by A J Waines
‘He must have borrowed one from Natalie or Didier,’ I said.
He asked me for the number.
‘Yeah, that’s Natalie’s. But it’s late and it’s a long way over to Limehouse,’ he said wearily. ‘Ring back and tell him you’ll go over first thing in the morning.’
‘No, I don’t want to wait. I might miss something. This is a good sign. He’s making contact, he’s trying to make a connection. And don’t forget what everyone’s been saying about time being of the essence.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ I could almost hear his bones creak as he rallied. ‘Okay, I’ll send someone to let you in. I don’t want you being there on your own. Keep a note of all your expenses, won’t you? Can’t have you out of pocket.’
I thanked him for his concern and was about to leave when I decided I wouldn’t go empty-handed. It was a heavy job lugging the boxes all the way down the stairs, but there was the slimmest chance it might be worth it. I left the pile inside the communal front door, then set out into the night in search of a taxi.
Chapter 9
It was almost 11pm by the time I returned to the marina, but I’d already resigned myself to getting minimal sleep over these seven days. The message could only have come from Aiden; the nature of that little musical box, plucking its little tune in my ear, seemed both intimate and desperate. What did it mean?
PC Ndibi stepped out of the shadows by the marina gates and helped me with my boxes.
‘Been shopping?’ he said.
‘Just tools of the trade,’ I said, enigmatically.
The bow door was already open and I stepped inside. Ndibi followed me and made us all a coffee.
‘I’ll wait in the galley,’ he said, pulling across the wooden partition, ‘and give you two some privacy.’
Aiden was sitting on a banquette, his elbows on the pull-down table, head in his hands. The phone I’d seen earlier near Natalie’s glass of wine, was beside him. No one knew how Aiden wanted to be treated, but my aim was to be as normal with him as possible.
‘Are you okay? You wanted to see me?’
He was constantly trembling as if we were in a different season altogether. There were red patches on his cheeks, blotches around his eyes from crying. I wanted to hug him; he looked like he’d been washed up after a disaster at sea – the sole survivor.
There was an open sketch pad behind him on the dresser. I moved over to get it. He flinched as I got near him. It was common for people with PTSD to jump at the slightest of movements.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
The pad was open at a blank page and it made me think Aiden might have been trying to draw something. ‘Can I see?’ I flicked back a page to the last one he’d done. It was an unfinished drawing of Natalie stroking a cat, with a date four days ago scribbled in the bottom corner.
I found a pencil in a tray on a small table and left it on the notepad beside him, then sat opposite, waiting. He sat back, his head hanging, avoiding all contact with me. His eyes were empty; there was nothing behind them. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and didn’t want me there after all.
I waited in silence; no sighing, no fidgeting, no huffing. When nothing happened, I leant over and examined the drawing again and told him what I saw. ‘It’s lovely… the whiskers of the tabby, the light in Natalie’s hair… fluid shapes, shading, careful detail.’
He looked over at my sandals for a second, then dropped his head again, shutting himself off. I couldn’t see his face to read what inner turmoil he was going through, but everything about his body was uptight and jittery.
I waited a while, then folded the pad over to the blank page again and slid it towards him, holding my breath. He didn’t lift his head, but his hand reached out for the pencil. It was the first positive action I’d seen since we’d met. I sat back, forced myself to stay completely deadpan.
As he rested the point of the pencil on the sheet I could see his hand shaking. He gripped the pencil awkwardly, like he’d never held one before and didn’t know what to do with it. Then he dragged the point in a wobbly, uncontrolled line from one corner to the other. A pained expression claimed his face and he swapped the pencil to his other hand and tried again. With the tip on the paper, he attempted to get it to do what he wanted, but the pencil merely scraped across the page again.
It was like watching someone who had lost all feeling in their hands trying to draw something recognisable. It was hopeless. He looked fraught and humiliated; he couldn’t even doodle. He screwed up his eyes, slammed down the pad and hurled the pencil across the room. It was all too much for him. When I stopped to consider what he must have witnessed, I wasn’t surprised. Imagine bringing in your washing and seeing someone getting thrown off their bicycle, getting their neck sliced open right in front of you. I shuddered at the thought.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘you gave it a go. That took a lot of courage. Don’t push yourself if you’re not ready.’
Aiden propped his chin into his hands. He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t get up and walk away either.
I blew out a silent slow breath. We were a million miles away from a pristine representation of the assailant’s face. That’s all the police wanted, but asking Aiden to draw was like asking him to put his hands into a scorching flame. He just couldn’t do it.
Time for Plan B. ‘Is it okay if we try something else?’ I asked.
He stayed completely still, then put his hands together into a prayer position, his fingers resting against his mouth. Was that a yes or a no? This was a whole new language I didn’t understand. He didn’t look horrified, so I took it in the affirmative.
I dragged the cardboard boxes into the saloon. Ndibi heard the commotion and thought I was leaving. His face fell when I told him I was far from finished, but he’d been well behaved, this time. He hadn’t interfered or talked behind Aiden’s back. Occasionally his radio would crackle and startle me, but most of the time he’d sat silently out of sight with his newspaper.
