by Roz Watkins
A moment of silence. ‘Yes, we did,’ I said. ‘We’ll do our utmost not to put you in danger.’
‘I’m not even surprised about what happened. I should have been stronger in my warnings.’
‘You weren’t surprised that . . . ’
‘That Abbie killed her father. No I wasn’t.’
I looked at his face, earnest and scared. ‘You think this is linked to the drug she was on? Immunoxifan?’
‘Yes.’ Michael seemed to settle a little, to still himself. He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You could say that.’
‘Why? What’s going on with the drug? Have there been other cases where it’s caused problems?’
He nodded and then spoke fast. ‘It’s a superb immunosuppressant, of course. It’s been rigorously tested in animal models and in human trials.’
‘But are there side effects?’
‘It appears so. There didn’t seem to be any at first. It was hailed a wonder drug. We cracked open the champagne. Andrew was thrilled, I was thrilled, everything was wonderful.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said.
The leg tapped again. ‘We were finally given regulatory approval, and we released the drug onto the market. It was well received. As I said, it’s an excellent immunosuppressant.’
Fen shifted her weight and glanced up. A crow landed on one of the Destroying Angels.
‘I only realised because I talked with one of our lab technicians. He said we’d had a batch of dodgy mice and he was going to discuss it with the supplier.’
I nodded at him to continue, cringing inside at the use of the words batch and supplier about sentient animals.
‘With some mice, he’d had problems with their behaviour. He didn’t think it was anything to do with the drugs, or the heart transplants. Physically the mice did well, you see . . . ’
Both Fen and I were intently focused on Michael. ‘What did they do?’ I said.
The air between us felt still. Michael hesitated, then exhaled. ‘It happened at night. They attacked and killed their cage mates.’
A small gust of wind swished through the valley. Michael jumped.
‘You think the drug made them do it?’ I said. ‘Made them aggressive?’
‘To an extent. I looked deeper into the situation. I almost wish I hadn’t. Everyone else was very happy to ignore it, or to blame it on a bad batch of mice. No one else was looking for patterns as to which mice behaved strangely. But that’s my training – to look for patterns.’
‘What was the pattern?’ Fen said.
‘It was only the heart transplant mice, but not all of them. I don’t even know how I noticed. It’s not something we would normally pay attention to . . . ’
A rustle of leaves. Michael’s head shot round. ‘Is someone there?’
‘I think it’s the wind,’ I said. ‘What pattern did you notice with the mice?’
Michael stepped forward and flung his attention up and down the valley.
‘There’s someone there,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you now. We’ll have to speak another time.’
He darted away from us.
I ran forward a few steps. ‘Hang on. Just tell us what the pattern . . . ’
Michael turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘This is about cellular memory. Speak to Gaynor Harvey. She takes the drug.’
He sprinted away.
*
It was early evening by the time we left the gorge. The roads were icy, and my car warned me with a fretful beep that it was less than three degrees outside.
‘Do you think he’s sane?’ I asked.
‘He certainly seems scared, but there’s nothing definitive to suggest he’s paranoid. He said nothing that absolutely couldn’t be true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t say people were communicating with him through his television, or sending messages along the water pipes, that kind of thing. Paranoid schizophrenics or those in the throes of psychosis often believe things which are self-evidently untrue. Although so do supposedly sane people.’
Like that there’s a bloke with a beard watching over us from the sky, I thought. Luckily it didn’t come out of my mouth. I glanced at Fen, wondering what she’d meant. ‘He seems to absolutely believe that Abbie killed her father. And that the drug had something to do with it.’
‘I have no idea whether he’s correct, but I have no particular reason to believe he’s delusional.’
‘I wish he’d told us exactly what was going on with those mice.’
‘It was a little frustrating. I don’t know how you’d see a cellular memory effect in mice.’
‘Here we are.’ I pulled up outside her house. ‘If you have any more thoughts about Michael Ellis or Abbie Thornton, would you let me know?’
