Déjà Vu

by Stephen Edger

  FORTY

  It took Jake three attempts to locate the offices of Better Health Partners in Bursledon. Despite inputting the post code from the business card Megan Hopkirk had given him, the Satnav had taken him to a parallel road, and every time he tried to manoeuvre into the road he needed, he came up against ‘No left Turn’ signs. He eventually abandoned the car and jogged back on foot, soon feeling the ache in his calf again.

  But eventually he located the building, and it was no wonder he hadn’t been able to see it from the road. The property’s front was shrouded by a carefully-trimmed all-consuming green and yellow bush that seemed to stretch the entire perimeter. Although the upstairs windows were in view, there was nothing remarkable about them, and unless you knew otherwise, you would assume the property was just another Tudor-style house like all the others in the street.

  Jake hadn’t been sure what to expect, but a converted house in the middle of a residential street wasn’t it. As he approached, he saw the narrow gap in the hedge, flanked by two stone pillars, which although had probably once been pristine white, were now a dreary grey, stained by pollution from passing cars. And on the left-hand pillar a brass sign confirming this was indeed the home of Better Health Partners.

  Checking his watch, Jake wasn’t certain they would still be open and seeing clients, but he headed up the three stone steps to the large oak front door, and pressed the intercom’s buzzer. He gave the receptionist his name and credentials and waited for her to buzz him in.

  The door opened into a small atrium, and although there were two closed doors on this level, both were marked as ‘PRIVATE’ and a laminated arrow on the wall pointed visitors to the reception desk on the first floor. Jake followed the steps up as they wound around and suddenly he found himself in a plush office, the carpet pile thick but beige, two large house plants in the far corner where the window overlooked the street, some single leather armchairs against the walls, and to his immediate right a large panelled desk.

  The woman behind the desk smiled warmly, though her eyes looked tired after a day of being forced to smile at every paying customer. He showed her his identification and explained he wished to speak to Dr Vijay Patel.

  ‘Dr Patel is with a patient right now,’ she advised, shuffling some papers. ‘But if you take a seat, I will advise him that you are waiting to speak to him.’

  Jake thanked her and made his way to one of the armchairs, keeping his eye on the clock behind the desk. Reaching over to the low table next to him, he selected the glossy magazine on the top and thumbed through it, not bothering to read any of the articles and wondering exactly who spent money on journals like this, which seemed to have an advertisement every other page.

  He soon grew bored, dumped the magazine and pulled out his phone. No word from Harry yet, but it had only been half an hour since they’d spoken. Jake had been tempted to send Harry to interview Dr Patel, but it would have taken him at least twice as long to get to the office, and his time was better spent chasing down information closer to the crime scene and Charles Xavier’s home.

  Jake was pleased to see an email from the Scientific Services team who advised Xavier’s hard drive had been examined for prints and admitted into the evidence chain. Evidently, Xavier’s were the only prints found on the device, but it was ready for Jake to collect and view when he was ready.

  He’d been sat waiting for ten minutes when he decided to chance his luck. Rising, he casually meandered over to the reception desk and rested his elbows on the top, smiling at the woman with white hair until she looked up.

  ‘What time are you open until tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘We see patients until eight p.m., though the last appointment is scheduled for seven.’

  ‘And how many quacks work here?’

  ‘Dr Patel, Dr Marshall and Dr Turner work on a rotational pattern. You’re in luck that Dr Patel is the late doctor this week.’

  ‘And do the doctors just see a set list of patients, or is it done on a first-come-first-served basis?’

  ‘We are not a general practitioners,’ she replied, an air of arrogance to her tone. ‘Patients will routinely see the same physician each time they visit as treatment can be a long-term solution. The patient wouldn’t benefit from being chopped and changed and having to re-explain their concerns each time.’

  ‘I see,’ Jake nodded, ‘so if I came in off the street needing to see somebody for the first time, would I get a choice over whom I saw or is it luck of the draw?’

  The woman – Helen according to her badge – sighed. ‘Each doctor specialises in different areas of psychiatry. For example, Dr Patel is an expert in the field of trauma, but he is a qualified psychiatrist and able to support patients with a wide-range of conditions. If we were able to narrow down the exact cause of your symptoms, we would try to place you with the most appropriate doctor.’

  ‘And how would I do that? Narrow down my symptoms, I mean.’

  ‘There is a new patient questionnaire we ask everyone to fill in when they make their first appointment, and then a half hour consultation is booked with any of the doctors to determine who is best placed to continue the care long-term.’

  ‘And what if I didn’t get along with the doctor I’d been assigned? Would it be possible to switch to another?’

  The woman frowned with confusion. ‘I don’t understand, why wouldn’t you get on with the doctor?’

  ‘Let’s say...we had a personality clash or something; could I request a different doctor?’

  I suppose so, but to be honest that’s not yet been an issue here as far as I am aware. But I suppose, if a patient really didn’t like her assigned doctor, then it might be possible to move her treatment to someone else.’

  ‘Do you ever make referrals to other practices in the area?’

