Lost Summer

by Stuart Harrison

  Adam glanced at it. It was a number and street in Durham. ‘Thanks.’ He put it in his pocket.

  ‘You mentioned something earlier. The deaths of three young people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you mean by that, and what does Jones have to do with it?’

  ‘I wish I knew. There was a car accident at the beginning of September and three students were killed. It’s possible the accident was connected to Jones in some way. I think it’s linked to where he worked before he came here.’

  ‘Carisbrook Hall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ The director pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Jones was originally employed on the basis of references he supplied from a man called Dr Colin Webster. Do you know who he was?’

  ‘The director of Carisbrook. I’ve spoken to him. I also know about Jones being prosecuted for selling drugs in Carlisle.’

  ‘A fact nobody here was aware of until much later. Since you know about that then perhaps I’m not telling you anything when I say that the reference supplied by Dr Webster was entirely misleading.’

  Adam nodded. ‘My guess is that he wanted rid of Jones to avoid a scandal. What exactly happened when Jones came to work here?’ Dr Hope seemed reluctant to answer. ‘The only reason I ask is that it might have some bearing on the rest of this somehow. Though I don’t know how.’

  ‘This won’t go any further?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Towards the end of ‘eighty-five we had a patient here. She was a well-known television actress. In fact she still is. I won’t mention her name. At the time she was quite young, in her early twenties. She had been in the papers a lot the year before she came here. She had a reputation for wild living, I suppose you could call it. Parties, drinking, drugs. Her picture had been splashed across the front of some of the more salacious tabloids on several occasions when she had been photographed in various compromising situations. I’m sure you understand the sort of thing I mean. Anyway, finally, after a suicide attempt that the press never heard about she was persuaded by her family to come here where she was diagnosed as suffering from manic depression. The drinking and drugs, the unpredictable behaviour were all aspects of her illness. Jones would have started working here about the same time as she was admitted.’

  ‘As a nurse aide?’

  ‘Yes. Although it soon became apparent that he knew very little about what goes on in a clinic like Barstock. At that time I wasn’t the director of course. In fact, the actress I told you about was one of my patients, and Jones was assigned to work with me.’ She paused. ‘When I look back now, I realize that I should have had Jones fired immediately. It was quite clear to me that he had very little understanding or empathy for the needs of our patients. And apart from that I didn’t trust him, or even like him for that matter. Part of the reason I didn’t act was his glowing reference from Carisbrook, which puzzled me actually, but primarily it was because I felt guilty about my instinctive dislike for the man. A hazard of the profession I suppose. The tendency to analyse one’s thoughts and reactions. Perhaps overly so.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow. Why exactly did you feel guilty about the way you felt?’

  ‘I was afraid that my feelings about Jones stemmed at least in part from his appearance.’

  Adam looked blank.

  ‘I assumed you knew. One side of his face was quite badly scarred. Of course, it wasn’t his fault but it gave him quite a gruesome appearance. I was actually worried that some of the patients might find it disturbing. I was also concerned that my own professional judgement about Jones was coloured by what I can only describe as an instinctive revulsion. Of course now, with the benefit of time and hindsight I know that my feelings were normal. Jones was an unpleasant personality. His outward appearance had nothing to do with the way I felt about him. I was reacting to what I sensed about the man inside, but the psychiatrist in me resisted that interpretation. Until Jones proved my suspicions about him were correct.’

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘He had been here for several months, during which time I must admit his work did improve. At first he was practically incompetent, but I suppose once he got used to the way the clinic operated, which would have been quite different from Carisbrook, he began to settle in. Perhaps that was why I let my guard down. Unbeknownst to me, however, he began smuggling in alcohol, and some soft drugs too I suspect, which he was giving to the young actress I was treating. Though there were one or two occasions when I suspected that she had obtained alcohol from somewhere she denied it completely, and it was hard to see where she could have got it anyway. She had no means of paying anybody to bring it in for her. In the end when the whole thing came to a head, I discovered that Jones hadn’t asked for payment of any kind. Instead he’d brought in a camera that he’d used to take semi-pornographic photographs of the actress when she was drunk. It turned out he’d used them to try and blackmail her family, threatening to sell them to the tabloid press if they didn’t buy him off.’

  ‘Nice guy. Presumably the family complied?’

  ‘Actually, no. They came to the clinic, understandably furious, and Jones was forced to hand over all the pictures and then fired.’

  ‘The police weren’t informed?’

  The director dropped her gaze for a second. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Because nobody wanted a scandal,’ Adam guessed.

  ‘Yes.’

  All of which made it reasonable to assume that stealing drugs wasn’t all Jones was doing at Carisbrook, Adam thought. What else had he been allowed to get away with in order to protect other people’s reputations? ‘Did he get a redundancy cheque and a reference from Barstock too when he left?’ he asked scathingly.

  ‘No, Mr Turner, he did not. I’m not defending what happened, but at the time it was considered the best thing. In the interests of everyone.’

  ‘I’m sure. Did Jones threaten to expose what had happened?’

