by Liz Lawler
Alex Taylor could well be a serial killer. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. She certainly had the medical expertise to go undetected. Now all Laura had to work out was the motive, and the comment Fiona Woods let slip could be the answer. What was it that shouldn’t have happened again? That was what Laura needed to know. Then she might have a case.
Chapter twenty-four
Alex glanced at her wristwatch and saw she had an hour and ten minutes until she finished her shift and then another forty minutes’ wait before her appointment. She would have enough time for a quick shower, a bit of make-up, and to grab a cup of tea if the place stayed quiet like it was now.
It was unheard of to be so quiet in mid-December. Emergency departments at this time of year were usually chocker, and in many of them the trolleys were taken up by the elderly. Falls, chest infections and hypothermia were the most common reasons for bringing them in, and sadly, sometimes, they became ill from sheer loneliness, from living alone in the long dark days of winter. They became unnerved and sometimes forgot what day it was, whether they had eaten or drunk enough fluids, or taken their medication.
With Christmas Day only two weeks away, some of them would be thinking about the loneliness, of sitting alone with their hand-delivered Christmas dinner, hoping the meals-on-wheels lady wouldn’t rush away.
Being in a hospital bed on Christmas Day where there were others to talk to was a good reason for being admitted in mid-December.
She folded her arms and tried to shake off these depressing thoughts; she had enough worry of her own. Her insides ached with anxiety. She was tired of being disbelieved, ridiculed and pitied. She was tired of her own endless thoughts and burning questions. Was she going crazy? Had she somehow hallucinated that night? That what she heard and what she saw was not real. That she had imagined everything. Was she no longer in control of her own mind? Was the phone call Saturday night even real? She and Fiona had given statements to a young PC, but so far had heard nothing back. This appointment with a psychoanalyst might be the only solution.
She was fretful about meeting him, and she recalled Fiona’s parting words as they’d hugged each other goodbye on Sunday morning.
‘That was a shitty experience for you last year. And you got over it pretty quickly, babe. Maybe you weren’t really over it. Perhaps if we’d reported it properly, got the fucker into some trouble, it would have been better for you. Would have let you move on properly.’
Alex had listened carefully, and was only interested in one thing: had Fiona told anyone else?
‘No, of course not. Only you, me and Caroline know, and the agent who put the bastard onto us of course. Caroline had to let them know so that we could get rid of him. But I haven’t told anyone else, babe. We decided on that.’
Alex had decided on that. There had been no witness and no evidence. It would have been her word against his and she hadn’t wanted to take that risk. She had made a conscious career choice when she decided to work in Bath. This was her city, where she had grown up and where she had returned and wanted to stay, and where one day, if she ever met the right man, she would be happy to raise a family. She had decided last year that she wouldn’t go to the police, because she had a future to risk.
Fiona may not have discussed her past with anyone else, but her words revealed what she thought of this present situation. What Alex had suspected all along. Her best friend didn’t believe it had happened.
*
The psychoanalyst’s name was Richard Sickert. She had googled his name and had been alarmed to read that a man named Walter Richard Sickert was reputed to be the real Jack the Ripper. Walter Richard Sickert, an artist, had painted four pictures based on the real-life murder of a prostitute, which took place in Camden Town, London in 1907 He died in Bath in the 1940s. She wondered if they were related.
He was dressed casually in blue checked shirt, black cords and black and tan golfing-type shoes. His dark hair was damp, as if from a recent shower.
His glasses were fashionably framed, black rimmed and oblong, and his age was hard to judge, possibly late forties or early fifties, but he could be younger, judging by the litheness with which he moved.
The porch and the entrance of the terraced property looked unremarkable, giving Alex the impression that this was his home. There was no brass plate on the outside wall announcing his business, and she wondered if it was deliberate so that the people who walked through the door felt under less pressure to hurry in and avoid scrutiny.
The office, apart from a desk with telephone and files, resembled a very cosy sitting room. Two armchairs, in rich brown suede, were placed at a comfortable distance from each other and separated further by a sturdy wooden coffee table. A lamp on a sideboard was switched on, and over in a corner of the room extra light came from a standard lamp with a large cream tasselled shade.
It was a relaxing room, created with comfort in mind, but it was the silence of the place that was most noticeable. Blissful silence and peace. She sank into one of the armchairs, and would have been quite happy to sit there for a long time without speaking a word.
He gave a small smile as if reading her mind and sat quietly in the other chair, leaving her to her reflections.
Minutes passed, and prompted by the thought that she should say something, she said the most natural thing. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to. I’m quite happy for you to sit here and relax. There is no rush, and if you want to spend the next hour simply sitting quietly, please do so. Dr Fielding has, with your permission, I believe, brought me up to date with what’s been happening to you, so as I say, there’s no rush.’
She rested her head back against the softness of the chair. ‘I thought you’d be full of questions.’