  ‘Our first priority is the duty-of-care for the patient. If he or she wasn’t happy here, we could provide a list of other similar practices in the area. But we also have offices in Poole, Bournemouth and Portsmouth.’

  Jake made a note of the locations. ‘So, you’re spread right across the south coast. And are your books full? I mean, are there spaces for new patients?’

  Helen smiled thinly. ‘Are you looking for an appointment?’

  He winked. ‘Do I look crazy?’

  But she didn’t return his smile. ‘We see a variety of patients with a range of concerns, but I wouldn’t classify any of them as crazy.’

  Jake hadn’t meant to cause offence, and swiftly apologised. He’d thought they were building rapport, but had clearly misjudged the situation.

  ‘I wonder if you can do me a favour?’ he asked. ‘I want to know whether you have a patient registered here. If I give you his name and address, can you confirm yes or no?’

  ‘Patient confidentiality is the bedrock of the British healthcare system. I am not at liberty to discuss any client information with you.’

  Jake was afraid she would make things awkward. ‘I don’t want to discuss the reasons he was here, merely whether he is registered. And given that he is no longer alive, patient confidentiality does tend to go out of the window. You know?’

  He’d said it without thinking, like her refusal to tell him what he needed to know was some kind of challenge to overcome. And judging by the sudden blood draining from her face, he could see he’d overstepped the mark.

  But before he could apologise or make amends the door to one of the offices opened, and a tall man with light brown skin and jet black hair emerged, followed by a woman with ginger hair and a face of freckles. The woman didn’t hang around, keeping her head bent low, she left the reception area and clumped down the stairs.

  ‘Dr Vijay Patel?’ Jake asked, without missing a beat. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jake Knight. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?’

  Patel looked from Jake to Helen and then to the clock. ‘Helen, would you mind holding my next patient for a few minutes while I speak to the detective?’

  FORTY-ONE


  Jake didn’t hear Helen’s response, but followed Patel back through to his office, before taking a seat where instructed. The office was about the size of Jake’s living room at home, with a desk against one wall, a full bookcase, against the other, a desk chair, a lounger and an armchair. On the walls, Jake was surprised to see pictures of a younger Patel with a pretty woman; presumably the doctor’s wife or partner.

  ‘What can I do for you, detective?’ Patel asked, cutting to the chase. ‘If it’s about Rita Enfield, I already told your colleague that she wasn’t one of my patients.’

  ‘I’m not working the Enfield case,’ Jake fired back. ‘I wanted to ask you whether you know a gentleman called Charles Xavier, who may or may not have gone by the name Carlos.’

  Patel eyed him warily. ‘I’m sure you understand that I’m not obliged to confirm one way or another.’

  Jake smiled, opening his arms and legs, certain that his posture was making the psychiatrist defensive. ‘But if he wasn’t one of your patients, you’d be able to tell me, so by refusing to tell me, you’re inferring that he was.’

  ‘Wasn’t, and was; interesting that you used the past tense to describe this man. What should I infer from that?’

  Patel was fighting to keep the smirk from his mouth, but not doing a very good job. Jake felt his own shoulders tense.

  ‘There’s no need to infer anything. Charles ‘Carlos’ Xavier’s body was pulled from a lake earlier today, and we have reason to believe he killed himself late on Sunday night.’

  Patel’s demeanour changed in an instant; the smirk gone, replaced by a sorrow that Jake hadn’t expected. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. If the man you are speaking of is the same one I saw at group, then I truly am sorry that he felt unable to continue with his life.’

  ‘He lived in Lyndhurst and was sixty years-old. Sound familiar?’

  Patel nodded grimly. ‘That sounds like him. You said you pulled his body from a lake? He drowned?’

  ‘Cause of death has yet to be confirmed but it’s probable. Was he a patient of yours?’

  ‘Not mine personally. I run a support group once a month for those suffering from bereavement. Carlos was a regular attendee. I believe he was registered with Better Health, but more than likely in the Poole or Bournemouth practices. Lyndhurst to here would be an extraordinary drive for an hour’s counselling session.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Xavier?’

  Patel leaned back, staring at the ceiling while he searched for the memory. Jake glanced up, noticing the fan on the ceiling, and surprised it wasn’t switched on.

  ‘We had a meeting yesterday, but he didn’t show up, so it must have been four weeks ago.’

  ‘And can you tell me why he attended the group?’

  ‘His son Andres died some years ago, and like any heartbroken father, he was still coming to terms with what had happened.’

  Jake scribbled a note in his pad. ‘Do you know how many years ago?’

  Patel shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall. At least two to three I would estimate, but it had had a profound effect on his life. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for what happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’

  ‘I don’t know all the detail – Carlos never went into that – but he carried a huge guilt on his shoulders, and blamed himself.’

  ‘So he was a regular at the meeting?’

  ‘Fairly regular, yes. He didn’t always speak, nobody at the group has to speak, but sometimes it can be comforting just to be among people who understand exactly what you’re going through. Have you ever lost someone close to you, detective?’

  ‘My parents passed some years ago, but nobody else I’d consider close.’

