by Liz Mistry
He shrugged. ‘You know, we get to be such untrusting buggers in our line of work, don’t we? Anyway, I scouted round when she didn’t answer the door, phoned her again and heard it ringing inside, so I phoned the plods.’
‘No, I get that. My first thought would have been the same as yours, Sid – and you were right, she was in trouble.’ Gus’s words didn’t appear to reassure the CSI manager, so he continued. ‘I’ll do my best for her, you know that, right?’
Sid nodded, shuffling his feet as he did so.
‘What do you know so far?’
‘She’s not one of my favourite colleagues, I have to admit.’ Sid put his head on one side. ‘Actually, she probably wasn’t anybody’s favourite colleague. Could be a bit of a cowbag. Snidey to the other women, flirty in a malicious way to the men. But she didn’t deserve this. According to the head CSI, it wasn’t a domestic though, Gus. She was strangled in her bed – no sign of a fight or owt.’
Gus let it pass that the head CSI had shared the info with Sid. He’d have done the same if the situations were reversed and Sid, for all his faults, was not a blabber mouth. He’d keep it tight to his chest. He’d just needed to know. Nodding, Gus squeezed his arm. ‘I’ll head in now, Sid. Hang about and I’ll treat you to a coffee when I’m done.’
Sid smiled. The first one Gus had seen from the man since he arrived. ‘I’m glad it’s you, Gus. You’re one of the best. You’ll get whoever did this.’
The words pleased Gus. He might have been sidelined from the other case, but it did make him feel better that Sid had such faith in him, even if this case wasn’t the one he wanted to be working.
Suited, booted, masked, and gloved, Gus headed inside. He’d chosen not to take any of his team from what he considered the main investigation, instead he’d work with a DC from another team if necessary. As Sid had already told him, there was no sign of a struggle in any of the rooms. The head CSI, a woman he vaguely recognised, directed him to the kitchen window, where, presumably their killer had got in. ‘Any forensics – prints, anything?’
‘Not a bloody sausage. This guy’s a ghost. He got in here – you can see where he made marks on the latch to open it – we’ll see if we can get some indication of the tool from that … Come on. I’ll take you to see the body. It’s still in situ, but they’re about to move her to the mortuary.’
Walking into the bedroom, Gus was immediately struck by how uncluttered it was. The only photos were of the victim, in various pouty poses, which fit with the information Sid had already imparted. He’d need to interview the rest of Erica Smedley’s work colleagues, though. Approaching the bed, Gus listened as the CSI briefed him. ‘Victim’s name is Erica Smedley. Seems she was wakened by her killer, because she’s still in bed. A whack to the head – not enough to kill her, just enough to stun, would be my estimation – but of course the PM will confirm that.’ Then, the CSI pointed to her neck. ‘She’s been strangled – manually I think.’
Gus agreed with the CSI’s assessment. He thanked her and decided to take a wander round the rest of the house. It was one of those blandly decorated homes – a bit like the one Gus’s sister had shared with his ex-wife, Gabriella, in Lister Mills opposite The Fort. Such bareness provided him with no inspiration – no little insights into the woman’s character. Opening a kitchen cupboard, stuffed full of biscuits and chocolate, Gus decided that the only additional information his foray had provided was that their victim had a sweet tooth, but a harsh tongue. I wonder who had it in for you, Erica. Someone you know? A stranger? Gus was inclined to suppose it was personal, but with little evidence to go on so far, he would keep an open mind.
Leaving Erica Smedley’s house, Gus saw that Sid was still waiting behind the police tape. Approaching a uniformed officer, Gus directed him to organise a door-to-door then made a call to the DC he had on loan – a DC Gillie Smith – a woman he’d never worked with before, but had heard good things about. He directed her to organise interviews of Sid’s CSI team, and to attend the post-mortem. For now, Gus was going to take Sid for breakfast, the poor bloke looked like he needed it and if he was going to have to interview him anyway, he might as well do it over breakfast.
