Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘I need to remember it to understand my background. I was talking to one of the guys who grew up near the home. Cutter Wysor. He can’t remember anything from his childhood either. Except maybe a bit about school. Nothing about his home life.’

  ‘It’s extremely common. For example, it can be very difficult if his home life was challenging. He may have buried the memories.’

  ‘Maybe he should come to see you?’

  ‘Does he want to remember?’

  ‘Fair point. Probably not.’

  ‘Hypnotic regression allows you to go back and access the memory you want to recall.’ She paused. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

  ‘Yeah. Hope I don’t drift off.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you do. You’ll remember what you need to when you awaken. We can establish some of the facts. We don’t want the whole night to come flooding back to you and overwhelm you; just a detail here and there, until we have the whole picture. You’ll reclaim your memory of that night, piece by piece.’

  ‘It’s bloody frustrating that I can’t just remember what happened.’

  ‘Be patient, Josh, you have a big weekend ahead. You have the concert and you really don’t want to be upset and potentially reliving grief, bereavement and shock at such an important event.’

  ‘I was just at Amber’s grave and the old feelings of letting her down resurfaced. I just want to find out the truth. I don’t believe what Susan Moody says happened that night.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘I’m sure I heard voices.’

  ‘How sure?’

  Josh stared at the wooden floor, followed the contours of the bumps and tiny cracks and tried hard to remember. Finally, he admitted, ‘Not certain. Maybe I was dreaming, but I thought that I was awake. It felt real.’

  ‘So today—’ she checked her notes ‘—you wanted to concentrate on remembering the name of your next-door neighbour?’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible to remember everything?’

  ‘If we are gentle with ourselves and do it in a supportive, guided way, it’s incredible what can be released. Remember it’s little by little, until we have the whole picture.’

  Josh crossed to the therapy couch, lay down and closed his eyes, let his mind float as he heard her talk him through the script, guiding him into hypnosis.

  ‘You can remember with ease what happened that night . . . Your memory is perfect . . . just relax . . . and trust that it will provide everything that you need . . . You can recall whatever you want . . . every little detail is there for you to uncover . . .’

  She continued talking, leading him back into the past, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, that it was safe to remember.

  He felt himself fall into a dream-like trance, heard her voice from far away.

  ‘Tell me, what do you remember? What can you see?’

  He saw Susan Moody. She was angry. Amber had soiled the bed again. Susan was shouting. Amber was crying and screaming. Susan’s voice changing to a low threatening growl. But then the memory faded and the old one returned. His mother’s house. ‘No,’ he muttered. His heartbeat quickened, his hands slippery with sweat. ‘No.’

  ‘What do you see, Josh?’

  ‘Mum’s house, she’s lying on the couch, she’s drinking. I’m scared.’ He saw flickers of the memory. The kitchen with its filthy cupboards. Him searching for food. The memory swirled, dark and unpleasant. An inner voice told him not to go there. Get. Out. Now. He forced himself to open his eyes. ‘Wrong house. Wrong memory. It’s the foster carer’s house I want to remember.’

  ‘All memories surface in their own time.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps you should just go with the process?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m paying you for. I want you to direct my memory to that night.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘Just relax . . . Your memory of that particular night is coming back now, the details will come to you . . .’

  ‘I can see Susan Moody’s house, I’m on the street with a boy from school.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I asked him why Susan took in foster kids. He said it was for the money. I knew she didn’t like us but she changed when the social worker or the woman from the agency came around. I used to wish that she’d die . . . that we’d go back into the home.’ He felt himself drift, images of the other house, his mother’s, curled around the edge of his memory. He ignored it, forced himself back to Susan Moody’s house.

  ‘And that night, Josh, what do you remember from the night of the fire?’

  ‘The cat. Next door’s cat had come in through the open window. It was a tiny cat. It was white and its eyes were weepy, like they needed a good clean. Amber loved that cat. We talked about when we’d get a forever home, we’d ask the owner if we could take it with us. It was called Willow.’

  ‘Can you remember the name of the neighbour? Can you remember who owned Willow?’

