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

by A J Waines

  I turned to the pile of papers. Just as Felicity had said, written in large letters across the front were the words: Confidential – these notes must be DESTROYED without being read in large letters. It certainly wasn’t ambiguous.

  I hesitated, before I peeled away the covering sheet, feeling like I was breaking his trust. These notes weren’t intended for me, but Felicity had agreed I was the best person to check them over and ultimately that set my mind at rest. His secrets were safe with me. I’d take a quick look, that’s all. They were the last link I had to him, even though they could be a pile of meaningless scribbles.

  I flicked through the loose sheets and discovered that they were interspersed with thinner pages, sheets torn from notebooks and even newspaper clippings. A sheet of cream watermarked paper caught my eye straight away. It had St Luke’s Hospital NHS Trust logo at the top and underneath it, my name in capitals.

  My cheeks began to tingle as I started reading. It was a glowing report of my work and career, completely exonerating me from any connection with the suicides. There were statements from people I recognised from St Luke’s and my previous posts, continuing on to a second page.

  Leo was the one who’d got me reinstated at St Luke’s, just before he died. He must have gone to considerable effort to track down upstanding members of the medical profession who’d worked with me over the years and invite them to support me. It was addressed to the Central Board of Medicine, with a copy to the police and another to Professor Schneider. No wonder I’d been invited back to work so quickly.

  Tears blurred my vision turning Leo’s flamboyant signature at the bottom into a grey wobbly blob. I pressed the letter to my chest and silently thanked him for it. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and went back to the notes.

  A past I had no inkling about started to open up before me. The notes went back decades. Leo had spent his early years in Sweden. There were press clippings referring to various successes and awards given to his parents. His mother was the well-known historian, Erika Berg, and his father, Ulf Hansson, was an acclaimed biophysics professor. High achievers indeed.

  As I read the next batch of pages an unsettling feeling began to crawl over me. I read the gist of it again. No, no, this can’t be right. There were details of experiments. False memory experiments. Dozens of them, just like the one I’d found in the medical journal, only these were dated twenty-five years ago and involved different methods. They all had Leo’s name on them.

  Twenty-five years ago. Leo had been working on this stuff. He had received awards in Sweden for mind-control, for persuading volunteers to believe certain things. For creating false memories.

  My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe it.

  Of course – Felicity had said her father had a PhD in psychology and Debbie had mentioned something when she gave me the magazine recently. What did she say? Something about Leo winning the Remmington Award last year. I tutted to myself. That was an award for psychology, not surgery! How had I missed it?

  Two other names cropped up: Professor Frederick Kane, a neuro-psychiatrist and Dr Denise McRay, a neuro-scientist, as well as names I recognised: Dr Clara Warner and Professor Hune. All of them had been working in the false memory field. No wonder he’d found experts to help so quickly.

  Leo’s research centred on the Kings Cross fire in 1987. It appeared that he had treated victims for burns at St Cuthbert’s, a hospital near Farringdon, where he’d worked at the time. The records showed he’d seen a number of survivors in the hours immediately following the disaster. Then he’d given them follow-up treatment for trauma.

  I had to fight my trepidation as I gripped each sheet. Could the kind, understanding Leo really have committed the recent horrors at St Luke’s? I waited for the shock to burst up my spine.

  Leo had used less sophisticated memory implantation techniques back then on victims of the fire, but as I continued to read, another side to it emerged. Instead of inflicting harrowing memories, he’d done the exact opposite. He had created false positive memories to aid the victims’ recovery. He’d been genuinely helping them.

  Nevertheless, a bad taste coated my tongue. Why hadn’t Leo mentioned any of this? Why hadn’t he said he’d been studying false memories all those years ago?

  I pressed my hand to my chest and read on. Leo had added further handwritten notes, dated 1989, about how he’d stopped his research that year, because he believed ultimately that in spite of the benefits, what he’d been doing was unethical. He gave instructions stating that none of this work should ever be made available either to the medical authorities or the public. It made sense. If patients got to hear about his ground-breaking ideas, the sessions would be worthless. No one would trust their memories after they’d had a consultation with Leo; they’d know any new thought or belief could be fake. I turned the last page. That was it.

  Leo had been messing with people’s minds years ago, for certain – but he’d done it with every good intention; in order to save their sanity.

  It was almost 11pm and pitch black outside. I got up to draw the curtains. I decided to call it a day and try to sleep. I’d written the names of all the specialists involved on a scrap of paper. My job for tomorrow would be to look them up and see if I could get one step nearer to finding out who was responsible for the deaths of my patients.

  Con rang early the next morning. He sounded exuberant; said he was dying to get his hands on me.

  ‘Con – I’ve got to get to work.’ I was pulling on my skirt with my free hand, struggling to do up the zip, between sips of black coffee.

  ‘I’ll come and meet you for lunch,’ he said, ‘Perhaps you could pull a sicky for the afternoon…I’ve got plans for us.’ His voice dropped an octave. ‘We could go back to your place…and I could…’

  ‘Con – let’s meet tomorrow, instead,’ I said brusquely. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You’re making me wait until tomorrow…what about today? We can talk, if you like, but then we can touch… and kiss and…’ There was a time when I would have melted at his words, but not now.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I insisted. How could he misinterpret the chill in my voice? It was well below zero. I couldn’t keep on stringing him along.

