Andrew wouldn’t hurt Mary. She would bet her life on it. The little girl must be safe somewhere waiting for her daddy. There again, she never imagined him capable of stabbing Adam in the head, not to mention all the other dreadful things he’d done.
He was such a gentle boy growing up. Although a year older than her, she had tended to mother him a lot. He would step up when he needed to protect her, though—especially against their father. It seemed the damage endured in those early years must have had a lasting effect after all. She got off lightly in comparison, although this cold numbness must count for something. She put it down to the way she blocked her feelings and emotions as a child, whilst being raped and abused over and over. Maybe if pushed, she’d be just as fucked up as Andrew.
A grey-haired man, in his late forties, wearing green overalls, came into the room.
“Miss Flynn?”
“Yes.” She got to her feet and braced herself.
“Your boyfriend is out of surgery and doing well.”
Amanda gasped and realised she’d been holding her breath.
“I’m sure the nurse told you already, but he suffered trauma to his frontal lobe.” He placed his hand above his left eye. “The frontal lobe is the area of the brain responsible for making choices, good or bad, and recognising consequences. It also affects our moods and the like.”
Amanda nodded.
“Mr Stanley’s frontal lobe was only nicked and grazed. He was lucky. I can’t be certain, but I’m confident he should make a full recovery. We’ll know more in the next few days.”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course you can.” He took a step towards the door and held it open for her. “I’ll take you there now, but be aware he will be woozy for a little while, until the anaesthetic wears off, perhaps longer. He needs a lot of sleep to recover.”
“I understand.”
She followed him into a lift and up to the neurosurgical ward on the fourth floor. He paused outside a room, his hand on the door. “Okay, here we are.” He pushed the door open and indicated, with a nod of his head, that she enter.
Inside the room, sounds of machinery filled the relative silence. Curtains had been pulled around the only bed, and she braced herself for what she was about to face.
The curtains swished open and a twinkly-eyed nurse appeared. She beckoned Amanda closer and held the curtain aside.
“Don’t be put off by all the beeps and alarms—it’s standard practice following a head injury.”
Amanda nodded. A new tightness in her chest made it difficult to speak.
Adam looked terrible. A huge dressing covered the left side of his face.
“You can go closer. He won’t bite.” The nurse placed her hand in the small of Amanda’s back and urged her closer to the bed.
“Can he hear us?”
She shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. I suggest you presume he can. That way you won’t say anything you wouldn’t say to his face.”
Amanda lifted Adam’s heavy and unresponsive fingers off the bed and then let them fall. She wiped her hand on her jeans, suddenly gripped by a tightness in her throat. Hot, heavy tears began to fall.
She cried for Andrew.
She cried for Mary.
Mostly, she cried for herself—for the loss of her brother and eldest daughter, and the pathetic state of the man in the bed beside her. It was all such a mess.
The nurse pulled her into her arms, and Amanda turned to the older woman and sobbed for what seemed like hours.
She welcomed the relief of allowing the tears to fall instead of bottling everything up like she usually did. Her shrink, Doctor Freda, said it was a condition brought about because of her childhood and the abuse she’d suffered. She would shut off all her feelings, and never really deal with anything head on. But she had changed. Since Adam, she felt so different, but she hadn’t even told him.
He thought she'd kept the news of the baby quiet because she didn’t love him. But the opposite was true. It was because she loved him too much. She knew how straight-laced he was when it came to his job and the law. Mary, being her true daughter and not her niece, was a massive lie between them. The alternative of telling him would put him in such a terrible position, it would mean the end of them, anyway.
But that was pie in the sky now. He knew the whole sorry story and would probably even arrest her once he recovered from his surgery.
***
Mary’s throat was scratchy and her voice a mere squeak after hours of screaming. She couldn’t understand why her daddy would punish her like this. He knew the dark terrified her.
She worked out for herself he must have escaped from the prison. Why else would he be so worried about anybody seeing them? She wished someone had told her, instead of treating her like a silly baby. She would never have gone with him if they had.
She got a pain in her chest as she thought about home and how worried Amanda and Sandra must be. She prayed she would be able to return to her little pink bedroom. She’d longed for her mummy and daddy and the old life they’d shared for so long that she didn’t realise how happy she actually was with her new family until now.
She wiped away the silent tears as they ran down her face. She would tell her daddy how she felt, if he ever came back. She banged the palm of her hand against the door in a further attempt to make some kind of sound, but it was pointless. She had no strength left. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. She would have a little nap. Daddy would be home soon. She was certain.
Chapter 47
Frances and Cal pored over the footage from the burger bar and found that after every murder the shooter dropped off a bag, and straight afterwards the same man picked it up.
Something about the man was familiar to Frances, although the image was grainy and unclear and could have been anyone if she was being honest. Yet something still niggled at her.
“Hopefully it’s not too late to get this image onto the evening news,” Cal said.
