by J. S. Monroe
“Philip Glass.” We stare at each other for a second. “An American composer.”
“You haven’t forgotten everything then.”
“It seems not.” I stand up from the stool. “I need to get some rest. If anyone asks where I am, I’m not here.”
“Of course,” he says, still staring at me. “I have not seen you.”
I close the door behind him and slump down onto the hard bed.
CHAPTER 38
Detective Inspector Silas Hart walks over to the window and looks out across Gablecross car park. It doesn’t get much worse than Swindon in the rain. To be fair, Gablecross is not really in Swindon. A modern, three-story police station, it’s out on the eastern fringes—a problem for uniform colleagues who complain that it’s too far from the “action” of the town center. Silas has other issues with the £22 million station. Like he doesn’t have his own office anymore. Instead he has to hot desk in the open-plan squad room, the station’s main operational hub, moving around the cluster of workstations with his laptop. “Work is something you do, not a place you go to,” according to the latest HR missive. Not in Silas’s book.
Jemma Huish shouldn’t be occupying his time, particularly after his waste of a journey yesterday to see Susie Patterson, but he can’t get Huish out of his head, even though he’s double-checked that the friend she killed all those years ago wasn’t called Fleur. That would have been too easy.
Detective Constable Strover’s not letting it go either, not since her brief interview with Jemma. Something troubled her about the woman, and she’s been pursuing every lead as if her job depends on it. She even went back down to the village early this morning in a patrol car. He’s asked her to track down anyone who used to care for Jemma Huish. They can then get them to make a positive ID. The only problem is that mental health services seem to have an even higher turnover of staff than Auxiliary Officers. Everyone has either left or moved on.
Silas sits back down at his laptop and calls up the file on Jemma Huish. He and Strover have managed to piece together her medical care history since the vicious knife assault on her friend, calling in old favors to bypass data confidentiality. (Susie is still being less than cooperative.) In addition to dissociative amnesia and paranoid schizophrenia, she was considered to have been suffering from violence ideation and command hallucinations in the months and weeks before the attack, confining herself to her hall-of-residence room and ringing friends, including the one she killed, as well as the police. She spoke to them all about hearing voices—usually in trees—and regularly warned of approaching danger.
Five years ago, after being transferred to a low-secure hospital in London, she was deemed fit for conditional discharge, and was allowed to live in twenty-four-hour supported housing in Southwark. Two years later, following a gradual decrease in her antipsychotic medication, a tribunal granted her an absolute discharge from sections 37 and 41 of the Mental Health Act, citing the patient’s “deep understanding of her own condition,” which included occasional bouts of prolonged amnesia.
She was transferred to a nearby “move on” halfway house with “floating support”—so floating, in fact, that it comprised little more than monthly outpatient appointments with a consultant psychiatrist and occasional home visits from her care coordinator. Within another year she was no longer receiving any care or medication at all, and had moved away from London, possibly abroad.
Silas sits back. An example of textbook rehabilitation or is Jemma Huish a convicted killer on the loose, about to strike again? He looks up from his laptop. Strover has entered the far end of the squad room, where uniforms sit. He waves a hand and beckons her over to his corner, occupied by CID. Tribes will be tribes, even in the age of hot desking.
“I’ve just spoken to one of her carers,” she says, an encouraging urgency in her voice.
“Sit down, sit down,” Silas says, watching her open up her laptop. All officers are now issued with 4G-enabled laptops and iPhones so that they can work anywhere, anytime. Work is not a place you go to... They need a breakthrough, if only to justify the hours he’s already spent on a case that he shouldn’t be investigating.
“She cared for Huish when she was moved to supporting housing,” Strover says, flicking back through her notebook.
“Quite recent then. Could she identity her?”
“She reckons so,” Strover says, her voice marginally less confident. She is impressively inscrutable—a good quality in a detective—but Silas is starting to read her better.
“What’s the catch?” he asks.
“She’s on holiday. Dubai. For another week.”
“Of course she bloody is.” Silas sits back, dropping his pen down on the desk. He glances at his emails. Still nothing from Border Force. He was hoping to have a file of scanned passports by now, every passenger who flew in to Heathrow Terminal 5 from Berlin on the day Jemma arrived.
“And she’s no longer working in mental health care,” Strover adds, glancing at her notepad again.
“It’s a miracle anyone’s left.” Silas thinks of Conor, his son, and pushes the thought away. He can’t blame social services.
“She did say something else, though,” Strover continues.
“Give me some good news.”
“Apparently, Huish experienced ‘difficult feelings’ around anniversaries, particularly her mother’s death. They had to dial up her meds in the weeks before and after—every year.”
“What sort of difficult feelings?” Silas doesn’t like where this is heading.
“Heightened violence ideation, bouts of amnesia. She also spoke of wanting to be with her mother. According to this carer, Huish should never have been granted an absolute discharge.”
“When did her mother die?” Silas asks, fearing the answer already.
“Eleven years ago next week.”
“Shit.” Silas sits up. “Was the carer surprised when you told her no one knows where Huish is?”
