by Ben Cheetham
Jim glanced towards Mark’s room. ‘I’d better get back in there. I told him I’d only be gone a few minutes. What should I say to him?’
‘As little as possible. I’d suggest you make up some excuse about being called away on an emergency and leave.’
‘You know, Doctor, I really don’t think Mark’s as fragile as you suspect. In fact, I reckon he’s as tough as they come. He fought tooth and nail for both his own life and his sister’s, when most people would have lain down and died. I think he can handle the truth.’
‘You may be right, Detective, but I’m not willing to take that risk without having had the chance to properly assess him.’
‘I understand, but as a policeman, my instinct is to move fast while the memory is still fresh in Mark’s mind.’
‘This memory and any other fragments of memory associated with it were never fresh in his mind to begin with. They’ve festered in his subconscious for most of his life. And until I decide on the appropriate therapy procedure to follow, there they will stay.’
Jim gave the psychiatrist an unconvinced look. ‘Have you considered that it might actually do more damage than good keeping what we know from him?’
A note of impatience came into Doctor Reeve’s voice. ‘And have you considered that, quite apart from the risk to Mark’s health, if we tell him too much too soon, instead of triggering lost memories, it might lead to the creation of false ones?’
‘You do realise that in a case like this every second is invaluable. Even as we stand here arguing, Mark’s abusers could be out there doing the same thing to other kids.’
‘I’m fully aware of that, Detective, but even so, my primary duty of care is to my patient. I have to consider his needs before anything else.’
Jim opened his mouth to shoot off another reply, but before he could do so, Garrett put in, ‘Just do as Doctor Reeve says, Detective Monahan.’
Jim’s breath whistled through his teeth with frustration. Turning sharply on his heel, he headed back into the room. No matter how Doctor Reeve dressed it up, it didn’t sit right with him keeping Mark in the dark. It wasn’t just about wanting to dig up more memories. As far as Jim was concerned, Mark had a right to know, especially now that they were all but certain of his innocence. And whether he found out now or later, he would probably still never recover emotionally. Who the hell would from such a devastating revelation?
‘I’m sorry, Mark, an emergency has…’ Jim started to reel off the suggested excuse, but trailed off with a shake of his head. Mark had been lied to enough in his life. Jim had already contributed one small lie to the list. He wasn’t about to add another, not after Mark had found it within himself to trust him. He sat down at the bedside, an almost apologetic look in his eyes. ‘You were right, Mark, something else did happen to you many years ago, something…’ He vainly sought a word to describe just how despicable that something was. Swallowing his revulsion, he continued, ‘The girl whose picture I showed you is called Grace Kirby.’
‘Grace Kirby,’ Mark repeated, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.
‘Is the name familiar?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, but then I’m not sure of anything. I keep getting the feeling that this is some awful nightmare I can’t wake up from. I keep thinking maybe I’ll wake up and it won’t be true.’
‘This is a nightmare, Mark, but you’re not dreaming.’
The lines etched into Mark’s face spread. ‘I know, but it’s just so hard to believe that anyone – even a bastard like the man I thought was my dad – could do this to their own family.’
Thirty-odd years on the force had given Jim a pretty good understanding of what humans were capable of doing to each other. ‘It’s not as uncommon as you might think. Every day hundreds of people die at the hands of those who are supposed to love them. And thousands more suffer neglect, exploitation and abuse.’
‘Is that what happened to me? Did I suffer some kind of abuse?’
‘You remember the sound you heard when you first went into your parents’ house? Well you were right, it was a child crying.’
‘Grace Kirby?’
‘No. It was you.’ As Mark screwed up his face in confusion, Jim continued. ‘What you heard was the soundtrack from a DVD we found in the master bedroom’s television. On that DVD was a few seconds of a film made in 1997 of you and Grace Kirby being sexually molested.’