‘You’ll need the code to the keypad when you do leave eventually,’ he said, handing me a small scrap of paper. ‘You’ll be on your own with Mr Blake from tomorrow.’
Someone overseeing the purse strings at the Met had obviously realised they didn’t have the resources to provide me with a regular gatekeeper.
Aiden watched me as I pulled out a series of plastic topped containers; the type that keep biscuits or cheese fresh. When I peeled off the lids, instead of food, they revealed a selection of miniature models; realistic figures of animals, people, ships, cars, a helicopter, an aeroplane. Another tub held shells and bones, another stones and eggs, one with miniature fruit and veg, one with items from a doll’s house including a grandfather clock, armchair and cot. There were tiny bridges, gates, a castle, figures of Batman, Peter Pan, Darth Vader, Cinderella, a witch, dinosaur, octopus. A cornucopia of fantasy people and objects, all from my office that I’d taken home to clean and mend once I’d returned from Greece. Last of all I placed a flat wooden box, the size of a large tea tray, on the table beside them.
Aiden stared, open-mouthed, at my every move. It was the first time I’d seen an expression bearing any resemblance to interest on his face. I took the lid off the box to reveal a layer of sand, four centimetres deep.
‘I’ll need a wet cloth,’ I said, addressing the PC. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a damp tea towel. He looked as intrigued as Aiden, but I had to usher him back to the galley to give us privacy.
We started first with the sand itself. I invited Aiden to put his hands in the tray to get a feel for the grains of sand. He did as instructed, pushing his fingers deep into the box. I then asked him to see if he could find any items in the containers that would represent what he could smell at this precise moment. It was a ‘here and now’ question designed to be as un-emotive as possible, simply to get Aiden into the routine of using the tools.
I inhaled and was aware of the sweet smell of an overripe
banana on the window ledge, the constant diesel overtone on the boat, coffee from the dregs in our mugs. He looked into the boxes, but didn’t reach out and touch anything. He kept his hands firmly in the sand and hid them there. I asked him a few other simple questions and each time he looked into the boxes, but didn’t move. I stopped after a while. We weren’t getting anywhere. He bit his lip and looked perplexed. It was beyond him.
I thanked Aiden for giving it a try and handed him the wet cloth so he could clean the grains from his hands. With my disappointment came an overwhelming desire for sleep. I was starting to feel nauseous from riding high on adrenalin for so long. I explained this to Aiden. He dropped his head.
‘It’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. I’m just exhausted.’ I tried to stifle a yawn. ‘I think we’ll call it a day. Thank you. I’ll come back tomorrow.’
I called Ndibi and when there was no movement from the galley, I walked through and found him slumped over the table.
‘Spenser?’ I whispered close to his ear. ‘Time to go.’
He snorted, adjusted his uniform and tried to make it look like he’d been on his guard all along. Keen to get going, he left the boat first. As I moved to follow suit, in one deft movement Aiden slipped in front of me and gently pressed the front door shut. As I took another step forward he blocked my path. I froze, not sure what to do. Aiden held his ground, standing right in my way.
‘What’s going on?’ I said calmly. Had I left something behind?
Spenser was knocking on the door. ‘What’s the hold up? Why have you shut the door?’
‘It’s okay,’ I called back. ‘Wait a minute.’
Aiden was looking at the sand tray. I didn’t know what he meant at first, then when I got closer I saw that he’d put something inside. He’d rummaged around in the selection of dolls, knick-knacks and stones when I was talking to Spenser and had placed two china hedgehogs side by side in the sand with a little padlock underneath.
I looked at it for a moment. ‘I don’t know what this means,’ I said gently.
He didn’t move.
‘Two hedgehogs together with a padlock…’ I mused. ‘Safety? Together?’ Then I got it. ‘You want me to stay?’
His lip twisted to one side; it was almost a smile, but fear kept his eyes wide, making him look like a helpless child.
‘Have I got it right? You want me to stay here with you on the boat?’
He nipped his lips together and dropped his head.
I was aware of how young he was beneath his bold, sophisticated veneer, but my immediate impulse was to decline. It would be awkward. Too close.
‘Aiden, I can’t. Thank you for your trust in me, but you’re my patient – it’s a bit too… intimate.’ There, I’d said it, but honesty seemed the best way.
There were no histrionics, no tears – he politely showed me the two figures in the sandbox again. He drew a box around the objects with his finger and waited. He didn’t want me to leave. He didn’t want to be alone.
The notion of sleeping a few feet from each other, therapist and patient in this small space was entirely inappropriate. It was unheard of in my profession. Regardless of breaching professional boundaries, Aiden was a man I knew very little about. He didn’t have a police record, but it didn’t mean he might not be dangerous, especially if he wasn’t in his right mind.
On second thoughts, if my approach was going to work, I needed to reduce the amount of stress Aiden was under to the absolute minimum. Only once he felt safe and in control, would he be able to reveal to me what he’d seen. What better way to have him open up to me than to be beside him as much as possible, where I could work intensively with him on both his recovery and secure evidence for the police?
