Trauma: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Dylan Young

  ‘Today.’ Keely folds her arms. ‘As soon as I can arrange it.’

  29

  Leon has me doing a kettlebell circuit. Swings, then figure of eight, alternate swings, upright rows, squat to shoulder presses then single arm lifts. When I told Josh about kettlebells – he’d never heard of them – that they were like cannonballs with handles you swing between your legs and over your head, he almost had a fit laughing.

  ‘Anyone had a billiards injury, bell against ball?’ He was giggling hard when he said this.

  ‘I’ll ask Leon,’ I replied, but Josh didn’t hear because by that stage he was making small mewling noises and holding his stomach with mirth-pains.

  But Leon tells me kettlebells are great for coordination and core, combining weights with movement. In between sets I rehydrate.

  ‘How are you then, mate?’ Leon asks as I gulp water from a metal bottle. An odd question. It isn’t as if I’ve just walked into the room.

  ‘I’m good,’ I reply, warily, in case his question is a lead into an extra set.

  ‘Noticing a bit of a spring in your step today. Know what I’m saying?’

  He’s fishing. He thinks it’s got something to do with my love life. Maybe it does. Time I dropped the ‘M’ bomb. ‘Think I’ll be fit enough for a half marathon in three months?’

  Leon does a theatrical double take before his face breaks into a huge grin. ‘No reason at all. In fact, I got two clients in the same aspirational boat, man. I worked out a wicked programme for them, yeah? We’re on the same wave. Mostly roadwork as it gets closer. But three months? No worries.’

  ‘Even with my gammy leg?’

  ‘Compensate. If it’s safe, we’ll deal with it.’

  ‘Will you sponsor me?’

  ‘You got a sheet. I’ll sign up.’

  ‘No, no sheet. I’m going the web way. I’m on JustGiving.’

  ‘Cool. You have a target?’

  ‘Twenty k.’

  Leon dips his head into his shoulders as his eyes go wide. ‘Oh my days. Are you buying a Ferrari, Cameron?’

  ‘No. But it is to do with transportation.’

  ‘You could buy a Tardis with that, man.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m doing.’

  Leon slaps his thigh. ‘Hah. I like that. Okay, let’s get another kettlebell set done and dusted. Then we’ll get you treadmilled up.’

  ‘I see you’re going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Gain is pain, Cam.’

  ‘What if they close the gyms?’

  Leon looks offended. ‘Why would they do that? I mean this virus lark needs fit people, you know what I’m saying? Where else are clients going to do weights and shit?’

  ‘Agreed, but if you watch the news it looks inevitable.’

  ‘That would be so not cool.’

  ‘If it happens, we could still do this online.’

  ‘You got some bells at home?’

  ‘No, but I can get some. A 10 or 12 and maybe a 14kg. Skipping rope. Use a chair as a step.’

  Leon considers this as if I’m contemplating going to the moon. ‘Not cheap, Cam.’

  ‘Well, I reckon there’ll be a rush if a lockdown kicks in. I’ll get some ordered today.’

  ‘You’re giving me the blues, man.’

  My phone is on my towel on the edge of a mat a few feet away. It chimes out a text alert. I hold a finger up for Leon and check. A message from Keely. She wants to see me tomorrow.

  Leon watches with disapproval all over his smooth face.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Just the cops asking me to go in.’

  Leon, mouth gaping, blinks before he erupts with another guffaw. ‘You crack me up every time, Cam. Every time. Keeping it real like always. You ready to work now?’

  I pick up a kettlebell. Put on my game face.

  Leon says, ‘In five, four, three, two, one…’

  30

  TUESDAY 17 March

  Keely sends Messiter down to greet Todd. She meets them in the room that she’d used to speak to Harriet Roxburgh the previous day. Todd is in sweatshirt and pants and holding an aluminium drinks bottle in one hand. She’s suggested Messiter sits in. Like it or not he’s a part of this now.

  ‘Any news of the anaesthetist?’ Todd asks, direct as always.

