Spare Me the Truth

by CJ Carver

  Dan stared at it for a moment. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect . . .’

  He then fitted the key into the front door lock and turned it.

  ‘Christ,’ he said again. He looked shaken. ‘I swear I didn’t know . . . I was just messing about, to give you an example.’ Hurriedly he gave her the key. ‘Sorry.’ His mouth trembled and she suddenly realised he was close to tears.

  Her heart softened.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us coffee.’

  She wasn’t being entirely altruistic. The thought had crossed her mind that he might be able to help her find Sirius’s money. But if he had amnesia, how much help could he be? She filled the machine with water and popped the capsules. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the room. She said, ‘Thanks for trying to save Mum’s life.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t succeed.’

  Both of them drank their espressos.

  ‘She told me you had amnesia,’ Grace said hesitantly.

  ‘She did?’ He looked surprised.

  ‘She was really sad you couldn’t remember her.’

  A haunted look crossed his face. ‘I had a breakdown when my son was killed. I was there, apparently, but I can’t remember it. There’s a lot I can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. Then she put her head on one side, looking at him speculatively. ‘Mum said she rather suspected you were given an amnesia drug. If that’s true, who administered it? I thought it was only at the research stage.’

  He stared at her as though she’d suddenly started talking Urdu. ‘What?’

  Her stomach swooped. Dear God, the stress must be getting to her. She should have known better than to launch in like that.

  ‘She only suspected.’ Grace found herself hastily backtracking. ‘It doesn’t mean to say it actually happened. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was totally unprofessional.’

  ‘No, no. I’m glad you did,’ he assured her quickly. His eyes were alive but there was something dark and dangerous moving in their depths, like a shark cruising at the edges of a sunlit reef. ‘What else did she say?’

  Grace bit her lip.

  ‘Please,’ he urged. ‘Tell me. I need to know.’

  ‘She didn’t say much, I’m afraid,’ Grace admitted. ‘Just that it was probably for your own good. She said your mind had snapped after you’d seen your son killed. You were sent to a mental hospital.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’

  ‘That’s it, really. Mum wanted my advice on how she should talk to you about your past.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I told her to give you a stiff drink.’

  He drained the last of his coffee. Placed the cup by the sink. ‘Can I ask a couple of questions?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘How come my memories of my wife and daughter are fairly intact, but anything to do with my old job and Luke are non-existent?’

  ‘What sort of amnesia were you diagnosed with?’ she asked.

  ‘Dissociative.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense, because dissociative amnesia results from a psychological cause, including repressed memory – which is the inability to recall information about a stressful or traumatic event.’

  He then moved on to ask her about amnesia drugs.

  ‘In my experience,’ she said, ‘drug-induced amnesia is to help a patient forget any traumatic surgery or medical procedures that are undertaken without full anaesthesia. They’re pre-medications, like midazolam or scopolamine, and memories of the procedure – which usually takes a short time – are permanently lost. But once the drug wears off, memory is no longer affected.’

  Dan looked at her.

  ‘But that’s not what we’re talking about here, is it?’ She ran a hand abstractedly over her forehead. ‘We’re talking about deleting memories already formed.’

  He nodded.

  She didn’t really have time for this, but the GP in her couldn’t resist grabbing her iPad and having a look. With Dan hovering, she flicked quickly through the search pages until she found what she wanted. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘As far as I can see, by injecting a particular drug at the right time, when a subject is recalling a particular thought, neuroscientists say they can disrupt the way the memory is stored . . . There’s talk of potentially making it disappear but nothing definitive.’

  ‘What sort of drug?’

  She turned back to her iPad. Flipped through a couple of pages. ‘Here.’ She turned the iPad so they could both look at the screen. ‘Researchers in the US used propranolol, a drug normally used to treat hypertension in heart disease patients. It says that propranolol breaks the link between memory and fear. Like many scientific advances it was discovered as a by-product of something else.’

  She kept digging. ‘There are lots of studies going on with propranolol and individuals suffering from chronic post-traumatic stress disorder, resulting in erasing human fear responses over a particular memory. My guess is that if there’s an amnesia drug out there it’ll be derived from propranolol but I can’t find anything conclusive. There’s a lot of research being undertaken by a British firm, PepsBeevers . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ Dan said. ‘Aren’t they one of the top one hundred FTSE companies?’

  ‘Yes. They have a brain and neurological research institute near London. They invented what’s considered a bit of a miracle drug. Zidazapine. It’s made them a fortune.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘I prescribe it to bipolar sufferers. But there’s no mention of an amnesia drug on their site. It’s my bet it will have been developed by an organisation who aren’t sharing their findings.’

  From the way the research was going, Grace guessed that by the time she hung up her GP hat she may well be prescribing a memory blocker or two herself. Quite how it would be regulated was anyone’s guess. The last thing doctors needed were memory-altering drugs that could be abused by healthy individuals to delete unwanted memories on a whim.

  ‘How do I find out if it was used on me?’

  She stared at him. ‘You really think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His gaze was distant. ‘But I’d like to find out.’

