Inside the Whispers (Dr Samantha Willerby [Chilling Thriller] Series Book 1)

by A J Waines

  ‘Well – we’d better start packing,’ I said with a sigh.

  Monday morning found me sitting in my office staring at a painting on the wall of a girl with a parasol, swaying effortlessly on a swing hanging from a tree. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be her.

  Con had rung me on Sunday evening. He apologised for dragging me back from Brighton so soon, but the rest of the call was stilted and difficult, with neither of us really saying anything. Something was out of kilter, in spite of how well things went on Saturday.

  Then there was Miranda. She was still at the flat when I got back on Sunday. I knew I was going to have to say something. I didn’t want her to think that the longer she stayed the more I’d get used to it. One week – one month – then in for the duration. Being around her wound me up before she’d even opened her mouth. The place wasn’t my own and I couldn’t relax. I knew I was being unreasonable, but that was the effect she had on me.

  Calling her by her new name took some getting used to, for a start. For Miranda it was easy; she seemed able to snap from one persona to another in the same way anyone else might jump on and off buses. But for me it was hard to reframe my memories of an unruly girl called Mimi into this new identity. Somehow, it made her more of a stranger.

  I felt guilty for being so uptight with her. I wanted more than anything to trust her – but I couldn’t. Even on medication, she did impulsive, reckless things – often involving wet paint. When I was in Brighton, she’d invited fellow artists over without asking and traces of green glitter were now embedded in the carpet. She’d also seen fit to rearrange all the furniture in the sitting room. ‘Looks bigger this way,’ she said, waiting for some expression of gratitude. Every time I queried or challenged what she’d done, she snapped and slammed doors in my face. It kept me constantly treading on egg-shells.

  I didn’t have a patient until later and intent on getting a hefty backlog of admin out of the way, I was surprised when there was a gentle tap on my door.

  A man wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, so crisp it looked as if it was straight from the packet, stood expectantly in front of me. Perhaps I did have a patient after all.

  ‘Come in…I’m Dr Willerby.’ He was fresh-faced with vibrant blue eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure if this is the right place,’ he said faltering.

  ‘You’re not here for psychotherapy?’

  ‘Tempting,’ he said, a grin creeping across his face, ‘but actually no. I’m Dr Lester Graham.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m here for the neurology briefing. Not that an hour telling you my troubles wouldn’t be very beneficial, I’m sure.’ His voice was verging on aristocratic with slow rounded vowels; he sounded straight out of Eton.

  He looked down at the sheet of paper he was holding. ‘I’m new here – as you’ve probably guessed by now.’

  ‘Ah. Where’s the briefing? This is the Mental Health Unit.’

  ‘Room 212.’

  ‘Next floor up.’

  He gave me a winning smile and left.

  I left my office in search of caffeine and on the way over to the coffee machine, I noticed a message on the white board outside the Burns and Plastic Surgery Unit: Dr Hansson’s patients delayed this morning by 65 minutes. Audrey, one of the nurses I’d met recently in the lift, caught me looking at it.

  ‘Are you waiting for him?’ she said.

  ‘No…is he okay?’

  She drew closer and lowered her voice. ‘He’s struggling to keep up this morning. Been here all night with his wife; she’s not got long to live, apparently. He adores her – she’s only in her forties.’

  I squeezed her arm and slipped away.

  At lunchtime, I bumped into Leo on the way to the canteen. Before he said a word his stomach growled and he patted it.

  ‘Sounds like you’re keeping a dog tied up in there,’ I said.

  ‘Pardon me – I don’t think Fido got fed this morning.’ He fell into step alongside me and took a quick look at his watch. ‘Got time for a quick snack? I’m due back in theatre in twenty-five minutes.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve had a cancellation – thank goodness.’

  ‘Well – I wouldn’t want to have to report you for animal neglect.’ He laughed and squashed his hands into his pockets.

