She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

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She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 16

by C. M. Stephenson


  ‘Not in the police files. The arresting officer found a card with a contact name and number in her belongings, someone called Ellen Williams, she arranged for a psychiatrist to do a psyche evaluation. Apparently,’ Badger pauses for effect, ‘there was an agreement in place that gave her power of attorney in the case of deteriorating mental capacity. Not long after, Lily was committed to a facility in West Hampstead, Harper Burgess Health. It still exists, bought out by Prima Health in 2003. I assumed the patient files were carried over. I did a Section 29 request. They weren’t very happy.’ He picks a large envelope up off his desk. ‘Arrived last night. They look as though they’ve been hacked about a bit. I’ve noted down the name of the psychiatrist.’ He passes the envelope over to Mel. ‘My notes are on the inside.’

  ‘Thank, Badge. Track down Ellen Williams for me, will you?’

  He frowned. ‘It might be a long job, really common name.’

  ‘Well, give it your best shot. Try the telecoms first. Does everyone know what they should be doing?’ She looks around the room. 'No dissenters? Right then, get on with it.’

  The team disperses around her, eager to get on with their respective tasks. There’s a buzz in the room, two interesting cold cases, unsolved for years. Everyone wants to win, to solve the crime, to give the families some form of closure. She pours herself a cup of coffee, closes the door, seats herself at her desk. The patient file overflows with paper. She places Badger’s notes directly above it. His flowery handwriting and well-rounded capitals a little too much for her own taste.

  She opens the file; her fingers move fluidly over each page as she speed reads line after line. This is her forte, the attentiveness to detail. Now and again she scribbles a note on the pad next to her. The records go back as far as 1983, a referral from her doctor. Anxiety attacks, severe ones. In and out of the facility for near on ten years. She runs her pen down the page, there it is – the blood type. She’s sure it’s Veronica Lightfoot. Her sister Rosie donated a sample years ago and the lab ran a DNA test, there’s a strong familial match.

  Every few minutes she turns to her computer, taps in the name of a specific treatment or drug. It’s a complicated process – she realises that she needs to talk to a professional, probably a psychiatrist. Run things by them. She gets to her feet, opens the office door.

  ‘Kinsi, have you got a minute?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Kinsi unwinds herself from her seat and elegantly weaves her way through the clutter of desks. She’s inherited her Somalian mother’s stature – tall and slight.

  ‘Can you find out the name of the psych that’s on the books?’

  ‘Sure.’ Her eyes fixed on Mel. ‘Do you want me to get them in?’

  ‘No,’ Mel shakes her head. ‘Not yet, I’ll have to see what the budget is. Just the name right now.’

  Mel returns to the medical file, there’s a thought nagging her. Why had Lily Probisher given Ellen Williams power of attorney over her? She’d encountered that once, maybe twice in her career. Who was Ellen Williams? And plenty of the text had been obliterated by thick black lines – and names of her physicians blanked out. She is almost halfway through the file when she finds a name, a scribbled signature, it looks like Dr R Coleman-Wakely or Wakefield, she can’t tell which. Her mood lifts a little. She does a quick Google search on the name, it’s Wakely rather than Wakefield. It seems he or she is no longer practising, not legitimately at least. Then she finds an obituary from 2006.

  “She leaves behind her husband, Hugh and two grown-up children, Harriet and Charlotte.”

  Her mood shifts again. She rids herself of the notion of interviewing Dr Wakely.

  Early on there is mention of a suicide attempt. About two thirds through the file she finds what she is looking for. The skin on the back of her neck tingles. Electric Shock Therapy, drug-assisted psychotherapy sessions, surely EST was made illegal years ago, she thinks to herself. Then page after page of half-obliterated documents, she makes a note to send some of them to the lab to see what they can do with them. The thick file reveals more secrets. A further attempted suicide whilst there. More treatment. Then a disclaimer, a declaration that says that the patient is cognitive, that there may be considerable memory loss, signed by Lily Probisher.

  The final document denotes that the patient was released four months later and subject to a follow-up, three months after that. Lily hadn’t turned up for that appointment. There were no further entries after the year 2000.

