Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  I drew back. ‘We can’t snoop about like we’re thinking of buying it. Not while Aiden is here.’

  The constable looked affronted. ‘He’s not going to mind, is he?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, we can ask him, but he’s hardly going to refuse, is he?’ The flippancy in his tone appalled me. He seemed to be finding this whole situation quite amusing – and I wasn’t having it.

  ‘We are intruders,’ I said firmly. ‘We have to respect Aiden’s privacy.’ I turned away refusing to insult Aiden any further by whispering behind his back. PC Ndibi shrugged and stayed in the galley. I returned to the saloon and sat on a banquette a little distance from Aiden.

  Now we were alone, I wasn’t quite sure how to begin. Having never treated a patient in their own home before, I was aware of how entirely different the dynamic felt. I didn’t deliver my usual introductions, nor did Aiden break the ice by offering me coffee or asking whether I’d found the location without any trouble – the usual social niceties offered by a host when receiving a visitor. Aiden did, however, let go of the chair. Then he sat down on the opposite banquette, pulling his knees into his chest, staring through the tunnel between his thighs in a frozen state. He didn’t seem to be affected either way by my presence.

  My instinct told me to allow the silence between us to linger for a while, to show him that I was neither uncomfortable nor annoyed by it, rather than bombard him with questions he couldn’t answer. In that silence, I gazed past his shoulder but found myself being drawn back to refocus on his face.

  I couldn’t say that he was handsome, exactly. There was nothing macho or rugged about him. It seemed ridiculous to define him in this way, but I could only describe Aiden’s appearance as beautiful. It was the only word that seemed to fit. ‘Beautiful’ carried a soft magic within it, transcending sexual attractiveness. Perhaps it was his silence that was alluring – the old cliché of the taciturn artist, with ideas simmering inside his head, perpetually unreachable.

  Not only was Aiden not speaking, but the police psychiatrist had explained in his report that he wasn’t communicating at all to anyone – no smiles, nods or shakes of the head. He was fixed in one expression, locked in some dark trance he couldn’t shake himself out of.

  It was my job to try to reach him.

  I’d heard of children rendered mute from cases at St Luke’s. One girl of six couldn’t speak after being involved in a car crash that killed her mother. And a colleague worked with a boy aged nine who had seen his father fall from their garage roof. I knew post-traumatic mutism existed in adults, but I’d never actually come across it before. In the child cases I knew of, it took several weeks before the patients were able to speak again. With Aiden, I’d got exactly one week to work miracles.

  The seconds ticked by and I continued to sit opposite him, neither of us making a sound. His elegant bare feet resting on the banquette implied some kind of intimacy between us and I found myself simply wanting to watch him; the delicate angles of his cheeks, the long line of his neck. His back was straight and in the midst of his detachment there was a defiance; like that of an exotic bird, caged for reasons it could not understand, but determined to maintain its dignity.

  I’d had plenty of long pauses in sessions with patients who refused to, or were emotionally unable to speak for certain periods. It’s hard when working with such people not to feel frustrated and impatient. At times their unresponsiveness might seem belligerent to an outsider – no doubt what PC Ndibi experienced – although this was rarely how the patients themselves felt. Nevertheless, I was immediately fascinated by Aiden. Even though he didn’t utter a word nor acknowledge my existence, there was a charisma, a bohemian quality that vibrated from him like electricity.

  Eventually, I let my eyes drift away from him and noticed a small battered musical box with a ballerina on the top, on a shelf beside us. It looked like it had been around for several generations.

  ‘I used to have one just like this,’ I said, getting close to it, but not touching. ‘My grandmother gave it to me. Does it still play a tune, I wonder?’

  I glanced round, but he wasn’t looking at me – cut off like he hadn’t heard. His skin was of the same rich colour as those who live in the Mediterranean; it made him look like he regularly slept under the stars, rarely spending time indoors. ‘Mine used to play “Blow the Wind Southerly”,’ I said lightly. ‘It used to send me off to sleep when I was little.’

