by Vicky Jones
“You can go in now, Detective Inspector Morrison,” the blonde, perfectly made-up receptionist purred through red matte lips.
Rachel rose and walked over to the therapist’s door, knocking lightly.
“Come in.”
“Hello, Doctor Martin King?” Rachel said after walking in. Sat at a solid-looking dark oak desk was an athletically built man in his early fifties, with black curly hair, a Roman nose and intelligent blue eyes. He was wearing a three-piece steel grey Armani suit with a pink and purple striped tie. The gold tie pin attached to it glinted in the light from the computer screen he was looking at.
“How can I help you, Detective Inspector?” the therapist said, taking off his black-rimmed reading glasses and smiling that familiar therapist’s sympathy smile. “Please. Sit.” He gestured a thin, well-manicured hand to the lilac-coloured tub chair in front of his desk. The therapy room was similarly decorated, with the theme of serene purples and lilacs running through from the waiting room. In the corner was a giant green and yellow yucca plant underneath a well-covered cork notice board of leaflets, helpline numbers and business card-sized ads. In the other corner there was a long therapy bed with the obligatory sheet of blue roll paper draped over it.
Rachel sat down in the tub chair. “I’m conducting some enquiries into an old case and was hoping you could help shed some light on a few matters.”
Doctor King leaned forward and interlaced his fingers on the desk. “Of course. Anything I can do to help you. Please, ask away.”
Rachel’s eye was caught to the row of accolades that were displayed on the wall in gilt-edged gold frames behind King’s head. “You’re a sleep specialist, is that correct?” Rachel asked, nodding up to the certificates.
“Yes. Oh, I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes creased at the corners as he put on a mocking voice. “With a name like Martin King I must get loads of people ringing me saying, ‘I had a dream’ but, if I’m being honest, it doesn’t happen that much.” He let out a bark of laughter, which exposed a perfect set of shiny white teeth.
Rachel pressed her lips together. “No, that’s not what I was thinking, actually,” she said as politely as possible. “I wanted to ask if you remember a strategy meeting that was called twenty years ago where you discussed the case of a Katie Spencer?”
King’s broad shoulders stopped rippling as his laugh faded. He composed his face. “I’ve attended a lot of strategy meetings. And you’re asking me to cast my mind back twenty years and remember?”
Rachel stifled a smile. Ironic, she thought, given what he’d done to Katie and her memories.
“Can you elaborate, please?” King asked.
Flipping open her notebook, Rachel found the page where she’d written down her notes about the treatment Katie had been given. “According to the case file we have on Katie Spencer, back in 2000 a social worker, a senior police officer and yourself attended a strategy meeting to discuss the best course of treatment for Katie, who was just seven years old at the time she allegedly killed her younger sister, Mollie. The decision made at the meeting was that Katie should be given a course of treatment and medication prescribed by you in order for her to essentially lose her memory up to and including the incident. She would then undergo an untested false memory therapy, which, according to the meeting notes, was for her benefit. It was designed to replace the horrific nature of the incident and give her the chance of a normal life afterwards. She was then moved out of the area, to avoid triggers from her surroundings, down to the south of England to live with her aunt, so there would be less chance of dangerous flashbacks and/or vigilante attacks, so it was deemed in her best interest.” Rachel took a breath and fixed her stare on the therapist, who had listened intently throughout. “Now do you remember the case, Doctor King?”
He nodded. “I do indeed. But like you said, that was twenty years ago. And as far as I know the case was closed. What brings you here after all these years?”
“Could you confirm for me the name of the medication you prescribed, please?”
King thought for a moment. “Eradopram, if I remember correctly. I can check for you if you don’t mind me taking a moment to search though the file?” After Rachel nodded her permission, King slipped his glasses back on and tapped away on his computer keyboard, then pressed the return key. “Ah, here we are. Eradopram, fifty milligrams.” He swivelled in his chair to face Rachel and looked down his glasses at her. “We don’t use it anymore, though.”
“Because of the side effects?”
King took his glasses off, slower this time, and laboured over closing the stems. His lips were set in a thoughtful straight line. “Yes. But, on the positive side, we’ve never had another case like Miss Spencer’s where we felt it was in the best interest of the child to recommend this treatment. We wanted to give her a second chance at life.”
“Doctor King, before Katie took the medication, did she ever actually admit to killing Mollie to anyone? Or in fact having any involvement whatsoever in Mollie’s death?” It struck Rachel suddenly; had anyone actually asked that question before? King’s jovial, laid-back manner seemed to change. He now sat straight-backed and stony-faced in his high-backed expensive black leather chair.
“It was too long ago for me to remember that.”
“I’m sure you kept some kind of patient notes. I mean, what doctor effectively changes a patient’s whole life story without jotting down a record of it?” Rachel’s stare hardened towards the therapist.
King’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m curious. Katie Spencer was a seven-year-old child, and before any kind of interview or confession was taken from her, she was medicated and had her memory wiped, on the say so of two supposed witnesses who on closer inspection of their statements made for some contradictions in their reading as to exactly what happened. Can you see now why I’d be curious?”