At first, Mark merely sat and blinked as the news sank in. Then, in a half-choked whisper, he breathed, ‘It was them. My so-called father and the man from my dream or memory or whatever it was. It was them, wasn’t it?’
‘Neither Stephen Baxley nor the other man you described are visible on camera in the film. Although Stephen Baxley can be heard talking off-screen.’
Mark squeezed his eyes shut, clasping his hands to his head as if to keep it from splitting apart. ‘I should have known. The way he was with me, the way he couldn’t bear to touch me, it wasn’t because of who I was, it was because of what he’d done to me. Every time he looked at me, it must have reminded him of what a warped bastard he was.’ His eyes snapped open as though something had occurred to him. ‘So who is visible on camera?’
Jim hesitated to reply as Doctor Reeve’s warning about creating false memories came back to him.
‘Is my—’ Mark started to say, but he sucked the words back into his mouth, as though he dared not ask the question in his mind. Shivering with apprehension, he managed to free his voice. ‘Is my mum?’
Jim summoned up an image of the woman in the film – small breasts, narrow hips, dark pubic hair. Jenny Baxley was – or rather, had been – a redhead with a busty, hourglass figure. ‘No.’
‘But she could have been there off-screen.’
‘It’s possible,’ conceded Jim. ‘But I don’t think she knew about the DVD. I think Stephen Baxley kept it in his safe, to which you say she had no access.’
Mark’s expression said he desperately wanted to believe Jim was right but was still tortured by uncertainty. His eyes widened as another thought struck him. ‘Exactly what date was the film made on?’
‘The first of September.’
Relief flooded into Mark’s eyes. ‘Then my mum couldn’t have been there. Charlotte was born on the twentieth of October that year. Mum spent the last couple of months of her pregnancy in hospital with pre-eclampsia.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Mark nodded. ‘She was really ill. She could have died.’ His pale lips twitched with a spasm of self-reproach. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with me? How could I have even thought she might have been there?’
‘Betrayal is the most destructive force in the world, Mark. It makes you doubt everything that’s gone before.’
Mark’s features twitched as he struggled with the turmoil in his mind. He steadied himself with a shuddering breath. ‘So apart from Stephen Baxley, who do you know for certain was involved?’
‘We don’t. Their faces are hidden.’
‘Well how many of them are there?’
‘I’m not going to tell you that, Mark. That’s something you need to try and remember on your own.’
Mark closed his eyes again, trying to summon up the shadow-wreathed figures from his dream. But all he could see was Stephen Baxley’s face staring at him with cold, accusing eyes, as if he was the one who’d done something wrong. He flinched away from the image, quivering with impotent fear and rage. ‘I can’t remember,’ he cried. ‘Why can’t I remember?’
‘It’ll come back to you, Mark. And even if it doesn’t, I’ll catch the perpetrators. No matter what it takes.’ Jim’s voice was full of steely promise.
Mark clenched his hands as if he wanted to hit something. ‘What about Grace Kirby? What happened to her?’
‘We don’t know that either. She’s been missing since February ‘97. Seven months before the film was made.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘So she’s got to be dead, right? A girl that age can’t have survived on her own.’
‘You’re right. Chances are she’s long dead, but…’ Jim’s voice faded into uncertainty.
‘But what? You think she’s still alive?’
Jim sighed. Grace’s fate was as wrapped in shadows as the figures in Mark’s mind. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to think.’
Mark hugged his good arm across himself, shuddering. ‘How many lives has that… I don’t even know what to call him any more. How many lives has he destroyed?’ Self-disgust twisted his features. ‘To think there was a time when I would’ve done almost anything for his affection. I used to follow him around like a puppy, helping him with whatever jobs needed doing. But nothing was ever enough for him. That’s why he wanted me to see that DVD. Just killing me wasn’t enough. He wanted me to know that even though I wasn’t his, he owned me.’ He shook his head violently, as if to clear away unwanted images. ‘Oh God, I feel as if I’m falling apart.’