  I stood to look at the frames on the wall. There was a series of pencil portraits; one of a young woman looking coy and another I instantly recognised as a self-portrait. Aiden had completely captured the soft, vulnerable quality of his own face.

  ‘These are beautiful,’ I said.

  He acted as if he hadn’t heard me, remaining subdued and listless, then abruptly got to his feet and padded to one of the doors at the far end of the boat. He went inside and closed it behind him. I stayed where I was for a moment then re-joined PC Ndibi in the galley.

  ‘Told you,’ he said, folding his newspaper. ‘I’ve been here once or twice since it happened.’ He yawned. ‘He’s done nothing but stare into space or sleep.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ I said, sounding more hopeful than I felt.

  ‘You finished now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m just going to sit in the saloon for a while… see if he comes out again.’ I tried to smile, not wanting to alienate him.

  ‘Okay, I’ll wait,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you staying with him the whole time?’ I asked. ‘To make sure he’s okay?’

  ‘No way,’ he replied. ‘I was only here to meet you and make sure you got to see him, that’s all.’ He flicked back his shirt cuff to check his watch. ‘I’m going to stretch my legs for a minute.’ He winked as he came past me, then left the boat.

  I’d spent a holiday on a canal boat once on the Norfolk Broads, but it was nothing like this. My lasting memories were of constantly bumping into people, cramped oily and dark spaces where I kept banging my head and a bad cabbage smell lingering by the toilet. The vessel was constantly chilly, even in July. Aiden’s boat was palatial by comparison.

  I’d learnt from the police report that it was the maximum size allowed for a canal boat to navigate the waterways, with two berths, each within their own enclosed cabins. The rest was open-plan. The interior of the saloon was immaculate with granite worktops and wood panelling in a shade of gold. Special touches of gold light switches and decorative door handles made it appear luxurious – almost romantic.

  On bookshelves beside me were novels by Will Self and Salman Rushdie, biographies of Che Guevara, Banksy and Martin Luther King. He was obviously a wide reader and the subjects told me a little about his interests. The way a person sets out their home, whether it’s a tent or a palace, reveals a great deal about who they are. In Aiden’s case, all I had were his belongings, his artwork and people who knew him to tell me who he was. They were the only signposts I’d have to assist me in helping him.

  Loose press clippings were scattered on the Welsh dresser opposite, next to a printer. I picked one up; a review of a recent fashion show for which Aiden had designed a collection, all in white. Beside the dresser was a framed poster advertising one of his exhibitions at the Chelsea College of Art & Design, labelling him a ‘cutting-edge textile designer’. The police report stated that this was the end of Aiden’s second year, but as he was only nineteen, he must have started a year earlier than usual. I couldn’t deny that his work looked impressive to an untrained eye such as mine.

  I wandered back into the galley. Above the sink were a series of books about martial arts alongside vegan cookbooks. I remembered from the report that Aiden was vegetarian.

  I wrote my phone number in large digits on the back of one of my business cards, together with the words, ‘Any Time’, and slipped it under a mug on the draining board.

  ‘No point in doing that,’ said Ndibi, folding his arms as he came up behind me. ‘
How’s he going to talk to you?’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s an offering.’

  ‘He hasn’t been given his phone back yet,’ he smirked, leaning against the washing machine like he owned the place. I ignored him and took a closer look at the walls, which were covered, end-to-end, in works of art. As well as the sketches, there were framed photographs, based around shades of white.

  ‘I don’t get these, myself,’ said Ndibi, turning up his nose. We stared in turn at images of a white telephone on a blank wall, spilt white paint on a bare white floor, a chipped chalk landscape against white clouds. All white on white.

  ‘I rather like them,’ I said. ‘I’ve never thought about different shades of white before. So subtle. He’s really got something.’

  I’d always been intrigued by artistic people, although Hannah, my best friend, would put it a little stronger than that. In fact, on her advice, I’d had intensive therapy in the past year to deal with my annoying pattern of falling for impressive, high-achieving men who were invariably unavailable. I’d been single since then, so I hadn’t exactly put it to the test yet.

