Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  Mainstream psychiatric and psychological professional associations now harbour strong scepticism towards the notion of recovered memories of trauma. They argue that self-help books, and recovered memory therapists can influence adults to develop false memories. According to this theory, psychologists and psychiatrists may accidentally implant these false memories. The American Psychiatric Association and American Medical Association condemn such practices, whether they are formally called "Recovered Memory Therapy" or simply a collection of techniques that fit the description. In 1998, the Royal College of Psychiatrists Working Group on Reported Recovered Memories of Sexual Abuse wrote:

  No evidence exists for the repression and recovery of verified, severely traumatic events, and their role in symptom formation has yet to be proved. There is also a striking absence in the literature of well-corroborated cases of such repressed memories recovered through psychotherapy. Given the prevalence of childhood sexual abuse, even if only a small proportion are repressed and only some of them are subsequently recovered, there should be a significant number of corroborated cases. In fact there are none.

  Romney rocked back on his chair feeling pretty good. And it wasn’t because Sammy Coker might just have been proved innocent post-mortem. Sammy Coker didn’t even feature in Romney’s current thinking. At present, Romney was only concerned with saving his own name. Sammy was dead, after all. He could wait.

  Romney understood that what he’d just read and the good Doctor Clavell’s close association with it would go a long way to casting a chain-link net of doubt over any claims that Amy Coker had made. Or they would as soon as he started circulating the evidence and Amy Coker’s connections to it.

  He then thought to Google Doctor Clavell, appreciating once more how wonderful technology was. Sometimes he didn’t even need to leave his chair to be a policeman.

  He found a couple of references to Clavell the psychotherapist in Deal. Clavell was an unusual enough name for Romney to doubt there were two in the ‘head doctor’ profession locally.

  With his hopes high, Romney was more than a little disappointed to find that following a couple of these links provided nothing incriminating. He imagined it must be something to do with the potential for libel suits. On the bright side, he felt sure that Doctor Puchta would have plenty of stories to relate if the head doctor profession was anything like the police. He’d just have to find a way to wheedle them out of her. On the phone she hadn’t sounded like she would prove reticent. On the contrary, Romney had sensed in her a barely suppressed desire to gossip.

  With Romney feeling buoyed, he switched tack and considered the second line of enquiry he wanted to pursue. Something that was more in line with looking out for Sammy’s memory. Something that, if he could make something of it, would also do some good for his personal position. He looked up the phone number for the hospice that Sammy had spent the last couple of weeks of his life in. He called and spoke to a receptionist regarding his enquiry. He was told that he’d need to come along in person with his identification to expect answers to such questions. It made sense. And, although he could have asked them to ring the station and ask for him to save himself the journey, the questions he had to ask would be better asked face-to-face. Not all police work could be done remotely.

  ***

  39

  Marsh tapped on his door. He signalled her in and to sit.

  ‘Philip’s ringing round the lawnmower people,’ she said. ‘I’ve been giving some thought to Amy Coker.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Romney.

  ‘I thought you would.’

  ‘You want to hear something interesting?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Actually, it’ll probably be better if you read it yourself. Sit here.’ He vacated his chair and waved Marsh around to his side of the desk. With her neck in the brace, her manoeuvring to sit down was rather awkward. ‘Before you start reading,’ he said, ‘know this: Doctor Clavell, Amy Coker’s therapist, has received professional criticism for practising his speciality, which just happens to be recovered memory therapy. You’ll understand what that’s all about, if you don’t already, after you’ve read this. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Romney went for a walk around the office. There was something of a spring in his step. His eyes came to rest on Grimes’ old chair. Before he could stop himself he was wondering where the man had loafed off to. The sudden realisation that he was dead, the finality of the hammer-thought that he would never see him again, exchange banter with him, have a joke with him, made his stomach churn and his eyes sting.

  Peter Grimes was dead.

  He closed his eyes and wrestled with the sudden urge to shed a tear. He went to the window and pretended to be looking at something until he had the feeling under control.

  Marsh had finished. Her brow was knitted with questions. She looked up to see where Romney had gone. He was standing staring out of the far window. As she watched him, her mind occupied with thoughts of Amy Coker, Romney put out a hand and gently patted the back of Grimes’ old chair.

  Marsh had her own feelings back under control by the time Romney returned. She looked at him strangely. He stared back blankly. She smiled at him. He continued to stare back blankly. She said, ‘How do you know Doctor Clavell has received criticism from his peers for his work with recovered memory therapy? I can’t find anything here.’

  ‘A source.’

  ‘A professional? In the industry?’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘It could be. If you have friends in the business with justified critical professional opinions regarding this Clavell, perhaps Amy Coker can be encouraged to talk to them.’

  Being concerned solely with himself, Romney hadn’t considered that far ahead. He looked dubious. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but doesn’t that article state that when the patient has been brainwashed into believing a false memory it’s nigh on impossible to make them see it for what it is? A bit like religion. Don’t these things become embedded to an extent that rivals, no replaces, genuine memories?’

