by Colin Wade
The table at the end of his room was a mess, full of photos of the five girls. He had a large whiteboard that was serving no purpose. He mused to himself. He had seen all the crime series on TV. When there was a killing, they made a murder board.
OK, time to get serious. This is murder times four. I am sure of it.
He started to write on the board and put up pictures of the girls, linked to the Loughborough Clinic, which he had written in bold in the middle. He added the names of the two conspirators, Dr Normandy and George Walker and linked them to the clinic. He detailed the financial transactions under their names.
He wrote the key points under the pictures of the girls:
‘All only children and no one looking out for these girls – targeted deliberately?’
‘Why were they murdered? Car Accidents – black 4x4’
‘What is the money for?’
He gazed at it. It was good. Quite professional. There was something missing though. That name. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. The third conspirator? He wrote his name on the board… James Hardacre.
18
Anya’s phone rang. It was their GP. Anya listened intently and then a smile spread across her face, a rare sight in a traumatic week. Anya thanked the doctor.
“We are both fine. There is no reason why we can’t produce as many babies as we want.”
“Cool,” said Rob, “shall we get on with it then?”
The kitchen table was suddenly an impromptu love prop as they went at it fast and furiously, easing the pain of the last week.
“Phew,” said Rob, “maybe we should get the GP to phone us with good news every morning.”
Anya laughed, adjusted what clothes she had left on.
“Come on handsome, let’s go see this dodgy doctor.”
They had a leisurely breakfast and set off just after 10 a.m., hoping to avoid the worst of the traffic. They got on the M40, which was moving at a reasonable pace, and after about an hour took the turn off the motorway to Leamington Spa. They navigated their way through the pretty town and eventually found the road out towards where the route map said the clinic was located. After fifteen minutes on the A-road, going west out of Leamington Spa, they found the turning into the minor no through road which apparently led to the clinic.
The road was almost two miles long, with no other buildings or habitation on the route. This was properly remote and added to their air of suspicion. In the last half a mile, they realised they were being watched by CCTV cameras which lined the route up to an imposing walled institution that looked more like a prison than a health clinic. There was a huge, unmanned security gate that remained securely shut as they drove up to it. There were a number of parking spaces around the entrance and it was evident that they had to park up and communicate by an intercom system before they could go any further. They were being watched by some unseen bodies who were not going to let them in without a fight. Rob and Anya suddenly realised this might not have been their best idea.
They decided to carry on. They had obviously been seen on the CCTV and might as well front it out. They parked up and walked to the intercom on the gate.
Anya pressed the buzzer and a lady’s voice came back over the intercom: “Hello, can I help you?”
“Hi,” said Anya, “my name is Miss Anya Novak and I was treated at this clinic several years ago for drug addiction. I was treated by Dr French and I really need to speak to him. I have been having recurring dreams about my time at the clinic and need to understand what they mean.”
There was a brief pause and the lady on the intercom said, “Umm, Miss Novak, I am afraid we don’t have anyone here called Dr French and we never have. I have been here for over seven years and no one of that name has been a doctor here in that time.”
Anya looked at Rob with disbelief. “There must be some mistake,” she said to the faceless voice. “I was here for almost two years between 2013 and 2015, treated by Dr French for drug addiction, which he cured me of.”
There was another brief pause and the voice said, “I am sorry Miss Novak, but I can assure you that there is no one called Dr French here and, I am sorry to make this more stressful for you, but I have just checked our patient records and you were not treated at this clinic. Are you sure you have the right place?”
“Of course I have the right place. I might have been out of my head for most of it, but I was coherent for the latter part of my treatment and I know I was at this clinic. The Loughborough Clinic.”
“I don’t know what else to say to you,” the voice replied. “I have no records of you ever being a patient here or the doctor you allege you were treated by.”
“Let me in,” said Anya, “and I will find the man that treated me and prove you wrong.”
“I am sorry, I can’t do that. You were not a patient here and you do not have an appointment. We do not allow people just to turn up like this, whether they have been a patient or not. We need to tightly control the environment for our patients and can’t have strangers just barging in. Please leave or I will call security.”
Anya let out a frustrated scream, which must have burst the eardrums of the person at the other end of the intercom. Rob ferried her away from the button, fearing what she might do next. Rob coaxed her back in the car and drove away as quickly as possible.
Anya was sobbing uncontrollably between bouts of screaming things like, “What the hell is happening?”, “How can they say I wasn’t there?”, “Dr French is real.” Rob drove to the end of the approach road and found somewhere to stop in a vain attempt to listen and calm her down.