‘Do you have a mobile number I can have?’
I fished a card from my pocket and handed it to her.
She examined my card. ‘I didn’t get the impression that man was delusional. I’d take what he says seriously.’
*
I headed back to the Station. There was no sign of Craig or Jai, although I didn’t carry out a thorough search. I needed to address the Craig situation but not now. I cleared a space on my desk, and typed ‘Gaynor Harvey’ into our system. We had no record of her. I googled the name.
A recent Derby Telegraph article came up in the search results.
It was about transplant patients who’d taken on characteristics of their donors and I found Gaynor Harvey: Woman craves mushrooms and listens to Radio 1 after receiving young person’s heart. It wasn’t the grabbiest anecdote, but she lived only a few miles away.
An email notification popped onto my screen. I was about to ignore it when I realised it was from Emily.
She’d managed to get into Harry Gibson’s client files. She’d sent me a copy of Abbie Thornton’s case notes.
I felt a spike of adrenaline as I opened the file.
10 y.o. girl, presenting with night terrors. Screaming. Scared of father? Started after heart transplant. Prior to heart transplant, no recent nightmares.
4 years ago, stepsister died falling from window. Some nightmares after this but recovered. Seems normal reaction to traumatic event.
Mother – believes new heart affecting patient. Possibly delusional. Previous mental health issues with somatic delusions. Depression/anxiety. See child w/o mother. Danger of child picking up on mother’s delusion.
Father?
Treatment: light trance – relaxation, positive view of new heart, posthypnotic suggestions for calm night’s sleep.
The notes from the next few sessions were brief, confirming continued treatment along the same lines. There was also a copy of Phil Thornton’s email saying he thought the heart had affected Abbie. Things didn’t seem to be getting any better.
Night terrors not improving. Screaming, ‘Daddy did it. Daddy’s a murderer.’ Significantly impacting life.
A few more sessions, then:
Night terrors worsened. Both parents convinced patient remembering things from donor child’s life (or death.) Prescribed Sombunol.
Can I regress? Ethical?
Then the next session:
Drew picture (attached) while in light trance. No memories when not in trance. No relation to events in life acc. to mother and father. Still saying Daddy’s a murderer. Scared of him. Agreed to regress. Keep high above timeline. All precautions in place.
Took back to the event she drew. ‘Daddy. . . Why didn’t Mum and Ben and Buddy(??) come with us? I don’t like it here . . . the water’s black . . . Daddy, don’t!’ (Upset – told her to float high above the event and look down.) ‘Daddy . . . I’m scared . . . No!’ (Upset. Brought her back to now, with usual safety measures.)
Fine when came round. No memory.
That was the last entry in the file.
An image file was also attached to Dr Gibson’s notes. I clicked on it and zoomed in. Leant forward to look at the screen. A child’s drawing filled it
. A lake, the water black. A man – big, with red eyes and prominent teeth. Dressed in khaki, with a dark beard. The man was dragging a child towards the lake by her long blonde hair. The child wore a pink and white spotty swimming costume. Her mouth was open wide in a scream.
Heart thumping, I saw there was another attachment named ‘Donor’. I opened it. A scanned letter on Great Ormond Street headed paper, stamped STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. It was dated 8 February – just two days before Harry Gibson had died.
. . . providing this information strictly for your use . . . Must be kept absolutely confidential . . . Used therapeutically but not revealed to patient . . . Donor details – Scarlett Norwood. 9 y.o. girl. Drowned. Resuscitated but brain-dead. Kept on life support pre-transplant.
I knew that name. A child who’d drowned the previous autumn, in a small, remote lake over towards Leek. We’d had it down as an accident, and she’d been with her father.
There was a handwritten scribble on the bottom of the letter. Donor child killed by father???
*
I leant back in my chair. I noticed goose pimples on my arms, and felt a tingling of fear, like the feeling you get when you’ve watched a horror film and then have to go for a glass of water. When you know you’re not in any danger, but some animal part of you is not convinced. The picture Abbie had drawn sent those feelings straight to my ancient lizard-brain.
