HERE THE TRUTH LIES_A gripping psychological thriller_US Edition

by Seb Kirby

  Lesley has one further question. “So what do we do about Marsha Kent, the woman he called?”

  “It won’t be long before she’s pulled in. I’ve asked the Southampton force to bring her up to London for questioning as soon as they track her down.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Tony Galbraith drives me back into central London and I ask him to drop me off near Harley Street. I walk the last hundred yards to Montago Clinic where I’m faced by the same receptionist who gives me the same disengaged stare.

  “Dr. Fuller can’t see you today. You need to make an appointment.”

  I lean forward on the reception counter. “He saw me yesterday. Gave me a message I need to talk over with him.”

  “That was yesterday. His diary is full today.”

  “This is important to me.”

  A half-smile. “Not to any of the patients who booked in advance.”

  The door to Fuller’s office opens and a pale-looking teenager emerges. I walk straight in, followed by the receptionist who tries to stop me.

  Fuller calls out. “It’s OK, June. I can find a few minutes for Miss Chamberlain.”

  I decline the offer of a seat and come straight to the point. “I need to know on whose authority Kautek was treating me.”

  Fuller stares back, unmoved. “That’s confidential.”

  “Even though I was Kautek’s patient.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Let me put it another way. Nothing around here comes without a hefty price tag. So, someone must have paid for my treatment. Who was it?”

  “That’s also confidential.”

  I move closer. “I can file a Freedom of Information request and you’ll have to divulge the details, won’t you?”

  “That’s not the kind of threat that will carry much weight with me, I’m afraid. Go ahead, see how long it takes. We’ll be able to fall back on commercial confidentiality to frustrate you at every step.”

  I fear he’s not going to give in. “What’s changed? Yesterday was all sweetness and light with you doing your duty to an ex-colleague and his patient by handing over the letter. Now you won’t say a word. Who’s got to you?”

  “No one, Miss Chamberlain. And even if they had, that’s not anything I’d be obliged to tell you, is it?” He points towards the door. “Please leave.”

  I stand my ground. “I need the name of the person who paid Dr. Kautek’s bills. If you refuse there is an alternative. An inquiry by a major national newspaper into what goes on here. Call it a dose of much needed investigative journalism in an age that’s beginning to forget what that’s all about. I can arrange it. In fact, I’ll lead it. No skeletons in the cupboard? No issues about treating minors without full consent?”

  He holds up his hands. “You’re using your professional position to make a threat. That’s highly unethical. I could report you to press complaints.”

  “No more unethical than what this clinic is practicing.” I pause. “The name. I just want the name.”

  Fuller blinks first. “It’s all you get.”

  He turns to his screen and searches for the right file. When he’s finished, he scribbles the name on the jotter pad before him, tears off the page and hands it to me.

  I have to read what it says more than once.

  Raymond Wilsden.

  My mind is filled with doubt and terror as I take the train home.

  There is a chance this Raymond Wilsden is not the Drugs Unit detective known to Marsha Kent, the same Raymond Wilsden who has progressed to become Chief Superintendent. There could be others with the same name. Yet, in my heart, I know this must be the same man. As I told Sophie, the only other option would be to believe in the power of coincidence and I’m not about to start down that road.

  If Raymond Wilsden had given permission for Kautek to start my therapy, what does this mean? Why did he have control over my future? And if so, why has he not made himself known to me?

  When I reach home, I head straight to the bottle of scotch. My interest in the golden liquid is becoming greater with each passing day. I know and fear that. But now is not the time to row back. I need the clarity of thought the drink brings me.

  Long into the night, I stare at the image of Raymond Wilsden that I’ve pulled up onto my phone.

  Though I want to find it and I search for it, I can find no sign of compassion in his eyes.

  DAY 7

  CHAPTER 51

  The sound of the phone beeping wakes me from fitful sleep. I rub my eyes and stare at the screen.

  A message from Sophie. How are you?

  I don’t need to think. We need to talk.

  Sophie’s reply comes straight back. OK. Meet me at the Tate at 10.00.

  I look for James on the journey into London Bridge but again he’s nowhere to be seen. But I’m traveling in at a much later time now I’m no longer going to the Herald.

  The doors to the Boiler House entrance to Tate Modern haven’t been open long as I arrive along with the first few visitors of the day. I make my way to the elevators and emerge on the top floor to find Sophie waiting.

  She smiles and gives me a hug. “You seem stressed.”

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t be that obvious.”

  “Bad night?”

  “I’ve had better.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “I met Tony Galbraith.” I pause and take a deep breath. “Last time we spoke, you told me I shouldn’t bet my career on what Tony Galbraith was saying. Well, now I’ve spoken with him again, I’m sure he’s telling the truth.”

  “But you are now placing your career on the line.”

  “I just know no one could have faked what he said, least of all a man like Galbraith. He was abused. From an early age. By his own father and then by others, including Adam Stanley. If you’d heard his story, you’d be in no doubt.”

