Spare Me the Truth

by CJ Carver

  ‘And what do you know about my son’s death?’

  ‘That it nearly killed you.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’ Dr Orvis turned and faced Dan, unflappable as always. ‘Now, my next patient is due any minute, so if you wouldn’t mind –’

  ‘I’ve been told Luke didn’t die in a hit-and-run. Apparently he died in my arms, but he didn’t die on Brick Lane as I believed.’

  Orvis closed his eyes for a moment as if to collect his thoughts. ‘It’s best if you go now.’

  Dan went and stood close to Orvis. Looked down at him. He said, ‘What do you know about Luke’s death?’

  Orvis swallowed. ‘You have a powerful presence, did you know?’

  Dan just looked at him.

  ‘I only know what happened to Luke from reading your notes.’ Orvis turned and walked to the door and put his hand on the handle. ‘That you got separated in the market, and that he stepped into the road and was hit by a van.’

  Dan picked up the folder but all it contained was the consent form and a handful of NHS referral documents. His file must be held on computer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dan.’ Orvis’s tone was gentle. ‘But you must go now.’

  As if to accentuate his point, a man appeared at the orangery door. Nervous looking, with wire-rimmed glasses and slicked-back hair. Pale skin. Bitten nails. Dry, flaky skin.

  Dan opened the door, brushed past him and walked out of sight. Mindful of Jenny’s reaction after he’d told her of Stella’s death, he quickly retraced his steps to spy on the orangery. He wanted to see how Orvis acted now he’d left. If he did nothing more than treat his next client, then he could probably relax. But if he sent an email or made a phone call, Dan would like to know to whom, and whether it was to do with his visit.

  The man with bitten nails was already slouching in one of the armchairs. Orvis was at his computer but then he rose and said something, it seemed to be an apology as the man gave a seemingly careless shrug and began biting his nails. Orvis picked up the phone from his desk and, while checking his computer screen, punched in a number. Then he closed the lid of his computer and walked into the main house, head ducked and already concentrating on his phone call.

  Dan sped across the lawn to the orangery. Ignoring the startled stare of Orvis’s client, he slipped across the room to Orvis’s computer and raised the lid. The screen lit up a welcome but when it demanded a passcode he let the lid drop and followed Orvis.

  Carefully he opened the door into the main house. No hinges squeaked, no creaking wood. Soundlessly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He stood motionless. Against the light of the room behind him, the interior immediately felt dark and gloomy. A standard lamp was lit at one end of a large sitting room. Antique rugs, over-stuffed sofas and an oil painting of what looked like a Scottish mountain gave the room a countrified air. Orvis stood in front of a large stone fireplace. He had his back to Dan. He was talking on the phone.

  ‘No, he didn’t appear to remember anything . . . Nothing . . . Absolutely. No, he’s gone . . . Yes, he might return . . . because someone told him his son didn’t die in a hit-and-run . . .’

  Short silence.

  ‘No, he didn’t say who . . . Yes, certainly. If he returns I’ll call. Of course.’

  He hung up and at the same time Dan strode across the room.

  Orvis spun round, mouth slackening in shock.

  ‘Who was that?’ Dan demanded.

  Orvis snapped his mouth shut but didn’t say anything. Dan held out his hand for the phone. Orvis passed it over. When Dan checked the number last dialled, a prickly sensation crept over the back of his neck. It was the same number Jenny had called. Holding Orvis’s eyes, he pressed re-dial. It rang four times before it was answered, but nobody said anything. Dan pushed the phone next to Orvis’s face. He mouthed, say hello.

  ‘Hello?’ Orvis said. His voice was high with tension.

  Dan pushed the phone against Orvis’s face once more. Again, he urged.

  ‘It’s me. Dr Orvis Fatik.’ His eyes remained fixed on Dan. ‘Sorry to call you back.’

  Dan nodded his approval at the doctor’s improvisation.

