She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  ‘As the coach pulled up, Paula pulled me towards her, linked her arm through mine. Told me she had some acid, Jimmy had given it to her. I’d never taken acid before, didn’t want to. I didn’t tell her that.

  I asked her who Jimmy was.

  He’s over there, she hissed. Told me not to look. Said he was he was the one with the black bag over his shoulder, the one with Keep the Faith on it.

  It’s weird, isn’t it? Weird how some memories are so clear, even though I’ve spent years trying to forget the night I met him. Years covering it up, pushing it deep into the back of my mind. Blocking it out. Now, now, it’s like I’m there, right in that moment.’

  She breathes out noisily, wearily. Jenny hears the creak of a chair, Veronica must have sunk back into her seat.

  ‘I tried not to look at him, I really did. I sneaked a look out of the corner of my eye. He saw me. He must have been waiting for that one glance. He came towards us, the wind pulling at his Oxford Bags, hands tucked deep into his pockets. He draped his arm around Paula’s shoulder, smiled at me, a hard tight smile, like he knew he was smart and wanted to make sure I knew it too.

  Then I noticed something that made my skin crawl. The nail on the middle finger of his left hand was long; like a girl’s. The rest of his nails were bitten down to the skin.’ She scratches at something, clothing perhaps, there’s a rustling noise in the background.

  ‘He fancied himself, I could tell. He bounced on the balls of his feet, like a boxer. He kept pushing his hands through his hair just like Paula did. He was full of nervous tics. Even back then I noticed stuff like that.

  He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head in my direction; said he assumed I was the lovely Ronnie.

  He didn’t have a Bolton accent. Not like me, not like Paula. Not like everyone else I knew.

  Paula laughed, that throaty laugh of hers. She said that he was a grammar school boy, through and through. That he was posh.

  Posh – that was her nickname for him. He didn’t like it. I could tell. The smile dropped from his face for a moment. Paula was busy laughing at her own joke. Casting her eyes around to see if anyone was listening.

  He turned his attention to me. Looked me up and down. From my platform-soled shoes right up to the brass buttons on my navy-blue coat. He took a step forward, I took a step back. Something about him made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He tugged at my sleeve. Ran that long nail along the back of my hand. I froze, felt my face redden. I stared at the ground.

  He said that I was a quiet one. Not like her, not like Paula.

  She told me to ignore him. I couldn’t. He was right in my face.

  Then something else caught his attention. A couple of Indian lads. Stood by the newspaper kiosk, in the dark. As bad as it sounds… I was relieved.

  He reminded me of a copperhead snake. The one I saw at Chester Zoo. When I was a kid. The slow blink of his eyelids. His pale thin lips. He sprinted off in the direction of the kiosk, one of the lads followed him. Only then, I realised I’d been holding my breath. I didn’t want to breathe him in.

  I don’t know where they went after that. All I know is that they didn’t get on the coach with the rest of us.

  Months later I heard someone say that two Hindu boys, twin brothers, had been found badly beaten that night. Left for dead. I knew it was him. It had to have been him, and that other one that followed him about, that—’

  There’s an intake of breath.

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  A chair scrapes back, footsteps slap on the wooden floor, the door slams shut.

  51

  It’s noisy here. Too noisy. Beeps, whooshes, footsteps. Gurgling drains. Or at least that’s what I think that sound is. Singing. Crying out. Laughing. Coughing. I shout at them. Shut up! Shut up! They ignore me. That’s the worst.

  I play a game to distract myself. I call it Command. Move fingers. Nothing. Move thumb. Nothing. Move toes. Nothing. Blink. Nothing. My brain isn’t making my body do stuff. That can’t be right. Then I fall asleep, I’m always falling asleep.

  I can’t give up. I’m going to do it ten times more. I shout louder – BLINK! My eyelids open a little. I can’t focus my eyes. There’s a blur of people moving around me. Fast then slow. It’s a dream. I’m on a roundabout. I must be. My brain plays tricks. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.

  Am I real? Is this a dream?

  I wonder where I am. Is it a hospital? I don’t like hospitals. The light is too bright. I want them to turn it down. What if it’s a prison? I’m tied down. It could be a prison hospital. I want to turn over, my back hurts. I shout for help. No one answers.

