She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  ‘I have—’ a loud crackling noise mangles whatever is being said. ‘—emory is like this tape recorder. We can erase those memories.’

  The room is utterly silent.

  The American carries on, ‘We have a drug. Propranolol. We use it alongside other treatments. It is completely safe. Almost a hundred per cent.’ There was a dishonesty in that statement that boomed in Mel’s ears.

  Veronica hesitates before responding. ‘What other treatments?’

  ‘Talk therapies such as cognitive behavioural therapy.’

  ‘And what else?’ There’s an intensity in Veronica’s voice.

  ‘More traditional methods, well-proven to be effective.’ A moment’s pause, ‘Electro Shock Therapy. People think it hurts – it doesn’t.’

  A chair scrapes across the floor, the words come out cold. ‘Like I believe you.’ Muffled footsteps shuffle across the floor; a door opens then swishes shut. The tape clicks, more crackling sounds, then it clicks again.

  Jenny leans forward and turns off the tape. ‘That was it, there’s nothing else on this recording.’

  Mel looks around at the team. ‘So, any ideas, any comments?’

  Silence, before Badger pipes up. ‘Well, as obvious as this may seem, it sounds like the psychiatrist didn’t believe she was Veronica.’

  ‘Definitely.’ Mel nods her head. ‘Jenny, what did you gather from listening to the other tapes?’

  ‘There’s a disjointedness about the whole thing, sometimes she remembers things, other times she doesn’t.’ Jenny taps the pile of transcripts in front of her. ‘It’s all in there, I’ve done copies for everyone.’ She tilts her head to one side, ‘One of the tapes I listened to was dated ten weeks later, there is no mention of Veronica at all. The psychiatrist refers to her as Lily throughout the session and Veronica doesn’t correct her. They talk about what she wants to do with her life. I thought that was strange.’ A smile of embarrassment spreads across her face. ‘I wondered if that mind wipe stuff had really worked.’

  Mel mulls Jenny’s comments over in her head. ‘Mindwipe eh, let’s listen to a few more tapes, ones you’ve not transcribed. See where that takes us. Best get some more coffee in, it might be a long session.’

  Kinsi leans forward, elbows on the table, head in her hands. ‘What if what this psychiatrist says is true, Lily Probisher may have no memory of Veronica at all.’

  Mel blinks, she turns the comment over in her head, ‘What did you say the name of the programme was?’

  Both Jenny and Badger answer at the same time. ‘The Mnimi Project.’

  ‘Greek for ‘memory’, Jenny interjects, noticing the frown on Mel’s face.

  ‘Thanks for that. Kinsi, nip out and do a quick search on that, then come back and tell us what you find.’

  Ten minutes later, and notepad in hand, Kinsi returns. ‘Well, there are lots of differing opinions. The Mnimi Project was a controversial psychotherapy programme back in the 1980s and 90s. Run by the same woman.’ She grimaces, ‘By the sounds of it, it was a testbed for psychotropic drugs – of course, funded by the drug companies.

  They claimed it was the solution for all sorts of psychological conditions, including post-traumatic stress syndrome. It was shut down in 2001 after two of the participants committed suicide. I’ve not read the reports yet but from what I can gather it was pretty gruelling. There’s a couple of videos on YouTube, participants talking about the abuse. I’ll go through them properly when we finish – I thought I’d best get back and let you know what I’d found.’

  Badger suddenly stands up. ‘It sounds like a bloody plot from a Stephen King film.’

  Mel shudders at the thought, ‘It certainly does.’ She scratches her head. It’ll be a hell of a job explaining that to the Superintendent.

  46

  ‘Have something to eat and then go for a relax in the family room.’ The nurse smiles at them both. ‘I’ll come and get you if anything changes.’

  Rosie and Thomasine walk down the corridor towards the café, both lost in their own thoughts. Neither of them had breakfast that morning. Rosie knows they must eat something, but she feels sick, she’s felt like that for days. The police won’t tell her anything.