  ‘What is it?’ a man said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Mid-English accent, mid-level pitch, nothing distinctive.

  ‘What is it?’ the man said again.

  Dan took back the phone. He said, ‘Why did my wife ring you?’

  Immediately, the man hung up. Dan handed the phone back to Orvis. ‘Who was that?’

  He looked away. Swallowed. He said, ‘I don’t know.’

  Dan looked at him.

  Orvis swallowed again. ‘You have to believe me. I don’t know. I swear it. After you were discharged from hospital, Dr Winter told me to ring this number should you ever start questioning your past, including your son’s death.’

  ‘Who. Was. It.’ Dan’s voice was a whisper.

  ‘I swear on my daughter’s life . . .’ He glanced at a silver-framed photograph of a laughing five-year-old girl. ‘I don’t know. But . . .’

  Dan waited.

  ‘He calls himself Cedric. He says he’s from the pharmaceutical company that is researching the amnesia drug. He wants to know if the memory-blocking remains successful.’

  Dan’s body went cold.

  ‘Cedric?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s his real name. He’s interested in you because you’re a living case study, I suppose. He believes the amnesia drug could be invaluable in treating patients with post-traumatic stress. I think he’d like to sell it to the military.’

  Dan thought this over. ‘Does he pay you for information on me?’

  ‘No!’ Orvis recoiled. ‘Absolutely not. My sessions with you are one hundred per cent confidential.’

  ‘So what’s in it for you?’

  Orvis closed his eyes briefly. ‘He sends me information, sometimes results, from other psychiatrists who are treating their patients with the same drug. It’s experimental, but they all sign a consent form. Like you.’

  Dan looked at him. ‘And you said I wasn’t a lab rat.’

  Orvis wouldn’t meet Dan’s eye.

  ‘How many times have you spoken to him?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Several times during the first year of your treatment, but when it appeared your memories had been successfully deleted, we didn’t speak any more.’ He took a shaky breath. ‘We kept in touch by email until last week when he telephoned. He suspected you might come and see me. He wanted to know immediately if you did.’

  Dan looked away, thinking. Was he nothing but a guinea pig? If Cedric sold such a drug to the military it could bring in big money, massive money.

  ‘What’s the name of the drug company?’

  ‘PepsBeevers.’

  The same company Grace had mentioned, that funded a brain and neurological research institute near London.

  ‘Do you know Stella Reavey?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Who?’ Orvis looked blank.

  ‘What about DCA & Co.?’

  Orvis shook his head. ‘Sorry. Neither name means anything.’

  Dan thought fast. ‘I want copies of Cedric’s emails, and yours to him.’

  Orvis sucked in his breath but didn’t protest. Dan shadowed him back to his office. Orvis’s patient was chewing the other hand but otherwise didn’t appear to have moved.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Orvis said to him. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  The man gave one of his shrugs, giving Dan the impression he wouldn’t have cared if he left at the end of an hour without saying a word to his doctor.

  Orvis restarted his computer and even although he tried to block Dan’s view, Dan saw him punch in his password – GALAXY32 – before he accessed his emails. He went through various folders until he pointed out one titled Dan Forrester. ‘They’re in there.’

  Dan said, ‘Send the whole file to me.’

  When Orvis’s
email came through, Dan checked the folder. ‘Do you have any other numbers for Cedric? Email addresses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s my file?’ Dan asked. ‘The one with all my notes?’

  Orvis gave him a pained look.

  ‘Email it to me,’ Dan told him. ‘Now.’

  ‘You may not like what you read,’ he warned.

  ‘Just do it.’

  Dan left when he’d received the second email on his phone. He’d read everything later. Back in his car, he began to prioritise what he needed to do. Talk to Dr Stuart Winter and check that everything Orvis had said was true. Track down Cedric. Confront Jenny.

  But first, he needed to see Grace Reavey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Thursday 29 November, 3.10 p.m.