“I think this probably confirms what you already expected,” said Rob. “They are obviously lying or covering up the fact you were there. Something definitely dodgy went on in there, but we are not going to find the answers by trying to barge in. We’d better go and rethink what to do next.”
Anya wanted to hurt something at that precise moment but she knew Rob was right and she wasn’t going to take it out on him. “OK,” she said, “take me home.”
*
Janet Wall, the receptionist at the clinic who had spoken to Anya, phoned Dr Normandy.
“Dr Normandy, I have just had a woman come to the gate called Miss Anya Novak, claiming she was treated by a Dr French for drug addiction several years ago. She says she is recovering memories from the time she was here and wants to talk to the doctor about it. I told her that we have never had a Dr French work here and when I checked our patient records we have never treated her. I sent them away threatening to call security and that seemed to work. I thought I should let you know.”
“Thank you, Janet,” said Dr Normandy. “Do you have her on CCTV?”
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll come and have a look at the pictures.”
He arrived in reception within a few minutes and Janet showed him the CCTV.
“I have never seen that woman in my life,” said Dr Normandy. “Well done for getting rid of her. She is clearly deluded about being here.”
The receptionist was pleased with herself. Staff knew not to get on the wrong side of Dr Normandy as her colleague Janice had found out when she opened one of his confidential parcels. She was sacked and escorted off the premises before anyone knew what had happened. He was a creepy bully but he paid well and people learnt to keep their mouths shut and do what he said.
But, there was something about that woman’s face that Janet recognised. The office staff generally did not interact with the patients once they were in treatment but she was sure she had seen Anya Novak at the clinic. She pondered on it for a bit but soon dismissed it, as after all her records would be on the system if she had been there. Wouldn’t they?
19
A week had passed and Clark had not heard from Anya Novak.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, “she can’t have believed my letter.”
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He looked at his new ‘murder board’ and pondered how to handle this. He decided he would have to try again, add some more evidence of what he had found to try and hook her in.
He knew what he was doing was weird but he was convinced this was a serious conspiracy, led by people that didn’t hesitate to kill to protect their secrets.
He started to freehand a new letter. After a few screwed-up versions, which landed in various places around the bin – his basketball career would have to wait – he landed a version he was happy with.
Dear Miss Novak,
I am sorry if my previous letter freaked you out. I am sure my name didn’t help. I bet you thought I was some nutter but my name genuinely is Clark Kent. My parents really didn’t get what they were doing naming me Clark!
I really do believe your life is in danger and I think you can help me in sorting out what I think is a big criminal conspiracy, which you are unwittingly involved in.
I have been searching through the people and events that I have found connected to this conspiracy and I hope by giving you further information you will be convinced that I am not some conspiracy nutter. So, here goes.
Anya, you are one of five girls that were admitted to the Loughborough Clinic in 2013 and 2014, treated by a Dr Normandy. All of you were admitted as drug addicts and you were all at Oxford University in your first or second years, at that time. Two of your friends, Rachel Hermitage and Lisa Benbridge were admitted within a few months of you. Two other girls, Charlotte Kay and Marjit Ahmed were also admitted during this time. I don’t think you knew them but they were together in a separate social group in Oxford. All four of these girls are now dead, all killed in suspicious car accidents. I don’t want to frighten you but I don’t understand why you have not been targeted for an ‘accident’, which is why I am scared for your safety.
I have found a money trail back to Dr Normandy that suggests he was being paid a significant amount of money to treat you and the other girls. I have not yet been able to find out what the money was for. There are two prominent public figures with their grubby hands all over this, linked to the clinic.
Please help me Anya. Write to me at this address and we can agree a time and place to meet that suits you.
Regards
Clark Kent
Flat 13, Windrush Plaza, Reading, RG1 4EP
He popped it in an envelope, indulged in another first-class stamp and nipped down the road to the post box.
“Come on Anya. Help me out,” he muttered under his breath as he dropped the envelope in the post-box hole.
He got back to his flat and logged onto Proton.
KRYPTO:
Snap. You out there?
SNAPDEVIL:
Yo dude, what can I do for ya?
KRYPTO:
That dodgy corp. I hit pay dirt. Totally dodgy. Money, murder and names.
SNAPDEVIL:
OK, I am intrigued. Who?
KRYPTO:
James Hardacre.
SNAPDEVIL:
Holy shit.
KRYPTO:
I know. Can you dig for me? Find out about him and the family.
SNAPDEVIL:
Consider it done.
Clark was relieved at finally sharing it with someone. Snap was the best at mining people’s personal secrets. If there was something about the Hardacres to be found, Clark was sure Snap would find it.