“Shocked—worried what Huish might do if no one’s overseeing her medication. Apparently, she has various mental strategies for coping—mindfulness, meditation—but they aren’t enough around anniversaries.”
“No surprises there.” Silas tried mindfulness once, on the advice of HR, which was worried he was overtired from too much work. It wasn’t a success—he kept falling asleep. “Did her mother always live in the village?”
Strover nods. “When I talked to Jemma yesterday, she told me she’d just seen a gravestone for Huish’s mum.”
“As close as she can get to her.”
Silas remembers the graveyard in the village, watching Jemma and Susie from the lych-gate. He calls Susie up on her mobile.
“We’ve tracked down one of Jemma Huish’s carers,” he says.
“And?” Susie asks defensively.
“We need to talk to Jemma again—urgently.”
“She’s still very fragile.”
“That’s why we need to see her.” He glances at his watch. “We’ll be rolling into the village in thirty minutes. No blues and twos. Just a nice quiet chat.”
CHAPTER 39
My heart refuses to stop racing as I lie on the bed. I can’t get over the looks I received in the surgery, the anger in everyone’s eyes. They must have decided that I am Jemma Huish. It could become a major problem. None of this would have happened if I’d been given any other name by Tony. Why did I agree to Jemma? With a J? And why did he choose it?
Should I talk to him now? He said he’d be in his café all day. Abdul’s gone—I heard him leave with his brother a few minutes ago—and I need to debrief with someone about the crowd in the surgery.
I open my door and walk down the corridor. As I pass Abdul’s room, someone comes rushing up the stairs.
“I came straight over,” Tony says, catching his breath on the landing.
“What’s happene
d? I was about to come over to the café.”
“Dr. Patterson just called. She’s looking for you. The cops want to interview you again.”
I let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know why. I can’t tell them any more than what I said yesterday.”
“You need a lawyer, Jemma. Don’t you see what’s happening here? They’re going to frame you. Jemma Huish’s disappeared, dropped off the grid—that’s embarrassing for everyone, the cops, the NHS. You’re their only lead.”
“They’ll ask me for a DNA sample again. I can’t do it.”
A simple medical swab from the inside of your mouth.
“And you don’t have to. Not unless they arrest you.”
“It will only make things worse if I keep refusing.”
“DNA testing is far from foolproof. And once you’re on that database, you’ll never get off it, no matter what they say. Your details could be used later for negative profiling.”
“What should I do?” I want him to take control of the situation.
“Head over to my house now.” He glances at his watch. It’s almost 9:30 a.m. “Walk back via the station. Linger there briefly. There’s a westbound train due to leave any minute. The key’s still under the flowerpot at the back of the house. I’ll bring your bag. Your room’s at the top of the stairs, on the right. It’s where you slept on the first night, when you arrived.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. I need to know what’s happening in his head, his motive, exactly why he’s going the distance.
“Because I don’t want to see you caught up in something you might not be able to get out of. They’ve no right talking to you like this. And no evidence against you. I’ve seen it before. A friendly chat without an attorney and bang, next thing you’re being charged.”
“Upstairs in your house, you said running away never helps.”
“You’re not running away. You’re still a free citizen—you can go wherever you goddamn like. They haven’t charged you. You appeared from nowhere and now you’re disappearing again. End of story. It’ll just be for a few days, until they find the real Jemma Huish. And once they’ve found her, all this will blow over, and we can get back to focusing on that precious memory of yours.”
I glance around the room. “Give me a minute to pack my case,” I say.
“Leave it by the door when you’re done. I need to get back to the café.”
Once Tony’s left, I move fast. I pack my clothes and make the bed—I’m not sure why. I look around the room, at the piano, the washbasin in the corner, and remember my toothbrush and toothpaste. My hairbrush is also on a shelf above the sink. I gather them all up and put them in the case, but then I take out the hairbrush and stare at myself in the mirror.
I can’t remember my own name.
I brush my hair hard, still looking at my reflection, and walk over to the bed, the hairbrush held in one hand. I kneel down and place it carefully on the floorboards under the bed, out of sight but easy enough to find.
CHAPTER 40
Silas parks up outside the church and walks into the deserted graveyard with Strover. He wants to see the gravestone himself before calling on Susie Patterson. It doesn’t take long to find it. Moss is marching across the stone, but the italic lettering is clear enough to read.
“No flowers,” Strover says.
Silas glances around him, across the water meadow and up to the woods. Again he wonders if someone is out there, watching, waiting.
“Still plenty of time,” he says, noting the date.
A distant boom rumbles across the countryside, shaking the summer air. For a moment he thinks it might be thunder before remembering the village is close to Salisbury Plain. The army must be out on the ranges today.
And then Strover is on her knees, scrabbling around in the long grass at the base of the gravestone. She holds up a small piece of cellophane-covered card.
“Can you read it?” Silas asks.
“It’s rotten,” she says. “Maybe ‘Mum’? Hard to tell. Definitely some kisses.”