  That evening, I focused on the mystery mind-twister. I’d Googled the four names I’d found in Leo’s notes, but it hadn’t got me anywhere. No one in their right mind was going to list ‘implanting traumatic false memories’ as a skill on their CV. They were all based in universities abroad with no direct way of getting in touch.

  I called Imogen. She didn’t know the names, but suggested I contact a colleague she knew in New York, Dr Francis Peach. I owed it to Jane, Jake and Terry to give it one last go, so as soon as we ended the call I punched out an email to him and pressed send.

  I propped my elbow on the table and sank my chin into my hand. No new patients had come to me with the distorted story about the fire, but it didn’t mean there weren’t any. A maniac was still at large, possibly still preying on patients at St Luke’s, but the trail had gone cold.

  I rearranged my appointments the following afternoon and made my way over to Ham House near Richmond. I didn’t want Con to come to the flat, so I’d suggested somewhere neutral; there was less chance of a scene that way.

  He looked grumpy as he walked towards me.

  ‘I didn’t know I’d have to pay to get in,’ he said. ‘I told them I was in a costume drama they filmed here,’ he added, as though that ought to have granted him free entry.

  His strop was short-lived. ‘Hey – before you say anything, I’ve got some fantastic news.’ He grabbed both my hands and blew a loud kiss into them. ‘I’ve got a call-back for another movie – it’s due straight after we finish Machine on Mars.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ I said, trying to stir up some enthusiasm. My mind was on one thing only: saying what I had to say – and leaving. Unfortunately, Con was now brimming with excitement and I wasn’t going to escape that easily.

 
‘It’s not my usual choice,’ he said. ‘A disaster movie, believe it or not? I wasn’t interested at first, but Danny persuaded me to do the audition. When I read the script, something clicked. I could really step into the part. It’s all panic and hysteria. Not me at all.’

  I couldn’t help but smile. Con hadn’t mentioned the flashbacks or any suicidal thoughts since the reversal process. It looked like the horror had been completely wiped out of his memory bank.

  ‘Sometimes we don’t know what we’re capable of,’ I said.

  He explained more about the film, how, if he got the part, he’d have to go straight on to Mexico after the filming in Arizona.

  ‘Listen, Con. It’s probably good timing that this has come along when it has. I’m really happy for you – and I think it’s absolutely the right thing for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Well – I’ve been giving things a lot of thought. And…I think we should go our separate ways.’

  He got to his feet and looked like he was going to storm off without another word. But, he spun round, brought his hands to his hips, then, as if all the outrage had seeped out of him, sank back down again.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ He hunched forward on the bench. ‘I’ve been doing a fair bit of navel-gazing myself, actually,’ he said. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that…our relationship feels too much of a struggle.’

  Okay – so now he knew the writing was on the wall, he wanted to turn it round so he was doing the dumping. That was fine by me.

  ‘Right…’ I said.

  ‘A relationship is about discovering the other person,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s a journey. Building trust and respect along the way. You don’t seem to want to commit. That’s why I was afraid to tell you…’

  ‘Afraid to tell me what?’

  Prickles went up my spine.

  ‘All those times I had to rush away – it wasn’t about the theatre.’

  I shuffled forward on the bench. ‘Go on…’

  ‘I have a brother.’

  ‘What?’ He’d told me he had only a sister.

  ‘Tim. He’s going to jail.’ He examined his trainers. ‘He got himself in a real mess. Dealing hard drugs. He was on the run at first, then he was arrested. He finally pleaded guilty last week.’

  I hitched closer to him. ‘Con – why didn’t you tell me?’

  He dropped his head, his hair hiding his face. ‘I don’t know. It’s not very glamorous is it? I thought you’d go off me – find it too much of…an embarrassment…’

  ‘You think I’m that superficial? Con, you really don’t know me at all, do you?’

  I got to my feet. I wanted to stop there. I didn’t want to open up a whole new conversation about Tim.

  All of a sudden, there didn’t seem much more to say.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me down again.

  ‘You were seeing him – that surgeon – weren’t you?’ Not again.

  I couldn’t bring myself to argue with him, so I folded my arms and said nothing. As time had gone on, I couldn’t deny I’d developed strong feelings for Leo, but we’d never crossed the line. Nor would I have done without telling Con first.

  He read my silence as guilt. He bent down and ripped a clump of turf from the ground. ‘I knew it.’

  I sat back. Once again we were poles apart. I really didn’t want us to end like this.

  ‘I’m going now,’ I said, hitching to the front of the bench. ‘I really hope everything goes well with the filming and it all turns out for you.’

  He muttered something I couldn’t hear and flopped against the back of the bench. He’d turned his face towards the sun and closed his eyes, shutting me out.

  I stood more resolutely this time, and squeezed his knee as I walked past him, heading for the main gate.

