Trauma: a gripping psychological mystery thriller Page 8

  So I sleep and I dream. The odd thing is, despite my fancy fugues, my dreams are usually boring affairs. Adam has gone through the difference between fugues and lucid dreams many times. The REM thing is the key. I’m awake when I fugue and I’ve never managed the lucid dreaming thing while I’m asleep, despite Josh’s enthusiasm for it. He, of course, has all sorts of theories. Entire subcultures of wannabe lucids live out there with a raft of suggestions of how to achieve it. But none of my dreams, at least the ones I recall, are worthy of me ever wanting to get involved even if it were possible.

  Yet, when I wake up the next morning, I sense that something has been processed. My subconscious has had a clear-out and for once things seem more in focus. My to-do drawer has acquired a filing system.

  But I have questions about Emma that need answering. As of this moment I can only think of one person to ask.

  I fix a second Americano, pick up my mobile and scroll to the K’s in my contacts. I haven’t dialled this number once since my accident, though the person it belongs to has contacted me frequently. Rachel would have a fit. But Rachel is in voluntary self-isolation with her kids.

  So I bring up the number and dial it.

  16

  THURSDAY 12 MARCH

  Detective Sergeant Rhian Keely stares at her computer screen, waiting for the system to download some files. The server has been playing up again and is taking for ever. Another fatal stabbing in Peckham has thrown up gang connections and she is compiling a known associates list so that the Violent Crime Task Force can pull someone in. A shitty case that ends a shitty week. Two other knife crimes have left a thirty-one-year-old mother of three a widow and a second victim on life support at the ITU in Guy’s.

  This latest case, an apparently random attack on a twenty-year-old student walking home minding his own business, is, she suspects, connected. Tit for tat, only this time the perpetrator, a fifteen-year-old kid called Antoinee Michales, mistook his target and stuck the wrong guy. A completely innocent kid on his way home from the Tube. Somehow it makes the whole shitshow exponentially worse.

  Keely is thirty-five, joined the ranks when she was twenty-seven and got her sergeant’s exam relatively early. There’s been some pressure on her to take her inspector’s exam because her superiors know talent when they see it. Keely knows that the money would be nice and is not bothered about the extra responsibility. She knows she can do the job. Indeed, on more than one occasion because of recruitment and promotional freezes, she’s acted up and earned a pat on the back for doing so. Her ambivalence has nothing to do with lack of ambition. It has everything to do with when she and Viri, short for Virat, produce the first of the two children they have planned. They’ll need a bigger space than the flat they currently share in Norbury. Viri teaches science to high achievers at an all-girls’ school where the annual fee is more than his take home pay. They’ve only been trying for a couple of months and Keely senses it won’t be long. She’s not hung up on it. Knows it can take a few tries. Viri’s all for that. And it’ll be a lot easier to fend off those encouraging looks from the super once a bump starts to show.

  These thoughts churn around in her head as she watches the maddening little wheel go round and round in the corner of her computer screen.

  Her phone vibrating is a welcome distraction. She glances at the name that comes up and for a second it doesn’t register. Todd isn’t a name she… but then her excellent memory kicks in. She frowns, accepts the call and puts the phone to her ear.

  ‘DS Rhian Keely,’ she announces.

  ‘Hi, Sergeant Keely. This is Cameron Todd. I wonder if you remember me?’

  Keely almost laughs out loud. Remember Cameron Todd? How could she forget? The Emma Roxburgh case made headlines for months and she, along with a DCI called Thom Larkson, were designated as liaison officers. They caught the case because the only witness, Cameron Todd, was brought back to the UK from Turkey for treatment and rehabilitation and both Todd and the dead woman lived on their patch in Southwark. ‘Mr Todd, nice to hear your voice. Are you well?’

  ‘Not bad. I’ve been out of hospital for a few months. Mudding through.’