But, I’d had an issue before with patient boundaries and it hadn’t ended well. That said, it wasn’t always easy to see what was best and this case was so entirely different from any other I’d come across. Before I made my decision I told Aiden I had to make a call. He let me open the door where I found a bemused PC Ndibi on the other side.
‘What’s going on? Everything alright?’
‘Yep.’ I patted his arm and asked him to call the police psychiatrist on duty at the station. He handed me his phone once he was put through.
‘This is Dr Molliford,’ a female voice told me. ‘Dr Herts went off duty early today.’
I gave her the gist of the situation.
‘You want to move in with him?’ she scoffed. ‘It’s highly irregular.’
‘It would be entirely above board and professional. Purely a working relationship.’
‘How can you possibly justify it?’
‘Aiden’s barely an adult. He doesn’t appear to be communicating with anyone else. He has no available family and he’s blocking all his friends, but he’s made a connection with me…’
An uncomfortable silence hung between us.
‘This isn’t just about Aiden’s recovery,’ I ploughed on, ‘it’s about finding a maniac and Aiden is our only witness. This is a sign we’re making progress. He’s trying to engage with me. If I’m here all the time, it could make all the difference to his recovery and the case.’ Instead of asking for her opinion, I realised I was willing her to approve.
‘Well, it’s highly unorthodox. Is there no other way?’
‘He won’t leave the boat. He’s traumatised in a way I’ve never seen before. He needs to feel safe and he’s started to trust me.’
‘Okay. I’ll authorise it,’ Dr Molliford relented. ‘As long as you don’t undermine any police procedures or ethical considerations. You’re his therapist, not his mother…’
With that she cut me off.
I handed back the phone. I was staying. I popped my head round the door and told Aiden. He stood gazing at his bare feet as though he hadn’t heard.
‘I need to go back home for some things,’ I said, holding the door open, ‘but I’m coming straight back.’ I saw him glance over at the two hedgehogs in the sand, but his expression didn’t shift. ‘I promise.’
Chapter 10
Friday, June 15 – Three weeks earlier
Pippa followed Mr Morino’s directions past the tailor and into the square with a church in the centre. She stood on the corner and peered along the row of houses to the right, searching for the dark red entrance. True enough, it was the third house down.
The heavy front door had been left slightly ajar, and when Pippa rang the bell she could hear a voice, but couldn’t see anyone. She stepped tentatively inside and was disconcerted at first. The hallway was long and dark, with no lights on.
She called out, ‘Mr Morino? Are you there?’
‘Is that Pippa? I’m just down here,’ he shouted. ‘Come inside and follow the light – I’ve just had a power-cut and I’m trying to find the trip switch.’
Her heels tapped hesitantly along the bare hallway before she reached the doorframe to the cellar.
‘I’m really sorry about this,’ came his voice from the shadows. Pippa could see a torch flicking around below. ‘The electrics have blown. I’m not sure if it’s just here or the whole street. Isn’t Mildred there to meet you?’
Pippa turned and stared into the gloom, listening for footsteps. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. ‘Mildred?’ she called out. Then louder, ‘Is anyone there?’
Her voice bounced off the walls and bare floorboards, ringing in the air.
She could make out two closed doors in the hall, but one didn’t have a door handle, so she tapped on the other one. No response. She retraced her steps towards the entrance and glanced up the stairs. She didn’t fancy straying up there. The place was chilled and smelt musty, as though no one had lived here for years. The only signs of life were coming from the cellar.
‘Mildred has probably popped out for torch batteries,’ came the voice. ‘Are you any good with fuse boxes?’
She returned to the cellar doorway. ‘Not really.’
‘Why don’t you come down anyway?
Four eyes are better than two.’
She faltered. ‘Can’t you come up?’
‘Not much point if we can’t see what we’re doing. I’ve closed all the curtains to make sure the painting doesn’t get seen by anyone snooping around… you know… looking in the windows. You can’t be too careful. I’ve got a special lamp we can use, so I can show you how we know it’s an original. But only if I can get this damn power back on. We can hardly take the masterpiece out into the street!’ His laugh sounded easy and wholesome.
She peered down the wooden steps but held her ground. It really didn’t look inviting down there.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he went on, ‘I’m useless at anything electrical. But, we might as well try as you’ve come all this way. I’d hate to send you away and then give the story to someone else…’
He waited in the silence, holding his breath.
That was the point at which everything could swing either one way or the other. He had it all meticulously planned. He just had to be patient.
He heard a shuffle and thought he’d lost her, then one step at a time, her shoes clunked down the steep steps. Before he saw her, he could smell her perfume pervading the space. He briefly closed his eyes letting the waft wrap around him. She needed a few moments to adjust to the light and it was then, as soon as she reached the bottom step, that he nipped into the space behind her and charged up the steps. Then – bang. The cellar door was shut and bolted.
Like a rat in a cage, he’d got her.
She didn’t know it then, but in a few weeks’ time Pippa French would become the star of the show.
Chapter 11
Saturday, July 7 – Day Two
My buzzing phone brought me sharply to an upright position. I answered it and stared around me, trying to work out where I was.
‘I tried your flat first and got the answerphone.’ It was Miranda.