  Hannah had a new private therapy practice in Devon, having committed the worst sin imaginable by moving over a year ago. I was gutted when she left London and missed our impromptu get-togethers. Video chats didn’t cut it for either of us, but she and her husband had their hearts set on starting a family alongside rolling hills rather than bumper-to-bumper traffic on Wandsworth High Street.

  I stopped at a pastel portrait of a child. ‘Can’t draw, personally,’ said Ndibi, looking bored. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Hopeless,’ I confessed.

  I hated to admit it, but Aiden’s work certainly seemed more accomplished than the pictures my sister Miranda was producing. She’d made only a few attempts at portraits, claiming they ‘upset people’. It was easy to see why. Her paintings were invariably aggressive and garish. These days, she’d moved on from ugly images resembling mutilated body parts and was churning out ‘landscapes’ with gaudy splodges of orange, pink and red. I could barely bring myself to look at them, but I made a point of never making it obvious. I knew they were important to her, so that was the main thing. In fact, the reason I’d done additional training in art therapy was because I’d seen how much of Miranda’s disturbed internal world was hidden inside her paintings. For her, splashing her feelings onto a canvas was the only way to fully express herself.

  ‘Has Aiden drawn anything while you’ve been here?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Not a thing. Apparently he’s never without a piece of charcoal or paintbrush in his hand, but he’s done nothing since the incident.’

  It was clear that art consumed Aiden’s life, but since witnessing the assault he was in a bad way; deeply traumatised and shut down. I left with a heavy heart. It wasn’t just that time was against us and Aiden couldn’t utter a word. What worried me most, was that any creativity - the one avenue we have open to us - may have completely dried up.

  Chapter 7

  As soon as my first ‘meeting’ with Aiden was over, I darted back across London. DCS Claussen had moved on to other pressing CID matters, but DCI Wilde had demanded I meet the core team at Stanhope Street station. I only just made it.

  I rubbed the spot on my wrist where my watch was cutting into my skin, kept thinking that if things had gone to plan, I’d have been on a flight that morning to Greece. So much had happened, it was hard to believe it was only last night I’d got the phone call that threw everything up in the air.

  Wilde was standing, glaring at the door when I came in, as if on the verge of giving up on me. By contrast, DI Fenway offered a bright smile and introduced me to two new faces; Crime Scene Manager, DS Edwin Hall and Major Incident Room Manager, DS Joanne Hoyland. This time, we were in a small room with a TV screen on the wall, seats dotted around a large white table. I threw my jacket over the back of the chair and sat down in the empty seat next to Fenway.

  ‘And this is our police psychiatrist, Dr Melvin Herts,’ said DCI Wilde. I gave Dr Herts a formal nod, taking in his shiny bald head, offset by inordinately bushy eyebrows. It struck me as a rather cruel stroke of fate that the only hair he possessed was nowhere near his head. Instead, it had been lavishly distributed above his eyes.

  ‘Have you met the witness yet?’ Wilde asked.

  I nodded. ‘I’ve just come from his boat. I think we have a remedial case on our hands. Coaxing Aiden into revealing anything could take a long time.’

  ‘That’s one thing we don’t have,’ the DCI pointed out, unnecessarily.

  ‘I have to get him to trust me first,’ I stated, calmly. ‘Nothing will happen without that.’

  Wilde cut straight to the point. ‘How long is he going to be in this state?’

  ‘I can’t answer that. If he witnessed the whole thing it must have had a profound effect on him. The victim must have been hurtling along the towpath on her bike, and then all of a sudden, she’s almost decapitated. She fell right outside his boat. It must have been ghastly – a shock to his entire system.’

  The psychiatrist chipped in. ‘Is he still refusing to take antidepressants or sleeping pills?’

  ‘As far as I know.’ PC Ndibi had told me as I left the boat that Aiden wasn’t accepting any medication. ‘But, I’m worried about his state of mind,’ I stressed. ‘Has he made any attempts to harm himself?’

  ‘It’s hard to give an accurate assessment when the patient isn’t speaking,’ said Dr Herts, his pudgy hands folded together on the table. ‘But, I’d say he has too much to live for to go and do anything stupid.’