  Her mind is crowded with questions. Why did her sister abandon her? Had she done something wrong? She’d been three-years-old when Veronica left to go live with their grandmother. That had been bad enough. A few months later – after she disappeared completely – Rosie became inconsolable, raging at her father for driving her away and blaming her mother for not stopping him.

  She can’t sleep, can’t rest, she needs answers. Why has Veronica been calling herself Lily Probisher all these years? Is it just a name she decided she wanted? If it wasn’t, did she hurt the real Lily?

  Where is the real Lily, is she dead?

  Is it Veronica’s fault that Karen died?

  Rosie’s own memories of Veronica are faded by time, but the sister she knew was kind and thoughtful, would never harm anyone. Did something or someone change that?

  A rush of sanity washes over her, her life prior to Veronica’s reappearance was a lot more comfortable. She had hope then; reality is completely different.

  Thomasine pushes open the swing doors into the restaurant. The sweet sugary fragrance of newly-baked cakes fills the air. Two young men are serving food, their voices rise and fall, Jeremy Vine is on the radio, a teenage girl sits in the corner, her head stuck in a magazine. A Victoria sandwich dusted with icing sugar is on special offer, two pieces for the price of one. Teacakes, colourful macaroons, flapjacks and millionaire’s shortbread lay behind the glass counter. The menu on the wall lists all-day breakfasts, nutty porridges, vegetarian soups, mozzarella and sundried tomato paninis.

  They make their way over towards two empty seats in the corner, Rosie picks up the menu and passes over to Thomasine.

  ‘What do you fancy, Rosie?’ Thomasine looks over the menu with limited interest. ‘Shall we share something?’

  Rosie reads down the menu, chooses something sweet, ‘Teacake?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have the same – butter, jam?’

  ‘Both. I’ll get them.’ Rosie has no appetite at all. She wanders over to the counter and places their order.

  A few minutes later a pot of tea and two large tea-cakes are placed on the small round table between them by a boy with blond highlights in his hair; several gold earrings pierce his left ear. He nips back to the counter for two mugs and a jug of milk. ‘Sorry about that. How are you today?’ There’s a softness in his voice.

  ‘Fine, Ryan, and you?’

  Thomasine looks on, Rosie has always had a way with young people, the ability to strike up a conversation.

  ‘I’m good, got exams next week.’

  ‘All the best of luck for them,’ she gestures towards the far corner of the restaurant, ‘I’ve seen you over there, surrounded by books. I’m sure you’ll pass.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he lets out a giggle, ‘Dad has said he’ll give me a right bollocking if I don’t.’

  ‘Thom’s a copper. If he does, let her know, she’ll sort him.’

  ‘Oi! I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that,’ Thomasine interjects playfully. Fully cognitive that a little light relief is exactly what they need.

  Ryan gives them a broad smile. Then hurries back to the counter with a spring in his step.

  A serious look settles on Thomasine’s face as she pours milk into the mugs.

  ‘Have you thought about what happens when Veronica gets discharged?’

  Rosie’s eyes widen, tears prick at her eyes. ‘I think I need to focus on the now, we don’t even know what she’ll be like when she comes to. I’ve been reading about it; she may be very disabled. They won’t know until she wakes from the coma.’

  A shadow crosses Thomasine’s face. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  Rosie shakes her head. For nearly ten minutes they sit in silence, eating, drinking tea. Unable to voice their fears.
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  When they return to the ward, a nurse is dry-washing what is left of Veronica’s hair. Then she cleans her teeth, wipes her face with a flannel, rolls deodorant under her arms. Every task is done with a light touch. Such gentleness, thinks Rosie, I’d never be able to do that.

  Her sister looks peaceful, there’s not a line on her face. The hair on her head is already starting to grow back into a thick grey down. If Rosie hadn’t known better she would have thought they were in conversation together, the nurse’s voice twitters like birdsong, she laughs, strokes her sister’s arm, gently unfurls the fingers on her left hand, rubs lotion into them. Within seconds the fingers go back into a claw.