  I couldn’t believe how easy-going he seemed; he must have been crumbling inside over his wife. Maybe the only way he could survive was to soldier on as if nothing was happening. Thinking about it, I tended to do the same.

  We found a small table in the canteen. ‘How are things?’ I said, focusing directly into his eyes. It was an invitation for him to refer to his wife if he wanted to. I’d found out she was called Helena and was in a ward where the patients only ever emerged with white sheets over their faces.

  ‘I’ve just found out I’m a useless father,’ he said flippantly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had a call this morning,’ he said. ‘From the police. About a young woman arrested for shoplifting. I thought it must be a wrong number.’ He crumpled the wrapper covering his salad into a tight ball and tossed it onto his tray. ‘The young woman was Kim, my daughter.’ He shook his head. ‘The first thing I wanted to know was what she’d stolen. For some reason I felt it was important to know.’

  I remembered the beautiful necklace we’d bought and wondered if Kim was the one it was intended for.

  ‘Toothpaste,’ he said.

  ‘Toothpaste?’

  ‘What was she thinking?’

  ‘It must have been a mistake, surely?’

  ‘No. No mistake. I told the officer she’s not thinking straight with what’s happening with her mother, but Kim told them she knew exactly what she was doing. And it hadn’t been the first time.’ He scraped a slice of blackened tomato to the edge of his plate. ‘The world is turning into a Punch and Judy show,’ he said. ‘Toothpaste, for goodness sake.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I offered to pay any costs, but Kim wouldn’t have it. “You think you can fix everything if you throw money at it,” she said. I accused her of throwing her life away – she’s training to be a vet – and she said, “Yeah – well, whose dreams are they, Dad? Whose dreams are they, really?”’

  I was taken aback by his frankness. He chased a radish around his plate half-heartedly, then put down his knife and fork.

  ‘Kim said my wife had carried the family single-handedly. She accused me of being a mere mechanical provider all her life. She plans to drop out of Edinburgh and join a whale conservation project in Mozambique.’

  ‘She’s confused. She’s angry. She’s taking out what’s happening to her mother on you, because you’re safe and she can get away with it.’ He nodded and I could tell he knew all this, but he still needed to hear it. ‘Very common symptoms,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Shoplifting too. She’s crying out in the only way she can.’

  He smiled, getting up to go. ‘So, it’s not the end of the world?’ He looked into my eyes, from one to the other, taking his time. For a second, we were both caught off guard, as if each of us knew far more about the other than we made out.

  ‘I should keep on taking the tablets, should I, doctor?’ he said, looking away. There was a strain in his voice, the lines at the side of his eyes reluctant to unfold. I was disconcerted by how deeply he seemed to affect me.

  It was my turn to smile. I wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, show him I knew he was in pain, but this wasn’t the right time or place. ‘Maybe you could spend some quality time with your daughter?’ I said, snapping back into professional mode. ‘Show an interest in the Mozambique project. Read up on it and tell her something she doesn’t know. Talk to her. That would be my prescription.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  A note on my desk told me that my first afternoon appointment had been cancelled. Typical. It was due to be Jake Stowe. Perhaps I should have seen it coming. Maybe Jake had already twigged that I’d sussed him out.

  I
t was stiflingly hot in my office again and the fan I’d ordered still hadn’t arrived. I went to track down someone to look into it. Stan, one of the technicians, dragged a spare out of a cupboard and handed it to me.

  ‘It might rattle a bit, but it’ll tide you over.’

  Back in my office I was struggling to find a spare socket to plug it in. There seemed to be only one behind my desk and the lead from the fan wouldn’t reach that far. Reluctantly, I went back to Stan to ask for an extension lead. He followed me to my room, convinced I’d missed a socket.

  ‘There’s often one tucked away at waist level,’ he said, moving towards the shelves beside my desk. ‘May I?’

  I helped him shift books aside. ‘You know about this already!’ he said, ‘You’ve been using it.’ He held out a black lead plugged into the wall. There was nothing attached to the end of it.