  Questions mount up in her head. Why had she been kept there for so long? Four months is a long time to recover from treatment. Then she’d not attended the follow-up, why didn’t she, what stopped her? Was she okay, had her health declined? What had happened to her in those three months?

  There’s a signature, that woman again, Dr Coleman-Wakely. She had concluded that the patient was no longer suffering from PTSD nor Multiple Personality Disorder. That the Veronica personality was no longer manifesting itself.

  The Veronica personality was no longer manifesting herself?

  Her stomach flips, the words knock the breath out of her.

  35

  Thomasine left everything in situ, as she should. Almost. Hidden from daylight and preying fingers, slimed by mildew, a carrier bag – a cocoon. She holds her breath, opens the bag, shines the torch in it. For one overwhelming moment, she is glad that she gloved up.

  There it was – the diary.

  She gulps in a mouthful of dust filled air, coughs; the floorboards beneath her creak.

  Don’t you dare read it! Karen’s voice screaks in Thomasine’s head as she hurries out of the loft and down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Once read, it cannot be unread. Cannot be unlearnt. Cannot be unsaid.

  She knows that, yet her body quakes – the desire to turn its pages one by one, such a rush of emotion—who would blame her? Who do they belong to anyway? Karen’s dead so she can’t claim them. And who else has paid so much for the right to read it first? Certainly, not Mel Phillips.

  She takes a small china plate out of the cupboard, lays the diary on it. Places the carrier bag on the side of the sink.

  The painted roses have parted company from the cardboard; the pages ripple and puck in response. She turns it over in her hand – it’s light, two pages to a week, a reminder for birthdays – so it says on the back. She closes her eyes, imagines what’s inside this Pandora’s box. The secrets it might hold, the scathing comments, the hurts.

  The killer’s name?

  What if it’s someone I know? Someone I like, never suspected? Hiding amongst us, crushing us under their feet as each day went by. What if they’re dead?

  She clicks the lock. The diary falls open in her hand, a dimpled picture of a grey kitten looks back at her. Carefully, she turns back the pages, turns back time. The first entry is Saturday the eighth of January 1972.

  ‘It stopped raining, went down the park, Wayne Harris tried to kiss me. I slapped him. He’s fow.’

  Thomasine lets out a laugh, she can hear her voice, that high pitch, that giggle, that broad Lancashire accent that never had a chance to leave her. The slyness of the last word.

  Her eyes drink it in, page after page of scribbled notes, sometimes only a single line, other times so much to say, the writing so small it’s barely legible. Red, blue, black inks, crossing outs, thick lines cut through long words misspelt. Capitals for confrontations and retribution.

  Is the rest of it up in the loft, she thinks to herself? School books, pictures, cards, anything like that, they all disappeared.

  ‘Where did you put them, Mam?’ She cocks her head to the side as though waiting for an answer.

  Fow – she’s not heard that in years. Ugly, that’s what it means. A flash of memory ignites it back to life.

  Fow cow, fow cow!

  She blinks, the world changes. She’s up on the moor, running along the tops – Karen in front, hair bouncing in a ponytail, her arms wide open, gusts of wind against her back, scooping her forw
ard. Thomasine behind her, hands stretched out, her chubby legs unable to keep up, she stumbles, her ankle turns out on a rut of soil. She cries out in pain. Karen doesn’t stop, her face raised up to the sky, twirling around, caught by the airstream, obvious to her sister’s cries.

  She’d been found by the dogs two hours later. Her eyes and nose blood red from sobbing, huddled inside the gnarled trunk of a tree. Shivering. Her ankle swollen to twice its size.

  Thomasine closes her eyes, lets it play out in the recesses of her memory.

  ‘She’s only three-years-old, Karen.’ Dad was shaking. ‘Leaving her here, up on the tops.’ His shoulders slump, his voice cracks to a whisper. ‘For God’s sake – she’s your baby sister. Why can’t we trust you with her?’

  Karen, dry-eyed and white-faced, straightens her shoulders, pulls herself up. ‘You never asked me if I wanted a sister, did you?’

  ‘You—’ unsaid words hang between them. He rubs his fingers through his hair, heat rushes across his face, he grabs her by the shoulders, shoves her in front of him. ‘I’ll let your mother deal with you.’ She never did. Her mother always had a softness for Karen that went beyond love.

