Dead Man's Daughter

by Roz Watkins

  We nodded and showed him our ID. He glanced at the receptionist and said, ‘She’s available. I’ll take them through.’

  Jai and I followed the man into a bright hallway. A vase of flowers sat on a shelf and the place smelt floral, with a hint of bleachy cleanliness. Not a smell I often experienced.

  ‘The consulting rooms are this way.’

  The man paused and listened by a door, then knocked and led us into a softly-lit room which smelt of fresh paint.

  A compact woman in her fifties sat behind a desk making notes. She looked up. ‘Ah. Yes, of course. Come in. Any chance you could organise some coffee for us, Tom?’

  I wondered why the person in the wheelchair was doing all the work here, but he smiled and nodded.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us at such short notice, Dr Li,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not a problem. And call me Fen.’ She stood and waved her arm at a collection of chairs in the corner, arranged casually around a coffee table. ‘Sit down.’

  Jai and I sat, and Fen took a third chair.

  ‘No couches, then?’ I said.

  Fen smiled. ‘I’m not into Freudian analysis. Were you hoping for a lie-down?’

  That did sound appealing.

  The room had a serene feel as if designed to avoid inflaming the unstable. Fen’s desk was clear except for one file and a photo of Tom and a girl with the same eyes. The furniture was old but freshly painted in muted colours, and the walls were one of those heritage shades that have pretentious names like Giraffes in the Mist or Dying Salmon but are actually just off-white or grey. The larger walls were dominated by abstract prints which could have doubled as ink-blot tests.

  ‘So, you have a cosmetic surgery clinic, as well as doing psychotherapy?’ Jai asked.

  She nodded. ‘That’s more Tom’s thing than mine. Day cases. Minor procedures. Tom’s an excellent surgeon. He used to do major surgery, but since . . . well, he focuses on cosmetic surgery now.’

  I wondered what had put Tom in a wheelchair, but it didn’t seem appropriate to ask.

  The door creaked open and Tom appeared with a tray of coffees and biscuits. ‘Ashley’s on her break,’ he said. ‘So I brought you these. I don’t have any patients till this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. I couldn’t imagine many male doctors bringing coffee for their mothers.

  Tom placed the tray on the table.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ Jai said, and eyed the biscuits.

  ‘No problem.’ Tom smiled and spun his chair around. Its arm caught the side of the coffee table and knocked it, splashing coffee onto its painted top. ‘I’m sorry.’ I sensed anxiety in Tom’s voice. ‘I can be clumsy.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise,’ I said.

  There was a moment of silence before Tom left and Fen shifted her attention to us.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We need some advice on a case. This one’s highly confidential.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fen said.

  ‘And we need to keep a lid on your costs. You know what it’s like.’

  Fen sighed. ‘I do indeed. How’s Richard Atkins? He split with his wife, didn’t he?’

  ‘He’s fine.’ I hoped she wouldn’t press me for an opinion on Richard’s ex-wife, who was a well-known pain in the backside. ‘Put on a bit of weight since they split, but fine.’

  We signed a few forms in a solemn manner and then explained the situation to Dr Li.

  ‘So the girl was having nightmares,’ she said, ‘and sleepwalking?’

  ‘So we’ve been told. Nightmares where she thought her father was trying to kill her.’

  ‘What sleeping pills was she on?’

  ‘Her mother said Sombunol.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Why’s that interesting?’

  ‘There have been some cases with that particular drug. Where patients have got out of bed and done things while still effectively asleep. The next day they don’t remember anything. I’ve read reports of people eating, having sex, even driving, while they’re asleep.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘Why would it even be prescribed?’

  ‘The side effects aren’t common, and it is effective. But there have been some homicide cases.’

  ‘People have killed in their sleep whilst on Sombunol?’

  ‘Yes, mainly in America. We can’t know for sure what happened but the courts have accepted it as a valid defence to murder.’

  ‘Is it possible?’ I said. ‘Could the girl have sleepwalked and killed her father? Because unless she’s a spectacular actor, I’m sure she doesn’t remember anything about her father’s death.’