The therapist bristled. “I’m not a detective. I don’t do the interviews. It wasn’t my place to interfere with their part of this.” His words were floundering as he spread his hands in defence.
“Did you even ask her?”
“No. I was just told the facts of the case as the police saw them. The meeting was for her benefit, to save her from trauma as she got older and to safeguard the public in the hope that Katie didn’t repeat what she had done. What I did was to protect her and to protect others.”
“Allegedly. What she had allegedly done.” Rachel tried to keep her voice even, but inside she was raging.
“All procedures were followed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to be getting on.” King leaned forward and pushed out his chair to stand up. But Rachel wasn’t finished yet.
“Who else was at the strategy meeting? I’d like their names, please.”
King sat down heavily and exhaled at length. “There was a social worker that was working Katie’s case. Brenda Holroyd. And a police officer…”
Rachel scribbled the social worker’s name down and waited with bated breath for the name of the police officer.
“But I don’t recall their name,” King said, shaking his head. Rachel swore inwardly.
“Right, thank you for your time, Doctor King,” Rachel said, standing up. King did the same. “I’ll go and pay Ms. Holroyd a visit.”
King grimaced. “Unfortunately, you can’t. Died. A few years ago, in a car accident.” He shrugged.
Rachel fought to contain her frustration. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she flashed the therapist with her sharpest glare. “The name of the police officer. Find it in your records and call me.” She handed him her business card.
“If you want to speak to me again, Detective Inspector, you will have to do it formally, making an official appointment,” King said just as Rachel was about to disappear out of the door. “I might not be able to fit you in as a ‘drop in’ next time.”
Rachel looked at King. “As I am sure you are aware, if it turns out that a crime has b
een committed and you are withholding information, then I’ll be dropping in with a court order to seize your records. Just keep that in mind, Doctor King.”
Superintendent Jenkins strode up to Rachel’s office and wrenched open the door. Seeing it was empty, he turned around and fixed his impatient fiery glare on Chloe Sharp.
“Sharp. Where’s DI Morrison?” he snapped.
Chloe stood up. “Out of the office this afternoon, guv. Can I pass on a message?”
“Tell her my office as soon as she gets back.” He stormed off back the way he came.
“Yes, guv,” Chloe replied to the swish of air that was left in his wake.
“Hi, Mum. Sorry I didn’t get back to you straight away. I’m just at work at the moment, but as soon as I get a spare moment, I’ll sort that train ticket out for you. OK, bye.” Seconds after Rachel hung up, another call came through her hands free. “Sharp. Some good news, please,” she said wearily.
“Nope, sorry. Jenkins is on the warpath. Not sure why. Just wanted to give you the heads-up.”
“Why does it sound echoey where you are?”
“I’m hiding in the loo. He’s in a proper nark. I mean, he’s a mizzog at the best of times, but…”
Rachel wrinkled her nose and laughed at Chloe’s broad Liverpool accent, which always seemed to come out when she was angry or pissed off. “What’s a ‘mizzog’?”
“Oh, just some scouse word meaning ‘miserable old git’, but don’t tell him I told you that or he’ll have my badge. Are you on your way back?”
“Yeah. On Upper Parliament Street now so I’ll be about ten minutes.”
“Any luck with the therapist?”
“Not really. I found out the name of the social worker and was going to go over there, but she’s dead. It just feels like I’m hitting brick walls all the time. Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know, maybe I’ve lost my edge.” Rachel leaned her hands heavily against the steering wheel.
“Don’t say things like that. You’re amazing at your job. And if you didn’t investigate even the most hopeless of cases, then what would be the point of even doing the job, eh? Maybe in some way you feel sorry for Katie and want her to have closure?”
Chloe’s rational and soothing words hit a spot in Rachel’s brain that calmed her. “Maybe.”
“Talking of which, Katie called you for an update just before Jenkins scared me into this smelly bog. She just wanted an update from you, so I told her you’d call her back?”
“Bollocks. I literally have nothing new to tell her. Nothing that will help her, anyway.”
“Well, at least you’ve tried. That’s more than any other copper has done for her. Or Robbie Reynolds for that matter. You’ve spoken to the therapist and can’t speak to the social worker for obvious reasons.”
“That’s not everybody, though, is it? There’s still the police officer involved in the strategy meeting. But King was very shady about telling me their name.” Rachel paused as she ran her pass over the pad operating the police station car park gate. It opened, allowing her to drive through and find her usual parking space. “Anyway, I’m here now. I’ll be up in a minute; get the kettle on.”
“Yes, boss.”
Before she left her car, Rachel dialled Katie’s number. “Hi, Katie. It’s Detective Inspector Morrison. How are you?”
Katie’s voice sounded loudly down the car phone speaker. “I’m OK. Thank you for calling me back. I was wondering if you had any updates on my case?”
Rachel blew out her cheeks. “I’m sorry, no. I’ve spoken to everyone involved, but—”
“What about Bill?” Katie asked. Her tone was razor sharp.
“Bill?”
“Bill Thompson. My dad’s best friend. He was there that day. He saw what happened. I went to see him recently and he shut the door in my face as soon as he realised who I was. I’m sure he knows more than he’s letting on. He could be a key witness.”