‘No. That’s not how I work. For the mind to give up information or to sort stored information it needs time to compose itself. Just sitting quietly with no pressure to think is often what the mind needs most. A space to just be.’
‘My mind doesn’t seem to want to shut down, it seems to go into overdrive as soon as I stand still or try to sleep.’
‘Would you like to tell me a little about yourself? And, just as a formality, do you mind if I take a medical history?’
She shrugged agreeably. ‘Fine.’
From the table he picked up a clipboard with a sheet of typewritten paper already clipped to it. Then, clicking his biro, he held his pen ready.
‘We’ll start with something simple. Any childhood illness other than colds and cough and such like?’
‘No. Exceptionally healthy right through to fourteen, when I contracted glandular fever. Left me a bit debilitated for several months, but after that I grew strong again.’
‘Any history of depression?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing diagnosed. But I was depressed for a while last year, and of course the last few weeks haven’t exactly been joyful.’
‘So you didn’t seek a medical opinion or receive any prescribed treatment?’
Alex felt her neck redden. ‘Err no. I just . . . muddled through or blanked it out, I suppose.’
He scribbled something on the paper and she wondered if he could tell she had not told the complete truth. The diazepam she was taking was certainly a prescription drug. She wondered if he was writing the word ‘liar’.
‘So apart from glandular fever and a bout of possible depression, no other medical history? No head injury?’
Again she shook her head. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Well, that is until a few weeks ago. The hospital said I suffered a mild concussion possibly from a fallen tree branch.’
‘This was the night you believe you were abducted, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you disagree with their diagnosis?’
She shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know any more. It definitely felt real. It happened. This can’t be in my mind. It . . . it . . .’ She
breathed faster and could feel the thud of her heart under her breast.
‘OK,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re doing fine. Slow your breathing down and try and relax.’
Alex took a few deep breaths and felt the tightness in her chest ease.
‘Better?’ he said after a moment.
She nodded.
‘Last few questions and then we can move on.
‘Any history of hallucinations, sleepwalking or nightmares?’
‘Nightmares? Yes. And poor sleep, particularly at the moment.’
‘What about alcohol or use of drugs?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No to drugs. Alcohol? I’ve drunk possibly a bit more in the last few weeks, but nothing excessive.’
He again scribbled on the sheet of paper and Alex wondered if he was now underlining the word ‘liar’.
‘OK. Well, that’s the last of those questions.’ He put the clipboard back on the table and laid his pen down. He smiled. ‘So now tell me a little bit more about yourself.’
Alex shrugged. ‘I’m a doctor – it’s what I am, what I do.’
‘And?’
‘It’s what I wanted to do my whole life. It is my life’.
She sighed tiredly and closed her eyes. She heard water being poured into a glass and then heard it being placed down in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ she said after taking a sip.
‘How are you feeling generally?’
Alex heaved a sigh. ‘Exhausted. Terrified. My mind won’t shut down. Every man I look at, I see as a potential abductor. I have nightmares of walking through the hospital and I hear him walking behind me. I start running, thinking if I can get to the end of the corridor, I can hide. But the corridors keep changing. The doors and the exits disappear. The signs pointing to the entrance to the wards have nothing but blank walls beneath them. I’m trapped. Every time I go round the corner at the end of a corridor, there’s another corridor. And he keeps coming . . .’
‘Can you see him?’
His words were spoken softly and his voice soothed her.
‘No. But I can hear him! His footsteps are getting closer!’ she cried.
‘Turn around and face him. Ask him what he wants.’
‘He’s invisible. He’s invisible to everyone. No one believes he exists. But he’s real . . . He touched me!’
‘When did he touch you?’
‘When I was unconscious, he undressed me. He saw me naked and he touched me inside.’
‘With?’
‘I don’t know if he . . .’ She faltered, and then her voice, just above a whisper, was full of despair. ‘He wanted to . . . he said he was going to, but I don’t know if he did, but he wanted to . . . and I said yes.’
‘And you’re convinced this was real?’
‘Yes!’ she said screwing her eyes tightly shut. ‘It was real! I was there. I saw him.’
‘Are you afraid he will come after you again?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘He told me he’s coming for me.’
Richard Sickert sat silently, but his eyes rested on her, and she felt reassured. Then he spoke: ‘I want you to do something. I want you to keep your eyes closed and imagine yourself in that corridor. It is long, and the walls are high. You are on your own. You begin to walk down the corridor and then you hear him. Now slowly start to count with each step you take. You can still hear him, but his steps are not getting any faster. They match your steps. When you get to ten, you see a glass door. There is a handle you can open. The sun is shining through the glass. The light is bright . . . ’
‘It’s in my eyes. I can’t see his face, but I can hear him.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He’s telling me nothing’s happened to me. I get angry and tell him I want to know what’s going on and he holds up his purple hands. The stapler. He threatens to staple my lips together and he says . . . he says . . .’
