Sam explained the situation, half expecting the guy to cut him dead with a negative response. But the man seemed genuinely excited at being able to help.
‘Take a seat,’ he directed, gesturing to two threadbare chairs, as he pressed various buttons on the hi-tech unit that was flanked on all sides by television monitors. Sam and Louisa watched live images from the front entrance, the accident and emergency unit, and the grounds at the rear. It showed the bench where he had received the text message directing him to the London Eye. Sam hadn’t known there was a camera there, and he wondered whether the man had been watching him in his moment of weakness. He glanced across at Louisa and smiled hopefully.
‘We’ve just had these new digital cameras fitted,’ the guard explained. ‘They’re great little things, you know. Used to have to search through video-tapes, but now we can jump to the exact time we want.’
Sam nodded as the guard looked at him, impatient to find out whether the images would reveal anything.
‘Unfortunately, we don’t have cameras up on the floor you’re interested in.’
Louisa’s forehead creased. ‘But I’ve seen it. Right opposite the lifts.’
‘Dummy box,’ the guard replied. We’ll be rolling out more working units in the coming months. But we can look at the main entrance.’
Sam nodded, as Louisa pursed her lips. It was disappointing that they had been denied their simple solution.
‘What timeframe would you like to watch?’
Sam looked over at Louisa. ‘I went to my locker just before my last consultation,’ she said. ‘That was about three o’clock.’
‘And you noticed the phone was missing at…’
‘I got the call from her mobile just after three thirty,’ Sam confirmed.
‘So a window of thirty minutes or so, from three till three thirty,’ he said to himself, as he pressed buttons again. ‘Not to say that the person wasn’t already in the hospital before that time, but it’s a good place to start.’
They focussed on a larger TV screen, scrutinising the images of the main entrance. This was the only entrance into the hospital for visitors and the vast majority of staff. The image quality was excellent, giving a clear, side-on picture of each and every person as they entered and left the building. At three twenty, Sam saw himself walk past the camera, heading outside. Louisa spotted his pained expression, throwing a concerned glance in Sam’s direction, before returning to the screen so as not to miss anything or anyone. Sam remained fixed on the screen.
And then, just two minutes after Sam had himself appeared, Louisa spoke. ‘There,’ she said, pointing. ‘Stop it there.’ The images continued. ‘Can you rewind it and pause?’
‘Certainly,’ the man said, scrolling back ten seconds. He kept his hand at the console, over the pause button. ‘Say when.’
‘There,’ she said again. This time the screen froze instantaneously, locking the image of a man in its centre as he entered the hospital.
Sam examined the image. It was Richard Friedman – Louisa’s patient; the man who had approached them in the cafe earlier that day. He was still wearing the fluorescent yellow coat. That matched with the approximate time the phone went missing, but what about later when he’d been called to the Eye? ‘What about just before three thirty.’
The guard nodded, and whizzed forward through the minutes, before letting the tape play on in real time.
‘There he is again,’ Louisa said.
Again the image was locked into place. Richard Friedman was leaving the building just a few minutes before Sam received the call. And he was holding a something in his left hand. It could certainly have been a mobile phone.
Sam turned to Louisa. ‘Is there any other reason that could explain why he was here at that time?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she replied.
‘The phone could be his,’ Sam suggested.
‘No,’ Louisa corrected. ‘He doesn’t have a mobile.’
‘This place always helps me to relax,’ Louisa said, as they entered the vast atrium of the Tate Modern art gallery.
Sam looked around at the current exhibition – a towering series of sculptures that were a twisted, warped representation of the London skyline. Unlike Louisa and Anna, he’d never been that keen on art, but this was pretty impressive, even if he could only guess at the meaning.
‘I want to show you something,’ Louisa explained. ‘Up on the next floor.’
Sam nodded as they made their way up the stairs, emerging into an exhibition entitled “Healing Minds”.
‘They commissioned people across London with a mental illness to create artistic representations that explained their experiences and state of mind,’ Louisa explained. ‘Art therapy. Our hospital was one of the places that took part.’
They stood in front of a disturbing black and white sketch drawing – an image of a screaming face, flanked by what looked like bolds of lightening crossed with daggers.
‘Unnerving, isn’t it?’ Louisa said. Sam nodded.
Sam looked at it some more. There were what looked like tombstones mixed in with overgrown grass, and a pair of animal-like eyes. Then he moved to the information panel next to the canvas.
Richard Friedman - 2010
Louisa watched Sam’s reaction. ‘Richard said he used to draw and paint a lot when his wife was alive – mostly landscapes – but this was the first time he’d produced anything since she died.’
‘When was that?’
‘Eight years ago. She was killed in a road accident – knocked down on a zebra crossing by an uninsured, speeding driver.’
Sam shook his head as he was drawn in to the tortured face. Now he knew the author, he did recognise the features. It was a self-portrait of sorts. ‘He doesn’t look like an artist.’