  ‘No – I…this isn’t mine,’ I said, staring at the cable. Stan pulled it out and handed it to me. He plugged in the fan instead and stood it on the edge of my desk.

  ‘There you are,’ he said smiling. ‘Perfect.’

  I thanked him absently, holding the cable in my hand. It looked like a lead for a computer or television, but the space on the shelf was too small. Perhaps someone had popped into my room to boil a kettle?

  I didn’t like the idea of people coming in when I wasn’t there. I had the trust of vulnerable people and their confidential files were in my care. From now on, my office was going to be under lock and key whenever I left it.

  I was coming back from a team meeting, mid-afternoon, when Lian drew alongside me.

  ‘You okay?’ she said.

  ‘Sure, why?’ I’d been miles away, thinking about Con.

  ‘Must be upsetting when it’s one of yours.’

  ‘One of my what?’ I had visions of my bike having been stolen or files going missing.

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you? Your two o’clock appointment.’

  ‘Oh, yeah – I know – he cancelled.’

  She pulled me towards an empty waiting area. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ she cautioned.

  I felt my forehead crumple into a frown.

  ‘He…committed suicide,’ she said.

  I didn’t say anything. There must have been a mistake. Jake had been faking it. He simply hadn’t shown up. That was all.

  ‘That can’t be right…’

  ‘Debbie took the call just now from the police,’ Lian continued. ‘They might want to talk to you.’

  I must have looked as if I hadn’t heard. I took hold of the back of a chair, allowing her words to register.

  ‘Do you know how it…how he…?’ I asked, my voice distant, as if carried away by a sudden breeze.

  ‘He jumped from the Holborn Viaduct. At lunchtime.’

  I flopped into a seat and stared at the floor.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said. I found myself shaking my head and saying Yes at the same time. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Debbie might know more.’ She brushed the top of my shoulder with her hand and disappeared down the corridor.

  I ran straight to Debbie’s office. She was chatting as I approached, but stopped abruptly as soon as she saw me and wiped her palms down her skirt.

  ‘Lian’s just told me,’ I said. I felt unsteady on my feet. ‘What happened?’

  Debbie led me to a quiet corner of the office. The rest of the staff buried their heads in a staged ‘busyness’.

  ‘The police said he jumped in front of a bus from the Holborn Viaduct,’ she whispered. ‘That was about all they said, except that they need to speak to you. He had his appointment with you written on a note in his pocket.’

  I spun away from Debbie and perched on the edge of a desk. He’d been on his way over to see me, but instead had gone to a bridge in Holborn and killed himself.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘It’s never happened to me before,’ I said gasping. ‘One of my patients…’

  Debbie side-stepped towards the water cooler and filled a plastic cup, then pressed it into my trembling hands. She stood beside me, but seemed unsure about whether to touch me or not. I slowly leant against her, so that my head met her shoulder.

  ‘He seemed okay,’ I said, ‘when I last saw him. He wasn’t all he appeared to be, but he didn’t seem to be at risk.’ I stared into space. ‘I completely missed it.’

  ‘No one’s going to blame you,’ Debbie concluded.

  I squeezed the cup absently and it crackled like a log on a campfire as it buckled. I should have seen it coming. I should have been more sensitive, more understanding. I’d been side-tracked into finding holes in Jake’s story and hadn’t paid enough attention to his mental state.

  ‘The police said a female officer, WPC Lockley, will need to talk to you this afternoon,’ Debbie said gently. ‘Do you want me to cancel the rest of your appointments?’

  ‘No,’ I said immediately. I couldn’t let anyone else down. I was here to help people, not crumple at the first sign of distress. ‘I’ll see my patients until the officer arrives.’ I straightened up and briefly gripped Debbie’s hand. ‘Thank you. I’ll be in my office.’

  ‘Just to warn you, Professor Schneider wants to see you, but he’s not in this afternoon. Some family crisis, I think.’