“Give me two ticks. I’ll see if I can pull a few strings.” Frances picked up the cordless desk phone and pressed the speed dial number. Just then her mobile rang. “Get that for me, Cal. Take a message.”
She ducked into her office and returned moments later. “All sorted,” she said. “But you’ve got to get it over to them asap.”
“Will do. Oh, can you ring...” He lifted a sticky note up to his face. “… Charlie from Healthy Habits and Anxiety Disorders Clinic. She said you’d missed an appointment.”
“Oh shit! I forgot all about that.”
“I told her you’d had a nightmare of a day and she was fine about it. She said call her back. She’ll be there for at least another hour.”
“Will do. Thanks, Cal.”
Frances picked up her phone and dialled the clinic.
“Healthy Habits. Charlie speaking.”
“Hi, Charlie. It’s Holly Frances. I’m sorry for missing my appointment—can I rebook?”
“No problem, Holly. We happen to have had an eight-thirty available tomorrow morning. Would that suit?”
“Oh, it may be a little short notice. Hang on.” She checked her diary, but had nothing written in it for the next day. She still considered declining, but she knew there would never be a good time. This was something she had to deal with, like it or lump it. “Actually, that would be fine. See you then.”
*
The following morning, Frances was greeted at the door of the clinic by a smiley-faced Charlie who was impeccably dressed in a cream silk blouse and brown slacks. Her curly, blonde bob was teased to perfection.
As before, her welcome seemed to alleviate some of Frances’ anxiety about the appointment.
“Come on through. Doctor Owens is running a little late. Can I get you a warm drink? I’ve just put the kettle on.” She walked on ahead, and motioned for Frances to take a seat in reception.
“A cup of tea would be nice, thanks. White with one sugar. Will he be very late?”
&nbs
p; “Not too long, I hope.” Charlie said, as she entered the doorway behind her desk.
Frances watched her through the open door as she proceeded to prepare the drinks. Moments later, she appeared in reception with a tray carrying three cups. After placing the tray down on her desk, she handed Frances one of the cups.
“There you go. I’ll just pop this in to Doctor Smith. He’s like a grizzly bear until he’s had his morning coffee.” She headed across the room and through another doorway, leaving the door open behind her.
The hairs on the back of Frances’ neck stood on end. The old guy. The guy with the limp. She got to her feet and peered in through the door.
Sure enough, the man accepting the cup from his loyal employee was none other than the man on the video tapes. She was certain.
Frances sat back down as though she hadn’t moved.
Charlie reappeared. “Right, where were we?”
“I’m sorry. Something’s come up. I’m going to have to go,” Frances said.
“Oh, that’s such a shame. You didn’t even get to finish your tea.”
“Could I just ask you a couple of questions?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“Do you happen to have an Oliver Bertram on your books?”
“Yes! Did you know him? I saw what happened to him on the news—dreadful business.”
Frances’ stomach turned over. “I didn’t know him personally.”
“How about Fiona Mills?”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell. Hang on.” She sat at her desk and began tapping on the keyboard. “Ah, yes. She didn’t show up for her last appointment, but ...”
Frances heard no more as she rushed from the clinic. She called the station as she ran to her car.
“Cal. I think I’ve worked it out. I need a search warrant for the Healthy Habits and Anxiety Disorder Clinic. I’m certain the main counsellor is our guy on the tape. His name is Nigel Smith. We’ll need a search warrant for his house too.”
“Far out! That’s great. Leave it with me.”
“I’m on my way in. See you soon.”
Once her phone had attached to the hands-free kit, she dialled another number and drove towards the station. The phone was answered after a couple of rings.
“Hi Amanda, it’s me. Just checking how Adam is.”
“I stayed with him till late. He’s still unconscious, but the consultant seems to think it’s quite normal. There is slight swelling on the brain, but nothing serious. I’m heading back there shortly. Any news on Mary?”
“Sorry. Nothing yet, but I’ll chase up the officers in charge of the case as soon as I get to the station.”
***
Mary could barely keep her eyes open. She was desperately hungry but would die for a glass of water. She knew it was pointless crying or banging on the door anymore. All she seemed to do was wear herself out.
Something must have happened to her daddy—no way would he leave her for this long, even if he was really angry with her.
She kept shutting out a voice in her head, which told her that she’d probably die in there. She had no idea how long she’d been there, or how long a person could live without food or drink.
She’d wet herself hours before. The smell was beginning to make her eyes water, and she desperately needed to do number twos, but she refused to dirty herself like that—unless she absolutely had to.
She cried for Amanda and wished she was back in her lovely pink room. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine lying on her soft mattress with Amanda stroking her hair until she fell asleep.
'Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird ...'
She couldn’t remember any more of the words, so she began humming to herself.
***
Frances double-checked the footage, when she got back to the station, confirming that the man collecting the bags of cash from the burger bar was indeed the counsellor, Nigel Smith.