Louisa smiled. ‘Why, because he hasn’t got a goatee beard and flowing hair?’
‘Point taken,’ Sam said. ‘Have you spoken to him about this?’
‘The sketch? No.’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘Just over eight months.’
‘He’s depressed?’
‘Depressed, lonely, angry. He’s been to see people in the past, for counselling, but he was getting worse again, threatening to kill himself, so he was referred to me.’
‘Do you think he’s capable of doing what we suspect he’s doing?’
Louisa shrugged. ‘If you’d asked me that a couple of weeks ago, I’d have said no way, definitely not.’
‘But now?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s changed?’
‘I’ve always been wary of his neediness – like I said, the man’s lonely. But it’s been getting more sinister.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Turning up outside my flat.’
‘What? But, how did he know...’
‘I have no idea,’ Louisa interrupted. ‘I never reveal any personal information to patients.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told him to leave. And he did. But he came back the next night, and then again a week later.’
‘My God, Louisa, you should have told me,’ he said, his protective instinct for her kicking in. ‘I thought something was going on, that you were acting a bit strange recently.’
‘I’m a big girl, Sam, I can handle things. I don’t need to tell you everything.’
Sam thought of the note that he had found in her locker. ‘But you should have told me, or the hospital or police.’
‘He always just left when I asked him too,’ she explained. ‘I thought he was harmless.’
‘But he’s not.’
‘Probably not,’ Louisa corrected. ‘But what I don’t really get, it why he’d be targeting you. What would he have against you?’
‘I haven’t got a clue,’ Sam said, still perturbed that Louisa had kept this serious situation to herself. What if this guy had done something to her?
‘It just makes me wonder whether it is hi
m.’
‘Okay,’ Sam conceded, ‘he might not be responsible. But you’ve got to let the police investigate. When was the last time he came to your flat?’
‘Last night.’
Sam shook his head. This was crazy. ‘Louisa, tell the police, please,’ he said, trying to hide his anger.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’m just worried that it might make things worse.’
‘The women that you counsel, whose husbands are beating them up, they say the same thing, don’t they?’
Sam sensed Louisa’s reluctance to answer, knowing where this was going. ‘Yes.’
‘And you tell them to go to the police.’
‘I do.’
‘Then you’ve got to follow your own advice, before things escalate,’ he said, more an order than a request. ‘The guy knows where you live, he’s been to your home after you told him not to, he more than likely broke into your locker and stole your phone, and we think he then made me think you were in danger. This has got to end, now.’
He watched them from a distance as they left the hospital grounds and walked side-by-side along the banks of the river. Using the crowds as cover, he followed them as they entered the Tate Modern, pausing outside for a second as he surveyed the group of youths on skateboards just off to his right. Entering the building, he ignored the sculptures and instead honed in on the couple as they climbed the staircase. He waited until they had disappeared from view before following.
It was risky, but he would be careful.
He spotted them stood by the painting, deep in conversation with their backs to him. He moved behind them in a wide arc, longing to interrupt the conversation with his stunning revelation.
But now wasn’t the time, so he just watched and waited.
11
Sam got home just after seven, mentally drained from the stress of the day. It was good to be back, and even though the place felt strange without Anna, all around there were comforting reminders of his wife. The apartment was filled with gifts from various parts of the world that Anna had worked – often the locals whom she helped would present her with something as a token of their thanks. Anna treasured and displayed each and every present, saying that to do otherwise would cause great offence, as if the gift-givers may find out if she had instead hidden the things away in a box. Sam walked around the flat, examining the items one by one, connecting to Anna through them. There was the traditional Indian jewellery box on the fireplace, encrusted with pink shells, the tribal African mask hung on the kitchen wall, given to her by an Elder in a remote village in Ethiopia, and the Peruvian throw in the bedroom that had been hand woven for her by the daughter of a local leader high up in the Andes. Finally there was the portrait of Anna, sketched in charcoal by a talented young school boy in Gambia, which was hung in the hallway. It captured her beauty and strength better than a photograph ever could.
Sam returned to the kitchen, and cooked his signature meal of tuna pasta, Anna’s favourite, before turning his thoughts back to Louisa. He’d gone with her straight from Tate Modern to the police to report the theft of the phone and Richard’s behaviour. Defying their expectations, the officer on duty had seemed concerned, promising to get back to them as soon as possible. He’d invited Louisa to stay at his, but she’d declined, saying that she’d arranged to go out for a drink with a few girls from work. He didn’t want to push her, but he had insisted on accompanying her back to her flat, less than a mile away on the other side of Islington.
He was worried about her.
Sam had just finished the meal when the call that he had been longing for came. Anna sounded full of energy, even though it was midnight local time. The flight had run to schedule, and she’d just arrived at the relief centre in the Delta Region of Bangladesh. From there, she would help to kick start the efforts to ensure that the displaced population received clean, secure water supplies. Sam could almost feel the adrenaline coursing down the phone line. This was the situation Anna thrived in, and he wondered how she might adapt to life as a mother, which would have its own but very different adrenaline rushes.