  Thomasine flicks through the pages. Like plaited hair, Karen’s memories weave together with her own. Not quite the truth, not quite a lie. The disdain, the disapproval when she didn’t do exactly as her sister asked. It comes back in fits and bursts. Make her bed, get her a drink from the kitchen, make her a snack, clean her shoes, become invisible when her friends were around. How she borrowed Thomasine’s dark green kilt because on her it became a mini-skirt. How Thomasine wasn’t allowed to tell Mam and Dad. The Chinese Burn that she’d get if she refused. The pinching. Her neck, her inner arms, her inner thighs. All the places that would hurt the most.

  These are things she told no one, not even Rosie.

  ‘She’s stolen my Mary Quant lipsticks, the bitch won’t tell me where they are, I hate her.’

  Thomasine has no recollection of stealing her lipsticks. In that last year of her life, her sister had been particularly nasty. Accusing her of wearing her clothes, using her make-up. Lying to their parents, even to Mam. Saying that she’d been with her when she wasn’t. Sneaking out on a Sunday afternoon, making her go with her, only to abandon her out in the fields with the strict instructions of where and when to meet her. If she followed her she’d get a slap. Often, Karen would be gone for hours.

  How have I forgotten all of this? Is my mind playing tricks with me? Her own questions are met with a stony silence. She takes in a shallow breath – the air in the room is stale with sadness. Thomasine places the diary back on the china plate, she pulls off her latex gloves, backs away from it, goes out into the hallway. She yanks open the front door, a cold blast of air hits her face. A murder of crows squawks off over the barn roof. Across the valley, clumps of slate-grey cloud cling to the horizon, the woodland where her sister’s remains were found is drenched in mist.

  Hardacre was right – I can’t deal with this. My objectivity is completely screwed. I hated her at times. I must be honest about that. Even if only to myself.

  She walks across the yard, turns right behind the barn, climbs up onto the wall just as she had as a child. The sheep huddle around the water trough, their tongues lick the ice, their backsides caked in thick grey mud. Their coats will be sheared in spring, the wool sold for next to nothing. The stench of rotten eggs blows into her face – the slurry pit, a few yards in front of her, sunk into the ground, the crust so thick it looks like a compost heap. She remembers her grandfather telling her that it had taken himself and his brother, four days to dig it out, back-breaking work; he could barely stand upright for days afterwards.

  The cold cuts into her, she clambers down the wall, makes her way back to the farmhouse, closes the door behind her. Her mother’s voice tells her to turn off the hallway light, she’s not got money to burn. Her sister’s voice drops in, tells her to leave her things exactly where they lay.

  God, I need a drink. To drown them out if nothing else. She tries recall a kinder memory, one where there was happiness.

  And hormones, says the voice of logic in her head, puberty, don’t forget that, that would explain it, it wasn’t her fault; it was nature’s chemicals flooding through her. Would she have become kinder as she grew into an adult? When puberty was over? So many of her contemporaries say that happens. Before she knows it, her fingers hover over the half bottle of red left over from last night’s dinner.

  ‘What the—’ A thunderous banging noise startles her. Her heart leaps into her mouth, she rushes towards the front door, wrenches it open, still attached to the door knocker, her cousin Paul falls into the hallway.

  ‘Who—’ At the sight of his face, she apologises profusely. ‘Sorry, sorry. I hadn’t meant to drag you in. Are you okay?’

  Paul trips over the mat, stumbles against her. ‘Yes, I forgot… yer mam. You had to knock hard for her to hear yer.’

  ‘Right, well ease things off a bit, my hearing is pretty good.’

  He raises an eyebrow, nods at the open bottle wine on the worktop.

  ‘Started already, have you.’

  She knuckles him on the shoulder, a childhood banter that they never grew out of.

  ‘Come in, would you like a brew?’ She put on the kettle without waiting for an answer.

  ‘I thought I’d come over. See how yer was. See if yer needed a hand with anything. And I brought yer these.’ He places a large bag of Maltesers on the table. A treat they shared as kids.