  Keely is sitting with a file in her hands. She offers Todd a seat. But it isn’t the sergeant that answers his question. Instead, she turns to Messiter. ‘Dan, tell Mr Todd what you found out.’

  Messiter takes the file and, still standing, pulls out a sheet. ‘First off, there was no evidence of anyone dealing drugs. The hospital wanted to make that very clear. But they suspended a female anaesthetist for stealing drugs. Dr Roxburgh was involved only as someone who spoke up on behalf of this doctor. She was a close friend, apparently. The doctor concerned, an Alison Barnet, was disciplined. She’s just finished eighteen months of rehab and a phased return under supervision. She’s now back on the medical register and working in a drop-in centre in Manchester.’

  ‘So there was no charge?’ Todd asks.

  ‘The hospital did not want to press charges. They dealt with the issue internally and reported it to the GMC. They’re the ones who police doctor’s fitness to practise, not us.’

  ‘Even doctors fall off their pedestals sometimes,’ Keely adds. ‘Could it be this is what your notebook message was about?’

  ‘Liar, liar,’ Todd mutters. ‘Possible, I suppose.’ He sends Messiter one of his glares. ‘And there was no talk of an affair.’

  ‘I got this from the hospital’s Human Resources department. They weren’t exactly keen to talk. They take confidentiality very seriously. But from what I understand, Dr Roxburgh and Alison Barnet were old friends. In med school together.’

  Todd waits.

  ‘Anything’s possible.’ Messiter squirms. ‘But Barnet was in a relationship with a male colleague at the time.’

  Todd is massaging his forehead. ‘And all this took place just before we went to Turkey?’

  ‘Barnet’s suspension was in September, the month before,’ Keely explains. ‘And I’ve spoken to her. She denies any kind of sexual relationship with Emma. Became very upset that I even suggested it. She considered Emma a very good, loyal and supportive friend. I suppose Emma might have told you about this. Perhaps that’s what you remember. It would be easy to get confused.’

  ‘Two and two make five. I know,’ Todd says.

  Keely watches him flit his eyes around the room, searching. She’s seen the exact same move countless times from desperate people with nowhere else to go. Whether the parent of a lost child, or a caught-out thief, there are no answers anywhere on these featureless walls. And yet she can’t help wondering if he’s holding something back.

  ‘Confused is my Lidl name,’ Todd says and then adds resignedly. ‘Middle name. I thought it might be important, that’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Keely says. She pauses for a beat before speaking again. When she does, it’s phrased as a question. ‘I hear you bumped into Harriet Roxburgh?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘She did.’

  Todd looks away and lets out a moan of dry laughter. ‘She thinks I’ve posted something on Facebook about her sister.’

  ‘Have you?’

  He gives a brief shake of his head. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps you were confused…’ She wants to add the word ‘again’ but stops herself at the sight of Todd’s face stiffening.

  ‘I’m not that confused. I was right about Emma being involved in something at the hospital, wasn’t I? It’s only the details I got wrong.’

  ‘Harriet Roxburgh brought in an envelope that someone posted through her letterbox,’ Keely says.

  ‘Okay…’ Todd is wary.

  ‘It was full of dog excrement.’

  ‘And you think I, in my confused state, did that, too?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’<
br />
  ‘You are still in therapy, are you, Mr Todd?’ Messiter asks.

  Keely is too late to suppress the little smile that brushes her lips. She hides it by glancing down at the desk. Messiter has come in with the sucker punch at precisely the right moment. As they’d rehearsed.

  ‘You know I am,’ Todd says. ‘I fractured my skull, constable. It wiped my memory of who I was, where I came from, who I knew and loved, and left me incapable of even the most basic tasks. But it didn’t make me mad.’

  ‘I spoke to Dr Spalding. He tells me you still get fugues,’ Keely says.

  ‘You spoke to Adam?’ Todd looks affronted.

  ‘I did because it’s my job. And the question still holds. You still get the fugues, yes?’

  ‘I do. I told you all about them before.’

  ‘You have. I’m just wondering if you remember what you’re doing when one of these fugues happen. Could that cause your confusion?’