  Rosie feels that heaviness, the one she has always carried in her heart, it floods every part of her body. A DNA match is not evidence enough for her. Her sister is like a cuckoo in the nest. She hates herself for even having that thought.

  47

  ‘I’m really sorry, I couldn’t talk there.’ Lily Jamieson’s voice has a soft, slow Scottish lilt to it. ‘I didn’t want to talk when Tom or the kids were around either.’ She swallows. ‘I’m not that person anymore. I thought—’

  ‘You thought it was over.’ Sam Ingleby senses the reticence in her voice; her unwillingness to say the one word that she was terrified would define her. Heroin. He’d heard it all before.

  ‘I understand that.’ He cuts to the quick. ‘I’ve got some questions that I need to ask you though – we believe someone has been living under your name. It’s regarding a case we’re investigating.’

  ‘My name—’ She clears her throat. ‘Who would do that?’

  He hears the fear in her voice.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you right now… but your help could be invaluable.’ He carries on. ‘Are you aware that someone has been using your identity?’

  ‘No,’ she blurts the word out.

  ‘Your father told us about your previous drug habit.’

  He imagines her sitting down, the phone to her ear, wondering how all this has caught up with her.

  ‘Tom doesn’t know about this.’ She sounds horrified. ‘I’d stopped months before I met him, I’d sorted myself out.’

  ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘In the eighties, we were both living in Canada. I was clean by then.’

  ‘In Canada?’ His pen scratches noisily on his notebook.

  ‘I went over there when I came out of rehab.’ She hesitates for a second, ‘I wanted a new start.’ Her tone of voice changes. ‘Needed a new start. I moved to Vancouver. After a few years, I married my ex – it didn’t work out, but it gave me residency. A couple of years later I met Tom.’

  ‘Where is your husband from?’

  ‘Where we live now, Skye.’

  He already knows the answers, but he asks the questions anyway.

  ‘When did you get married?’

  ‘Back in 1985, in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Our records show that you tried to commit suicide in 1999.’

  Silence, then only the sound of her breath.

  He repeats the statement and waits for her response.

  ‘That can’t be right… Dad told you, I was pregnant then.’

  ‘I’d like you to think back. Take your time. Have you ever lost your passport, birth certificate, bank cards? Anything like that?’

  He can hear the ticking of his watch against his ear; the shallow beat of her breath against the phone.

  ‘Just one time that I can remember, back when I was an addict – most of that time I was out of it, so who knows. I was very angry back then. I hated her, Ingrid… she’s a cow. I hated Dad for marrying her. Hated Mum for dying. For leaving me. Heroin was the only thing that took it away.’ He can hear a choke in her voice. ‘I… I just slipped into this dark pit and couldn’t get out of it.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘I needed a fix. That was it. That was always it. I got the stuff off someone at the squat. It had been cut with something else, I don’t know what. I OD’d. When I came to some of my stuff had been taken. All I was left with was my passport.’

  ‘Your passport?’

  ‘I guess they thought they couldn’t do anything with it. It had expired.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘Nothing much; no money, a P45, my NI card and a couple of references. I’d had a job for a while the year before I’d…’

  ‘Who do you think took it?’

  ‘I didn’t know at first, too out of it to care. There was this girl though, she disappeared afterwards. It could have been her. People came and went. One minute there, the next gone.’

  ‘Can you remember her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I think it was a boys’ name. Probably a nickname. I’m sorry.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I remember she was in a bad state though, worse than me. She had terrible nightmares. You’d hear her screaming in the night. Someone told me that she’d been beaten up by some guy, left for dead, her and this other girl. It sounded a bit farfetched to me.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘I can’t remember it. I’m not sure she told us – she didn’t talk much, kept herself to herself.’ He hears her fidget with the phone. ‘It was such a long time ago. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to block it all out.’

  ‘So, what did she look like?’