  It was Marsh’s turn to shrug. ‘Couldn’t hurt to try. What about that Doctor Puchta you’ve had dealings with?’

  Romney reddened and felt it. His knees experienced a jolt of weakness as he feared that what he’d believed to be his best-kept secret was no secret at all. ‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about? Who have you been talking to?’

  Marsh thought his reaction was a bit strong. More of an over-reaction. She understood she’d touched a nerve but she had no idea where it was. She filed it away for later. ‘That business with Jez Ray. Didn’t you organise some professional help for him? A Doctor Puchta?’

  ‘Oh, that. Her. Yes. Well, I could give her a ring. I’ve probably still got her number somewhere.’

  ‘If not, it’ll be in the phone book,’ said Marsh.

  Romney said, ‘Even though it’s now your investigation, do you want me to call her? Seeing as I know her. A bit.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe a more personal approach would be better.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘You think that she’s making the whole thing up, then? Or rather she’s had it made up for her?’

  ‘It happens. Apparently. Naturally, I’d like to believe it. I still don’t believe that Sammy Coker was the monster she’s making him out to be.’

  Marsh made a face.

  Misinterpreting it, Romney said, ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking: if, if this turned out to be a false memory, how would she react to finding out that not only had she spent all those years of her life believing herself to have been the victim of such terrible crimes but that they were carried out by her own father. All those lost years. Years of hatred.’

  ‘That’s her problem,’ said Romney. ‘Maybe she should have been a little more discerning in her choice of head doctor and more questioning regarding what they led her to believe.’ He remembered what Sammy’s sister, had said: She’d been seeing some therapist ov
er Deal way. Filling her head with ideas. She’d always been a bit strange, weird, suggestible. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe it was as simple as that. He wanted to think so, but things rarely were.

  Marsh said, ‘You’re talking about it like you’ve already made up your mind, like it’s already been proved. You haven’t forgotten that Sammy Coker’s prints were on the tapes, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Romney wondered about whether to share with Marsh what he was going to do next and decided not to. If it turned out that his hunch was wrong then he wouldn’t want her, as officer in charge of an investigation – the outcomes of which would affect him – knowing what he’d found out. If he found out something to his advantage then he’d be phoning her immediately.

  He said, ‘You said you’d been thinking about Amy Coker – anything interesting?’

  ‘Something that bothered me when we went round to Sammy Coker’s. I forgot about it in the light of... what was discovered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was round there clearing the place out, right?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘Completely?’

  Romney shrugged, ‘That’s the idea I got.’

  ‘So where was the skip? Where was the van that would take it all away? I don’t remember seeing any big plastic bags, do you?’

  Romney tilted his head to one side, like he’d opened the door to a memory and the ballast in his head had shifted. His eyes roamed around his little office but he wasn’t looking there.

  Eventually, he frowned and looked directly at Marsh. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean there weren’t any...’

  ‘We searched every room, thoroughly. Ask P... Fuck! That’s twice in ten minutes I’ve forgotten. Fuck. Sorry.’

  Marsh said, ‘Don’t apologise, sir. It’s going to take time for all of us to adjust. It’ll take more than moving a few sticks of furniture about to get rid of him.’ She smiled weakly as she felt the heat of her tears returning. She stood to give Romney back his chair. As she was heading out of the office she said, ‘I’ll ask Derek what he remembers.’

  Romney sat down heavily. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened them and phoned Doctor Puchta. The secretary told Romney that Doctor Puchta was with a client and couldn’t be disturbed. She asked it Romney wanted to leave his name and number. He said ‘no.’ He asked when she’d be free, was told and said he’d ring back.

  He decided to visit the hospice.

  ***

  40

  Romney found the hospice on London Road in Canterbury without difficulty. He parked and made his way to reception. After introducing himself and outlining the nature of his visit, he was asked to take a seat and wait. Someone would be with him shortly. He was a bit disappointed; he’d hoped his status and warrant card would have seen him dealt with quickly. That was usual.

  His enforced wait gave him an opportunity to observe the people and his surroundings. The reception area he was in was welcoming and orderly, spacious, peaceful and clean-looking. It smelled clean, too. Not the unmistakeable hospital antiseptic-clean but something... more caring. There were friendly faces. And people talked in low soothing tones. Despite the overall pleasantness of it all, the front couldn’t hide the reason everyone was there: caring for the dying, visiting the dying and the dying themselves.

  Romney was still there ten minutes later. His state of relaxed calm, encouraged by the surroundings, had worn quite thin. He was on the verge of reminding the still smiling receptionist that he was still waiting when a middle-aged woman in a smart suit pushed through a door at the business end of the operation and after a brief exchange with the receptionist looked over in his direction. She walked towards him.