  ‘I’d start with your GP and work backwards.’

  A silence fell.

  Dan moved to stand by the window, looking up and down the street. He said, ‘Can I ask you one last question?’

  Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Did you or your mother ask for the carpets to be cleaned yesterday?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Wednesday 28 November, 6.25 a.m.

  ‘Hi Bella. It’s only me.’

  Bella heard Lucy cross the room, her shoes squeaking on the floor. She could smell boiled potatoes and something like minced beef, maybe cottage pie, indicating it was time for the next meal. Not that she ate anything. She got her food through an IV of some sort.

  Bella listened as Lucy talked to her. She wasn’t sure why, but she paid more attention to Lucy than anyone else. She thought it was because the policewoman didn’t patronise her. She told it like it was. She didn’t lie, not like Mum. Mum said things like Everything’s going to be OK and We’ll have you back to normal in no time.

  Normal? She had to be joking. She wasn’t normal anyway being bipolar, but after what had happened was there any point in re-joining the world? There seemed little to live for now the man had pulled out her teeth. Who would kiss her now? Who would even look at her? She might as well be dead.

  But then Lucy told her she’d have implants. That no one would know her teeth weren’t real. Not even her. Gradually she began to wonder if things might be manageable. She’d been on the dark side before. She’d sliced open her arteries several times. She’d been sectioned. She’d spent months on the psych ward. But since they’d stuck her on Zidazapine she’d been better. So much better that people thought she was normal. She’d been brought out of the dark and in
to the light. Perhaps it could happen a second time.

  Why had he pulled out her teeth? What for? Oddly, she couldn’t remember him doing this. Nor could she remember him breaking her legs, or snapping the bones in her fingers and toes, which was a bit of a relief. She had to have been unconscious the whole time – until she’d come round in the container, that is, which she assumed hadn’t been part of his plan. She was pretty sure she was supposed to have died.

  ‘Your mum’s gone to get a cup of tea,’ Lucy said, and then she sighed. ‘She’s looking terrible, you know. She doesn’t want to leave your side. Your dad has to drag her home just to get her to shower, let alone remind her that Patrick still exists. He’s been in to see you lots, did you know?’

  Bella had heard her brother flit in and out but hadn’t really taken him in.

  ‘He’s a bit lost without you. Says he’s got no one to annoy anymore.’

  Bella felt a bubble of emotion pop inside her.

  ‘He told me about letting your tyres down recently. You know why he did it? It wasn’t to annoy you. Well, it was, but it went deeper than that. He wanted to try and keep you at home longer. That’s all. Even if it was only for another half an hour while your dad fixed them. He gets bored with just your mum and dad at home. He misses you now you’re at uni.’

  Lucy gave another sigh.

  ‘I wish I had a brother. It’s just me, though. Me and Mum. Mum’s great, but rather like Patrick, I get bored on my own. I’d love to have come from a big family. Three sisters, five brothers. Wouldn’t that be great?’

  Five of the suckers? Bella reeled. She had to be kidding. Just one’s enough, believe me.

  Bella felt Lucy touch the back of her hand gently. She said, ‘Time for the daily report, OK? I don’t want you waking up without having a clue, so here goes . . .’

  Bella listened to an incredible litany of shipping details and searches, phone calls, Indian policemen and some cleaner called Chitta. She couldn’t believe how amazingly complicated the whole thing was and wondered what it was all about.

  Why me?

  ‘Bella, stay with me, OK?’ Lucy said. ‘Don’t give up. We want to know who did this to you. And we won’t stop until we find him. Put him behind bars. But we need your help. And we can’t get that unless you’re awake. Compos mentis. AWAKE, dammit . . .’

  She could hear the frustration in Lucy’s voice.

  ‘I know you don’t want to surface,’ Lucy went on in a gentler tone. ‘I know it’s too painful. I know you feel safe down there. But what if he’s targeting your family? What if Patrick is in danger? What if . . .’

  Lucy’s voice abruptly vanished beneath a wave of sheer horror.

  Patrick.

  Her brother. Four years younger than her and a royal pain in the bum. He’d flour-bombed her. Super-glued her make-up to the floor. Scraped the cream out of her favourite cookies and filled them with white toothpaste.

  Her baby brother.

  What if the man came for Patrick?

  For the first time, Bella tried to open her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lucy studied the whiteboard while Mac gave the briefing. He looked to be in a foul mood, probably thanks to the fact that Bella’s face was still on the front pages of the newspapers. Related articles abounded: How students can stay safe, Five easy ways to defend yourself. Bella’s family had also rung in, demanding answers as they did every morning. As he spoke, his frustration became palpable. ‘We’re getting nothing. No leads. Nothing. Not a single new avenue of investigation has opened . . .’

  Lucy stuck up a hand. Mac raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘What about the fact that she’s bipolar?’ Lucy braved the question, even though it made her feel uncomfortable. ‘Do you think it had any bearing on her abduction?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ he answered. ‘She was taking a particular drug to control it.’

  ‘Zidazapine.’