  ‘I’m not confused. Adam will no doubt have explained to you how I can’t perform complex tasks when I fugue. Opening a Facebook account isn’t something I’d do on automatic.’

  ‘What about posting dog shit through a letterbox?’ Messiter asks.

  There’s a long beat while Todd gives Messiter a stony stare. Eventually though, he responds. ‘Yes, well, that’s automatic, obviously. I mean, I do that every day.’

  Neither of the police officers speak.

  Todd gets up. His face is flushed. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘I think so,’ Keely says.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Todd says.

  ‘If you remember anything else, we’d be happy to help.’ Messiter puts his sheet of paper face down on the file.

  He’s a good goader, thinks Keely. Knows which buttons to press.

  ‘Or perhaps I’d be better off finding things out for myself,’ Todd replies.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Mr Todd. Too many raw wounds.’ Keely doesn’t want things to end on a sour note, but it looks like they failed on that score.

  ‘Wounds need to close if they are to heal, sergeant.’ Todd opens the door.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ Messiter follows.

  When they’ve gone, Keely puts the sheet of paper back into the file and arches her back. A ligament clicks and there’s a delicious release as a muscle relaxes. Bloody Zumba class. Her phone beeps. A message from Viri telling her they’ve just had a heads-up from the governors at his school that they’re shutting up shop. There are still a few weeks to go before the Easter break, but they pulled the plug early to give students, many of whom are from abroad, a chance to get home if they can. It means Viri will work from home from now on setting up online work schedules for his pupils, attending virtual meetings, standing two metres behind people in the queue for milk and bread. They already know that A and O levels are off for this year. And that means much more detailed and intensive teacher assessments for the universities to filter through entry forms. It might mean a freebie into uni for some students. But it’ll mean a heavy workload for sixth-form teachers.

  She sends back a message saying that maybe that spare room in the house will get painted at last. She receives a rude reply by return.

  Keely puts her phone down and brings her mind back around to Todd. She must write up this little chat. File it away until the next time Todd turns up with one of his half-baked memories. She doesn’t blame him. How can she? The bloke is damaged.

  She’s still sitting when Messiter comes back in.

  ‘Poor bloke,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you think he posted that turd?’

  Keely shrugs.

  ‘By the way, what’s a fugue anyway?’

  ‘You’ll need to google that one for the official answer. But from what I know, it’s a kind of hallucination. A type of waking dream in his case.’

  ‘What, like literally off with the fairies?’

  ‘I doubt you’ll find that definition in any of the textbooks, Daniel, but more or less. He hallucinates while he is doing other things. As if he’s split in half. Like his body is in one place and his mind is somewhere else. He remembers the hallucination but not what he’s actually physically doing.’

  ‘Wow. So he could have posted that turd without knowing.’

  ‘I doubt that. Posting turds takes special skills, like finding one for a start. If he posted them, he did so deliberately.’

  ‘Should we test the envelope?’

  ‘Done. I think I’m off the lab’s Christmas card list.’

  Messiter shakes his head. ‘Still, rough deal getting your head smashed in and not even remembering your dead girlfriend.’

  ‘Trouble is he is remembering. Or thinks he is.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘Perhaps. But this case has destroyed a family.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’

  Messiter says nothing and his silence draws Keely’s gaze. ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘I still think he’s had a rough deal.’

  ‘Not as rough as his girlfriend or her family. What would help them, not to mention the rest of us, is if he told us what happened.’

  ‘You think he knows?’

  ‘If he does, he’s the best damned actor I ever met. The trouble is, amnesia is too…’

  ‘Convenient?’

  Keely smiles. ‘See, now you’re starting to think like a detective, constable.’

  Messiter remains silent. Keely’s words zip his mouth shut. He picks up the file and walks out of the door. As he does, she hears him mutter, ‘Harsh.’

  31

  WEDNESDAY 18 March

  I don’t hear from Nicole at all on Monday or Tuesday. I’m not bothered because she has a lot of baggage to sort through, what with Mia’s wedding and the Aaron problem. She’ll get back to me when she can, I’m certain.