  “So, you have Stanley.”

  “Not without proof.”

  “And Galbraith can’t or won’t come up with that?”

  “He says it’s more than his life is worth. And, it would be his word against Stanley’s, even if he were to come forward.”

  “So, you need corroborating evidence.”

  I tell Sophie about the Assent Trust. “Galbraith says this is the center of a pedophile ring. He was adopted from there. Placed in the hands of an abusive father. Adam Stanley is one of the Trustees.”

  “Could be circumstantial.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So, what are you asking?”

  “Can we research the Trust? See if there’s a pattern of operation there that might point to a pedophile ring.”

  Sophie nods. “OK. I’ll do all I can. Call in some contacts.” She pauses. “Now, I know there’s more you haven’t told me.”

  “There is something I’m struggling to come to terms with.”

  Sophie waits.

  “You see, when I went back to Montago Clinic I found out who had given Kautek authorization to treat me. That person was Ray Wilsden.”

  Sophie opens her eyes wide in surprise. “The Ray Wilsden?”

  “You’re not about to tell me to start believing in coincidence?”

  “You need to be sure it’s the same man.”

  “The Clinic won’t tell me anything more.”

  “Freedom of Information?”

  “I threatened Fuller with that. He told me they would play for time. And the way I’m feeling, that’s something I don’t have right now.”

  “So we need to find another way. But promise me you’ll take care. I’m now more worried about you than ever.”

  I try to smile. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still determined to find out what they did. And I think I’ve discovered enough about them to know where to start.”

  Sophie pulls out a sheaf of papers from her bag. “I had a chance to look into Montago Clinic and Dr. Bernard Kautek.”

  “Anything?”

  “Well, Kautek died three years ago but not bef
ore he’d been hauled up in front of the Ethics Committee of The Society of Psychiatric Medicine. They claimed he’d gone too far in his use of hypnotherapy, using it to reconfigure identities rather than simply as a therapy.”

  “As he did to me. And how many others?”

  “The minutes of the hearing refer to three patients.”

  “And was Emma Chamberlain one of those?”

  Sophie shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You have the names?”

  “That’s also a no. They were just referred to as Patient A, Patient B, and Patient C. To preserve anonymity.”

  “There’s no way to recover those names?”

  “I don’t think so. Even to try would be highly unethical. Especially where minors are involved.”

  “The patients were all children?”

  “That’s right. When Kautek’s treatment was completed, the eldest was sixteen and the youngest thirteen.”

  I shudder. “So much like what happened to me. What was Kautek’s defense?”

  “Just as in his letter to you, he claimed this was justified as the only way to turn damaged individuals into outward-going, happy people with a future ahead of them.”

  “And what about the parents? They must have had something to say?”

  “Two were supportive of Kautek. Not only had they given their consent for the treatment to begin, but they were satisfied with the outcome. They agreed that the lives of their children had been improved beyond their expectations. They spoke of the adjustments required in their lives to make room for the fact that, in effect, a new person was entering their family but that the disruption was worth it when weighed against the benefits to their children.”

  “You said there were three patients.”

  “One of the parents claimed that Kautek had gone too far. That he was, in fact, playing god with their child’s life. They must have filed the complaint that led to the hearing, I think. They said their child was lost and disorientated after the change.”

  “And the outcome?

  “Kautek was struck off. He was told he shouldn’t practice psychotherapy any more.”

  “Good job he was stopped.”

  “He was always convinced he was doing good. He lodged an appeal and it recommended he should be allowed to continue practicing provided his work was supervised by another, qualified analyst.”

  “So he continued.”

  “There’s no further record of what happened. Since he was never recalled to the Ethics Committee, we can only assume that his work was satisfactory.”

  “Or that he was just never reported again.”

  I wonder what I would do without her. “So that begins to explain why Montago is so defensive. They have a lot to hide.”

  Sophie moves closer. “Emma, please don’t mind my saying this. You need help. What you’re uncovering about your past is full of danger. I mean to your state of mind.” Sophie embraces me again. “I’m sorry I’ve not been here for you enough. You know I’d be more help if I could. But there is someone who could guide you though this.” She pulls out a card and shows it to me. “His name is Lucca Berinski.”

  “An analyst.”

  “Yes. And a very good one.”

  “You’ve mentioned my situation to him?”

  “No. He was one of those I spoke to for information about Kautek. He knows there is a someone like you who may need his help. It’s up to you if you want to go ahead and let him know who you are.”

  CHAPTER 52

  The trailer park near Totton is deserted at this time of year. Once high season comes around, it will be full of families seeking an inexpensive break from the monotony of working life. But right now, Evan Cargill has the place to himself.

  Painkillers have dulled the discomfort in his shoulder to the point where he’s no longer troubled by it. But he has little movement in the whole of his right arm and knows he shouldn’t try to deceive himself that he is in anything like fighting condition. He needs to sit this thing out for a week at least.