Chapter 24
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
She can’t seem to leave me alone, the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. She’s back again. I don’t have visitors, so why is she always here? She’s not really a visitor though. She’s after something. The voice in my head tells me that. She knows my name. Always asking to look at my drawings. They’re private. Don’t want to let her look.
I hum inside my head to block out her questions. ‘Lavender’s blue dilly dilly, Lavender’s green…’
But she’s still there asking, talking, looking at my drawings. Wonder if she’s the one who took them? Bet it was. I’m getting all breathy again. ‘When I am King dilly dilly, You will be Queen…’
Now she’s talking and I’m singing, and the voices are there and it’s all spiral and fireworks behind my eyes. Everything’s too loud … too loud … too loud.
‘Don’t trust her, Rory. You can’t trust her. She’s not really nice. Don’t believe her!’
Then she stops talking and she’s got her eyes shut now and she’s breathing long and slow … long and slow … long and slow … I stop singing Lavender. That was Coco’s favourite song. The girl with the dark hair and brown eyes is smiling but not in her eyes. No, they’re all worried, and I don’t like that. But she keeps breathing and the voices get quieter and quieter till the fireworks fizzle out and my head’s empty again.
‘Do you remember Coco, Rory? She was your foster sister.’
Why is she asking about Coco? My palms get all sweaty. I don’t like her asking about Coco. Coco’s my friend. I won’t share Coco with her. I glance at the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. She’s sad. Her eyes are all dark and her lips aren’t smiling. I’ve made her sad and I don’t like it. But it’s her own fault. She should stop asking about Helen and Coco.
I skip over a few pages, so she won’t see the drawing I made of her. She might want to keep it and I don’t want to give it away. Not yet. I count the pages in my book ten … eleven … twelve. They’re all there, none missing. She’s not crept in and taken them this time. I thought she would. The voice told me she took the others and I hate her for that.
I put my arm round my book and start to draw Jimmy. He was digging up the weeds, singing to himself, but he’s gone now. He always goes off somewhere when the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes comes. Maybe she’s stolen something from Jimmy too? He’s got strong fingers, has Jimmy – doesn’t wear gloves like the real gardeners. I keep looking for him, wondering where he’s gone, and keep drawing, hoping she’ll go away. But she doesn’t.
‘Rory.’
I don’t look at her. Pretend I don’t hear.
She places her hand on my arm, her hair swinging forward as she gets closer. ‘Rory, did you give some of your pictures to anyone?’
I think about that. It’s probably a trick question. The voice warned me about that. ‘They’ll try to trick you but you mustn’t let them.’
I shake my head. I don’t give my drawings away. I keep them. When she sighs, I feel a bit bad for her. She’s pretty. She stopped the fireworks and the bombs and the fizzing in my head. She smiles at me, never shouts. Maybe she’s OK. Maybe I can trust her. But then the voice comes again and it’s loud and angry. Using swear words and I feel that thurrump, thurrump thurrump again. I stand up, but I can’t see properly – all blue lights flash in my eyes. I trip and land on the grass. It’s wet because they’ve just watered it. I lie there and try to stop the thurrump. But it goes on and on.
She’s yelling now. ‘I need help. Please. I need help.’
The last I remember is when I throw up.
Later in my room, I look round to see if she’s still there, but she’s gone. I don’t check under the bed or in the wardrobe or in the bathroom this time because I know
she’s gone. If she was still here, I’d be able to smell her – coconut – that’s her smell. I pick up my pad and draw the girl with the dark hair and smiley brown eyes. I hope she comes back, but I hope she doesn’t ask about my pictures. That’s a secret I’ve got to keep, or the bad voice will come back.
Chapter 25
Bradford
The waiting room was calm and relaxing, just as Angus had described it all those years earlier when he’d needed the service of Dr Mahmood. It seemed serendipitous that Sebastian Carlton’s expert had been the same psychiatrist that got Corrine’s son through his darkest hours. Perhaps she could do the same for Corrine. The fish tank gurgled away in the corner, the fish colourful and lazy as they whiled away their time. Corrine had been reluctant to come here, but after another night of bad dreams, Fergus had convinced her to attend the appointment Professor Carlton had arranged. ‘It’s long past time you dealt with this, Corrine. If I’d been less inclined to grant you your every wish, I’d have insisted on it years ago.’