  I hear snatches of conversations – coma. I hear them say that a lot. And the other word, clean. Then people touch me. I hate being touched. I shout at them to stop. It’s dirty.

  They never listened to me last time either. Last time I was in hospital. No matter what I said. I pleaded with them to stop. They didn’t. I pleaded with her to make them stop. She didn’t. I remember the pain in my head. I remember her dark hair tied back into a ponytail. I told her she was Miss Taken. She laughed. I didn’t. She was the biggest bitch I’ve ever met.

  I think I stole something. I can’t remember what it was. I can’t move my hands and feet. I must be dangerous. I keep screaming at them. Asking them what I’ve done. No one tells me.

  She’s here again, that woman. She always says her name, Camila. She’s the nurse. My nurse. That’s what she says. I don’t believe her. Miss Dirty Bitch that’s what I call her. She’s the one that touches me in places she shouldn’t. I don’t like it. She lifts my breast, wipes a cloth underneath it. Then does the other. I hate it. She says she’s taking care of me, keeping me clean.

  Grab her hand! Grab her hand! I scream at my brain. Concentrate! Concentrate!

  ‘Get your fucking hands off me!’

  ‘Oh, my Lord, you’re coming around, girl.’ She squeezes my hand.

  I must be real.

  52

  The final tape, the last check for accuracy and, after this, she’ll endeavour to put them into a timeline. She’s transcribed every single one. As usual, there was not enough money in the budget to get anyone to help. At least there’ll be consistency, she thinks to herself.

  Jenny slips on her headset, presses the play button.

  ‘This won’t hurt,’ the lie the psychiatrist tells at every session as she administers the injection. The small cry Veronica lets out gives that lie away.

  ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Water? Will that be okay?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Veronica sounds despondent, lost.

  Jenny hears the psychiatrist get to her feet, walk towards the water cooler, just as she had on every single tape. Briefly, she wonders why the woman never offered Veronica a glass of water at the start of every session. Was it a control thing?

  There’s a sudden sense of urgency in Veronica’s tone ‘You said you’d help me get rid of the nightmares, the flashbacks. This talking, this talking isn’t working… not for me… the flashbacks. They’ve not stopped. I can’t sleep—’

  ‘It only works if you’re telling me the truth.’ The psychiatrist’s nasally whine seems more pronounced.

  ‘I am telling the truth.’ Veronica’s reply is flat, unemotional.

  ‘I’m not sure you are,’ then a pause, ‘not all of it, not Jimmy, I want to understand why you needed to escape, to disappear, to become someone else, to become Lily.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ She’s indignant. ‘Haven’t you been listening at all? He was violent. He really hurt people. I saw him…’

  Jenny hears the tapping of feet, of agitation.

  There is no verbal response from the psychiatrist, not that she can hear on the tape.

  ‘He was an evil bastard, probably still is.’ Jenny senses Veronica getting more anxious. ‘He knew where I lived, he knew where my sister went to school. He said he’d give her to his mates if I ever—’

  S
he stops mid-sentence.

  ‘Do you think I’m making this all up?’

  ‘I believe, that you believe what you remember is real.’

  Jenny’s back goes up, the patronising bitch. She hates psychobabble.

  ‘Of course, he’s real. Would I be this scared, this damaged, if he wasn’t real. Haven’t you seen the x-rays of my face and hands, I said you could, don’t you remember that. Did you even bother to look!’

  ‘I…’ there is hesitation in the woman’s voice. ‘Tell me about it then, tell me how you got those injuries.’

  Even though she had listened to the tape several times, Jenny wishes this was on video, there was so much more that could be added, the interplay of emotion, facial expressions, non-verbal reactions that would be invaluable. A videotape would give them more leverage with the CPS.

  ‘He called me a paki-whore, a slag. In front of everyone. I hadn’t done anything. I tried to tell him. I told him that Paula set me up, that she set him up. He didn’t believe me, so I made a run for it. I didn’t—’

  There’s a loud noise in the background, an alarm going off. A few seconds later it stops, someone must have silenced it.

  ‘I thought I got away from him,’ her words are filled with sadness. ‘I thought I’d be safe, that I could hide. I ran into a side street. I’d forgotten about the cobbled stones. They were slippy. It had been raining. I went down like a ton of bricks. Smacked my knees and sprained my wrist.