  ‘I doubt it. As I said I wasn’t the director then, so matters were quickly out of my hands.’ She paused and then said, ‘You may not believe this but I do know that there was a limit to what Jones was allowed to get away with. If he had forced the issue, scandal or not, the police would have been called in. Jones would have been under no illusion about that.’

  ‘Okay. Maybe I was a bit harsh,’ Adam conceded. ‘Sorry.’ He decided to try a long shot. ‘Doctor, have you ever heard the name Marion Crane?’

  It didn’t register. ‘I’m sorry, it doesn’t mean anything.’

  He explained briefly that he believed whoever she was, somehow she was connected with Jones and the development. Dr Hope could add nothing more about either Jones or Jane Hanson’s visit, except that she had not told Jane about why Jones had been fired, and that Jane hadn’t asked. When he thought about that Adam could only conclude that what had happened at Barstock wasn’t directly relevant, though it did reinforce Adam’s idea of the kind of person Jones was.

  ‘There’s something else you should perhaps consider,’ the director said, as she led the way from her office. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but Dr Webster would have treated at least some private patients at Carisbrook.’

  Adam was surprised. ‘I thought it was a public institution.’

  ‘It was. But that wouldn’t have precluded Webster from having an arrangement with the local authority whereby he was permitted to devote a proportion of his time and perhaps the facilities there to his own patients. And there’s something else. You mentioned the name Marion Crane before. If she was ever a patient at Carisbrook, it’s quite possible that wasn’t her real name. The use of pseudonyms is quite common. The actress I mentioned, for example, was admitted under her own name, which wasn’t, however, the name by which she was professionally known. A sort of reversal in that case.’

  When Adam left Dr Hope escorted him to the front entrance, where they shook hands. Adam thanked her for her help and she apologized
for her initial reluctance.

  ‘If Jones has done anything wrong, I hope you find him and that he is punished for it,’ she added. She handed him a slip of paper that she produced from her pocket. ‘That’s why I want you to have this. The truth is despite my justifications I’ve always regretted that Jones wasn’t handed over to the authorities for what he did. Perhaps if he’d gone to prison we might not be having this conversation now.’

  The consequences of guilt, Adam mused. He could certainly relate to that. He read what she’d written. It was an address in Tynemouth. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure I was going to give this to you. You see, Ms Hanson didn’t find Jones at the address in Durham I gave you. He left there years ago of course. But during the time Jones worked at the clinic he became friendly with one of the gardeners, who was an ex-merchant seaman. Apparently something they had in common. Anyway, the gardener is still here. Ms Hanson came back and spoke to him, something I wasn’t aware of until this morning, and he gave her this address. Apparently he’s seen Jones once or twice over the years. He thinks Jones still lives here when he’s not at sea.’

  ‘At sea?’

  ‘He went back to his old profession I gather.’

  When he got in his car Adam looked at the address again. Here at last, he was somehow sure, was where Jane Hanson had ended her search for Jones. Here too, he guessed, was where she had gotten the copies of Marion Crane’s medical records. A record of something that had happened seventeen years ago that Adam was now sure must somehow be linked to the planning committee. Perhaps Jones had heard about the development and realized the value of what he knew and then he had sought out somebody who would be willing to pay for that information. David. It fitted. A conversation Jane Hanson had overheard by chance in a pub, which had ultimately led her to Marion Crane’s records.

  But Jane had then returned to London. Perhaps finally being corrupted herself. It seemed likely. Add to that the fact that her relationship with Ben was nearing a natural end and it was likely she wouldn’t have told him everything. Perhaps he had stayed on with the others hoping to discover the answers Jane already had. His motivation might even have been partly the hope that success might win him some favour with Jane again. A naïve and ironic hope if it was true, and ultimately tragic. Had Ben and the others found enough to expose blackmail and a rigged vote? Is that why they were killed?

  Dr Hope had told him that it wasn’t unusual for people to use pseudonyms. Marion Crane. Carol Fraser. Could they be the same person?

  Adam was tempted to go straight to the address in Tynemouth. If he could find Jones there all his questions would be answered. Looking up the area on a road map he saw the quickest route would be to head for Newcastle on the Al and then cross the Tyne at Jarrow. But by the time he got there traffic would be building and it would be getting dark and he didn’t know his way around. He would be better off going back to Castleton and heading for Tynemouth in the morning. He was still mulling over his options when his mobile phone rang. When he answered it was Angela.

  ‘Adam, where are you?’ she asked. She sounded distraught.

  ‘I’m in Durham. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Nick. He’s dead.’ He heard her take a breath. ‘David’s been arrested.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Karen settled herself into the passenger seat of Nigel’s Jaguar. He closed the door and hurried around the front of the car, holding a newspaper above his head to protect himself from the rain. He got in and brushed the sleeves of his suit.

  ‘Bloody weather,’ he complained.

  It wasn’t raining heavily, just a light drizzle, but it had been falling steadily all afternoon. The streets glistened blackly in the light from the streetlamps. The air was full of a misty vapour.