  On Wednesday, I get up at 7.45 and do my usual thing. Drink a glass of water, brush my teeth, stretch – lots of sometimes painful stretches because my muscles and their tendons, in all those long months of inactivity, shortened and stiffened. No breakfast, not yet. I’m on the 16:8. Adam’s idea. Eat food within an eight-hour window only. The other sixteen hours I fast. A way of controlling intake and prevent snacking to which I’m prone. Rachel, for once, was very keen.

  ‘We do it most days of the week. Never on weekends. And booze can properly bugger it up. Empty calories and all that,’ was how she’d explained it with the zeal of the converted.

  Not that my skinny malink of a sister needs to worry about obesity. She never stands still long enough. But a 16:8 is another way of trying to control her universe. And if there’s one thing Rachel craves, it’s control.

  After the stretches, I shower. Then I tidy my bedroom and clean the bathroom. Not that it needs it. I never let it get dirty. I saw an admiral once give a TED talk about how, as recruits, they were made to make their beds perfectly first thing in the morning. The first task of the day, once completed, sets the tone for what’s to follow. A small thing, but by doing the little things correctly, there’s hope for accomplishing bigger things. And added to that is the fact that a made bed is a splendid thing to crawl into after a grim day at the office, the gym or, as in my case, the clinic. So I make the bed and clean the bathroom.

  Today I need to keep busy because I must let the other half of my brain think. To analyse what’s been going on. Keely’s questions about Harriet and her vague accusations upset me more than I was willing to admit.

  I posted nothing. Not on Facebook. And certainly not through a letterbox.

  At a little after nine, my mobile rings. I check the number, pause for a second, and then answer. I hear gravel.

  ‘Hi. It’s John Stamford.’

  ‘Yes. Your number is in my contacts.’

  ‘I appreciate you taking my call. I was worried that after Saturday–’

  ‘Harriet was upset.’

  ‘She was out of order.’

&nbs
p; ‘She’s been to the police because someone had posted dog ship… shit… through her door. She thinks I did it.’ I wait for him to ask if I did. He doesn’t. I like Stamford a little more.

  ‘She’s angry.’

  ‘I understand that. And not just about Facebook or the dog stuff, right?’

  ‘No. Still, I’m sorry she dragged you into it.’

  ‘So am I.’

  There’s a pause and then Stamford asks, ‘I’m ringing to see if we can start again? We didn’t talk properly.’

  ‘We were Harrieted.’

  I hear a noise that might be a mini guffaw. ‘We were. Plus there’s news about your anaesthetist.’

  ‘Alison Barnet?’

  Stamford laughs again. ‘You continue to surprise me, Mr Todd. Not many people can do that.’

  ‘Cameron,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, Cameron. I’m working from the office this morning. Why don’t you come over? I’ll get some coffee on.’

  He gives me an address in New Cross. ‘Do I need to bring body armour?’

  ‘You can borrow mine.’

  I don’t drive. I walk to Tower Bridge and get a train to New Cross Gate. From there it’s a quick stroll along New Cross Road. I pass betting shops and hair and beauty salons, cafes and the odd restaurant. I take a right at The White Hart. One of two big pubs I spot in the area. But half a dozen businesses are boarded up, windows nailed over with swollen sterling boards pasted with for sale or rent signs. This is not high-end London. This is unfashionable, ungentrified, South East London. The few places that are open don’t strike me as capable of surviving a complete closure as has happened in Italy or Spain.

  Locate Intelligence is Stamford’s business address. A grand name for a not-so-grand premises above a defunct sports shop with graffiti on the door and a steel grille over the window. I press the button marked L.I., and I’m buzzed in.

  The stairs are narrow and wheelchair unfriendly. I can smell something unpleasant from a closed door to my right. Stamford comes to the half turn in the stair and says, ‘The sods buggered off back to Karachi and left a fridge full of food. It’s been removed, but the smell hasn’t. It lingers. In fact, it follows. Like in that horror film of the same name. Come on up.’