  ‘I’m not aware of any cases involving children but I would say it’s theoretically possible. Tell me more about the dreams.’

  I glanced at Jai. ‘They seem to have started after her heart transplant. She was dreaming about her donor – well, about her donor’s death, her parents thought. Her mother seems to have thought there was something really weird going on – that she was actually remembering her heart donor’s death. Of course that couldn’t happen, but the child might have imagined it.’

  ‘It can be a traumatic thing for a child, the idea of having another child’s heart. They can feel very guilty that someone died. It affects them in different ways.’

  ‘She told us her father had done something bad, and her heart knew. We’re wondering if it was triggered by a story about their house. Some children died there.’

  ‘Of course children have very vivid imaginations. But the issue here is whether the child could have killed her father in her sleep. Isn’t it?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I would say in principle yes she could have.’

  *

  A light dusting of snow was forming on the distant Peak District hills as we drove back. I squinted into the low, afternoon light. The roads were icy, and I had to force myself to concentrate on driving.

  Jai was unusually quiet for the first couple of miles. Finally, he said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I want to do some research on sleep homicide. And on the drugs Abbie was taking. But we carry on looking into other possibilities, okay? Explore all options. Don’t get channelled. You know the score.’

  We arrived back at the Station, and I retreated to my room. I sat and let my mind chug over the facts. I kept picturing Abbie, remembering the way she’d held on to me in the woods. I couldn’t believe she’d killed her father. A knock on the door made me jump. Fiona.

  ‘Some more stuff’s come back,’ she said. ‘The Luminol showed someone had washed blood off in the shower. So that ties in with Rachel washing Abbie.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessarily Rachel washing anyone. Let’s not indulge in confirmation bias, Fiona.’

  ‘No, of course. But the knife was the one that killed Thornton. And Abbie’s prints were on it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What did the forensic psychiatrist say?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘Oh, you know what they’re like. Hedging her bets. But we can’t rule Abbie out. There have been some cases involving the sleeping pills she’s on.’

  ‘What kind of cases?’

  ‘A very, very few cases of people apparently killing in their sleep.’

  ‘Oh my God. We’ve heard back from the lab, and she’d had an overdose of those sleeping pills.’

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to bring my focus onto Fiona. ‘How much of an overdose? Who could have given her that?’

  ‘Not much of one, apparently. Do you think that made her sleepwalk and kill her dad?’

  ‘Why did she have an overdose though?’

  ‘Rachel said Phil was a bit rubbish at doing Abbie’s pills. She takes all kinds of different ones. It’s pretty complicated. And you know what some men are like – they leave these things to their wives, and then they’re too embarrassed to admit they’ve got no clue if they have to take charge. Maybe he gave her two sleeping pills by accident.’

 
We were silent for a moment.

  ‘Plus, Emily’s passed me an email that he sent to Abbie’s psychiatrist,’ Fiona said. ‘Do you want to see?’

  I nodded, and she slid a print-out over my desk.

  The email was sent from Phil Thornton to Dr Gibson, Abbie Thornton’s psychiatrist.

  Dear Dr Gibson,

  I wanted to email you because I need you to understand properly what has been going on with my daughter, Abbie. I know my wife has had some psychiatric issues in the past and I want you to realise that what has happened with Abbie is real and my wife is not imagining it or making it up.

  Abbie has been waking up in the night screaming that her daddy is trying to kill her and is a murderer. When she wakes up she is terrified but has no memory of the dream. She also screams that she is drowning. This has been very distressing for us because I have never laid a finger on Abbie and also she has not called me Daddy for years, and she has never had an incident where she thought she was drowning. We have come to the unfortunate conclusion that Abbie is somehow remembering something which happened to her heart donor. I know this sounds strange which is why I am writing you this email because I realise with your scientific training you may not want to believe this, and may think my wife is imagining it.

  The nightmares only started after Abbie’s transplant and have got worse.