  Romney got to his feet and the woman wanted to shake hands. They introduced themselves. Her name was Andrea Bauer and she said she was one of the managers. She asked to see Romney’s identification. He submitted without rancour, even though he’d already shown his warrant card when he arrived.

  After she’d satisfied herself that he was who he claimed to be, she smiled warmly and said, ‘Sorry for the formality and the delay. The business of dying can be...’ She didn’t finish that thought. ‘What is it we can do for Dover police, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘You recently had a patient… do you call them patients?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘A patient called Sammy Coker. He’s dead now.’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours or is this an official police enquiry, may I ask?’

  ‘Bit of both, actually.’ Romney smiled at her. ‘I need to know whether he had visitors during his stay here. Scrub that, I know he would have had visitors. I’m interested to know if he had one particular visitor.’

  Mrs Bauer raised her eyebrows. With her face he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. ‘Under normal circumstances we can’t just divulge that sort of information without official requests submitted on paper in triplicate.’ In response to his expression, she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but client confidentiality these days... we have to protect ourselves. What we have to do, in fact, is make sure that we don’t open ourselves up for some scurrilous individual to sue us over something. It was so much easier ten years ago.’

  ‘No need to tell me about all that,’ said Romney. ‘The police service, can’t say force these days, is unrecognisable when you compare it to the police of ten years ago. Look, at the moment, I’m just after knowing, off the record if you like. If it comes to it and it becomes important we can always make things official. Right now, I’d rather save time and paperwork. But if you can’t help me, you can’t.’

  After a moment’s deliberation, she said, ‘Come with me.’

  Romney followed her through reception, through the password-protected door into the administrative section of the premises and to her own private office.

  She pointed him to a chair. He sat and appreciated what she’d done with the place while she punched a couple of keys on the computer.

  ‘My husband was a policeman,’ she said, ‘so you could say that I have some sympathy with you for the way things are these days.’

  ‘Retired, is he?’ said Romney, thinking that she must be older than she looked or he was a lucky bugger.

  Without taking her eyes from the screen, she said, ‘Sorry, should have said ex-husband. He’s still in as far as I know. Not local. Here we are: Sammy Coker. Who is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘Thanks for this,’ said Romney. ‘Whatever the outcome. His daughter: Amy Coker.’ Romney realised he’d crossed his fingers.

  After it looked like Mrs Bauer had checked the database for Sammy’s visitors twice she said, ‘Sorry. No one by that name.’

  Romney resisted the urge to both swear and to ask the woman if she was sure.

  His expression encouraged her to say, ‘Not the answer you wanted?’

  ‘No. It’s not.’ He breathed in and out heavily then stood. ‘Well, that’s that then. Thanks very much for your cooperation, Mrs Bauer.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  She saw him back to reception and left him contemplating what this meant for his theory that Amy Coker had somehow got physically close enough to Sammy to be able to get his fingerprints onto the video cassette tapes without him knowing what he was doing.

  ***

  41

  Romney pushed back into CID to find only Fower present. He asked where the other two were.

  ‘Superintendent Vine asked to see them both, sir,’ said Fower.

  ‘Any idea what about?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, a man called asking to speak to DC Grimes.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The ghost girl, sir.’ Fower didn’t like the face Romney had for that. ‘I told him that DC Grimes was no longer with us. He said he needed to talk with a senior CID officer then. DS Marsh and Derek were alread
y both upstairs with Superintendent Vine.’

  Romney took the piece of paper with the caller’s name and number on it and decided to ring the man as part of his pitching in with the troops.

  The phone was picked up after only two rings. Romney introduced himself and discovered that he was talking to a Mr Mitchell of Temple Ewell villas. Mr Mitchell told Romney that he was ex-police.

  ‘And what is it that you wanted to talk to DC Grimes about?’ said Romney.

  ‘He was out here the other day. Nice bloke. Reminded me of a DC at my old nick. He’s not there now, they say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well he asked me to get in touch if I came upon any intelligence regarding the sightings.’

  ‘And you have?’ said Romney when the man didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Yes. Will he be back, DC Grimes? I rather liked him.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Mitchell. But we were liaising closely on this one. If you have information that would be useful to us... well, as ex-job you know the drill.’

  ‘Sure. Can you come out? Or send that nice young man who was with him. It’s something that needs showing rather than telling.’

  Romney said he’d be in touch. The moment he replaced the receiver it rang again. He snatched it up and identified himself.

  ‘Hello, Tom. It’s Maurice here.’

  Romney was surprised to be getting a call from the pathologist. It was almost always the other way around. ‘Hello, Maurice. Don’t tell me things are so slow over there you’re touting for business.’

  ‘We have plenty to keep us busy, Tom, thanks. I’m very sorry about Peter. We all are. He was a good man and popular with us. We’ll miss him.’

  ‘Thanks, Maurice. It’s good of you to call and say so. We’re still reeling with it here.’