  ‘Except he may feel this incident has shattered his life forever,’ I said, unable to hide a frown. ‘Has his family been contacted? Can’t anyone come and stay with him on the boat for a while?’

  ‘We can’t track down any family members,’ chipped in DI Fenway. ‘He might have changed his name. We’ve been in touch with various friends, but he’s refusing to let anyone he knows on the boat, apart from his neighbours next to him in the marina.’

  ‘Is it possible to have a police officer on-board round the clock to keep an eye on him?’

  DCI Wilde made a noise that sounded like a cross between a choke and a howl. ‘You seriously think we have money or resources for round-the-clock supervision?’

  I should have realised. Only that morning, I’d seen a report on the news about the Met with the terms ‘spending cuts’, ‘limited resources’ and ‘unsustainable pressures’ being bandied about.

  DI Fenway stepped in again. ‘If we thought Aiden was in danger, from the attacker or himself, we’d have to consider some form of protection. As it is, there’s nothing to suggest he’s a target and nothing in the psychiatric assessment, in so far as Dr Herts has ascertained, to indicate that he intends to harm himself.’

  Dr Herts nodded and his fulsome eyebrows twitched. They reminded me of hairy caterpillars; it was hard to take my eyes off them.

  ‘We’ve got officers dropping in to check on him,’ the DI added, ‘and the harbour master and neighbours are keeping an eye on the boat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. More for taking the sting out of the situation than for what he could offer. ‘Have any other witnesses come forward?’ I added, hopefully.

  ‘No. Mr Blake is our only one,’ grunted Wilde.

  ‘Can we go back to what Aiden saw?’ suggested DI Fenway. ‘Dr Willerby; could Aiden have known the victim? Is that why his reaction is so extreme?’

  I sat back so I could turn to him. There was no longer any sign of that morning’s shaving injury on his neck, but I noticed a faint line of blue biro near his ear.

  ‘It’s possible,’ I said. ‘The report said you’d spoken to a few of his friends and so far, it looks like he didn’t know Kora, but they were both artists.’

  Melvin Herts jumped in again. ‘It could be that Aiden is just a particularly sensitive guy.’

  ‘But will anything useful come back to him?’ pressed the DCI.

&
nbsp; I looked over at Dr Herts, but he was waiting for me to speak. ‘There are no guarantees,’ I said. ‘All I know is we need to tread carefully, it’s a delicate situation.’

  Herts pushed back his chair abruptly. ‘Got to go,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Busy, busy…’ The meeting had only been underway for five minutes.

  A weighty silence followed once he’d closed the door, bristling with frustration from both sides of the table. ‘I’ll tell it to you straight,’ said DCI Wilde. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I think this maniac is going to strike again. We’ve had reports of someone loitering at various points along the same stretch of towpath. Of course, that could be the public getting jittery, but we need to get Mr Blake talking, or drawing, or whatever he’s going to do – and we need him to start doing it now. Like DCS Claussen explained to you, we’ve got a maximum of seven days. Probably less, if we’re being realistic. After that time, I don’t think whatever he has to offer will be of any use to us.’

  I was almost on my feet, poised to wave a belligerent finger at him, but managed to stop myself. I needed to remember that he wasn’t interested in Aiden’s mental state. He wanted him solely as a credible witness.

  DI Fenway broke the impasse. ‘Moving on, what do we know about Kora Washington?’

  DS Hoyland piped up, without looking at her notes. ‘Victim is white, twenty-seven, five-five, weighs a hundred and thirteen pounds, pretty,’ she said. ‘A sculptor at Camden Community Art Project. Former drug-user, but no relapses in the last two years according to her partner and therapist. She does waitressing at the café at CCAP, as well as exhibiting her work there. She’s been with Sponge, her partner, for four years. They have an eighteen-month-old boy, Raven. Devoted mother, apparently, lots of friends. She’s being described as lively and spontaneous, wholesome, loyal…’ She glanced down at her report. ‘Outgoing and selfless.’