  I heard the slap of his boots coming towards me.’ Her words quicken, ‘He grabbed my hair, nearly tore it off my scalp—dragged me into the dark, through the mess, broken bottles, rotting food… abandoned cars. The houses were all boarded up. I tried to kick him off me… I couldn’t see anything.

  His knuckles hit the side of my head. I nearly passed out. I’d never had to fight anyone—’ The pitch of her voice rises higher and higher. ‘He was going to kill me, he wanted to kill me—’

  The psychiatrist mumbles something out. Jenny hadn’t been able to transcribe it.

  ‘What sort of stupid question is that? I was terrified! He pushed me on top of a car bonnet, started to lift up my dress. Put his hand over my mouth. I thought… I thought—’

  A mangle of words tumble out, some hers, some the psychiatrist. Jenny still struggles to make sense of them.

  ‘Do you want to take a break?’ The psychiatrist’s voice suddenly clear.

  Veronica carries on. ‘What’s the point?’ She takes in a deep breath. ‘My arms were loose. He must have thought I’d just give in. Just let him. As if I’d do that. Something went off in my head.

  I went for his face, tore at his cheeks with my nails. Dug them in as deep as I could. He fell back, screaming. I scrambled away, hid behind a car. Everything went quiet. I couldn’t stop crying; I tried to cover my mouth. He must have heard me.’ Her speech becomes more intense. ‘He came out of nowhere. Grabbed me by the hair. Headbutted me…the pain.’ The tremor in her voice worsens, ‘There was blood everywhere. My legs gave way. I wrapped myself around his thighs,’ she gulps for air, ‘tried to stop him kicking me… he smacked me around the head. Stamped on my hand. He was going to kill me—’ Sobs wrack up through her body.

  ‘He shouted at me, said I’d made a mess of his new shirt. That’s all he said. Like he’d not hurt me at all. I thought he’d finished, I thought he’d let me go.’ Veronica cries out, ‘He threw me onto my back, put his knees on my chest, put all his weight on me.’ Her breathing becomes erratic, ‘He put his hands around my neck. He pressed—’

  There’s a loud thump, the sound of a metal chair clattering to the floor.

  Jenny, heart pounding, full of adrenalin, reaches out and presses stop. She knows there is nothing more to listen to. Whatever happened next wiped away long ago.

  She takes a break. The walk back to the Incident Room gives her time for reflection. If Veronica was acting, was faking it, she deserved an Oscar.

  53

  She’s back at her own house. Eyes trained on the computer screen in front of her. Much to Thomasine’s disappointment, the call hadn’t gone well. She’d hoped to get professional courtesy, at least. Mel had been unwilling to talk, said she was on the way to another meeting. Jacky Wainwright would go on the list of people to be interviewed. She thanked her for getting in touch. Said she’d get back to her.

  Instead of letting her frustration get the better of her, Thomasine calls in a favour, a long shot, a contact at the Department of Transport. A small lie of omission, no mention of the name of the case, she’s trying to trace someone called Billy or William, probable owner of a white Capri in 1972, likely to be within a twenty-five-mile radius of Bolton. It takes him a while to get back to her. A list of four people.

  Only one fits the profile – Robert William Bennett, born in 1953.

  Thomasine enters his name and date of birth into 192.com – searches for his address. The basics turn up, the town. She needs more information – it’s pay per view. She hurries downstairs to grab her credit card. Minutes later his current address is written on her notepad – Owl Barn, Wassington, Norfolk. Then she does a full search on the Land Registry Database. There are details of another property, in London – Bow. She finds it on Google maps, it’s a garage, and a large one at that.

  Why wait? she thinks to herself. The feeling in her gut tells her that this man is connected to her sister’s death. Which address should she go to first? Her intuition tells her that Mel will have already dispatched a team to Norfolk. They might have missed the garage.

  London, it is.

  54

  ‘So, this is what we’ve found out so far.’ Mel straightens her back and casts her eye over the whiteboard. She counts on her fingers: ‘One – the psychiatrist diagnosed Lily as having Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Two – her medical team found evidence of numerous physical injuries. Three – she was experiencing flashbacks. Although there isn’t a police record of those events as far as we know. Four – in the therapy sessions she describes being attacked by someone called Jimmy, a drug dealer. Five – it sounds like she became hyper-alert, tried to keep herself awake all the time to avoid the nightmares. This ultimately led to exhaustion and a mental health crisis which resulted in her attempting to take her own life.

