of new carpet. As I scanned the area I was immediately able to put a face to the robust female voice I’d heard late last night. DCS Elsa Claussen was reprimanding two uniformed officers, one of whom was visibly cowering. Her voice blasted across the room like a polar vortex, filling the space with icy fumes, sucking out all the air.

  I braced myself as she headed towards me and gripped my hand without a smile. She’d sounded on the phone like she was Danish; but from what I could see she was about as far removed from the delicate pastry variety as you could ever imagine. Everything about her was bulky with straight lines; the back-and-sides haircut, balcony bosom, clompy lace-ups. Not a curve in sight. She looked how I’d imagine a female Sumo wrestler would look.

  I reined in my cruel assessment of her, but I knew where the negativity was coming from. I was angry with her. Angry that she’d stolen the precious time I’d set aside – at last – for my getaway. In thirty minutes time, I should have been soaring above the city, switching off from patients and crises, and looking forward to my first tequila. Finding a way to check on Miranda after the hit and run had been my main motivation when I’d booked the break, but its status had shifted since then. Once I’d packed my bags yesterday, I saw how desperate I was for time out and the trip had recast itself as a blissful retreat that I not only needed, but deserved.

  When I accepted this case last night, my first thought was that I’d let myself down. But that self-reproach had been short-lived once Miranda revealed that her best friend had been involved in a brutal attack. Getting pitched off the road at Baker Street was nothing compared to this. Now Kora was at death’s door. Even for a ‘normal’ person the impact could be devastating, but for Miranda, diagnosed with schizophrenia, the after-effects could be far more damaging.

  The Chief Super introduced me to DCI Keith Wilde. He was tall and frowned slightly as he offered his hand. His handshake was flimsy, but his pupils were hard, like rivets. A difficult man to please, I surmised. Next in line was DI Jeremy Fenway with whom I’d be working most closely. He had a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to his neck where he’d cut himself shaving, which warmed me to him straight away. He was the only one so far who looked vaguely human.

  Several other plain-clothes and uniformed officers joined us and I took a seat on the second of three rows. D
CI Wilde outlined the gist of the situation: a nineteen-year-old art student, Aiden Blake, had rung police from his mobile just after 9.30pm on July fourth, having witnessed a gruesome incident.

  ‘Carry on, constable,’ Wilde instructed, stepping to one side.

  A young male officer loped forward, holding a spiral notepad in front of him with both hands, as if it was a hymnbook. He cleared his throat. ‘Right… Mr Blake managed to mutter something about a woman with her throat cut,’ he explained. ‘He sounded pretty confused, but he did tell us a figure came out of nowhere, right up to the boat.’ The officer’s eyes darted about the room as if expecting a big bang to occur at any moment. ‘Then Mr Blake went silent and couldn’t say a thing after that. When we got to the scene, we found him squatting beside the victim, but he wouldn’t say another word.’

  DI Fenway stepped forward, holding a photograph. The TV monitor was on the blink, apparently, so he was using more antiquated methods to give us the details. ‘It looks like a very cruel booby-trap,’ he explained.

  He stuck a picture of the crime scene on the top of the whiteboard, pressing it flat. I made out the towpath, the fence behind it, a twisted bicycle lying at the water’s edge and a trail of blood, before I took my eyes away.

  ‘The victim we now know to be Kora Washington, twenty-seven, was riding her pushbike from the Camden Lock direction, going pretty fast by the look of it. Looks like someone had set up some kind of tripwire at head height.’ He glanced down at his shoes. ‘It nearly took her head clean off.’

  A whoosh travelled the room as everyone sucked in a sharp breath.

  ‘It was a vicious and calculated attack. We assume the perpetrator tied an invisible wire from the fence at one side to a lamp at the front of Mr Blake’s boat. They must have removed it after the victim had fallen, because there was no sign of it. There’s barely anything for forensics at the scene apart from a lot of blood and skid marks, very little to pin on the offender.’

  DI Fenway pressed another photograph onto the board of Aiden Blake’s boat, and beside it, further shots of the crime scene. He added times in black marker pen as he spoke. ‘We’re checking CCTV in the nearby car park and going over the area for footprints, but it’s a busy public footpath before dark…’

  Someone along my row called out, ‘Is Mr Blake a suspect?’

  ‘Unlikely, unless he’s the world’s greatest actor. There was a pile of fresh vomit near the door of his boat and he’s been in a terrible state since it happened.’

  Another officer piped up. ‘If you were going to do something like this, you wouldn’t do it on your own doorstep would you, sir?’

  ‘Unless he’s a complete nutter…’ said a voice from the back row. It raised a tense snigger.

  ‘Which we’re pretty sure Mr Blake isn’t,’ said the DI. ‘Everyone says he’s a smart lad with a bright future. No police record.’ He strolled up and down, his hands behind his back looking like a bobby on the beat. ‘The canal boat is his home. It looks like he was getting ready for bed. Neighbours said he often brought his washing in late… left it drying on a wooden rack outside his front door. There was a laundry basket, tipped over, by the boat when we found him. He might have seen the tripwire at that stage, we’re not sure. He might have heard the bike coming, turned round and…’ DI Fenway tossed what looked like a bad taste around in his mouth. ‘There were no marks or scratches on his hands… only fluff, and an officer said he could smell fabric softener on Mr Blake’s fingers. Looks like he’d been handling laundry. We’ve searched his boat; nothing untoward, so far.’

  ‘And the guy’s not speaking? Is that right?’ asked the officer in uniform, beside me.

  ‘That’s correct. Medical condition induced by the trauma. Can’t utter a word.’