Rachel stifled a swear word and flicked back through her notebook. The name stared back at her, underlined several times with a question mark at the end. How could I have forgotten to go and see him? she thought, shaking her head.
“OK, give me his address. I’ll go and pay him a visit.”
She jotted down Thompson’s address and ended the call with a promise to get back to Katie as soon as she had visited him. She got out of her car and headed up to her office, passing Chloe who was now back at her desk.
“Sharp, can you get me the phone number of a Bill Thompson at 35 Hancock Street, Allerton?”
“Sure. Just give me a sec.” Chloe tapped the address into the computer and read out the number to Rachel who typed it into her mobile phone, then rang it. After three rings the answer machine kicked in. Rachel waited for the beep, then left her message.
“Hello, this is a message for a Mr. Bill Thompson. It’s Detective Inspector Rachel Morrison calling. If you can, call me back on this number, please, or ring Merseyside Police and ask for extension 3140. Thanks.” As she pressed the end call button, Jenkins appeared behind her.
“My office. Now,” he said, politely but firmly. Leaving Chloe to get on with her work, she followed the simmering superintendent into his office. When she had closed the door behind her, she turned to see Jenkins’ steely-blue glare trained on her.
“Sir?”
“Would you like to enlighten me as to why I’ve had not one, but two complaints from professional, upstanding members of our community this afternoon?”
Rachel looked blank faced, which only enraged her boss more.
“They both said they found your tone accusatory when you spoke to them, and your questions quite invasive. Care to explain?” He stood behind his desk with his hands rooted firmly on his hips, his glare not softening.
“Complaints from who?” She felt her mobile phone vibrate in her pocket.
“Martin King,” Jenkins said, almost shouting. “And that vicar, Carlisle, from St Mary’s in Allerton. They didn’t appreciate their professional conduct being questioned, and quite frankly, Morrison, I can’t blame them.”
Rachel bristled and bit her lip to stop her from riposting and regretting it. She chose her words carefully. “To be honest, sir, I was concerned by the answers they gave to my legitimate questions. They seemed a little vague, so I pressed them further. Nothing more than any detective would do. Sir.”
Jenkins studied her. Her reply was just on the right side of polite, but it irritated him nonetheless. He pressed his lips together and thought for a moment before continuing his tirade. “Do you remember what the ACC said? This Spencer case is to be wrapped up quickly and in your own time. Your preoccupation with this case has taken your focus away from the ones we’re paying you good money to clear up. Chapman was in here before with her report of the ones she and Bradley have ticked off.” He widened his eyes and sneered. “It comes to something when DCs are carrying a DI.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be wrapping the Spencer case up very soon anyway, so…”
“No, you’ll wrap it up now, DI Morrison.” Jenkins’ outburst made Rachel recoil. “And get back to what we brought you up here to do. Not opening up old wounds in this city. I’m getting enough shit on social media as it is without having to field even more complaints about the way things are done around here. We’ve got a reputation to rebuild in this nick. Don’t you remember what ACC Clifford told you in our first meeting together? Now, you listen to me and listen good. That case is marked ‘closed’, so leave it be. We have enough unsolved cases to sort out without reopening closed ones.” He nodded his head towards the door as a dismissal. Rachel walked back to her office feeling sore from the strip that had been torn off her.
“That sounded heavy,” Chloe said, meeting her at her office door.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Rachel replied, stepping inside.
“Your desk phone rang while you were in with Jenkins. Hope it was OK to answer?”
Rachel nodded. “Was it Bill Thompson?”<
br />
“Yes. Wanted to know what you wanted. A pleasant chap,” Chloe added, curling her lip. She wandered back over to her desk and sat down, still watching Rachel from afar.
“Thanks.” Rachel fished in her pocket for her mobile and saw a missed call from Thompson’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Yeah?” a gravelly voice greeted her
“Mr. Thompson?” Rachel asked brightly. “Bill Thompson?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Detective Inspector Rachel Morrison. I left you a voicemail earlier. I got your message to call you back.”
“Did you find it, then?”
Rachel’s ears pricked up. “Find what?”
“My motorbike. I reported it stolen and was told a police officer would call me back. That was a week ago. Took your time.” Thompson’s tone was gruff.
“No, Mr. Thompson. No. I don’t work in that department. I was calling you hoping you might be able to help me with a case I’m investigating. An old case from about twenty years ago?”
There was a heavy pause on the line. “What case?”
“The Spencer case from 2000. You were cited as a key witness. I’d just like to know what you saw that day. Could I possibly come and speak to you about it, please?”
“Why are you raking all of that up again? It’s been and gone.” Thompson’s voice quivered. “I spoke to the police at the time.”
“I know. But some new evidence has come up since then. Can you remember if there was anyone else there at the cabin shed the day Mollie Spencer died? Other than yourself, Katie, and her father?”
“No, there wasn’t,” Thompson sneered. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
“Yes, of course. I’ll let you get on. But if you’re free tomorrow, I’ll come over and just go over a few of the finer points. Say around 3 p.m.?”