  He gave a nod. ‘Without it she was a mess, apparently, but the drug is like a miracle cure. She used to fall into a depression for weeks, tried to commit suicide, hallucinated, heard voices, the lot, but nobody would know she’s bipolar any more. None of her uni student friends had a clue she had a serious medical problem.’

  Her mind splashed magenta, purple and black. How in God’s name could Dr sodding Mike Adamson think she was bipolar? She didn’t hallucinate or hear voices. Well, no more than any normal person and she’d never been remotely suicidal. She was nothing like poor Bella, thank heavens, and right now she couldn’t believe she’d taken the same drug.

  ‘How long has she been taking the Zidazapine?’ she asked.

  ‘Just over three years.’

  ‘Side effects?’

  ‘None that anyone’s shouting about. The company that produces the drug is, apparently, thrilled with it.’

  ‘Which company?’ she asked.

  ‘PepsBeevers.’

  Now she remembered. It was the same name stamped on the sample boxes Dr Mike had given her.

  ‘Does she have a psychiatrist?’ Lucy asked. ‘A bipolar support group of any sort?’

  ‘Yes to the first, no to the second. I’ve interviewed her psychiatrist, who’s really pleased with her. He checks out OK, if that’s what you were asking. He was in Brussels when she was abducted. Anything else?’ he added, looking around the office, and when nobody responded, wound up the briefing.

  She was striding down the corridor when Mac caught up with her in a rush. ‘Do you fancy a drink later?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘You don’t have to call me sir.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  She kept her gaze focused just past his left ear, where she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes or – God forbid – at his mouth. He had a tiny kink in his upper lip that she remembered kissing before she’d slipped her fingers to the nape of his neck and . . . Stop it! she yelled at herself.

  Still staring into the distance, Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Any luck with the Indian authorities?’ She still thought there might be a link between Bella’s killing and the recycling charity.

  ‘Chennai CBI have nothing on RFC,’ Mac told her. ‘Everything appears squeaky clean.’ He ran a hand through his hair, making the curls dance. ‘I won’t jump on you, you know. I just want to talk through the case. See if we can find a random clue that we’ve missed.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She was stiff. ‘I’m busy.’

  He gave her a sideways look before sighing and walking away.

  *

  When Lucy called Senior Constable Niket, he answered on the tenth ring.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I am having many talks with the people we were speaking about. They are very nice, good people from Recycling For Charity. Everything is seeming to be very legitimate. I am not finding anything criminal.’

  ‘Who collects the containers from Chennai Port?’ she asked.

  ‘This will be the people who are belonging to the charity.’

  ‘And where do they take it?’

  ‘They are taking it to their counterparts in this country. But rest assured, Madam Constable, there is nothing criminal here.’

  ‘Counterparts?’ she repeated, hoping he’d expand.

  ‘They are charities also. They are doing good things over here.’

  He was giving her nothing. He was either stonewalling for some reason – maybe he wanted to keep what he’d found close to his chest? Or maybe he was a lazy bum who’d done fuck all.

  ‘Please could you send me a list of the counterparts?’

  ‘Madam, of course I will. Just as soon as my team collates them, but I do not hold out much hope they will be helping you.’

  He was purposely obstructing her. Dragging things out. She’d heard of foreign countries being obstructive before, but this was a serious case, dammit. Despite wanting to shout at him for being such a dick, she took a breath and made sure her tone was temperate.

  ‘That would be gr
eat, thank you,’ she said sweetly. ‘And please could you email me your findings, which I will then pass on to my superiors. But before we get to that stage, Niket, could I have the name of your commanding officer and his contact details? I will have to pass this on to my boss. I will send you an email now. Can I have your email address, please? Then we can copy the right people when we need to.’

  Long silence.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. His tone was stiff.

  Lucy scribbled down Niket’s email as he recited it. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, all sweetness and light.

  ‘Oh, I am very happy to be helping the British police,’ he said. ‘Very happy indeed.’

  Yeah, right. Lucy hung up with a grimace. They’d have as much luck getting information from India as extracting an elephant’s tooth with a pair of eyebrow tweezers. No cops liked foreign cops on their turf and invariably dealt with foreign requests at a snail’s pace. Niket was a case in point. She had to hope her threat of copying in his superiors would act like a stick of dynamite under his arse or she’d never get a decent break.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday 28 November, 1 p.m., Chennai local time

  Chitta stuck his mop in the bucket and watched Niket stare into space. He’d lost colour and looked faintly ill.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Chitta knew better than to say anything because Niket would just bite his head off. He couldn’t work out why the police officer had been so rude to Lucy Davies in England. Nor could he understand why Niket wasn’t in the thick of helping her solve this case. Surely having an international assignment on his books would help further his career? Niket was as sharp as a thicket thorn and twice as ambitious, but he hadn’t lifted a finger. He’d been acting oddly too, jumpy and nervous. Maybe he was coming down with another bout of stomach trouble? He’d eaten something bad on Sunday and taken time off work on Monday because of it. It was the first time Chitta had known him to take sick leave.