  I am not saying I want to look into what happened to the donor child or anything like that but I want you to do what you can with hypnotism or whatever you can to stop Abbie having these memories which are very distressing for her and actually for me too.

  Thank you for your help with this terrible problem we are experiencing.

  Kind regards,

  Phil Thornton

  I sighed. ‘So, it wasn’t only Rachel. Phil Thornton believed Abbie was remembering things from the heart donor as well. He didn’t think she was imagining it.’

  ‘It’s pretty creepy. What’s the drowning thing all about?’

  The door banged open and Craig appeared. ‘I need a word.’

  ‘Hang on a sec, Craig. I’m talking to Fiona.’

  ‘It’s about that shrink. I bloody knew something dodgy was going on, with the kiddy screaming when he hypnotised her.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes,’ I said.

  ‘Fine. If you want to let a paedo carry on abusing kids.’ He slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Jeez,’ Fiona said. ‘Craig sees paedophiles everywhere. What’s his problem?’

  I stood and headed for the door. ‘I’d better check.’

  Fiona looked at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said.

  ‘I suppose I don’t know how you put up with him.’

  I smiled and declined to comment on that.

  I found Craig at his desk.

  ‘Abbie Thornton’s psychiatrist is a paedo.’ He sat back in his chair with his legs too wide apart.

  I sank onto a chair next to him. ‘Okay, slow down. Tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘His practice manager phoned back. A patient called her about some stuff that’s appeared online, about him abusing kids. He’s been molesting them when he was supposed to be doing therapy. People are sharing it on Facebook.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ I pictured Abbie’s grandmother telling us how upset Abbie had been when she was hypnotised, and felt a coldness in my stomach. ‘When did this come out?’

  ‘In the last day or two.’ Craig’s jaw jutted forward. ‘But this could be why Abbie Thornton was dreaming about Daddy. Maybe Daddy was him.’

  ‘Let’s keep an open mind.’

  Craig let out a soft snort. ‘Yeah, well it fits with her screaming blue murder when he was alone with her.’

  ‘Have you managed to get in touch with him?’

  ‘The practice manager reckons he might not be in Scotland after all. She went to his house and his car was there but there was no answer when she knocked.’

  I took the practice manager’s number from Craig, walked to a quieter corner, and gave her a ring.

  ‘There’s no way these accusations are true,’ she said. ‘That’s not Dr Gibson. He didn’t even see many children. Honestly, there’s no way he’s a paedophile. He specialises in identity disorders. You know: body dysmorphia, gender issues, BIID . . . ’

  ‘BIID?’

  ‘Body Identity Integrity Disorder. Where people feel like part of their body doesn’t really belong to them, and want rid of it. One of his patients went to India and had his leg amputated. Not that Dr Gibson approved of that. It’s all illegal of course.’

  I leant against a nearby desk. This case was getting more bizarre by the minute. I’d read about that condition – people who didn’t want their own limbs; who wanted them amputated even though they were perfectly healthy. ‘We’ll go over to his house,’ I said. ‘We need to talk to him.’

  *

  ‘This’ll be fun,’ Craig said. ‘Off to see a paedo. Better stick together.’

  I accelerated a little and glanced at Craig’s bulldoggy profile. ‘If he is a paedophile – which we have no compelling reason to believe – then we’re hardly his target market, are we? Chubby cops in their thirties?’

  ‘Makes me feel dirty even thinking about it. You don’t have kids of your own. You don’t understand. You don’t even like kids.’

  ‘That’s not . . . Oh never mind. His practice manager said he doesn’t even work much with kids. He specialises in identity disorders.’

  Craig gave a non-committal grunt. I felt the need to get his attention.

  ‘One of his clients went to India,’ I said. ‘And paid to have his leg amputated.’

  ‘Why? What was the matter with it? Why couldn’t he get it done here?’

  ‘Nothing was the matter with it. He just didn’t want it. Didn’t feel like it belonged to him. It’s a condition.’