  Memories flooded his mind. His mother’s house again. The kitchen. Him sitting on the floor, his mother unconscious on the couch. The darkness swirled around the images, the feeling of dread giving way to anger. He balled his hands into fists, forced the memories down. Back to Susan Moody’s house. He battled through fog until he had it. ‘Mrs Free. Adele Free.’

  ‘Was she there that night?’

  ‘No, but two others were. A man was shouting at a woman.’

  ‘What was he shouting?’

  ‘He was swearing at her and she was crying and asking him something.’

  He continued with the session for a few more minutes, but he’d lost the thread and couldn’t recall anything else. The session ended.

  ‘You seemed to be struggling with the memories of your mother’s house. Is this something you’d like to explore?’

  ‘Old news.’ He stood. ‘Let’s hope that Adele Free’s still alive and that she remembers that night. Same time next week?’ He made for the door.

  ‘Take it easy, this is a big week for you,’ she called after him.

  He walked to the car.

  Half an hour later, he was back in his room at the Braque Hotel. He fired up his laptop, typed ‘Adele Free’ into the search engine. If his memory was correct, she had been kind to both himself and Amber. Josh felt the adrenaline flow. He wondered about the two voices. Bit by bit, it was all coming back. He had a good feeling about this. If Adele Free was out there then he would find her. He looked at the results, saw references to Adele the singer come up on screen. He typed in ‘A. Free. Glasgow’ and waited. Great, now he had all the links to the Scottish Referendum. Josh crossed to the minibar, took out the bottle of white wine, poured a glass, gulped down half, topped it up. Helped himself to the tub of peanuts before returning to his computer. This was going to take longer than he thought.

  Across town, George Bellerose was coming down. It wouldn’t take long, he reasoned, as he made his way into a café. He had a bastard of a hangover. He had to get it sorted before he went to the police station to talk about Karlie. Karlie being dead. Murdered. He rubbed his forehead. Fuck it, the hangover was his own fault; he’d been up half the night. Later that evening he’d get drunk and hurt Angie. He’d texted her earlier, told her to wear the fetish gear. Told her to rest up, it would be a long night. Instead, she’d suggested that they go to the cinema. There was a film she wanted to see, said her friend Jenny at the café had suggested they go together but the stupid cow had refused, said she’d wanted to go with him. Afterwards, they might go somewhere nice for a drink. He’d texted back, told her that what he was intending doing to her couldn’t be done in a cinema. He’d added a cheeky face and a wink. Keep up the script, he told himself. Keep her sweet, let her dream her dreams about future kids, a house and a bloody white picket fence. Let her have her fantasies. And then, because of the hangover and the impending visit to the police, he texted her again:

  Maybe you need to look into losing a bit of weight? You won’t be the first chunky monkey I’ve dated but I know
you mentioned something about being self-conscious. Only, if the weight is an issue for you, I’m happy to support you trying to shift it? I want you to be happy with how you look and be the best person you can be.

  He added a smiley face. Thought of how she would crumple when she got the message. It was a little slap in the face. He pressed send.

  He sipped his double espresso, felt the smooth of the liquid calm him. A blonde, middle-aged businesswoman approached the counter, ordered and waited. The hair a stiff helmet, the neat tailored suit. The bag with a logo. Prada. He tried for eye contact. She glanced at him. He smiled. She looked straight through him, paid for her coffee, made her way to a seat. Stuck-up bitch. He drained his cup. Fish at the bottom of the pool, he reminded himself as he let the door slam on the cool of the café. He started up his pale blue Suzuki motorbike and turned towards Carmyle Police Station. With Karlie dead, he needed a replacement. He had a problem.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Families

  ‘No, that’s not a problem.’ Wheeler put down the phone. George Bellerose was running late. Half an hour to forty minutes. An unforeseen hold-up. She fired up her computer. It wasn’t like she didn’t have anything to be getting on with in the meantime. She heard Ross take a call; there was something peculiar in his tone. She saw his hand go to his forehead, watched him rub a spot just above his eyebrow as he carried on talking. Talking and rubbing and not glancing up. She crossed to the kettle, switched it on, grabbed a couple of mugs, scooped in coffee granules. Read the expression. Waited until he had finished the call. ‘Important?’

