by Sibel Hodge
I frowned at the screen for a moment then searched the internet for a contact number for Lapika. I called them, asked to speak to their human resources department, and then gave them a spiel that I was trying to get a reference for Professor Brian Klein, saying he’d applied to be a research fellow and giving them the name of a fake university.
‘He doesn’t sound familiar to me,’ the cheery woman on the other end of the phone said. ‘When was he employed here?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Ah, okay. Can you just hold for one moment, please?’
I listened to some annoying music until she came back on the line.
‘Yes, I can confirm that Brian Klein was employed here as a neuroscientist from 1989 until 1999.’
‘Can you tell me anything else? What his role entailed? Where he worked afterwards? What his personnel record was like?’
‘I’m afraid not. There’s no mention here that we gave references to any future employers, and our full records don’t go back that far. We destroy them after fifteen years.’
‘Is there anyone else I can talk to who might know more?’
‘Um… possibly. If you’d like to hold for a moment.’
More music. Until I was put through to someone who announced their name as Chad Cooper.
‘You’re asking about a reference for Brian Klein?’ Chad asked.
‘That’s right.’ I went through the spiel again.
‘I’m not going to be much help as we didn’t actually work together. But I believe when he left here, he went back to England for a position.’
‘Can you tell me any specifics about what he did for your company?’
‘Unfortunately not. Even if I could remember, which I can’t, specific projects are confidential. Sorry, I don’t think I can be of more help.’
I ended the call and looked up what a neuroscientist actually did. In a nutshell, they focused on the brain and nervous system, and its impact on behaviour and cognitive functions—how people think and the health issues that affect the brain.
A pain twinged between my shoulder blades. I rubbed at it, my muscles aching from all the sitting around. I stood up, rolled my arms in a circle, and stretched my neck and back, wondering why there was only one mention of Klein on the web, which wasn’t even recent.
I grabbed my phone and called Sutherby. He’d done a check on Curtis, who had no previous criminal record and no known associations to cults or particular suspicious groups. He’d also checked out the Peugeot that Hoodie Guy had been in outside Ajay’s house, and it had come back to a registered owner called Paul Clark at 124 Lower Claydon Street in North London.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘So who is he?’
‘That’s the interesting thing. Satellite mapping has that street name listed, but it only goes up to a hundred and twenty-two. I spoke to the Metropolitan Police, and they confirmed it doesn’t exist. If the address doesn’t exist, then he probably doesn’t, either. There are no Paul Clarks on the voter’s register within a one-mile radius of that street.’
‘That is interesting. So it’s got to be a fake name and address, and the only reason for trying to cover his tracks is because he’s dodgy. He’s got to be involved in whatever’s going on here if he was waiting outside Ajay’s house and visiting the Watling Centre. What about getting Technical Services to do some facial recognition against our databases?’
‘That’s in hand.’
‘Can we get a CCTV and ANPR check done of the area surrounding Ajay’s house to see if he pops up anywhere in that vehicle after he left there?’
‘I’ll look into that for you.’
‘Great. And I’ve found something, too.’ I told Sutherby about the mix-up with the professor’s name and Klein’s scant bio. ‘We need to check out Professor Klein. He’s involved in some kind of memory research here, and there’s a definite link between the Watling Centre and Natalie and Vicky. Possibly Ajay, too. Maybe they were involved in some kind of research programme for the cash incentive, which would explain the money they all had that no one can account for them receiving.’
‘What kind of research are we talking about?’
I told him what I’d discovered in the brochure. ‘A memory study could explain why Vicky, Ajay, and Natalie were all found wandering at certain times in trance-like states with no idea of what they’d been doing or where they’d been. Natalie thought she was being followed, and Hoodie Guy was watching Ajay’s house before the fire. So what if—’
‘If what? Someone was messing around with their heads? A professor has been brainwashing them? Sounds pretty far-fetched.’