  I’d met the professor only once since I’d joined the hospital and wasn’t sure what to make of him. Staff from various ranks described him as one of the ‘top dogs’, but they also said he’d been snappy and, in recent months, increasingly fierce. He spent half his time as a consultant cardiologist at St Luke’s, but no one was altogether sure what he did with the other half. He’d taken it upon himself to oversee certain members of staff in psychology for some reason, including me, although he was never around when I had a query. The phrase ‘he’s unavailable’ was bandied about a lot, but various admin staff were now replacing it with a blunt ‘he’s disappeared’.

  I was dreading what he was going to say when he finally caught up with me.

  At around 5pm, there was a sharp rap on my office door. I let WPC Lockley in and invited her to sit down.

  ‘How long had you known Mr Stowe?’ she asked, a small notebook in her hand.

  I sat upright in my seat trying to look like I was a hardened professional eminently capable of handling this, but my voice cracked as soon as I spoke. ‘I…only had one session with him. And bumped into him a couple of times in the corridor.’

  The fan ticked loudly every other second and made a moaning sound when it changed direction.

  ‘And how was his state of mind?’

  ‘Well – like all my PTSD patients, he was upset, but I ran through my usual procedure with him about suicide. Like a large proportion of the population, the idea of suicide had “crossed his mind” at some stage in his life, but he assured me he wasn’t about to act on it.’

  WPC Lockley looked up accusingly. ‘He mentioned suicide?’

  ‘It was me who mentioned it. I have to,’ I continued, ‘and I always make an agreement with patients that they will call a friend, The Samaritans or their GP if they’re having suicidal thoughts and are in fear of acting on them. It’s standard procedure. Without that agreement, I can’t work with them.’

  I sounded professional and assured, but inside I was floundering hopelessly.

  ‘So you didn’t think Mr Stowe was at risk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said he wasn’t suicidal?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you tape your sessions, Dr Willerby?’

  ‘Some of them, but not that first one with Jake.’

  I told the officer the gist of what Jake and I had discussed.

  ‘There was one thing,’ I added, ‘something that bothered me about him.’

  She looked up from her notebook, her eyes wide, waiting.

  ‘I had reason to believe that Jake hadn’t actually been present at the incident he described.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

 
‘He claimed to be a survivor of the fire a few weeks ago at Liverpool Street Tube Station, but I checked with the transport police and his story didn’t match the facts. I don’t think he can have been there.’

  She blew hair out of her eyes. ‘A time-waster?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m waiting for his medical records to see if they can shed any more light.’ She made a note. No doubt the police would want to see his records too.

  ‘What made you think he was lying?’

  ‘Three inconsistencies. He said he escaped the area using the steps, but there are none on that particular platform at Liverpool Street Station. He said people were “on fire” in the ticket hall, except the fire never reached the top of the escalator and no one was burned. And Jake had no injuries, no burns or problems with smoke inhalation. Anyone who had gone through what he described would have had something to show for it.’

  Her nod betrayed a hint of reluctant respect. She got up. ‘Who knows what’s going on in people’s heads when they do this kind of thing?’ She moved towards the door. ‘Maybe he had a bet on with his pals…’

  ‘Or perhaps, he was just very sick,’ I said.

  She pressed her pen into a slot on the side of her waistcoat. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She gave a smile that was half a shrug, and left.

  Chapter 13

  Three days earlier

  A thin fly lands on the page I’m reading and creates a comma where there shouldn’t be one. It means the sentence no longer makes sense. I try to blow it away, but it holds fast, stubborn, refusing to budge. I’m tempted to snap the book shut, but don’t want a comma to be forever stuck in the wrong place.

  Not that it matters anyway. I’ve read the same passage three times and it still doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. I can include life in its entirety in that conclusion. I lie the open book down on the table beside me. Let the insect take its chances.

  I glance around the room, at the corduroy sofa and tasselled cushions. Everything feels fake, temporary. Like I’m on a film set waiting to get the final scenes over and done with.