  ‘That was Francesca Miller, my dad’s neighbour up in Pittenweem.’

  Wheeler heard the tone, registered the body language, made an educated guess. Waited.

  ‘It’s my dad. Francesca found him an hour ago. He was on the floor, looks like he’d been getting dressed. Sounds like a heart attack. The paramedics have just left.’

  ‘Ross, I’m sorry. What can I do to help?’

  ‘I need to drive across there . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I need to get organised. He began randomly sorting through the paperwork on his desk, pilling it into haphazard stacks and stuffing them into trays.

  ‘Leave that. Boyd can pick it up later.’ She filled two mugs with boiling water. ‘Here.’ She thrust one towards him. ‘At least have a drink before you go.’

  He accepted the coffee.

  ‘Take a minute.’ She dragged a chair over to his desk, sat opposite him. They were alone in the room and for that she was grateful. At a time like this he needed to process the news of his father’s death. She knew him, knew that he would want to talk about it. Wheeler’s parents were both dead. She had a sister, a brother-in-law and a nephew who were based in Somerset, but she was no longer in touch with them. Essentially, she was alone in the world and it suited her.

  Ross began to talk. ‘I was going to try to get over and see him soon, maybe go see some football at the beginning of the season. It’s not like it’s far.’

  ‘How long’s the drive?’ Bland, mundane conversation that masked the emotion.

  ‘Under two hours if there are no hold-ups. Do you know Pittenweem?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. A small fishing village on the tourist trail?’

  ‘It’s a nice place. He was originally from Elie, but he’d moved around a lot over the years. He was in Glasgow when he met Mum. After they split, he moved to a few other areas, but eventually he settled back in Fife.’

  ‘What age was your dad?’

  ‘Sixty-nine. No age at all.’

  ‘Did he have a history of heart trouble?’

  ‘No, but the drinking wouldn’t have helped. He drank more than he ate. Not outrageously drunk or anything, he’d too much dignity for that, but steady drinking, if you know what I mean. Steady and committed.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘A few months ago. It’s not that we weren’t close, it’s just that he was a very private person. He’d got a bit lost, what with the booze. We’d already had a falling-out over it. I wanted him to move on. Mum certainly had. I told him that he ought to stop drinking and start dating. I actually thought that he was going to hit me. I probably wasn’t as sensitive as I could have been.’

  Wheeler could imagine. Ross wasn’t known at the station for his tact and diplomacy. ‘When did they divorce?’

  ‘Years ago. I was out of the house. They just quietly divided up the contents, sold the house, split the money and separated. A couple of years later, Mum filed for divorce and that was it. Nightmare.’

  ‘Their separation wasn’t amicable?’

  ‘Not even close. Mum’s still with the guy she left Dad for, Frank Brogan. He owns a number of hotels in Ireland. Galway, Dublin, Cork. Apparently they’re very luxurious and loads of famous folk go there to get married. Not that I’ve ever been. They’ve invited me over but I’ve just never found the time.’

  ‘Do you still see your mum?’

  ‘When she’s back in Glasgow, we’ll meet for a coffee. Maybe at a push, lunch. But only if it’s somewhere she likes, the Rogano or the Ubiquitous Chip. Even then, I feel like we’re really only making small talk. Killing time. Going through the motions until she can leave. We’re pretty much estranged.’

  ‘But you were close to your dad?’

  ‘We used to go to the games together, years ago. He used to go to Stark’s Park regularly, Raith Rovers’ home ground. He was a big fan, growing up in Fife, which is why I support them. That wasn’t easy growing up in Glasgow. But then the drinking kicked in and he stopped being so interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ross.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ He finished his coffee and stood. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Take as long as you need, we’ll cover everything until you’re back. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’ She paused. ‘What about the mutt? She’ll need walking.’