  ‘Finally, and perhaps most salient, the psychiatrist concluded that Lily had Multiple Personality Disorder and Veronica was an alternate personality generated by PTSD. She then told Lily she could rid her of the flashbacks that were the source of her problems.’

  Sam Ingleby steps forward, hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets. ‘From what we can see, the main thrust of the treatment was to block the memories that triggered the manifestation of the alternate personality. Electro Shock Therapy was used extensively over a four-week period. Sometimes up to four times a day. Plus, they were pumping her full of something called Propranolol, God knows how the poor lass coped with it.’

  ‘The next thing we need to confirm,’ interjects Badger, ‘is how she got hold of the tapes. She could have made an application under the Data Protection and Access to Medical Records Acts. If that is the case, we might assume that Lily Probisher was fully cognitive and aware of her true identity.’

  Mel eases herself onto the edge of a desk and folds her arms across her chest.

  ‘Badger, we can’t assume anything.’

  The procedure for waking Veronica up was going to start the following morning. Of one thing Mel is completely clear. There was no way any other member of her team was going to hear whatever Veronica had to say when she woke up. She wanted to be the one that did that. Veronica could be the killer and, if she is, a brain injury wouldn’t make her any less guilty.

  The hospital carpark is almost deserted. She pulls the collar of her coat around her neck. She hears someone clear their throat. The hair on her neck bristles. She stops dead and glances over her shoulder. A man in a thick black coat lumbers off towards the pay and display machine. His hands jangling the coins in his pockets.


  Pull yourself together. It’s probably some poor bugger whose wife’s been taken in.

  She carries on, her boots slapping on the wet tarmac.

  It’s gone nine p.m. She’s standing at the end of Veronica’s bed waiting for Brandon Da Costa to finish his checks.

  The consultant’s eyes scan the numerous monitors that cluster around behind the head of the bed. Unconsciously, he makes a clicking noise with his tongue, then gently digs his fingernail into the skin on the back of Veronica’s hand. She doesn’t flinch, eyes closed, breathing steadily, she appears asleep.

  He writes a few lines on her notes, then slips his pen into his pocket. He returns his attention to Mel. ‘I need to speak with you for a moment.’

  She follows him through the double doors. He leans back against the wall, arms across his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. ‘We don’t know how long it will take for her to fully wake. In layman’s terms, we’re reducing the medication that’s been keeping her in the coma and it will take time for the medication to work its way out of the system. She may be in a lot of pain. We have to be very careful indeed. That earlier episode when she woke could be a one off.

  It may be hours or even days before she wakes. We don’t know how she’ll respond when she comes to. It can be very distressing for everyone.’ He winces, rubs the back of his neck with his hand, ‘I’ve agreed with the family that we’ll contact them as soon as there are signs of recovery. I’d prefer it if you waited with them.’

  ‘I’m fine where I am, I’ll wait.’ Her jaw clenches. ‘It’s important that I’m here when she comes to.’ Her eyes widen. ‘She may say something important to the investigation. Not only about the accident, but also the murder of Karen Albright.’

  He looks her directly in the face. ‘DCI Phillips, you’re being very naive.’ He lets out a sigh, his irritation obvious, ‘Look, she might not even be able to speak and if she can it might not make any sense.’ A porter walks by, pushing an elderly lady along in a wheelchair. The woman looks up gives them both a gentle smile. Da Costa carries on regardless, ‘Let me make it clear, my priority is to make sure that she can recover the best she can from the brain injury. I don’t want the family suing me because we allowed you to be at the bedside when she woke up. She’s already had two cardiac arrests, another might kill her.’ He takes the ballpoint pen out of his top pocket. Clicks it on and off with his thumb. ‘I’ve advised the family not to allow you to be by the bedside. We have no idea how Veronica may react to your presence. You seem like a very nice person, but in all honesty, I think you might do more harm than good. Until she wakes and stabilises, I’m afraid you won’t be allowed on the ward.’