Lost Summer

by Stuart Harrison

  ‘Thanks, Findlay,’ Adam muttered to himself. He imagined that questions had already been asked to try and find the source of the leak. He hoped that nobody linked it to Dr Keller.

  On TV the chief inspector thanked the media for their attendance and attempted to leave the room. He remained wooden-faced while reporters crowded around him and hurled questions from all sides.

  Given that the Courier story had included references to the tarpaulin and chains used to wrap and weigh the body down, it was a foregone conclusion that the victim had been murdered. A reporter shoved his microphone at the inspector and asked if the police were looking for anyone beyond James Allen, their original suspect in the Coucesco case, who was now dead.

  ‘At this stage we’re not considering making any further enquiries beyond establishing the identity of the remains with as much certainty as possible. Thank you very much.’

  The scene switched back to the studio where the newsreader began recounting the events of 1985. An artist’s image of Meg filled the screen and then was replaced with old footage of searchers combing the woods and the fells around Castleton. Again the image switched and showed James Allen as he was released from custody after police questioning. The final image was a still they had recovered from somewhere of the burnt-out wreck of Allen’s van.

  Adam switched off the set. He wondered if David was watching. Whatever had happened all those years ago, it was unlikely anyone would ever know the truth now. But fate, Adam had often thought, has a way of dealing with past wrongs. What goes around, so they say, comes around.

  It was still early when he left the New Inn for the drive east across the fells past Alston and Stanhope. The road wasn’t busy, and though the sky was leaden and ominous it remained dry. On the bleak high ground, where the hills were brown and windswept, the landscape broken only by stone walls, there was a sprinkling of snow from the night before. At one point near the old lead mines on Killhope Moor across the county border into Durham, Adam pulled over to get some air. It was freezing and he managed five minutes with his collar up and shoulders hunched against the bitter wind before he went back to the sanctuary of the Porsche. It took him a good ten minutes with the heater on full before he felt fully thawed out again. The weather report on the radio talked of a sudden end to the balmy autumn the country had experienced and predicted more winds from the icy north.

  He arrived on the outskirts of Durham city just after eleven, and pulled over into a hotel car park. Inside he asked at reception if he could borrow a phone book, and found Barstock Clinic listed in the directory. When he called and spoke to an administrator he told her that he was a journalist and that he was trying to track down a man who he believed might once have worked at the clinic. The name meant nothing to her, which didn’t surprise him. He doubted that Jones was the type to stay anywhere for long, whether he left of his own accord or was fired. The person he spoke to asked him to hold while she put him through to the director’s office, and after a short wait he heard a woman’s voice.

  ‘This is Dr Hope speaking. How may I help you?’

  He went through it all again. ‘I was wondering if somebody there might know if Jones did work at the clinic in ’eighty-five.’

  ‘Actually, I was here at that time.’

  ‘Then you remember him?’

  She took a few moments to answer, and when she did it wasn’t directly. ‘Why did you say you were interested in this man, Mr Turner?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’d be happy to explain it in person if you can spare me a few minutes of your time. I’m calling from a hotel called the Rosedale just off the A690. I think it’s quite close to the clinic.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ she answered, her reluctance evident. ‘However, I really don’t know that I can help you. Mr Jones only worked here for quite a short time, and I’m afraid I have no idea where he is now. It was a very long time ago.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps I could speak to you anyway. Who knows, maybe something you remember might help me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m really rather busy.’

  ‘Well, maybe you can answer one question at least. Has anybody else contacted you about Jones recently? A young woman called Jane Hanson?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid the name doesn’t ring a bell.’

  There was a note in Dr Hope’s tone that struck Adam as off key. She’d hesitated before answering, as if she wanted to give the impression that she was thinking about it. But that was all wrong. It was the kind of thing people assumed was expected of them, like actors in a play. But surely she would have no trouble remembering if somebody else had come around asking about a man the clinic had employed seventeen years ago.

  ‘Perhaps she spoke to somebody else,’ Adam suggested.

  ‘I really don’t think so.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that, Dr Hope.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Normally I would expect any enquiry of this nature to be directed through my office, as yours was. I’m not aware of any such enquiry, Mr Turner. Of course, I might be mistaken,’ she added reasonably. ‘Why don’t I take your number and I’ll check with our administrator. If I learn that anybody spoke to your Ms Hanson I’ll certainly let you know.’

  It was a good attempt to put him off, Adam was prepared to give her that. But it wasn’t going to work. ‘The thing is I really need to find Jones quickly. Perhaps if I came to see you now … if you could spare me just a few minutes?’

  ‘As I said I’m really very busy.’

  ‘Then perhaps I could talk to your administrator myself.’

  In the face of his persistence she eventually relented, though her irritation was obvious. ‘Very well,’ she said crisply. ‘Perhaps I could squeeze you in if you came now. Just for a few minutes.’

  Adam smiled to himself. ‘I appreciate it, Doctor. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad to help,’ she said, sounding not at all glad, and gave him directions on how to get there.