I heard a chair scraping and realised Jai had walked up and sat next to me, without me even noticing.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Jai dragged his chair closer to my table and squinted at the screen. ‘Can you enlarge it a bit?’ I zoomed in on the picture. My eyes were drawn to the man’s teeth, his wild eyes.
I tore my gaze away, and looked at Jai’s face. It was the colour of something I’d find rotting in my fridge. So it wasn’t just me. ‘Are you okay?’
He hesitated. ‘Yeah . . . ’ He wiped his face. ‘She drew that picture? In a therapy session?’
‘Looks like it.’
My heart was pounding. ‘Dr Gibson seems to have believed Abbie was remembering her donor’s death.’
‘And the donor child drowned?’ Jai pushed himself away from the screen. ‘Abbie was scared of being drowned. We need to find out what happened. Was the donor child drowned by her father?’
I felt panicky. This wasn’t right. All the normal rules seemed to be dissolving in front of me. How could we conduct an investigation when the suspect’s motive was that her heart’s previous father drowned her? I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. It makes no sense.’
‘The donor was the kid who drowned at Mermaid’s Pond wasn’t she? Last year. Is this evidence it wasn’t an accident?’
*
Freezing fog had settled over the hills, making my drive home seem muffled and unreal. I flipped on the radio and listened to a BBC-English voice assuring me we were definitely in for a cold snap, something Derbyshire generally did in style. The sleet had presumably eased off so that snow could be prepared and dispensed later with maximum shock value.
I couldn’t get Abbie’s drawing out of my head. If that was what she’d been dreaming, no wonder she’d been terrified. I remembered her clinging on to me after falling into that icy stream, and felt a dreadful weight in my chest. Something inexplicable and horrifying was going on, and whichever way I looked at it, Abbie was a victim.
I’d had a quick check for details about the child who’d died at Mermaid’s Pond, but there was very little publicly available. I’d be able to get hold of more information the next day from our police records.
I slowed as the fog thickened to the point where my headlights bounced off it and back into my face. I killed the full beam and crawled along, concentrating so hard I felt sick.
My sister Carrie hadn’t been able to donate any of her organs because of the cancer. I wondered if I’d have felt any different if she had. If someone was walking around with her heart. Would I want to meet them? Would I search for some essence of Carrie in them? Before I’d even considered this, I imagined Dad looking at me with that critical eye. Of course you wouldn’t – her personality wasn’t in her heart.
The fog thinned and was almost non-existent by the time I arrived at my house and parked on the cobbles outside. I felt anxious walking across my tiny front courtyard, and as soon as I stepped into the hallway, I had the urge to rush upstairs and check the rooms. I told myself to stop being pathetic. I’d been so much better recently. I’d been unsettled by finding Harry Gibson, but I’d coped. I couldn’t go back to manically checking ceilings for hanging things.
There was no sign of Hamlet, which was unusual – maybe that was why the house felt so creepy. There was a hint of a sweet smell in the hallway. Lilies. We’d had lilies at Carrie’s funeral.
I turned and pushed the front door closed behind me. I seemed to feel it before I saw it.
I glanced down.
Something was dangling through the letter-box.
I stepped back, crashing into the hall shelf and knocking the phone onto the floor.
My heart thudded. I stood frozen.
13.
I wanted to run into the kitchen away from it, but a part of me refused to do that. Refused to give in.
I reached forward and grabbed it.
A small rag doll, about Barbie sized. Buttons for eyes, yellow wool for hair. The hair had been hacked short.
A noose was tight around the doll’s neck, and a piece of thin rope suspended it from the letter-box.
I yanked the thing forwards, and it popped free. The end of the rope was knotted, so when it had been pushed through the letter-box, the knot had snagged and left it suspended. Hanging. I guessed that wasn’t an accident.