Jim put his hand on Mark’s arm and squeezed as though trying to will some of his strength into him. He wanted to do more. He wanted to tell him he would get through this. But he knew that would have been a lie. He’d seen things that had left him in awe of the endurance of the human spirit. But he’d also seen people who’d suffered far lesser traumas than Mark disintegrate almost in front of his eyes. ‘You’ve got to keep it together, Mark. Because when your sister wakes up she’s going to need you. Do you hear?’
Mark nodded, getting hold of himself with visible effort.
‘Good lad. I’m afraid I’ve got to go now.’
‘Couldn’t you stay just a bit longer? You could tell me more about Grace Kirby. Maybe that would help me remember.’
‘Sorry, Mark, but I’ve already stayed longer than I should have. I’ll try to get to see you again tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t try to force the memories to return. Let them come on their own. Often the harder you try to recall something, the more elusive it becomes. At least, that’s my experience from doing this job for thirty-odd years.’ He wrote a number on the back of a business card, then gave it to Mark. ‘Anytime you want to talk, don’t hesitate to call. My home number’s on there as well, in case you can’t reach me on my mobile.’
Jim felt Mark’s eyes follow him from the room, full of the anxious hope that he might change his mind. He would have liked to sit with Mark, talking about Grace Kirby and about Mark’s life in general. Often the clues that solved cases were hidden in the mundane details of people’s daily lives. But those details would have to wait for a time when the two doctors and Garrett weren’t hovering at his back.
‘You were in there a long time,’ said Doctor Reeve, with more than a hint of suspicion in his voice. ‘I thought we agreed you were simply going to tell him an emergency had come up, and leave.’
‘No, Doctor, that’s what you agreed on.’
‘From that, I take it you’ve gone against both my wishes and those of your commanding officer.’
‘You take it right.’
A tut of disapproval came from Garrett, but Doctor Reeve raised a quietening hand. ‘So what did you tell Mark?’
‘Only what he deserved to know. That we have evidence he was sexually abused as a child. I didn’t reveal anything about the people involved, except that one of them was Grace Kirby. I’d already shown him her picture, so all I was doing was putting a name to a face.’
A faint angry flush crept up Doctor Reeve’s neck, but his voice remained controlled. ‘It makes little difference that you didn’t reveal specifics, Detective Monahan. What you’ve told Mark is more than enough to potentially create a conflict between his memory and reality. I only hope that in the process you haven’t also managed to damage the connection between his mind and reality.’
‘Well he seemed to have a firm grip on his situation, but then what would I know. Like I said, I’m just a simple copper.’
Doctor Reeve stared at Jim a moment longer, his mouth set in a thin, unamused smile. Then he turned to Doctor Goodwin. ‘I think it would be in Mark’s best interest if Detective Monahan had no further contact with him.’
‘I have to say I agree,’ said Doctor Goodwin. ‘I realise the detective was only doing his job, but I simply can’t allow anything that might compromise the recovery of a patient. I’m afraid I must ask that Detective Monahan has no further contact with Mark while he’s under the care of this hospital.’
‘I understand and apologise, Doctors.’ Garrett flashed Jim a look that said, You’re in deep shit. ‘Thank you both for all your help.’
‘Anytime,’ said Doctor Goodwin. ‘Now if there’s nothing else, I think we’d better check on the patient.’
As the doctors entered Mark’s room, Garrett gave Jim a narrow-eyed look. ‘I think we need to have a chat, Detective. I’m late for a meeting with the Chief Superintendent and Edward Forester at his constituency office. But I’ll see you back at headquarters in an hour or two.’
Jim’s mouth spread in a thin-lipped smile as Garrett hastened away. It amused him in a sour sort of way to picture Garrett sweating under Edward Forester’s questions. Forester was the Labour MP for Sheffield South-East, and a renowned political operator who traded on his reputation as a straight-talking Yorkshireman. It was in his interest to keep a close eye on the investigation. A lot of his constituents would be out of a job if SB Engineering went under, and even in a rock-solid Labour seat like Sheffield South-East, that kind of thing could affect votes.