  Nigel adjusted the driving mirror to check his tie. ‘Is that alright, darling? How do I look?’

  ‘You look fine,’ Karen assured him.

  He caught her expression of suppressed amusement. ‘You can laugh, Karen, but this dinner is important.’

  There was a faint authoritarian reproof in his tone. It came through now and again, reminiscent of some Edwardian aristocrat in one of those BBC period dramas that she hated. It was an aspect of his personality that she didn’t like. She supposed it was a legacy of his upbringing. Boarding school at Harrow, and home to the family pile in the holidays. Despite Nigel’s frequent protestations about not being some old-fashioned stuffed shirt, sometimes she thought that was exactly what he was.

  He glanced at his watch, exposing an inch or two of dazzling white cuff, which she personally hated with a striped shirt. She noted that he appeared to have been for a manicure.

  ‘Let’s hope the traffic isn’t too bad,’ he said.

  She used to think he was good-looking. He was always impeccably turned out. She’d once surreptitiously inspected the closet at his London flat and counted twenty-nine individually tailored suits, which she had thought was a bit over the top considering they were all remarkably similar: dark, conservative, very bankerish. She still thought he was good-looking, but maybe he was a little too well groomed. She was beginning to think he was fastidious.

  They hadn’t moved and she realized he was regarding her with a slight frown. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She looked down at her dress, which was a Donna Karan. Black, elegant, and had cost a bloody fortune. Nigel, however, didn’t altogether approve. She had spent hours getting ready for this dinner, which she hadn’t even wanted to go to in the first place, and when she’d come into the living room feeling like a million dollars he’d eyed her critically.

  ‘Haven’t you got something a little more formal?’ he’d commented.

  ‘What do you mean by formal?’

  Her tone should have warned him, but he was not always perceptive when it came to these things. ‘Well, less showy perhaps. It’s a lovely dress, darling, I’m just not sure it’s entirely appropriate that’s all. What do you think?’

  What did she think? She hated it when he did that. Made some criticism of her and then asked her to agree with him, all wreathed in smiles. And she hated that he always called her darling too. My name is bloody Karen, she wanted to say. Darling made her sound like his wife.

  His wife. Therein, she thought, lay the real problem. Since he’d proposed, she seemed to find herself looking for faults in him. Qualities she’d once liked, she now found irritating. Things she hadn’t even noticed before got under her skin. Oh dear.

  He wisely interpreted the look she gave him as a signal to drop it about her dress and pulled out into the evening traffic. At the end of the road he indicated left. ‘Don’t forget we have to go to Shepherd’s Bush first,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Darling, we can’t go now. We’ll be late.’

  ‘Nigel, you agreed.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but look at the traffic. Can’t you do it tomorrow? These clients are important, Karen.’

  ‘I see. So my job isn’t important, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Now, don’t start that. You know jolly well that isn’t what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t bloody well patronize me. I don’t jolly well know anything,’ Karen said acidly. ‘I agreed I’d come to this dinner providing we went to Shepherd’s Bush first, and now you’re trying to wriggle out of it because what you have to do is of course far more important than anything I might have to do.’ A little voice in her head said that she should stop now, having made her point. However, she ignored it. ‘If I’m interpreting this incorrectly please explain it to me, Nigel. Otherwise you can stop your jolly car and I’ll jolly well go by my jolly old self and you and your precious clients can have a jolly old time without me.’

  He looked across at her, clearly taken aback. She glared at him angrily.

  ‘Alright,’ he said stiffly. ‘There’s no need to lose your temper. I’ll take you to Shepherd’s Bush first.’

  ‘Thank you very bloody much.’

/>   They drove in tense silence all the way. Streams of traffic were crawling along trying to get onto the Westway. Uxbridge Road was a nightmare, and to make things worse Nigel pointedly glanced at his watch every five minutes. He was doing it to irritate her, since there was a perfectly good clock in the dashboard display.

  Eventually they turned into a maze of streets before East Acton. Nigel followed the directions she gave him, though with every turn she sensed his growing frustration.

  ‘Is it much further?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Take the next left.’

  ‘I suppose this has to do with the Hanson woman again.’

  The corner of Garden Road was just ahead and Karen told Nigel to turn left. It was raining heavily now, and she peered at the houses looking for a parking space near number twenty-nine. This was the fourth time she’d been to the house and there was invariably an unbroken line of cars parked along both kerbs.

  ‘In answer to your question, yes it is,’ Karen said, and pointed ahead. ‘Pull over there.’

  ‘I don’t know why you simply can’t accept that she obviously doesn’t want to talk to you,’ Nigel grumbled, as he aimed the Jag into a space between a Volkswagen and a people mover. Karen ignored him. ‘After all, she hasn’t answered any of your messages has she?’

  She flashed him an irritated look. ‘It’s important, Nigel, alright?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’

  She had her hand on the door, but his supercilious tone stopped her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t give me that innocent bullshit. If you have something to say, just say it.’

  ‘Alright, since you insist. You say this is important, but sometimes I wonder what exactly is important to you, Karen. I really do. I wonder about your priorities.’