It wasn’t her husband’s words that convinced her through, it was the deep furrows across his brow, and the worry in his eyes combined with her own desperate need to confront the fears that receiving those damn sketches had reactivated. That had been why she’d agreed to this. Although she knew the facts of her tragic little childhood, she couldn’t remember them and that made it feel as if it had all happened to someone else – it took the sting from it – the hurt and her logical mind told her that’s why she wakened up sobbing and sweating with disconnected images floating like jigsaw pieces in her head. Just out of reach of her logical mind.
Corrine started when the door opened, and Dr Mahmood pooped her head out. ‘I’m ready for you now, Dr McGuire.’
The question wasn’t whether Dr Mahmood was ready for her, it was if Corrine was ready for this. She doubted it. Still, she rose, and followed the other woman into a room that smelt of vanilla, the result of a candle on the psychiatrist’s desk. Hesitating, unsure where to sit, Corrine glanced round, taking in not only it’s shabbiness, but also the doctor’s attempts to humanise it, with paintings on the walls and a bookshelf filled with an eclectic taste in fiction and non-fiction. To one side there was a lounge chair that faced a comfy armchair with a coffee table in between. With Dr Mahmood positioning herself with a notebook and recording device on the armchair, Corrine walked over to the lounger which was at present in its upright position. Placing her bag on the carpet beside her, she sat. The silence seemed to go on forever, during which time Corrine attempted, unsuccessfully, several times to fill the void.
As one of life’s natural chatterers, probably to make up for the years of muteness as a child, Corrine was uncomfortable with silence. Desperate to find a way to break the unnerving space that filled the room, her eyes flitted around before finally settling on her hands, which were clasped in her lap. The knuckles were almost white, so tightly was she flexing them. Swallowing, she forcibly untightened them and with a small laugh, looked at Dr Mahmood. ‘It’s not often I’m at a loss for words, but you must understand, this is all so very new to me.’
Once she started to speak, the rest of her words tumbled out as if the act of breaking the silence had unbound her. ‘For a long time, I’ve been aware of gaps in my memory. Gaps from childhood mainly and there was a period of a couple of years as a child when I didn’t speak. I understand that this is my reaction to an extreme trauma, but I want to get to the bottom of it. Although I have been told of the incident’ – Corrine paused – ‘or to be completely precise – incidents, that triggered my trauma, I can’t remember them.’
Leaning forward, Dr Mahmood, with a reassuring smile that made Corrine’s heart slow down, nodded. ‘I’m glad you’ve come to me, Corrine. Trauma doesn’t just fix itself. We need help to deal with the aftereffects and the way they manifest themselves. And I’m happy to help. I just wonder, why you feel the need to explore this now. Has there been a further trigger? Or are the symptoms increasing?’
‘Both.’ Corrine was aware that the word had broken from her lips in a plaintive squeal and the very action of uttering it and acknowledging through that one word the extent of her inner pain, was a relief.
Dr Mahmood poured her a glass of water and pushed the glass towards her. ‘Can you tell me a little more about what you’re going through now, and we can work out a strategy to treat you.’
After what felt like hours, Corrine sat back in the chair and said, ‘That’s it. I know various things that happened to me … but I don’t remember them. I think the time is right to start to address these blanks.’
‘Would you be prepared to try hypnosis? Through hypnosis I can take you back to specific parts of your life, safe in the knowledge that you’re in control of how long you stay in your memories. You see, they haven’t gone or been eliminated. They are there in your subconscious and it’s the effort your mind is taking to suppress them that’s causing you all this pain – the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the headaches, the worry.’
Corrine nodded. Having bared her soul, she was galvanised. Determined to forge a way through the blanks in her mind – to open the locked boxes her mind had tricked her into ignoring for so long, she said, ‘Right, let’s get started. I want you to help me remember my little brother.’
Dr Mahmood gave a slight smile. ‘I’m not sure now would be a good time to commence your treatment, Corrine. Today has already been difficult for you and you have achieved a lot by coming to me. Why don’t we work out a course of treatment – which, by the way, will be bi-weekly for the first few weeks. Then we can start the hypnosis sessions next time.’