She did a search on him and found very little. He was a sixty-six year old widower, whose wife died several years ago after suffering a number of strokes. He’d never been in any trouble. In fact, he was a model citizen by all accounts. Yet that didn’t deter Frances. During her time as a police officer, she’d witnessed plenty of good guys turning bad.
She organised a team, once they had confirmation of the search warrant, and they headed off. Karen Saint-John took Adam’s place as Acting Senior Detective, although she was no higher ranked than Frances. But Frances wasn’t bothered. She’d never been the pushy type, and was much happier to plod along in the background so long as justice was served.
*
As they entered the clinic, Charlie jumped to her feet and hung up the phone. Her eyes were screwed up in confusion.
“We have a warrant to search the premises, “Karen said, scanning the area. “Where is Nigel Smith?”
Charlie pointed to the door. “He’s in his office, but he’s with a client at the moment.”
“Not for much longer, he’s not.” Karen motioned towards the door, and she and Frances rapped once and barged into Nigel’s office.
A middle-aged man, sitting on a grey leather sofa, was crying into a tissue. He had a tissue box perched on his knee, and several used tissues were discarded at his feet, on the plush grey carpet.
“What the ...?” Doctor Smith got to his feet.
“Doctor Nigel Smith, we have a warrant for your arrest and an additional warrant to search the premises,” Karen said.
“Are you for real? What the heck for?”
“In connection with the recent shootings in Pinevale.”
“This is ridiculous!”
The crying man shoved the tissue box onto the coffee table and headed for the door. “I’m outta here,” he said.
“Be careful with that!” the doctor yelled at one of the search team who had lifted a turquoise-coloured vase off the bookcase. “It’s priceless.”
“Can you come with us, sir?” Karen said, producing a pair of handcuffs.
“This is outrageous! I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
“Save it for the station, sir.” Frances said, taking the handcuffs from Karen and slipping them onto the doctor’s wrists. She read him his rights.
Leaving the search team in place, they escorted the doctor to the station. They left him alone in an interview room for the best part of an hour, a strategy Uppity Uma had adopted after studying prisoners. Apparently, any irate person would have calmed down sufficiently by then. However, the doctor was far from calm. The nice, obliging, little old man had morphed into a raving lunatic.
“Calm down, sir. We need to interview you before we can do anything else. It’s in your best interest to co-operate,” Karen said.
“I insist on seeing your superior. This is an outrage.”
“We can’t help you there, I’m afraid, sir. But would you like a solicitor?” Frances asked.
Karen glared at her for mentioning a solicitor and potentially putting a halt to the interview.
“I don’t need a solicitor. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We have reason to believe you are the mastermind behind several shootings and obtaining funds by deception.”
“Ludicrous! Absolute tosh.”
“What would you say if I told you we have footage of you collecting the cash from the burger bar on the high street, on several occasions?” Karen gave a smug smile.
“I’ve never set foot in the place. I’m a diabetic. That shit would kill me.”
“We have evidence to prove otherwise, Doc,” Karen said.
“Bollocks! Utter bollocks.”
The door opened, and a uniformed officer beckoned to Frances.
She excused herself and stepped into the corridor.
“The offices were clean. They found nothing at all except every one of the victims were clients of his.”
“Every one?”
“Yes. Apparently so. They’ve headed over
to search his house now.”
“Okay. Thanks, Nick.” Frances re-entered the room and shook her head when Karen glanced at her.
They continued with the interview but were just going around and around in circles. However, they did discover that Doctor Smith was riddled with cancer and had less than a year to live. His only relatives were Christian Owens, his nephew and fellow counsellor, and his stepdaughter Charlie.
“Why would you want excess amounts of cash? Did you plan to take off abroad and die in style, on a beach under the sun?” Karen asked.
“I couldn’t think of anything worse than being sick and away from home. I can tell you haven’t had a day’s illness in your life, miss, or you wouldn’t even suggest that.”
“Then why? What reason? To leave to your family?”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, a team of officers are scouring your house as we speak. They’ll find something, and when they do you’re gonna be locked up for the rest of your days.”
He shrugged. “There’s nothing to find,” he said in a bored voice, which irritated Frances but really got under Karen’s skin.
She got to her feet and shoved the chair backwards, where it crashed against the wall, before stomping from the room.
“Interview terminated at 1.33pm,” Frances said before stopping the tape.
“Your friend’s a little tense,” the doctor said. “I wonder if she’d appreciate a complementary counselling session?”
“I wouldn’t even suggest it, if I were you.” Frances grinned. With what she knew what he was capable of, she couldn’t help but admire his balls.
Chapter 48
The sound of the door knocker dragged Mary from her fitful sleep.
“Help!” she croaked, her voice no louder than a whisper. She tried to sit up, but her legs were numb from being crushed inside the small space.
She hit the palm of her hand against the door, but it was useless—she had no energy. The sound it made wouldn’t carry out of the bedroom, never mind to the front door.
Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender Page 58