  The trailer wasn’t what he expected when Marsha delivered him here late last night. These days, static holiday homes are well equipped with a workable kitchen, TV and Internet connectivity.

  He knows not to try surfing. It will be too easy for the police to get a fix on him. But the TV will be safe enough.

  He prepares himself one of the ready meals left by Marsha and peels back the plastic cover to reveal the contents. Chicken tikka masala. His favorite. And not bad for a microwaved meal.

  He tucks into the curry while flicking through the TV channels. After all that has happened in the past few days, it’s no surprise he’s hungry. He needs to stock up on energy to heal the wound in his shoulder and prepare for what lies ahead.

  Finding nothing of interest, he settles on the local news station. It’s the expected parochial stuff. Planning applications for building on the green belt refused by the local council and now reversed by national government. Crisis over illegal dumping in local beauty spots. Dire weather predictions for this time of year.

  He sits bolt upright. His own face on the screen. The police asking for anyone who’s seen him to come forward, but not to approach him. As if he would be a danger to anyone who didn’t deserve it.

  Yet the message is clear. Marsha was right, as always. Stay out of sight until you’re ready to move on.

  No one suspects he’s here. It’s essential it remains that way.

  CHAPTER 53

  The report that Marsha Kent has been killed in a hit and run sends Ives into a flurry of recrimination.

  “They let Cargill slip through their fingers and now this. All they had to do was pick her up and bring her here for questioning. And they couldn’t even do that.”

  Lesley can find little positive to say. “It does leave a hole in the investigation.”

  “You bet it does. She was our best chance of trapping Cargill. Now, he’s gone to ground, what are we left with?”

  Lesley doesn’t answer. “There must be CCTV footage of the vehicle that killed her.”

  “I’ve just viewed it. A white van with false plates. Tells us nothing.”

  “So where next?”

  “Marsha Kent must have known something important enough to get herself killed. So we take apart every scrap of information we can get on her and find out what that is.”

  “I can start right away, but it’s going to take time.”

  “Patterson says we can have four extra bodies to speed up the investigation. Get them here and put them to work on anything and everything we can discover about Kent.”

  CHAPTER 54

  My phone beeps. A call from Sophie. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Sophie speaks in a quiet voice. “I should tell you this when we’re both together. I don’t want to put it in a call. But it won’t wait.”

  “OK.”

  “There’s no good way of putting this. Marsha Kent died last night. A hit and run.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “An accident?”

  “That’s what they’re saying. They’re still searching for the driver. We may discover more if and when that person is found.”

  “She told us she was frightened to say anything more. Perhaps this is the kind of thing she meant?”

  “Safer not to speculate.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Sophie waits, as if she knows there is more to come. “And?”

  “Everything about my childhood is a lie.”

  “Don’t say that. You told me you can’t recall anything from back then.”

  “It’s what I feel. A deep disquiet.”

  “Anger?”

  “No, guilt. I’m overcome by it whenever I allow myself to go back and I don’t know why.”

  “You have to stop hurting yourself with all this. You need to see Berinski.”

  “I promise I will.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Evan Cargill dries his
eyes.

  He hasn’t cried since he was a boy and he would have hated for anyone to see him now.

  The image before him on the TV is a head and shoulders of Marsha Kent. Cargill has paused the news bulletin so he can take this one last look at her face.

  The strip at the bottom of the screen tells it all.

  Woman killed in hit and run named as local beautician Marsha Kent.

  He pounds the tabletop before him with his good hand, hoping in vain this will somehow dissipate the rising tide of anger that is overwhelming him.

  He will find them.

  He will make them pay.

  And he knows what this means. There can be no lying low until his shoulder heals.

  No matter how far below his best he might be, he now needs to be back out there.

  And complete the list.

  CHAPTER 56

  Lucca Berinski’s consulting room is nothing like the one I encountered when I visited Montago Clinic. The furnishings are modern and informal with more the look and feel of a designer lounge than an analyst’s consulting room. The smartness of the room matches Berinski’s appearance - the well-trimmed beard, the Wayfarer spectacles, the Italian suit.

  I’m surprised he’s agreed to see me at such short notice. Sophie must have been persuasive. So, here I am, in his King’s Road practice.

  He introduces himself in a soft-spoken accent that betrays just a hint of his Polish origins. “So, Miss Chamberlain, I’m here to help.”

  I sit back on the couch facing him and try to relax. “Call me Emma.”

  He smiles and shows perfect, even teeth. “OK. Emma it is. Tell me a little about yourself.”

  I’m tempted to smile at the irony of what he’s just said. I’m here to find the answer to that very question. But I play the game and give him a standard biography of Emma Chamberlain, even though I might as well have been talking about someone else.

  When I finish, and he’s asked for details showing his interest in me and what I take as his deliberate valuing of what I’ve achieved in my career, he pulls out a stack of cards from a desk drawer and continues. “Let’s start with these.”