But Corrine was adamant. ‘No. I came here to start to get answers and I want to try now. Today.’
Dr Mahmood studied Corrine’s face while Corrine did her best to remain composed under the other woman’s scrutiny. Finally, with a smile, the psychiatrist shook her head. ‘Now I understand where your son gets his stubbornness from. If you agree to this, Corrine, you must commit to coming back in tomorrow. I want to follow up on your hypnosis session with a counselling session which will allow you to process any revelations after you’ve had a chance to absorb them and possibly share them with your husband. That’s mandatory.’
Corrine nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. Can we start…’
****
Between them, Dr Mahmood and Corrine had agreed to focus on the trigger incident. The incident that led to her first bout of muteness and after some light breathing and muscle relaxing exercises, Corrine was ready.
‘You’re safe, Corrine. You can come out of this any time you want to. You are in control. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Soothed by Dr Mahmood’s rhythmic tones, Corrine, now lying on the recliner chair, her limbs light, her head clear, Corrine felt a little dissociated from her body. But it felt good. It was as if the weight that she carried with her always had been lifted.
‘OK, then, I want you to count back from ten and when you do, you will be in the bedroom with your younger brother. I want you to tell me everything you saw, heard and felt that day … Remember you can leave that room whenever you want.’
Scotland, 1972
‘…four, three, two, one … I’m with Jamie. We’re playing, waiting for Mummy to come back. Hope it’s soon. Jamie is hungry, but he drank the last of the milk and there’s nothing left now. He keeps wanting to take the caliper off his leg, but I tell him no and he starts to cry. ‘Oh, Jamie, don’t cry. You don’t have to cry.’
I pull him onto my knee and sing Lavender’s blue dilly dilly. It’s his favourite. He loves the bit about ‘When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen’. We’re laughing when I hear the door open. I put my fingers to my lips, telling him not to make a sound. Got to find out how bad she is. She’s talking to herself yelling and cursing. ‘Fucking auld bitch. I’ll kill her. Who the hell is she to say I cannae have a bottle of cider on my tab … bitch.’
At her words my stomach gurgles. If she’s no money for cider ther
e’ll be no money for food for us. Our bellies will be hungry for a while longer. I hate her. Really hate her. She’ll come to find us soon. She’ll need someone to take her anger out on, so I send Jamie under the bed and tell him to stay quiet.
She slams open the bedroom door, mascara all over her face, her hair wild, like a monster’s. She’s wobbling and her eyes look like she can’t see me at first. Then she stumbles towards me. I smell the booze and fags and sweat before she’s halfway across the room. She grabs for me – misses and then grabs again. She pulls me right up to her face, I want to be sick, but I know I can’t. Her eyes go all googly as she looks at me, then her mouth opens, and her yellow teeth are right in front of me.
‘Everything’s your fault, Coco. You little darkie bitch. Why couldn’t you have been white? You’re ugly.’
She’s spitting all over my face, her nose almost touching mine. ‘You’re an ugly little nig nog gollywog.’
She starts to shake me and my teeth rattle in my mouth. I think my head’s going to fall off, but still she keeps going, singing that song;
Coco the nig nog gollywog,
Ugly little dog.
Coco nig nog Gollywog,
Flush you down the bog.
I know what’s coming next as she starts to drag me from the room. She’s done it before – but this time she might forget to pull me back out of the toilet. This time I’m going to die. Then Jamie’s there pulling at her, his little leg dragging behind, but he won’t let go. We’re in the toilet now and she’s still singing it.
Coco the nig nog gollywog,
Ugly little dog.
Coco nig nog Gollywog,
Flush you down the bog.
Then, Jamie does it. He bites her arm and she yells at him, but she lets me go and I fall onto the floor in a heap just outside the door, but she’s whipped Jamie into her hands and she’s shaking him. His little eyes are wide and he’s crying and crying and crying and then she throws him down and his head hits the toilet seat and there’s blood and he’s not crying.