He drank some coffee and ate four Jaffa Cakes. He stared into space. Thinking. Worrying. Waiting.
20
His phone beeped. A text message.
‘Anya Novak needs to be dealt with.’
He smiled to himself. He wondered when the fifth one would be ‘tidied up’. He couldn’t understand why they had waited so long. He put his normal plan into motion.
At 2 a.m. he drove slowly up to the bottom of the close where Anya lived. He was in full black attire to make sure he wasn’t noticed and, thankfully, street lighting at this end of the village was quite sparse. He would be in and out within a minute. He moved quickly and stealthily up the pavement to get a fix on Anya’s car. He had to be sure he was going to ‘hit’ the right one. There were two on the drive. He guessed it was the smaller of the two. Men always had the bigger cars. Something about size and all that.
As he walked away, he jumped as their neighbour’s dog started barking. He hadn’t made a sound. How had he spooked the dog?
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
He hurried away, no point in hanging around to be seen. He was back in the car and off down the road within thirty seconds.
21
Anya woke with a start. For once it wasn’t the bad dreams. The next door’s dog was barking. She got out of bed and peered out of the window.
There was a dark shape moving away from her house. She strained to see more but it was too dark and very quickly the shape was gone. She didn’t know whether to worry about it or not. The visit to the clinic had unnerved her and she was seeing suspicious things around every corner.
“Stop being silly,” she said to herself and got into bed next to her human hot water bottle. She hoped the bad dreams wouldn’t come again, now that Rob knew.
*
It was Saturday morning and Anya had not had any bad dreams the previous night. She had been woken by the dog barking but the demons hadn’t invaded her sleeping hours for the first time in a week.
She was still rattled by recent events, including the horrible visit to the clinic but, as Rob was busy doing some gallery stuff, catching up from yesterday, she had the opportunity to be on her own with most of the day to play with. She hoped it would give her some head space to work out what to do next. She decided to go food shopping, got in her car and set off.
Anya decided to take the B4526 out of the village and take the long way around to get to Waitrose in Pangbourne. It was much prettier and she wasn’t in any rush. As she drove through the lovely countryside, she began to feel better and smiled to herself about how faux-upper class she had become. Shopping at Waitrose, living in a posh Oxfordshire village and running an art gallery. The class thing had always been her parents’ minor obsession.
Her dad did his two-year conscription in the Czech army before becoming a trainee chef in a Michelin-star restaurant in Prague. He was very good and soon moved up the ranks to sous chef, delivering world-class food. He moved to England at twenty-three and worked across a number of Michelin star restaurants in London and Berkshire. He loved the accolades, the famous diners, rubbing shoulders with the right level of people. He felt he had achieved a level of class mobility that allowed him to act like someone in the upper classes. Anya’s mother was just the same. She worked as a window dresser at John Lewis in High Wycombe. She had worked for the firm pretty much all her life, stopping only to have, and bring up, Anya. She always talked about how the shop attracted the right level of people. She was actively involved in village life, the WI, the church fundraising, Neighbourhood Watch. She acted like she belonged at the class level she had created for herself and others seem to accept her and Dad for what they were. Anya loved that they acted posh.
“God, I miss you,” she said, articulating her inner sadness as the memories of her parents shone bright.
Her mood had turned a bit melancholy but a sudden stomach cramp jumped her back to the present and a smile returned to her face.
So, body. What are you doing to me? I’m late, so am I pregnant? Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I bet it was the great shag we had on the table.
She giggled to herself. This was nice. Maybe after all the
nightmares, her life was going to get back on track. She still wanted answers about her past but being pregnant would refocus on the future. She drove on, much happier than she had been for some while.
He had been waiting and saw her drive out of the village. He had clocked the right car. He caught up with Anya’s car quickly. She was up ahead toddling along one of the numerous back roads in these parts. Perfect killing territory. He glanced in his mirrors and up ahead. No cars around. He would have to be quick though. This was broad daylight on a Saturday morning and there was bound to be other cars around any minute.
He put his foot down and sped up right behind Anya. Anya looked in her mirror.
Who is this arsehole tailgating me?
It was a black 4x4. Suddenly the driver made a move to overtake and Anya slowed a bit to let the prat pass, but to her horror, just as he got alongside her he wrenched the wheel to the left and smashed into the side of her car. She lost control immediately. Her car veered off the road and started hurtling down a bank towards a group of trees. She wrestled for control as the car bumped and tipped on the rough surface. There was an impact and then total blackness.
He sped away, pretty sure no other cars had seen the accident. He would get the damage sorted quickly at the normal place. The one that was on Dad’s payroll, who didn’t ask any questions.