  ‘What exactly did he manage to say before he stopped speaking altogether?’ asked the same officer.

  DI Fenway glanced over at the young male officer who referred again to his notebook.

  ‘His exact words were… “She’s off her bike… you’ve got to help… throat cut… oh, God, there’s blood everywhere…” then he started kind of howling. The operator asked where he was and Mr Blake said “Camden… towpath… someone in black… out of nowhere… right here…” The operator asked his name, but he was just crying. They couldn’t get any more out of him after that.’

  ‘Why bother to take the wire away?’ came a voice. ‘Why did the maniac put himself at risk of being seen?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet,’ replied the DI, thoughtfully.

  ‘It was definitely a tripwire, not a knife or long blade of some kind?’ someone asked.

  ‘Our police surgeon confirmed that the neck wound and the victim’s injuries were consistent with a thin wire being used. We’ve also had forensic guys in to check the position of the victim when she fell… the bike and the blood spatter… it all confirms that MO. There was no evidence of a struggle. We found fresh scratches in the paint on the lamp and marks on the fence directly across from it, so we think that’s where the wire was attached. Just hooked around and pulled tight.’

  I asked the next question. ‘Mr Blake was taken to hospital straight away?’

  DI Fenway nodded. ‘By the way, this is Dr Samantha Willerby, everyone – she’s our consultant psychologist on this case.’ He gave me a little bow as faces in the front row spun round. ‘Mr Blake was in shock, in quite a bad way, actually. Seems a pretty sensitive chap. He’d soiled himself at the scene and was catatonic. He spent the night in The Royal Free where they gave him a brain scan, to check he hadn’t banged his head before we got to him. All clear. He was seen by the police psychiatrist and by the afternoon, physically, he seemed fine. Apart from not uttering a word, there was no reason to keep him there. We took him back to his boat and he immediately tried to move it.’

  ‘You stopped him?’ I asked.

  ‘Only until we’d thoroughly checked out the boat. It’s now back at his usual mooring spot at Limehouse, about six miles away along the Regent’s Canal. As I said, he’s not a suspect, at present, but we need to know where he is. We took his laptop and tablet – we’re checking them out – and his mobile.’

  ‘Did he know her, the victim, do you think?’ came a fresh voice from the front row.

  ‘He’s at art college and the woman was from the Camden Community Art Project, but no one, so far, seems to think they knew each other. The victim’s partner said he’d never heard of Mr Blake and she wasn’t due to meet anyone that night, but we’re looking into her online footprint to see if there’s any connection on social media or email. Kora has an eighteen-month-old child. She should have been cycling in the opposite direction… on her way home.’

  ‘And the attacker saw Mr Blake, presumably?’ I queried.

  DI Fenway shrugged. ‘Very likely, I’d say. Probably standing there in shock, unable to move when the attacker came forward to take the wire. And that reminds me. Everyone, listen up. The press must not get wind of Mr Blake’s identity or his whereabouts. If they track down his boat, it will not only make his life hell, but we’ll end up with a ridiculous game of cat and mouse up and down the canals of England.’

  There was a rumble of consent.

  ‘When the assailant came back for the wire, why didn’t he attack Mr Blake, if he was just standing there?’ I added.

  The room sank into an extreme hush. Only the fan continued, beating frantically beneath the ceiling. DI Fenway looked at his shoes and then up at me. ‘Good question… as yet to be adequately answered.’

  A uniformed officer tapped on the door and scuttled across the room. He held up a phone in front of DCI Wilde, who quickly scanned the message.

  The DCI clapped his hands together. ‘Right… everything else you need is in the online report… that’s it, for now.’

  After the meeting broke up, I hung around at the back of the room waiting to speak to DI Fenway so I could arrange my first meeting with Aiden. He was discussing something with the DCI, nodding as he fiddled with
the strap on his watch. He came over when he’d finished and stood in front of me looking somewhat shell-shocked.

  ‘Right,’ he said, his left eyelid twitching as if he had something in his eye. ‘Coffee?’

  I declined. I didn’t want to spend any more time here than I needed to; my next priority was to get over to see Miranda. Find out what kind of state she was in.

  ‘Have you seen Aiden’s medical history?’ I asked. ‘Has he ever been mute before? Any other mental health issues?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem so. Clean as a whistle. Looks like he hasn’t even been registered with a GP during the last three years. I’ll get his records over to you.’

  I nodded. ‘I think it’s best if I see him at St Luke’s, where I work,’ I proposed, ‘rather than at a police station. It’ll be less intimidating for him.’

  ‘Ah…’ He looked sheepish. ‘No one’s told you?’

  ‘Told me what?’ My hands were on my hips before I could stop them. I forced myself to peel them away. None of this was DI Fenway’s fault.

  ‘There’s a snag.’ He sunk his hands in his trouser pockets and jangled his keys. ‘Mr Blake clung to the door frame of his narrow boat when we tried to get him to come to the station this morning. He got terribly distressed. We have an officer there with him now. He’s refusing to leave the boat.’

  Chapter 4

  I had to weave my way through a high-tide of summer tourists to get from the Tube station to Miranda’s flat. It was a glorious day – heat rising in shimmering zigzags above the pavement, inviting surrender and abandon. But I barely noticed; instead my head was buried inside entangled thoughts about how I was going to handle this. Miranda didn’t know I’d been called in to help with the very same incident that had knocked her for six. A cruel coincidence to say the least.

  My phone buzzed against my hip. I stepped into the doorway of a vacant shop to hear properly. It was Terry making a brave attempt at an apology. I left long silences and made him grovel, refusing to end his agony with mollifying statements to let him off the hook.