  Grace had taken Dan’s demonstration with the umbrella stand to heart, and looked beneath every rubbish bin, the underside of every drawer and the ceiling of every cupboard, but no bank statement or Post-it note covered with bank codes sprang out. She yawned, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. Without the comforting presence of Ross last night, she hadn’t slept much. Every creak in the house, every car that drove past had woken her.

  She’d had the locks changed but it hadn’t helped. She couldn’t stop thinking about the men Dan said he’d seen entering her mother’s house while she’d been at the funeral. They had to be after the money Sirius Thiele wanted. She felt oddly grateful they had waited until she’d left the house before they’d searched, and hadn’t confronted her. Not like Sirius.

  My client has given us until the end of the week.

  She felt a desperate urge to run away. To put as much distance between her and Sirius Thiele as possible. But she knew she would just be putting things off, and that despite her almost crippling fear she had to face up, hold firm, so she could go back to her life and normality.

  Time was running out. She had to get to her mother’s office and see if there were any clues there. She was looking around, wondering where else to search, when the doorbell rang.

  Her nerves balled into fists of fear. What if Sirius was early? Grace crept to the front door. Peeked through the fish-eye. Relief made her feel dizzy. It was Dan Forrester. She opened the door.

  He looked over her shoulder. ‘Still at it, I see.’

  Something about him had changed. There was an energy crackling around him she hadn’t seen before. Holding the door open, she invited him inside.

  ‘You seem better,’ she said.

  He blinked.

  ‘Stronger,’ she added. Taller as well, she thought, but didn’t say it. He was also better-looking than she’d initially thought, with a strong, angular face and clear grey eyes. She closed the door behind him. Saw him gazing around.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  She could feel herself stiffen.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I know it’s none of my business but sometimes I can’t help myself. I’m incurably nosy.’ He gave a small, rather rueful smile.

  It was the first time she’d seen him smile and despite her anxiety, she felt her heart lift.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said. ‘Because I’m not quite sure myself. But it’s important. Really important.’ She was horrified to hear her voice tremble and was glad when Dan didn’t comment but became immediately businesslike.

  ‘Size?’

  She thought of CDs, memory sticks, and then a suitcase stuffed with fifty-pound notes. ‘It could be a disc, a memory card or . . . I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m looking for information, I guess, but Mum doesn’t keep things in files or folders; everything’s on her computer but I don’t have her password.’

  Dan began prowling around the room. He looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor. Checked behind the curtains. Ran his fingers along the track gliders. He said, ‘What did your mother do?’

  ‘She was a translator and interpreter.’

  ‘Where in Mayfair was she based?’

  Dan had worked with her mother. She didn’t have a problem telling him. ‘Upper Brook Street. I can’t remember the number offhand. I’ve never been there. If I was in London Mum and I would meet up for lunch somewhere in the area, but never at the office. She liked to get out. Have a break.’

  Methodically, he felt the hem of each curtain. Moved to each corner of the room, testing the edges of the carpet.

  ‘What does DCA & Co. do?’ he asked.

  ‘Political risk analysis.’

  ‘Which means?’ He picked a cushion off the sofa and squeezed it with both hands before checking the stitching.

  ‘Looking at a company or investment and giving impartial advice. They sent Mum to Belarus once, to look at a company which manufactured trucks and tractors. A client of theirs was thinking of setting up a joint stock company with them.’

  ‘She spoke Russian?’

  ‘French, German, Spanish and Farsi too.’

  ‘Clever woman.’

  ‘She said that once you’d learned a couple of languages, the rest came easily.’

  Dan pulled out the sofa cushions and ran his fingers along the stitching. ‘How long has she worked for DCA?’

  ‘Five years or so, I guess.’

  ‘What did she do before?’

  ‘She worked for the civil service.’

  ‘As an interpreter and translator?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which department?’

  ‘Immigration.’

  He put down the sofa cushion. His gaze turned distant as he placed his hand on his belly. It was a strange gesture and Grace wondered what he was thinking. He said, ‘I used to work in the same department, apparently.’