She suddenly sat bolt upright. Her eyes opened wide, staring into space, as the memory of what she heard became clear. ‘Alex!’
Her eyes then fixed on Richard Sickert. ‘He called me Alex before I mentioned my name. This man knows me! I wasn’t just a random victim.’
Chapter twenty-five
‘He knew who I was, Maggie,’ Alex said firmly for the second time.
Maggie raised an eyebrow, her lips pressed together, making no comment. She carried on lightly toasting pine nuts in a dry pan. On the island worktop she had prepared rocket salad with diced red onion and halved cherry tomatoes, before mixing the contents in a large shallow dish and drizzling on some balsamic vinegar and olive oil. The pine nuts were the last ingredient to go in.
In the Aga two marinated lamb cutlets were ready to serve and on top of the stove two large white plates were warming.
Alex had gone straight to Maggie’s house after her appointment with Richard Sickert, unable to face going home to be alone with her thoughts. Maggie was gracious enough to invite her in for supper. She regretted not stopping on the way to buy a bottle of wine to at least replace the one she had broken, and was now feeling a little embarrassed for having intruded on the woman’s time again.
She might have had a prior engagement, for all Alex knew. She might be standing there at the Aga right now thinking that her uninvited guest was becoming a nuisance.
Maggie felt the dinner plates with the back of her hand and then used an oven cloth to take out the succulent lamb. Still silent, she finished preparing the meal, laid cutlery on the worktop, and then climbed onto a stool to face Alex.
‘Wine? Or are you driving?’
‘Wine, please. I walked again. Still can’t find my fob. I’ll have to get a replacement unless I want to keep calling the security attendant to open the gates to get my car in and out. I don’t know where I lost the thing.’
Maggie lifted a bottle of Pelorus out of an ice bucket, popped the cork and poured small measures into two flutes, letting the bubbles settle before filling each to the rim.
‘When we’ve eaten, we’ll talk,’ she said, finally. ‘You’re too thin by half, Alex, and if we talk first you’re liable not to eat. So eat!’ She gave a pleasant smile.
Half an hour later, deliciously full and beginning to relax from the second glass of sparkling wine, Alex was less inclined to return to the conversation she had started before the meal. If she went home now and didn’t think any more about her discovery she was likely to sleep well. She had tomorrow off and she wanted to look fresh for the plan she had in mind. Nathan Bell was going to get a call from her. She had looked at the rota and seen he had the day off as well. Now she just had to persuade him to spend it with her.
‘Alex, apart from him saying your name, what else makes you so sure this was real?’
Maggie’s voice was gentle, but there was a challenge in her eyes, indicating that she was not ready to accept a simple answer.
‘Well, apart from that night, everything else that is happening around me! Amy Abbott died in front of us, Maggie, and I know she was trying to tell us something. Her death was just not normal. You’re an obstetrician. Can you honestly believe someone would do that to themselves? My car was left with a message on it for everyone to read. He’s phoned me, for God’s sake. He’s taunting me. That poor woman knocked down in my parking space. She, too, is a part of this. I’m positive he’s behind all of it. He’s destroying my world and nobody, nobody believes me!’
‘Alex,’ Maggie cried, astonishment in eyes. ‘What are you talking about? Who phoned you? What woman in your car park? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about!’
Nearly an hour later, after Alex had brought her up to date on everything that was happening, Maggie sat still and silent.
‘So, what do you think now?’ Alex asked in a tired voice. ‘Still all in my head?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. What I mean is I don’t know if it’s all related. The call and this message on your car are clearly real. Was anyone wit
h you when the call came?’
‘Yes,’ Alex sighed heavily. ‘Fiona, but she didn’t hear what he said.’
‘And the police?’
‘They haven’t got back to me about the call. They think the message on my car was a prank.’
‘So that leaves a woman knocked down in your car park, who you found dying?’
Alex nodded. ‘Yes. The poor woman died horribly.’
‘And you didn’t see it happen or the person who did it?’
‘No,’ Alex replied miserably. ‘I drove down the ramp and she was just lying there in my parking space. I didn’t see any cars leaving. The gates were open, but no car passed me. I . . . God, Maggie, I’m so stupid!’ Her mouth dropped open and her eyes stared into space. ‘My fob! My lost fob. The gates were already open when I got home. They’re electric and can only be opened with a fob. I didn’t lose it! It must have been taken! I need to report this to the police. Not that I think they’ll believe me. I think they think I knocked her down.’
Maggie looked worried. ‘Christ, Alex, do you need to talk to a lawyer?’
‘No!’ Alex said sharply. ‘I tried to save her!’
Maggie raised her hands in placating manner. ‘OK. So that now leaves Amy Abbott. Well I’m sad to say that yes, I can imagine a woman doing this. Every day women are swallowing potions or inserting pessaries to induce abortion, even in countries where abortion is legal. And they don’t always work. Amy Abbott was a qualified nurse and perhaps she felt confident enough in her knowledge to do what she did.’