  A discreet sign outside the gate announced the presence of the Barstock Clinic, which was surrounded by a high stone wall. Once inside the rest of the world receded. Gravelled walkways meandered along avenues of trees surrounded by rolling manicured lawns. Here and there seats had been placed where people could sit and immerse themselves in the tranquillity of the surroundings. As Adam drove along the entrance road he saw a dozen or more people doing just that, despite the cold. One or two watched with vague curiosity as he passed by, but most sat placidly ignoring him.

  The clinic itself was housed in what must have once been a manor house. It was an imposing building made of local grey stone with gabled wings at each end. The entire façade was clad with ivy, adding to the sense of permanence the visitor immediately felt. A wide row of steps led to huge entrance doors, through which were a large hall housing a reception office and a grand staircase. The atmosphere was one of privilege, a sanctuary for the wealthy. It could have been an up-market health farm.

  A young woman in a crisp pale blue uniform smiled politely as Adam approached and introduced himself.

  ‘Of course. Dr Hope is expecting you.’ She reached for a phone. ‘Please have a seat and I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  He thanked her, but rather than sit down he loitered in the hallway. One or two people passed by with the dazed expressions of the heavily medicated. He nodded to one who responded only with a vacant stare. Dr Hope, when she appeared, was tall and thin and dressed in a conservatively cut business suit. Her dark hair was cut short almost to the point of severity and the smile she greeted him with as they shook hands was controlled.

  ‘Mr Turner. Please come this way. We’ll talk in my office.’

  As they entered a long oak-panelled corridor he asked questions about the building and the clinic in general, partly out of curiosity, partly in the hope that she would let down her guard a little. Her defensiveness bristled like quills beneath her outwardly smooth exterior. She told him that the manor itself dated from the fourteenth century, while the clinic had com
e into being during the First World War.

  ‘Its initial purpose was to treat victims of what we would call post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘Shell shock?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, perhaps treat isn’t the right term. The aim then was to return the men to active duty as soon as possible. Shell shock wasn’t officially recognized. Not at first.’

  They came eventually to Dr Hope’s office, where a small sign on the door announced her title of Clinic Director. The room inside was large and comfortably furnished. A desk with a computer on it stood at one end, and behind were lead-latticed windows deeply recessed into the thick stone walls. The furnishings were largely modern and comfortable, though a sprinkling of antiques sat unobtrusively among the rest. Dr Hope indicated that they should sit at a table where coffee things had been laid out. As they sat down a young woman emerged from an inner door and poured coffee for them.

  ‘Thank you, Sarah,’ Dr Hope said. She waited until the young woman had retreated again before she began. ‘You said that you’re a journalist, Mr Turner. May I ask which newspaper you work for?’

  ‘I don’t actually. I’m freelance.’

  ‘I see. Well, since you phoned I’ve spoken to the administration staff, and also to the other staff members who worked at the clinic during the period that Mr Jones was employed here, and they each confirmed that they haven’t spoken to the young lady you mentioned.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘You spoke to everybody who was here in ’eighty-five?’ He didn’t try to conceal his scepticism. ‘You didn’t waste any time.’

  ‘There are only a few of us, Mr Turner.’

  ‘And you’re certain that none of them spoke to Jane Hanson?’

  The director carefully replaced her cup. ‘That’s correct. As a matter of interest, do you mind if I ask who this Ms Hanson is exactly? Is she a journalist like yourself?’

  ‘No she isn’t,’ Adam said, noting the glimmer of relief in the director’s eyes. ‘Is that what’s worrying you, Doctor? The fact that I’m a journalist?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m just wondering why you’re so reluctant to speak to me.’

  ‘I assure you that it’s not a case of reluctance, rather of simply being unable to help. The man you’re looking for was employed here for only a very short time.’

  Adam looked around the room and out of the window at the well-kept serenity within the outer wall. ‘The Barstock Clinic is a private psychiatric facility I understand?’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘No doubt discretion is important to a place like this.’

  Dr Hope regarded him levelly. ‘The people who come here, and their families for that matter, have very high expectations. Aside from the assurance we give that the care and treatment we provide is exceptional, we have a reputation for the utmost discretion, it’s true.’

  ‘Are you worried that speaking to me will somehow compromise that reputation?’

  Her response was a thin smile. ‘In what way, Mr Turner?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I’m a little surprised that nobody’s heard of Jane Hanson. I know that she was looking for Jones, and this was the last place he was known to be. I can’t imagine that she didn’t come here, but you say she didn’t, which makes me wonder why.’

  Ignoring his implication Dr Hope rose from her seat, signalling that their interview was at an end. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve had a wasted journey. But I really can’t help you.’

  Adam remained seated, voicing his thoughts. ‘Could it be that there’s something you don’t want me to know about? Maybe Jane discovered something about Jones you’d rather wasn’t made public knowledge.’

  ‘As I have said, Mr Turner, quite clearly I believe, Ms Hanson did not come here. I’m afraid your information is incorrect.’