  I took my eyes off the road a minute to enjoy Craig’s expression. He spun his head round. ‘What the . . . ’

  ‘It’s called Body Integrity Identity Disorder. Interesting, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mental. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Apparently it happens most in middle-aged white males, and the most common desire is for the left leg to be amputated above the knee.’

  Craig let out an exasperated breath. ‘Some people . . . ’

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, and I parked at the address we’d been given – one of a cluster of chalet-style houses on the edge of a small lake on the outskirts of Eldercliffe. The sleet had eased off, being replaced by fog which had settled over the hills like a damp duvet.

  The houses were Swiss-styled and had been built by a Victorian megalomaniac who’d taken a shine to the Alps and decided to replicate them in Derbyshire. Today their extreme tweeness was moderated by the fog, but the quiet was almost suffocating.

  Harry Gibson’s drive contained a car. It also contained a dead bird in a puddle, but was otherwise pristine. We walked up a path between neatly trimmed shrubs and I rang the bell.

  No response.

  ‘Hard to imagine a kiddy-fiddler living here,’ Craig said. ‘There’s practically gnomes in the garden.’

  Craig’s brain worked in mysterious ways. I kept quiet.

  I rang the bell again. No response.

  ‘Damn it,’ I said. ‘He probably thinks we’re press.’

  I tried the handle. It turned, and I gave the door a little shove. It opened into a dim hallway. I glanced at Craig. Why would a man who was being hounded by packs of enraged paedophile-hunters leave his door unlocked?

  I poked my head in and shouted, ‘Dr Gibson. Are you okay?’

  The air inside felt chilly and un-lived-in, and smelt of hangovers.

  Music was coming from the back of the house. Like the soundtrack from an old cartoon. I glanced at Craig. ‘He’s probably watching some TV with the sound loud.’

  A rare look of unease crossed Craig’s face. ‘Yeah, I expect he is.’

&n
bsp; I braced myself for a tasteless joke. We called it Joke Tourette’s, and it was a common affliction – inappropriate humour, blurted out in times of stress. But Craig stayed silent.

  I realised my heart was thudding and I didn’t want to go into this chocolate-box house. ‘We’d better have a look,’ I said.

  A door on the left of the hall led into a living room. I peered in and glanced up at the ceiling. Nothing was dangling but a paper lampshade. The clamp around my insides released its grip a little. We walked into the room, which seemed to shrink in response to Craig’s bulk. It was decorated in a bachelor-mix of IKEA furniture, nondescript landscape prints, and dust.

  A door at the far end of the living room seemed to lead into a conservatory – a bright room which must have been bathed in light reflected off the lake, a room that seemed all wrong for the feeling I now had in my stomach. I noticed the hangover smell again, and the music, louder now. I had a memory of watching cartoons as a kid, sitting on the living room floor, too close to the TV, in the technicolour years before my sister fell ill.

  I walked through the door.

  At first glance, my brain told me he was okay, although at some level I knew he wasn’t. He was almost in a sitting position. Almost normal but obviously not. Too low. A rope stretched tight above him. Face bloated, lips black, purple tongue protruding. Sitting, but not on a chair. The chair was next to him, pushed to the side. He was hanging.

  Craig’s voice was rough like gravel. ‘Oh shit.’

  I staggered back a step and reached for my radio.

  ‘Cut him down, Craig. Please.’

  I called it in, while Craig cut the rope near its middle, careful to preserve the knots. The coroner would take a dim view if we hadn’t cut him down and done our best. Always preserve life ahead of evidence. But there was no life to preserve here. He collapsed onto the floor in the same uncanny sitting position we’d found him in, limbs already rigid. Music blared from a laptop on the floor, filling my brain, making it hard to think.

  Despite my obsessive need to check ceilings, not all suicides by hanging were high up. Sometimes the drugs-and-booze- jobs took place low down. Take enough stuff that you know you’ll eventually pass out, tie a rope around something rigid – in this case a banister to the side of a set of steps leading to a mezzanine room – loop the other end of the rope around your neck, lean against the banister, and wait until you pass out. In the grand scheme of such things, it was a relatively stress-free method. I’d seen it done this way a few times.