  ‘Grief affects everyone differently, but there is none so hard to rationalise as losing a child. In all my years of listening to people pour out their hearts to me, the hardest to reach are those who have buried a child. But for Carlos it was more than just the loss, it was his involvement in what had happened. But as I say, I don’t know exactly what had happened.’

  ‘Was he depressed?’

  Patel frowned at Jake. ‘Depression can take many forms and, again, affects people in different ways. It’s too easy to label people. He certainly struggled to adopt – what you would call – a normal existence. But my interaction with him was limited. You’d be better speaking to his assigned doctor about the ins and outs of his condition and symptoms.’

  ‘Let me rephrase the question: does it surprise you that he committed suicide?’

  Patel pondered the question. ‘I feel saddened whenever I hear someone has resorted to taking their own life. It makes me feel like I have failed them. Am I surprised? Yes, because I don’t look at anyone and instinctively think they are going to kill themselves. However, there were plenty of signs that Carlos might go that way.’

  ‘And you’re also seeing a patient by the name Megan Hopkirk?’

  Patel straightened up, the defensive wall back in place. ‘Has she...?’ but he was unable to finish the question.

  ‘Committed suicide?’ Jake said. ‘No, not unless she has since I drove over here. No, it was she who suggested I come and speak to you about Carlos.’

  Patel looked confused. ‘I don’t understand. What does Megan have to do with Carlos?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jake replied quickly. ‘She witnessed Rita Enfield’s suicide. It’s a long story, but I wanted to ask if her testimony can be relied upon.’

  Patel made a show of closing his mouth.

  ‘Okay,’ Jake nodded, ‘I get it: you can’t discuss an existing patient. Back to Mr Xavier, was he on any medication for his depression, do you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be privy to that information.’

  ‘Could you look him up on whatever internal system you guys use?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, patient information isn’t shared between practices. It’s for patient security as much as anything else.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t even be able to confirm if he was registered at one of the others?’

  Patel shook his head apologetically. ‘No, I only assume that’s where he heard about the support group. It isn’t something we tend to advertise, but other Better Health physicians can refer patients to the meetings. A support group isn’t for everyone. Some people don’t feel comfortable discussing their histories with strangers. Whereas others find it quite liberating.’

  Jake could understand that. Isabella had once suggested they go to marriage counselling, an idea that he’d been against from the off. But he’d gone with her, and quickly got the impression that the female counsellor had instantly taken Isabella’s side, and he’d struggled to open up after that. Isabella had said if he wasn’t prepared to try and save their marriage, there was little point in going to more sessions. He’d have been more willing to try if she hadn’t have been cheating on him at the time of her righteous indignation.

  ‘Did Mr Xavier ever let on that he was thinking about taking his own life?’ Jake pressed, still not feeling like he was getting any closer to closing the case.

  ‘As I said, there were signs: I remember at one meeting he’d said he wished he’d never been born, and that he would do anything to change what had happened. But explicitly? No he didn’t say he was planning to kill himself.’

  ‘Have many of the group attendees committed suicide?’

  Patel scowled at the loaded question. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  Jake watched him carefully. ‘Well, two of the group’s members have committed suicide in the space of a week. I wondered if they are isolated incidents, or whether the people going to the group are already in that frame of mind.’

  Patel seemed to be losing patience. He had now crossed his arms and was making no secret of his glances at his watch. ‘The people who attend the meetings do so because they need support. For whatever reason they are grieving a loss and want the comfort provided by others in a similar disposition. It is designed to help them adjust to their loss.
As far as I am aware, nobody else has taken their life following attendance at one of the meetings, but I’m hardly in a position to know that. You and I have met for the first time today, and if I never saw you again, how could I possibly know whether you had gone on to commit suicide, or lived happily ever after?’

  It was a fair point, even if it was delivered as an abrupt conclusion to the conversation.

  ‘Now, I’m afraid, unless there is anything specific I can assist you with, detective, I am a very busy man. We have already kept my next patient waiting.’

  Jake took his cue to leave, standing and offering a hand to the doctor, who reluctantly shook it. ‘Thank you for your time and insight, Dr Patel,’ Jake said warmly.

  Patel didn’t say anything else, but stared at the door as if willing Jake to pass through it.

  Jake reached for the door handle, but paused to look back. ‘Would you be able to give me the addresses of the other Better Health practices so I can visit them in the morning?’

  ‘I’m sure Helen can give you that information,’ Patel replied.

  Jake thanked him again, closing the door behind him, unable to shake the niggling doubt that there was something he was missing.

  FORTY-TWO

  How was it possible to feel lonely when surrounded by a room full of people? Megan had known as soon as they’d arrived at the pub that she’d made a horrendous mistake in agreeing to come out with Janice.

  ‘I don’t have a lot of money,’ Megan had regretfully admitted when she’d seen the prices of the meals on the menu.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Janice had nonchalantly replied. ‘You’re here as my guest and protector. Order what you want and I’ll take care of the bill.’

  Megan didn’t want to be regarded as a charity case by anyone, and reluctantly ordered the least expensive meal on the menu, which happened to be fish and chips. But as soon as the rest of the group arrived, Megan had begun to understand that the gathering had very little to do with bingo.