  ‘No, I don’t think it is.’

  The director regarded him coldly, then crossed to her desk and picked up the phone. ‘I’m going to have to call security and have you removed.’

  ‘Before you do, maybe I should mention that whatever Jane learned here may have directly or indirectly led to the deaths of three people.’

  ‘I will allow you one more chance to leave of your own accord.’

  ‘That doesn’t bother you at all?’

  ‘I refuse to be drawn into a hypothetical debate.’

  ‘These people were students. Kids really, and there’s nothing hypothetical about the fact that they’re dead, Doctor.’

  For a moment she appeared to waver, studying him as if she was trying to discern if what he was saying was true. Then she punched in some numbers and waited.

  ‘If you speak to me now, I guarantee you won’t read about it in the weekend papers,’ he said.

  There was a flicker of response and then it was evident that somebody had answered her call. Adam regarded her steadily. A second passed, and then another until finally resignation settled in the director’s eyes. ‘No, it’s alright, John. I misdialled that’s all.’ She replaced the phone and returned to her chair, her expression thoughtful. ‘What would you have done if I’d had you removed?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but I might have called a friend of mine who works for one of the tabloids and told her that if she dug deep enough she might find a juicy story. Maybe something to do with a wealthy patient, possibly somebody well-known. The tabloids love a scandal, especially when it involves celebrities or aristocracy.’

  She considered that. ‘I think that now you’re guessing.’

  ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But do you really want somebody from one of the scandal rags nosing around?’

  She allowed herself a wry smile. ‘No, I admit that possibility does not appeal to me. Alright, Mr Turner. You were right. I did speak to Ms Hanson.’

  Once Dr Hope had agreed to talk, her icy exterior melted a little. She told Adam that Jane had phoned one day out of the blue wanting to know if Chris Jones had worked for the clinic during the mid-eighties. Just as Adam’s call had been referred to Dr Hope, so had Jane Hanson’s.

  ‘But unlike me you agreed to see her?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I was taken aback to hear Jones’s name again after such a long time. My immediate reaction was to discover why Ms Hanson was interested in him.’

  ‘And to see if it would affect the clinic?’

  ‘That was my concern, yes.’

  ‘Because of something related to Jones?’

  She nodded. ‘As you guessed there was an incident during the time that Jones was employed at the clinic that I’m sure certain newspapers would love to hear about. Although it was all a long time ago now if what happened were ever to leak out the resulting publicity would have a disastrous effect. You may think by that I’m referring to the financial impact on the clinic, Mr Turner, but in fact though we are a private facility, what motivates myself, and I would say most of the people employed here, is the work we do. Mental health in this country is vastly underfunded. Not all of our patients come from wealthy backgrounds. Without this clinic many of the people we treat would never have the opportunity to rebuild lives that have been destroyed by their illness. It’s only because of the income we derive from those patients who can afford to pay for the best of care that we’re able subsidize the treatment of others less well off.’

  ‘I’m only interested in what Jane wanted to know when she came here,’ Adam assured her.

  ‘She was looking for Jones. She asked how long he’d worked here and when I told her he left after less than six months she wondered if I knew where he might have gone.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘I gave her an address that we had on record, where Jones used to live.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Adam said. ‘Why would you give a total stranger the address of an old employee? Particularly one who you’d rather not be reminded of.’

  ‘The answer is very simple: self-interest. You see, Ms Hanson struck me as a ver
y determined young lady. It was quite clear to me that she would not desist in her efforts to locate Jones. If I didn’t give her somewhere else to look she would have sought out other people to help her and in doing so she might have uncovered some matters that I would prefer remain where they belong. Which is firmly in the past.’

  ‘And when I phoned?’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Ms Hanson caught me unawares. This time I’m afraid when I heard that you were a journalist I tried to steer you away completely.’

  ‘Did Jane tell you why she was looking for Jones?’ he asked.

  ‘She said that she was involved in a protest somewhere in Cumbria; something to do with preventing the building of a holiday park. She thought that Jones and another man had illegally influenced the outcome of a submission for planning permission. I believed her until you turned up. To be honest after you phoned earlier I began to wonder if perhaps she was a journalist too.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry on that score. Jane was telling you the truth. The other man she mentioned, did she tell you his name?’

  ‘She might have, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Was it perhaps Johnson? David Johnson?’

  Dr Hope frowned. ‘I think she might have mentioned that name. Though I couldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she told you why she suspected that Jones was involved in this scheme to influence the council?’

  ‘Something she overheard by chance, I believe. But I don’t know what it was.’

  Adam recalled that when he’d spoken to Ellie at the camp she’d mentioned something jane had overheard in a pub. Had that been Jones and David talking?

  Dr Hope went to her desk where she retrieved a key from a drawer, which opened a filing cabinet. When she came back she was carrying an old faded manila folder. ‘This is Jones’s employment record, which I retrieved from the files downstairs when Ms Hanson visited me.’ She opened it and copied down something on a slip of paper that she handed to Adam. ‘This is the address that I gave her.’