  Chapter 41

  I met Hannah that evening and we went for a long walk along the Thames before settling into a gastro-pub near Tower Bridge. Unlike Imogen, Hannah wasn’t a team player. She was impetuous and disorganised, but with flashes of inspiration and downright genius at times. If she hadn’t been a psychotherapist, she could have easily been a wedding planner or even a TV producer.

  We ordered a bottle of red – I’ve no idea what type, but it was full-bodied and slipped down a treat – and shared a plate of nachos with salsa and sour cream.

  I poured my heart out about Leo and Con. The more my inhibitions melted away, the more distraught I felt about losing any chance of a future with Leo.

  Hannah was usually loud and gregarious, never one to let a party fizzle out, but on this occasion she listened, she understood and asked sensitive questions, until my eyelids began to droop. A thick fog of extreme exhaustion settled on me shortly afterwards.

  She was one of those annoying people who never flagged and she had to nudge me twice to keep me awake. She called me a cab before 10pm to take me home. Apparently, I’d started to snore.

  I felt strangely serene when I got back to my flat. My life felt like it had reached a tipping point where things could only get better. It was probably something to do with the alcohol, but I wanted to believe this tortuous phase was behind me now.

  I opened my laptop and found a return email from Dr Peach, Imogen’s contact in New York. One line gripped my attention:

  …suffice to say, I am familiar with the research involving the ‘parrot in the bedroom’ scenario and while I am unable to reveal the source until The Jeffersen Prize is announced, I can confirm the author is female and not based at a London institution.

  I sat back, mulling it over. So, whoever was conducting up-to-date false memory research wasn’t Leo or anyone else at St Luke’s. It was as though a blockage in my lungs had suddenly dissolved and I could breathe properly again.

  I sent a silent thank you towards the heavens.

  Maybe it was time to go to the police. I had no one to protect any more, although I knew they wouldn’t be happy that I’d taken so long to speak out. I would have to get my story straight and be prepared for the worst, but if that led to them finding the bastard, it would be worth it. I made the decision then and there; I’d call them tomorrow.

  All that was left was a decision about Leo’s notes. They were in the original carrier bag, hanging behind my bedroom door. I wanted to keep the letter he’d written about me, but I didn’t see the value in keeping anything else. There was nothing there that the medical world needed to know about. I made the decision to tell Felicity and shred the papers at work the next day – and that would be that.

  In my intoxicated state, I snatched at my dressing gown on the back of the door and managed to rip the plastic bag, scattering the contents onto the floor. I bent down to collect Leo’s notes together and spotted a loose envelope I hadn’t seen before. It had sticky tape on the side and must have been secured inside one of the folders. The words, Dr Sam Willerby – Private & Confidential were written on the front in Leo’s handwriting. I snapped my finger along the gummed edge and a USB stick fell out.

  With it was a photograph. I recognised the silver necklace with the opal around the girl’s neck. On the back it said, I know you didn’t choose this, Dad, but it’s perfect.

  I brought my hand to my mouth.

  There was a sticky note attached to the USB stick. I owe you this, was all it said. I brought my laptop into my bedroom and plugged in the stick. There was only one document, an audio file, so I downloaded it and clicked play. I certainly couldn’t leave this until tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point because I haven’t got much time.’ It was Leo’s voice. He sounded hoarse and strained. I sat on the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest, hugging a pillow.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve made a dreadful, dreadful mistake,’ he continued. ‘And I know it’s going to ruin everything between us. I will try to explain and hope at the end of it, you might have a shred of understanding.’ His breath sounded laboured.

  I didn’t understand. L
eo must have made this recording in hospital. Had he come out of his coma at some point?

  ‘They left my wife to die. They walked away when they could have saved her.’

  What was he talking about?

  ‘There were potential bone-marrow donors for my wife – and none of them came forward. I tried to coerce them at first, but it didn’t work.’

  I clicked pause and staggered to the kitchen sink to pour myself a glass of water. Then I threw it away and poured myself half a glass of brandy instead. I came back and clicked play, drawing away sharply as if I’d detonated a bomb.

  ‘I was desperate to find a donor,’ he said. ‘I ran secret tests and out of hundreds, I finally found four patients who were a match – right here in the hospital – but they wouldn’t help.’ His voice faltered. ‘Jane, Jake, Terry and Conrad were all tissue-matches for her, but none of them could be persuaded to donate their stem cells. I pleaded, but not one of them would give Helena a chance.’

  His throat rasped. ‘By then, I knew Helena was dying and there was no way back. I was upset. To the point where I found myself standing on the clifftops at Dover, thinking about jumping off. But I changed my mind and came back.’

  My mind whirred trying to take it all in.

  ‘I resorted to false memory methods I’d first explored years ago. I knew all about recent advances in optogenetics. I thought I could get those who were tissue matches to change their minds by instilling memories that would invoke shame and guilt.

  ‘I spoke to experts to check the finer points of the procedure long before you and I talked about it, but I didn’t tell them why I was interested. The process involved technical know-how, but it could be carried out in a hospital setting, using scalp electrodes fed back to a bio-amp with a serial cable.’