Silas calls Susie Patterson on her mobile as they walk over to the car. There is no evidence yet to suggest that the woman who has arrived in this village is Jemma Huish, but the amnesia, her physical likeness, the way she apparently held a kitchen knife... They have all taken on a new significance since her old carer told them about the danger around her mother’s anniversary. Jemma now needs to give a DNA sample in order to eliminate herself from their inquiries. The National DNA Database has confirmed they have Huish’s profile and the lab is ready to fast-track for a match.
“Susie, it’s me, Silas,” he says, looking down the road toward the surgery. “We’re ready to talk to your mystery woman.”
There’s silence before Susie answers. A bad silence.
“Jemma’s not with us right now,” she says.
“Not with you?” Silas is unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. He’d told her he was coming to talk with Jemma. He knows there’s another reason for his anger too. She’s pushed him back, rejected his unsubtle advances.
“She was with us five minutes ago,” Susie says.
“That’s the second time she’s disappeared,” he says for Strover’s benefit, rolling his eyes at her.
“We’re looking for her everywhere.” Susie sounds out of breath.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
“In the village—School Road.”
“I’ll meet you at the surgery.”
He tells Strover to head off into the village to help look for Jemma. Silas would normally walk to the surgery—he likes to go on foot as much as he can these days, ten thousand steps a day, all part of his midlife health crisis—but he takes the car the short distance. He has a feeling he might need it.
CHAPTER 41
I check both ways, satisfied that no one is around, and walk onto the deserted station platform. A minute later, a westbound train pulls in. Nobody gets off. Everyone must be going on toward Exeter and beyond. I stand back as the doors close and the train pulls away, its driver glancing down the platform at me from his window. Once the train has gone, I swing around the back of the village to approach Tony’s house from the far side.
The village feels quiet. The school run must be over, commuters gone for the day, leaving those who remain to settle into the rhythm of their rural lives. Tony will bring my suitcase in a few minutes. I walk up through a grid of bungalows behind the station and enter the back garden through a wooden gate. The key is under the flowerpot, just as he said it would be. Again I look around before I put the key in the door and step inside.
A faint smell of a citrus in the house and the rumble of a washing machine. I walk into the kitchen and glance around. The knife block is back on the sideboard, a full set of knives sticking out. I don’t want to linger. The wooden-slatted blinds are open, and I can be seen from the street. I head upstairs and glance out of the back window of my room, from where I can see the station in the distance. I’m about to sit down on the bed when the front doorbell rings. Hasn’t Tony got a key?
The bell rings again. I walk out to the landing. Pressing my face against the window, I can just see down into the street below. It’s Dr. Patterson. I hate to deceive her. I want to talk, tell her what I’m doing, but I know I can’t. I watch in silence as she walks off down the street. Halfway toward the pub, she stops and chats to a person coming the other way. Dr. Patterson points back down the street, looking around her. I can’t hear any conversation, but I assume she’s asking if she’s seen me.
A noise downstairs, the back door being opened. I hope it’s Tony. I stand at the top of the stairs and wait for him to call out, listening as he moves about the kitchen. I think I can hear my suitcase being wheeled in—the giveaway broken wheel.
“Jemma?” he calls softly from the sitting room.
“I’m up here,” I say.
“I’ve just seen the cops arrive,” he says, coming up the stairs with my suitcase. “Unmarked car, but the big guy who got out might as well have had a blue light on his head. Outside the surgery.”
“I think I should just go and talk to them.”
“Trust me on this, Jemma,” he says, lifting my suitcase onto the bed. “You need to stay low for a while, until they find the real Jemma Huish.”
“Dr. Patterson rang the bell a few minutes ago,” I say, remaining on the landing. I don’t want to be in my bedroom alone with him.
“Here?”
“I’m sure she was looking for me. I didn’t answer.”
“You certain no one saw you coming over?” he asks, walking over to the landing window. He glances up and down the street.
“Positive.”
Tony turns to look at me and then up at a panel in the ceiling.
“You’re going to have to stay up in the attic.”
“The loft?” I look up at the ceiling too. The hatch is tiny, and for a second I wonder if a human can get through it.
“With your suitcase.”
“Are you serious?” Discreetly, I reach for my tattoo.
“Just for a few hours.
“We can make it more comfortable,” he continues, lifting the suitcase back off my bed. “Put some bedding up there, food and water. Anything’s better than where you were staying.”
“I’m not sure I want to do this, Tony,” I say, pressing my fingers deeper into my wrist. I can feel my pulse, Fleur’s beating heart inside me, strong and steady.
Tony holds me by both shoulders, looking into my face. “I’ll catch up with Dr. Patterson, tell her I saw you heading toward the station, try to throw them off the scent, but they’ll look everywhere for you.” And then he kisses me on the lips. “Trust me, you really don’t want them to find you.”
CHAPTER 42
“I’m so sorry about this,” Susie Patterson says, as Silas walks into her consulting room for the second day in a row. This is what it must feel like to be a hypochondriac.