‘Yes, it does, but is it any more far-fetched than a cult brainwashing them? And you know as well as I do, sir, that a job title doesn’t exclude you from committing a crime—judges, politicians, world leaders, bankers, teachers, coppers. Anyone’s capable of it. Maybe what’s been happening to these students isn’t intentional. Maybe it’s some kind of side effect of whatever tests or studies Klein’s doing at the Watling Centre. Maybe he’s trying some new method of hypnosis. Sir, I really think I’m on to something. And the more I’ve looked around here, the less possibility there is of some kind of cult or society recruiting and influencing those three students. So what if it’s something else entirely? We could also get the covert technical surveillance unit to hack into Klein’s patient records and see if Ajay, Natalie, and Vicky were in any of his research programmes. And we should look into his phone and financial data.’
He was silent for a while then sighed loudly, as if he didn’t buy it. ‘Let me see what I can dig up on Professor Klein first before we think about those possibilities.’
‘Good, because I haven’t managed to find much at all.’
I heard a phone ringing in the background.
‘That’s my work mobile,’ Sutherby said. ‘The ACC is trying to get hold of me. We’ll speak soon, okay?’ He hung up.
Excitement rippled through me, my gut instinct kicking in big-time. I knew I’d stumbled onto something important. And there was one way I might be able to find out if I was right. I had to sign up for Klein’s research clinic.
Chapter 27
Toni
I slowly opened the door to Marcelina’s bedroom and poked my head out into the corridor. No one was about, although the music from the kitchen was still going strong, and a male voice sang along to Sia’s ‘Fire meets Gasoline’.
I wandered in that direction and stood in the doorway. A guy had his back towards me, stirring something in a pan on the cooker hob.
‘Hi,’ I said loudly over the music.
He jumped and turned around. It was the same mixed-race guy who’d been outside the university gates after Marcelina’s accident.
‘Woah, you freaked me out.’ His surprised look quickly morphed into a grin.
‘Sorry. Great voice, by the way.’ I smiled back.
‘Who? Me or Sia?’
‘Both of you, actually.’
He laughed and turned the radio down before going back to the hob and stirring again. ‘I didn’t think anyone was around.’ He glanced over his shoulder at me, his face turning serious. ‘How are you doing? After yesterday?’
I shrugged. ‘It was horrible.’
‘Yeah. Really messed up. We went to the hospital to see Marcelina a little while ago, even though she didn’t know we were there.’
‘That was nice of you.’
‘They only let us stay for a few minutes because her parents were there.’
Sia had stopped now, and the DJ on the radio played another track.
‘Us?’
‘Me and Precious and Hazel.’
Precious and Hazel had been mentioned a lot in Marcelina’s journal. ‘They’re all friends, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you know Marcelina well, too?’ I stepped closer and leaned against the wall to the side of him.
‘Pretty well, I suppose. We’ve all lived in the same block since we started, so I se
e them quite a bit. We hang out sometimes. We’re just friends, though,’ he added quickly. ‘Want some spaghetti on toast? A student’s dietary staple and must-have carb overload.’ His striking hazel-green eyes lit up with humour.
‘I don’t want to deprive you of your food.’
‘No, that’s cool. I hate eating alone anyway.’
I hesitated a moment then said, ‘Yes. If you’ve got enough.’
He turned the hob down and pulled out four slices of bread from an opened packet on the worktop before tucking them into a toaster.
‘Are you a friend of Marcelina’s?’ he asked as he grabbed butter from the fridge. ‘I haven’t seen you around before.’
‘No, I’m with Student Counselling Services. I’m Toni.’
‘Oh, right. I’m Curtis.’ He stirred the spaghetti again.
So this was the guy Marcelina had also mentioned in her journal. The one she had a major crush on. And I could understand why.
‘She took my advice then and went to see someone.’ The toast popped up. He slid the slices onto two plates and buttered them.
‘What do you mean?’