  He put on his jacket. ‘I’ll need to see if my neighbour Mary can take her full time while I’m away.’

  ‘If you’re stuck, you want me to take her?’

  ‘Would it be a problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I’d love to have her.’

  ‘Thanks, Wheeler.’

  She watched him leave. No matter which way round you spun it, family and parents could always bring you some sort of pain. It was certainly true for her, and it sounded like Ross too. She thought of the strained relationship between Beth Swinton and Karlie Merrick. Of the underage porn found in John Merrick’s house. Families. Was it the same for everyone? There were no guaranteed happy endings. What was that line from the Philip Larkin poem?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Hero

  She’d just finished updating the team about Ross’s situation when the phone rang and the desk sergeant told her that George Bellerose had arrived. Wheeler stood. ‘Right, Boyd, you and me downstairs, let’s go and chat to the life coach.’

  George Bellerose was pacing in the waiting area when they arrived downstairs. She saw that he was about thirty-five, had a broad suntanned face, dark eyes and thick, shoulder-length hair. He was wearing a leather motorbike jacket, helmet in hand.

  ‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is DC Boyd.’

  ‘Thanks for meeting with me.’ His words tumbled over themselves. ‘I’m still in shock. I don’t know if I can be of help in any way but I wanted to come in and speak to you. Have you any suspects yet?’ He caught himself. ‘So sorry, I know you can’t say anything. I’m just not thinking straight.’

  Wheeler gestured to the interview room. ‘Let’s go through here, Mr Bellerose, it’s more private.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m just back from a conference in London on Carl Jung’s twelve archetypes. His theories about the universal characters that are present in our collective unconscious are fascinating, aren’t they?’

  ‘Through here, please,’ said Boyd. The man hadn’t budged.

  Wheeler knew about the archetypes. If she had to
guess, Bellerose was the caregiver. Their goal in life was to help others. On the flip side they hated ingratitude and were prone to martyrdom. Everyone had a shadow side. She wondered about Bellerose. There was something about the man she didn’t like.

  ‘But then, when I returned from my London trip,’ his voice faltered, ‘and I saw that Karlie had been murdered.’ He stared at the table, shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘That’s OK, Mr Bellerose, just take your time. Please, have a seat.’

  ‘And I know that everything we discussed was confidential and, if she were alive, I wouldn’t dream of talking to you, but since she’s dead, I thought it might be helpful? I don’t know, maybe you’ve spoken with others about her and you don’t need anything from me?’ He paused. ‘Have you any leads?’

  Wheeler ignored the question, let them get settled around the table before she spoke. ‘At this stage of the investigation everything may be helpful. We would like you to tell us whatever you know about Karlie Merrick.’

  ‘She came to me for help. I believe that the work she was doing with me would have been truly life-changing, if it had been seen through to its conclusion. I work primarily with women to goal set and progress their careers. I’m very successful.’

  ‘Life-changing?’ prompted Wheeler.

  ‘We all have the capacity to experience our potential. I work in such a way as to allow people to access that fully and, if I do say so myself, I get impressive results.’

  Bellerose saw himself as a hero. As far as Wheeler was concerned, she’d wait and see.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Karlie?’

  ‘Ten days ago. She was in what she felt was a dead-end job and she wanted to make as much money as she could to launch herself in the States. We made a detailed plan, did a cost analysis of where she was financially and where she wanted to be. We identified the spectrum of potential earnings available to her. She worked with a guy called Gary Ashton, making porn films. Quite a small concern, Karlie made it sound a bit hokey. Shipping containers or empty hotels, usually a commercial property that was up for sale. She was ashamed of how small the operation was, saw it merely as a stepping stone. She was incredibly ambitious and craved fame. For her, the whole Gary outfit was really just a small step in a greater journey. Her job didn’t pay as well as she’d expected, and she said she found it meaningless. She’d show up for shoots and just role play, but she didn’t rate him as a producer. She said it was more difficult not to make money from porn. She thought that he should have been better off financially, be able to afford a decent lifestyle and to up her salary.’