  ‘That’s really kind of you, Paul.’ She jerks open the packet, offers them back to him. He takes a handful.

  ‘You’ve looked a bit rough of late, to be honest, I thought I’d cheer you up.’

  ‘Thanks, always good to know when you look rough.’ Their eyes met, she laughs and so does he.

  Paul takes a seat at the table, she talks as she makes the tea, her voice rises in volume as she describes the clutter, the roof in the barn and the loft full of woodworm.

  While taking another handful of Maltesers, he lets out a groan. ‘I bet it’s not as bad as ours, Dad never throws anything out. I’m surprised the bedroom ceilings are holding up.’ He waves his hand around the room, ‘This is alright – a bit of decorating and it’ll be fine.’ He picks up the mug of tea, blows on it. His free hand reaches out, he spreads his fingers, ready to pick up—

  ‘Don’t!’ Thomasine pulls the plate away. He always was curious and into everything. It was a family trait.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s diary I found up in the loft, there’s some other stuff up there too, Karen’s, I think.

  ‘Once a copper, always a copper,’ he smiles, pulls the plate towards him.

  ‘Best not to touch it. I’m planning to hand it in.’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I was just trying to get a better look, that’s all.’ He picks up the mug of tea instead. His eyes narrow. ‘Why are you handing it in?’

  ‘It was just stuff that I found that I thought might help the investigation.’ She watches the expression change on his face.

  ‘A diary?’ His eyes narrow, he rubs his nose with his thumb as he covers his mouth. His cheeks redden as the words tumble out of his mouth. ‘D-d-does she mention me?’

  ‘Not so far, I’m in there. Nothing good.’ She wipes her hands on her jeans. ‘You know what she was like,’ she shakes her head, smiles. ‘always a bit scathing.’

  He picks up the mug of tea again, puckers his lips, blows on the liquid before taking a sip.

  ‘She c-c-certainly was.’ He looks up her for affirmation.

  The memory of Karen affects him, she can tell. The stutter that so blighted his youth returns only when he is anxious. It rarely rears its head when they are alone together.

  His gaze returns diary. ‘Have you t-t-thought of what you’re going to do n-n-next?’

  ‘Next?’

  He looks around the room again. ‘This is all yours now, I g-g-guess?’

/>   ‘Oh, God. It’ll take a long time to sort this place out. And a bucket full of money that I don’t have.’

  He stands up, moves towards the mantelpiece. ‘Where’s she g-g-gone?’

  ‘Karen? The picture…it was freaking me out. I put it away in one of the drawers. Her eyes kept following me around the room.’

  His eyes widen, his jaw drops. ‘R-r-really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Does that surprise you?’

  He closes his eyes for a moment.

  ‘No, I s-s-suppose not. Occasionally your mam would say she saw Karen about the p-p-place.’

  ‘God, I hope that doesn’t happen to me, I’ll be out of here like a shot.’

  ‘Old age, p-p-probably.’ He puts his mug in the sink. ‘Anyway, I’d b-b-best be off. I’ll see myself out. If you need any help just give me a ring.’

  ‘I will.’ She watches his back as he leaves the room, his shoulders slumped, his feet scuff the floor as he makes his way down the hallway, the front door scrapes shut.

  She decides to go home, to her place, to have a bath, to clean up. She locks the back door, checks the windows. She’s interrupted by the loud clatter of the landline.

  It’s Rosie, she can barely hear her voice.

  ‘Thom, Thom.’ Rosie is crying, she can barely make out what she is saying. ‘You won’t believe this.’ She takes in a gulp of air. ‘It’s probably not true. They say they’ve found her, Thom, they’ve found Veronica—’

  ‘Up in the woods?’

  ‘No, no, here. We’re at the hospital. She’s alive—’

  ‘Where?’ there’s a trace of disbelief in her voice.

  ‘In Salford, sorry, but it’s the first time I’ve had a chance to contact you. I’ve just texted you the details. They found her, she had an accident. She’s been there for days. She had no ID on her, they did a blood test, did DNA.’ The words rush out of her, ‘She’s in a coma. I’m at the hospital. I’m sorry I didn’t ring you but…’ Her voice trails off.

 

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