He glanced up. ‘Oh, sorry, I just assumed she made an appointment with you, and that’s why you’re here.’
‘That’s the thing… she did come to see me, but she kind of left the session early. She was upset and then… well, then you saw what happened afterwards.’
‘Yeah.’ He pulled a stricken face, poured the spaghetti on top of the waiting plates of toast, and put them on the table.
I sat down while he grabbed some knives and forks.
I took a mouthful of food, swallowed, then said, ‘Was there something specific going on with Marcelina then? Something you suggested she talked with a counsellor about?’
He ate, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A hot flame ignited inside as I felt a magnetic pull from his unusual-coloured eyes. I glanced down at my food and concentrated on cutting into another piece of toast.
He rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. ‘Yeah, something weird was going on with her in the last few months.’
‘Like what?’
He pursed his lips together. ‘Don’t know if I should tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘I guess because it’s private. She was obviously going through a hard time.’
I caught his gaze. ‘I just want to help her. She came to see me, so she obviously needed to talk to someone.’
He waited a long moment, then he picked up his cutlery again and took another bite. Afterwards, he said, ‘To be honest, I thought she was depressed or majorly stressed about something.’
‘What gave you that impression?’
‘When she first came here, she was a bit shy, I suppose. But then she made some friends. Me, Precious, and Hazel mostly. Like I said, we hung out sometimes in a group, and she came out of her shell. And then a few months ago, she started acting strangely. She was having nightmares. I came in one night from a gig at the bar in the union. It was the early hours, and I could hear her screaming from her room. Hers is next door to mine.’ He took another bite of food and ate it quickly. ‘She was going mental in there. I thought she was being attacked. A few other people along the corridor came out as I was banging on the door to check if she was okay. Eventually, she opened the door, half asleep, and apologised.’
I swallowed a mouthful of food and said, ‘So there was no one in the room with her?’
‘No. I could see inside.’
‘Did she have nightmares a lot?’
‘Quite a few times recently.’
‘Did anything else happen?’
He spiked his fork into a corner of toast and smeared it around the plate, soaking up the tomato sauce. ‘One time I saw her in here, and she was standing at the window there.’ He tilted his head towards the window that looked out onto the grassy area in front of the union building. ‘She didn’t notice me come in at first. I said hi, and she didn’t even seem to know I was there. She was so focused on what she was looking at. So I went to stand next to her and asked her what was going on. She nearly jumped a mile when she realised I was there. She was crying. Had tears streaming down her cheeks, and she looked scared. She pointed out of the window and asked if I could see a guy out there.’
‘What guy?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s the thing. I don’t know. There were plenty of people out there, but when I asked her who she meant, she said he’d gone. But she thought he was following her.’
I sat back in the chair, frowning. ‘Did she describe him? Or mention who he was?’
‘No. She didn’t say anything else about it. Just rushed out of the room. And the next time I saw her and asked her if she was okay, if anyone was hassling her, she said she was going to get proof. But she wouldn’t tell me anything else about it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oooh, a few weeks back.’
‘And did she ever mention the man again?’
‘Not to me. I tried to ask her about it. I wanted to make sure she was okay. But whenever I brought it up, she just started crying, which was why I thought she was depressed.’
‘She’s lucky you were looking out for her.’
He gave a casual shrug. ‘I’ve got two sisters. I was always taught to look out for them.’ He ate the final morsel and pushed his plate away. ‘I asked Hazel and Precious if they knew what was going on with Marcelina, but she didn’t tell them anything, either. Which is why I suggested she speak to a counsellor. I thought someone might be able to get out of her what she was so upset about.’
I wondered again if she’d been under the influence of something. Maybe she hadn’t taken drugs intentionally. Maybe her food or drink had been spiked. Even though her bloodwork in the hospital had come up clear, a standard test would only check for the most common drugs, and some would exit her system within twenty-four hours. The blackouts she’d told me about could well have been a side effect of a date-rape drug. Was that what she’d meant when she’d mentioned the shadow man to me—a hazy recollection of someone sexually assaulting her while she’d been drugged? Or was she hearing voices and maybe hallucinating someone following her because of an underlying mental health issue?