‘I don’t know why you’re smiling,’ said Amy. ‘You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bring you up on disciplinary charges for pulling that little trick.’
‘No he won’t. He needs every copper he’s got in the field right now.’
‘Maybe, but keep on like you are and when this is over he’ll be out for your head.’
‘I hope you’re right, Amy. I hope this is over one day. And as for Garrett wanting my head…’ Jim made a noise in his throat that suggested the possibility held little fear for him.
As they headed back to the car, Amy asked, ‘So what are you going to do with yourself while you wait for the DCI?’
‘I thought I’d take a closer look at Grace Kirby’s file. It could be worth talking to some of her childhood friends and finding out if any of them remember seeing her with a man fitting the description of the one from Mark’s dream.’
Amy cocked a dubious eyebrow. ‘Not much of a description to go on, a posh voice and a gobful of crooked teeth.’
‘I know it’s a long shot, but it might turn something up.’
Amy’s mobile phone rang as they ducked into the car. She put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Detective Inspector Amy Sheridan?’ The voice had a distinctive north-eastern accent.
‘It is.’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Debra Kennedy of Cleveland Police. I understand you’ve been making enquiries about Lillian Smyth’s mobile phone. I thought you might be interested to know that a clone of her phone was used by someone we suspect may have been involved in a murder.’
‘Hang on, Debra. I have a colleague with me who needs to hear this. I’m putting you on loudspeaker.’ Quickly filling Jim in on what had been said, Amy slotted the phone into a holder on the dashboard.
‘Hello, Debra, this is DI Jim Monahan. So, what’s this about a murder?’
‘Ryan Castle, a mid-level drug dealer, was found two nights ago shot to death at Seal Sands, a nature reserve near Middlesbrough.’
‘I read about that,’ said Amy. ‘Sounds like a drug deal gone bad.’
‘That’s what we thought, but there have been some developments that suggest otherwise. The night following Castle’s murder, a woman placed a call on a clone of Lillian Smyth’s phone to James Cook Hospital in Middlesbrough. She wanted to know if a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old, slim, blonde-haired female had been brought in. A girl fitting that description had been admitted the previous n
ight. A prostitute named Nicola Clarke. She was found unconscious outside Accident and Emergency. Her blood has since been matched to blood found on the back seat of Castle’s car. According to her, Castle picked her up alone and beat her unconscious during intercourse. The next thing she claims to remember is coming round in hospital.’
‘Do you believe her?’ asked Jim.
‘I believe she was unconscious when Castle was killed. She took a hell of a beating. That’s not to say I don’t think she knows who killed him.’
‘Have you got a recording of the phone call?’
‘We’ve got more than that. Shortly after the call was made, we believe the same woman was caught on CCTV entering the ward Nicola Clarke is on. She left an envelope for Nicola containing six hundred quid. We’ve since pulled Castle’s fingerprints off several of the banknotes.’
‘What does the woman look like?’
‘She’s white, around five-four or five-five, slim, late twenties or early thirties.’
Jim and Amy exchanged a glance, both thinking the same thought – the description could easily match Grace Kirby, if she was still alive. ‘What about her hair?’ asked Jim.
‘She had a hooded top on. Give me your email and I’ll send you a file of the phone call and the CCTV.’
Amy told Debra her email address, then fetched a laptop from the boot. ‘Have you got any idea as to the woman’s identity, Debra?’ asked Jim, as they waited for the laptop to boot up.
‘We’re working on the assumption that she’s a prostitute. We think she may have followed Castle and Clarke out to Seal Sands in another car, which was subsequently used to take Clarke to hospital. We’re canvassing prostitutes who work the same streets as Nicola, but they’re as tight-lipped as priests when it comes to protecting their own. What’s unclear is why the woman didn’t know Nicola was at the hospital.’