Saying goodbye to his wife, Sam felt an urge to escape the flat. He needed to clear his head for the next day, and was already behind in his training schedule. As part of a team at the hospital planning to run next year’s London Marathon for charity, he had a detailed training schedule that had been designed by Doug, who was also taking part. Doug was a lifelong road runner, and the schedule was punishing.
Changing into his jogging bottoms, and slipping on a t-shirt, he set off at a pace, heading west towards Regent’s Park. Out on the streets, dodging commuters, tourists and assorted vehicles, he felt his head clear. He pressed on, enjoying the mild breeze against his face, as he reached the outskirts of the darkening park. The shoulder ached a little, but apart from that he felt better than he had done in a long time. The park was quiet, populated only by a few dog walkers and fellow joggers. Deciding to head for Primrose Hill, he picked up speed, feeling the burn in his legs as the gradient increased. By the time he reached the top, his breath was shallow and his pulse racing. But this was good. He looked out across the city – his favourite view in London – enjoying the world famous vista. Off to the right the BT Tower thrust skyward, while to the west the dome of St. Paul’s battled for prominence among the modern financial office structures. He stood there for a while, his mind once again returning to the various issues at hand. There really was no running away from them.
Sam had just set off back down the hill when Louisa called.
‘It wasn’t him,’ she said simply.
Sam stopped against the side of a tree, just off the main path, catching his breath. ‘What?’
‘Richard Friedman. It wasn’t him. The police have just called.’
The police had indeed acted swiftly. ‘They’ve already spoken to him?’
‘They went straight round to his house.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He admitted being at the hospital. But he said he was visiting a friend who’s an inpatient over on Geller Ward.’
‘He’s got to be lying,’ Sam said, resting against the tree.
‘They checked it out. A patient confirmed that he’s a friend of Richard’s, and that he came to see him today around that time.’
Sam wasn’t convinced. ‘He could also have stolen the phone while he was there.’
‘The police don’t have any evidence.’
‘Do you really think it was just a co-incidence that he was in the hospital at the same time your phone was stolen?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion; picked the obvious suspect.’
‘But if it wasn’t him, who was it?’
‘No idea. I’ve been racking my brain, but I just don’t know. How about you? Any suspicions?’
‘Someone who holds a grudge against me?’
‘The police said the person might be connected to you, not me.’
Sam thought on that. There was one obvious candidate who was impossible to ignore. ‘Someone who’s recently been release from jail, do you mean?’
‘I don’t think it would be Marcus,’ Louisa replied.
Sam had assumed that was who Louisa had been alluding to, so he was surprised by her strength of conviction that it wouldn’t be him. ‘It would explain the references to Cathy.’
‘You would have recognised his voice.’
He thought back to the man’s voice. Louisa was right. It hadn’t been Marcus Johnson. It was fifteen years since he’d last spoken to his one-time best friend, but he knew that voice hadn’t been his.
‘I still think it could be Richard Friedman,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’s done some digging about your past and made the connection with me and Cathy.’
‘I just don’t know, Sam. Part of me wants it to be him. At least we’d know who we’re dealing with.’
Sam pulled each heel back towards his bottom, stretching his tightening tendons. If he didn’t get moving again so
on, he’d suffer tomorrow. ‘So what else did the police say?’
‘They told me to keep records of everything – any phone calls, other communication, if anything else goes missing. They’ve also warned Richard not to come to my flat anymore.’
‘At least that’s something.’
‘You should keep records too. And keep an eye out for anyone following you.’
‘Sure,’ Sam said, instinctively scanning the nearby vicinity for people. A girl and her dog were some way off up the path. A middle-aged man was jogging off to the left. A young couple were walking hand in hand nearby, leaning playfully into each other.
‘And you’ve spoken to the hospital about allocating him to someone else?’
‘Already done,’ she said. ‘Karl is taking him on. I feel bad, but I know it’s the right thing.’
‘Definitely. And don’t feel bad. You’ve done your best with him, Lou, but you shouldn’t see him again, for both your sakes.’
‘I know. Look, I’ve got to go now,’ Louisa said, as Sam was still watching the people. ‘The girls will be waiting. But call me if anything happens.’
‘Louisa,’ Sam said.
‘Yes?’
‘Please be careful. And if Richard Friedman comes anywhere near you, call the police straight away.’
Shirley Ainsley stared at the fading photographs of her daughter. She was three years old, laughing as she played on the beach with a bucket and spade. It had been a wonderful holiday. Shirley looked over to the corner of the room where Charlotte and her brother Simon were sleeping. Charlotte was the exact likeness of her mother at the same age. It upset Shirley even to look at them, because it reminded her of what she had lost and what the children would never know. Baby Jessica was asleep in the cot upstairs. Thank God they were too young to understand what had happened.
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