  ‘Do you speak any languages?’ Grace asked.

  He frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Her mobile started to ring on the hall table. ‘Excuse me,’ Grace said. She headed outside, leaving Dan upending the sofa. She hadn’t even thought of checking inside cushions and curtain hems. She picked up her phone to see it was a landline number, but not one she recognised.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi,’ a woman said. ‘This is Constable Lucy Davies from the Stockton police. Is that Dr Grace Reavey?’

  ‘Yes it is.’ Grace leaned against the wall and lowered her head to concentrate. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It’s about a patient of yours who went missing. Apparently you requested notification should we have any news.’

  ‘Jamie,’ Grace breathed. ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a short pause, and then she added, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Grace closed her eyes. Oh, no. Not Jamie, she thought. Jamie who had pruned her apple tree and roses, mowed her lawn. Jamie who wore big leather boots and never tied the laces, who loved dogs, who wanted a Labrador puppy but wouldn’t get one until he’d climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and launched his prostate cancer awareness project into the stratosphere. She managed to keep her tone level as she said, ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jamie . . .’ She couldn’t help it. Tears rose and she battled to control them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Constable Davies said again.

  ‘Me too.’ Grace wiped her eyes. ‘I’m not normally so emotional, but . . . my mother. She died last week.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Constable Davies sounded shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Grace took a deep breath, felt some control return. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Faris MacDonald – my DI – and I are coming down to Hampshire later today. Would it be possible to see you, perhaps tomorrow morning? We’re talking to everyone who knew him, trying to get a picture of what happened.’

  The fact the policewoman hadn’t answered her question made Grace’s trepidation rise. Something bad had happened to Jamie. She looked along the hallway at a stack of paperback books precariously balanced next to some photograph albums. ‘I’m not actually his GP,’ she said. ‘You really need to speak t
o Dr Smith.’

  ‘Oh.’ The policewoman sounded surprised. ‘I didn’t realise. I’ll call Dr Smith right away, but it would still be good to meet you, since you knew Jamie.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s not very good for me, I’m afraid. I’m at my mother’s house in Tring. Sorting things out.’

  The brief silence from the constable made Grace oddly nervous, but then PC Davies said, ‘When will you be back in Hampshire?’

  ‘Not until next week.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come and see you in Tring?’

  A chill swept over Grace. She didn’t want Sirius finding out she’d seen a police officer. Hurriedly she said, ‘I’ll be at the surgery first thing on Monday. I can see you then if you let reception know.’

  ‘Not before then?’

  ‘It’s not possible, sorry.’ Grace was firm.

  ‘OK,’ the constable agreed grudgingly. ‘I’ll see you Monday.’

  Grace hung up. She felt shaky as she moved back to the sitting room. Dan was squatting next to the upended sofa. He’d pulled back the hessian, exposing the spring base, and was reaching deep inside. ‘I’ve found something,’ he murmured.

  Grace joined him on the floor as he extracted a padded A5 envelope and passed it to her. She turned it over in her hands, only half-aware of it because her mind wasn’t on the envelope. It was on Jamie Hudson, who liked chocolate brownies and wanted to learn how to cook so he could make them for his children; he’d wanted four but he wasn’t going to have any now, because he was dead.

  Dan said, ‘Do you want me to leave you while you open it?’

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  ‘Grace.’ His voice was gentle. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A friend of mine. He died.’

  Dan held out a hand. She put her palm in his and felt his grip, warm and strong. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Her smile was wobbly. ‘I really liked him.’

  He gave her hand a little shake, then stood up. ‘Brandy, or tea?’

  ‘Tea. Thanks.’

  She heard him put on the kettle, then the sound of cupboards and drawers opening, the chink of mugs, the snap of the fridge door. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Visualised Jamie and his dreadlocked brown hair, his cheerful blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, Jamie.’