I wanted to throw it to the ground, but there was enough of Carrie in it that I couldn’t. Someone had cut the hair to make it look like hers when it had just started growing back, once they stopped the chemo. I couldn’t hate the doll.
I clutched it to me, shuffled up the hallway and sank onto the base of the stairs.
I sat holding the doll. She smelt of lilies.
I wiped a tear from my cheek and examined her more closely. She had a cloth satchel, and something was poking out of it. A piece of paper. I swallowed and fished it out. There were words, so tiny I had to squint to read them.
‘You will be punished.’
My fingers tensed to scrunch the paper, but I stopped. This was evidence.
I stood, laid the doll gently on the hall step, stooped to pick up the phone, and dialled Mum.
‘Hello, love. Are you alright?’
I sat back down on the step. ‘I’m fine. I just got in.’
‘Oh, Meg. You mustn’t work so hard. Have you eaten?’
Mum lived in perpetual fear that I would starve, despite my physical appearance providing persuasive evidence to the contrary.
‘I’m not going to die of hunger or over-work, Mum. But I wanted to check you were okay. Something a bit weird’s happened. And I vowed I wouldn’t keep stuff from you again.’
‘Tell me. What is it?’
‘Someone’s shoved a doll through my letter-box. Made to look like Carrie.’
Silence for a moment. ‘Oh good lord. How awful.’
‘Yeah. There are people out there who don’t like me.’
‘The Life Liners?’
‘I suppose so. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘I’m fine. They’ve done nothing here. Do you want to come round? You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘I might pop over to Hannah’s – she always stays up late. Lock your doors and windows, Mum.’
The cat flap slammed open and Hamlet came charging into the hallway. I was so pleased to see him, I realised I must have been worried.
‘Hamlet’s here, Mum. Better go.’
‘Oh, well, get your priorities right, love.’
‘Be careful, Mum. Let me know if you see anything odd. Any time. Okay?’
*
Hannah whipped the door op
en. ‘Oh my God, Meg, come in. Are you alright?’
I leant and gave her a quick kiss. ‘I’m fine. I just didn’t fancy being alone. Thanks for letting me stay over. And would you mind having him? For a day or two?’
She peered into Hamlet’s basket. ‘Of course not. If there are nasty people hanging around your house, he should stay here. Bring him through.’ Hannah wasn’t generally fond of cats but for some reason adored Hamlet, even though his black and white fur was capable of destroying any outfit and adding an unwanted garnish to her cuisine.
I leant and peered into his basket. ‘You won’t let him outside, will you? He’ll get lost.’
‘I won’t let him out.’
I followed her to the kitchen and placed Hamlet down carefully. ‘I’m probably being over-protective but he’s such a dope, and he’ll go up to anyone. And if they hate me that much . . . ’
‘It’s fine,’ Hannah said. ‘You know I love fat little Hammy. Did you bring it with you? The horrible doll?’
‘No. It’s evidence. I took a photo though.’ I sat down and released Hamlet from his carrier, then fished out my phone and showed her the image. ‘Someone had dangled it through the letter-box so it looked like it had been hanged.’
‘Oh my God. This requires gin. Can you sort lemons and ice?’
I sliced lemons and grappled with a recalcitrant ice-tray while Hannah grabbed two large glasses and poured about four measures of gin and a bit of tonic into each. ‘Is it the Life Line people?’ she said.
‘I guess so.’
‘Jesus. I can’t believe I ever got involved with them. How did they know what Carrie’s hair looked like?’
‘It’s public knowledge she’d had cancer. After that girl did her over-share. It was a safe bet her hair would be short.’
‘Bloody hell, Meg. This is horrendous.’
‘Yeah.’ I gulped about half the G and T. ‘I’m trying not to be too affected by it. They’re losers. Why should I let it get to me?’
Even I wasn’t convinced by that.
‘They should be locked up.’
‘I don’t want to spend my whole life defined by this.’ I swallowed. ‘I’m not just that woman who found her sister hanging.’