  ‘Long red hair, quiet, didn’t speak much like I said. Her face was a bit of a mess. I think her nose had been broken, sort of crooked in middle. A couple of times, people had got us mixed up, we had the same colouring – pale skin, freckles. She always wore the same coat, herringbone. Never had it off her back.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘I don’t know, probably 1974. Mid-seventies. I’m not sure…’ she hesitates for a moment.

  Sam interjects. ‘Where were you living?’

  ‘On the outskirts of Manchester, I can’t remember the place. Probably knocked down by now. One of the guys there said it was his grandfather’s. He said he’d inherited the place. No one believed him though.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It just seemed unlikely.’ She falters, swallows. ‘He was a lowlife, he had us out begging, stealing, I hated it.

  ‘Right. How about the rest of them, have you kept in touch?’

  Silence.

  ‘No, they weren’t the sort to keep in touch with.’ There’s a hardening in her voice, ‘When I came out of rehab I couldn’t go back there, not with that lot. The place was full of drugs. I would never have survived.’

  ‘Was she an addict – the girl who might have stolen your belongings?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I wasn’t around all the time. You’d have to ask someone else.’ She hesitates for a second, then the words rush out. ‘What did she do with my name?’

  He could tell she was afraid. ‘Like I said, I’m not at liberty to give you any information right now.’ He knew she would have many sleepless nights until all this was cleared up. ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘As I already said, I got into a rehab programme, when I got out I went to Canada.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No, with a girl, I met her in rehab. She lent me the money for the ticket.’

  Sam moves quickly on. ‘Can I have her name?’

  ‘Sure, but we’ve not kept in touch. It’s Wendy Harris.’

  ‘Will she still be in Vancouver?’

  ‘Honestly,’ Her voice holds a sad tone. ‘I’d really like to be more helpful, but I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Will you talk with your husband about this?’ Sam knows only too well the chaos that hits when someone has built their lives on a lie.

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps. We’re a little off the beaten track up here in Skye. I’d hoped to forget that time in my life.’

  ‘I think it might be a good idea if you did. No more surprises after that, eh?’

  She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Well, thanks, then. Thanks for your help, I might need to get back to y
ou, okay?’

  ‘On my mobile, not my home line—I don’t want the kids or Tom to know.’

  ‘I understand. On your mobile, then.’

  She puts down the phone. Sam shakes his head, grateful for the misspent youth he never had. He sinks back into his seat for a moment, reflects on what life might be like for Lily Jamieson. As soon as the press get hold of this they’ll have a field day, he thinks to himself, at least it won’t be coming from me.

  Everyone deserves a second chance.

  In reality, he knew that many didn’t. He makes a record of the interview, hands it to the HOLMES team, grabs a coffee. Just as the rim of the cup touches his mouth, his mobile buzzes.

  He lets out a loud sigh.

  A text from Mel.

  ‘They’re bringing her out of the coma.’

  48

  Mel presses the play button.

  ‘Well done for finding this, Badger. Will I be handing out a gold star?’

  A hesitant smile crosses his face. ‘You’ve not watched it yet, boss. Got it copied from VHS to DVD,’ he said, the edges of his mouth turn down. ‘Second time back at the garage isn’t necessarily a good retrieval rate. Should have found it first time. I found it stuck down with masking tape behind the filing cabinet, easy to miss.’

  ‘True. But, if this is any good, we’ll wipe that particular slate.’

  The whole team gathers around the screen. The quality isn’t great. A woman with short blonde hair lies on the bed, she looks peaceful, drowsy, her eyes are shut. The psychiatrist’s voice drifts in. She’s not in shot.

  ‘Tell me about that night, Veronica, tell me what you see.’

  ‘Do you mean what he did to me,’ her voice trembles.

  ‘From the start, you were in the club, near the dance floor, like you told me before.’

  The girl shifts on the bed. ‘I can see myself there, on my own, in the club. The lights on the glitter ball shine like confetti on the dance floor.’ Her voice is slower, on the verge of sleep, she sounds younger. ‘They look so pretty.’ She lets out a sigh, opens her eyes, they take in the room.