I glanced at the large fridge in the corner of the room next to an equally large freezer. ‘Do you have individual shelves in the fridge?’
He turned to see where I was looking. ‘Yeah. We have a cupboard each, too.’ He pointed to the kitchen units. ‘They’ve got a lock on them.’
But the fridge didn’t, so someone could’ve got in and tampered with her food or drink inside. ‘Are the shelves labelled for individual people?’
‘Not in this kitchen, but on the other floors, they do. We all just know whose bit of shelf is whose.’ He followed my gaze and looked at the fridge. ‘Why?’
I didn’t want to tell him my fears yet, because if Marcelina’s food or drink was being spiked, then it had to be someone familiar with this particular kitchen to know exactly whose food or drink was on which shelf. Instead, I asked, ‘Do you know if anything traumatic happened to her recently?’
His forehead bunched up in a worried frown. ‘Like what?’
I didn’t want to come right out and ask if she’d been raped or sexually assaulted. If she’d told Curtis, then he would know exactly what I meant. And although I was getting a genuine vibe about him, for all I knew, he could be involved in something, so I picked up my knife and fork again and changed the direction of the conversation. ‘Did Marcelina ever talk about someone called PK?’
He tilted his head, thinking. ‘Nope. It doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Do you know anyone with those initials?’
He shook his head.
‘Did she have a part-time job?’
‘No.’
I finished off the final bite of my food. The song on the radio finished, and the news came on as I said, ‘Do you know where I can find Precious and Hazel?’
‘Both o
f them went back to Precious’s home in London. They were both really upset after seeing Marcelina in hospital. I think they’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’d like to have a chat with them and see if—’
‘Did you hear that?’ Curtis cut me off, sprinted out of his seat, and turned up the volume on the radio.
…the attacker, believed to be a student at St Albans University, was armed with a knife and stabbed a forty-six-year-old man who has not been named. His condition is described as critical. A police manhunt is underway for the suspect, who remains at large. He’s considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached…
My eyes widened as I listened.
‘That’s mental.’ Curtis shook his head as he took away the plates from the table and deposited them in the sink.
Well, that was one way of putting it, but not in the terms I could voice professionally as a counsellor. ‘It’s absolutely tragic.’ I grabbed my bag and leaped up. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks for the food.’
I rushed back to the office in case someone needed me. If the attacker was a student here, another general offer of student counselling would be put out in the aftermath of such a tragic event. I had a feeling we were going to be inundated.
Chapter 28
Mr White
The BMW X5 was tucked well out of sight behind an abandoned warehouse. Because it was in the middle of nowhere, Nathan White had used this spot as a discreet meeting place on many occasions. Plus, he already knew there were no CCTV cameras within a five-mile radius to clock the comings and goings. Even if there were, the vehicle was a clone. And he was a shadow. Untouchable. Nothing would ever come back to him.
He picked up his mobile phone from the centre console and scrolled through the news sites until he found what he wanted. He opened a link and read about the St Peters Street stabbing dispassionately. He’d long since separated what was right and wrong from what was necessary. He snorted to himself. If only the public knew the real story. But they were too wrapped up in celebrity reality TV that was anything but real, taking social media surveys about what kind of potato they were, and uploading selfies that had been enhanced so much, they didn’t even resemble the person anymore, unable to have a conversation or a night out without being glued to their phones or tablets. They were dumbed down, plugged in, and switched on to total bullshit. Too apathetic to care that their freedoms were being systematically stripped from them one by one. Exactly the way they’d been brainwashed to be. Incessantly complaining about their lives but always wanting someone else to save them. The bread and circuses diversions to satisfy their basest requirements were working, and if they were too stupid and narcissistic to realise it, then that was their own fault.