  Keely knows he means muddling but doesn’t correct him. Her conversations with him previously were peppered with these linguistic errors. She remembers Mrs Coren, her English teacher, calling them malapropisms. Used to denote ignorance particularly for comic effect in literature. But here, Todd’s horrific injuries are to blame. And unless he laughs, she isn’t going to.

  ‘You must be wondering why I’m calling you?’

  Keely smiles. Todd is nothing if not direct. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Something’s happened that’s made me think about the accident.’

  At this Keely sits up. She knows that Todd’s recovery is little short of a miracle given the extent of his injuries. Yet despite reassurances from the doctors and surgeons that his amnesia is a genuine manifestation of this trauma, Keely has harboured a healthy scepticism because that is what she’s paid to do. ‘What is it you’ve been thinking about?’

  ‘Emma. I still can’t remember her. I’ve tried talking to her family but it’s not easy.’

  An understatement if ever there was one. Even though Emma died in Turkey, the Met decided to furnish an FLO; a family liaison officer to help the Roxburghs navigate the choppy waters of being interviewed by Turkish police through a translator, and the media feeding frenzy that accompanied all that. Keely experienced at first-hand the bitter resentment expressed by Harriet Roxburgh who blamed Cameron Todd for her sister’s death. And continues to do so in the absence of any shred of evidence that he’d been directly involved in any wrongdoing. Her bitterness stems from a deep and old-fashioned belief that Emma had been Todd’s responsibility. And however and whatever had happened he was therefore to blame. It was irrational and visceral and not open to discussion, fuelled as it was by a typhoon of grief.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I want to be sure that there’s nothing in our past – or her past – that might have had any bearing on the… on what happened.’

  Keely feels her eyebrows knit. Todd’s words are clumsy but she can just about decipher the subtext. Guilt. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘I’m driving now. I went to Emma’s old surgery, where she used to do locusts–’

  Keely knows it’s locums.

  ‘–and it jogged a bit of memory. I need to know if it’s important or not. And I thought, if anyone knows Emma’s story – her past and all – besides her family, it would be you. And you might actually speak to me about it.’

  Keely ponders this. Is it a fair request? As their FLO, she is indeed familiar with Emma Roxburgh’s life. And despite what Harriet Roxburgh and, by default, Emma’s parents might want in terms of contact with Cameron Todd, she is under no obligation to acquiesce to their bruised wishes. Besides, the Turkish police still have Emma Roxburgh’s death as an open file. She can’t quite remember the last time she corresponded with them, but it was on the basis that they keep lines of communication open. A year ago she might have rung DCI Larkson for a chat about this, but he has long since left, promoted to Thames Valley as a super. As far as the Roxburgh case is concerned, Keely, and Keely alone, is Southwark’s one and only expert.

  ‘You have as much right to know as anyone. Though there isn’t much to tell,’ Keely says.

  ‘I get the impression that those around me tell me only what they think I should know. That Emma was lovely and a beautiful person and that we were a good batch. Match. But people don’t want to upset me. I want to find out what really happened in Turkey, sergeant. I think I’m ready to do that.’

  ‘I’m all for that, Mr Todd–’

  ‘Cameron. Call me Cameron.’

  ‘Okay, Cameron. Why don’t you come into the station? I’ll make myself available this afternoon, say two-ish? We can go through what’s known. Unless you want me to come to you?’

  ‘No, I’ll come to the police station. I know wh
ere it is. I’ll walk. My trainer says that walking is good for me.’

  When Todd rings off, Keely turns and calls to a detective sitting a couple of desks away. A straight-out-of-college-with-a-degree newbie called Daniel Messiter. ‘Dan, your lucky day. You get to hold hands with the server while she downloads all we have on that charming group of individuals known as the Woolend Crew.’

  Messiter looks stricken. ‘But I’m supposed to get these reports done–’

  ‘Multitasking. Part of your apprenticeship. Write and watch the screen at the same time. You’ll get the hang of it. Sit here while I use a different screen to request some more files because I do not want to log off and lose what we have so far.’

  ‘But how–’

  ‘Do the report on a pad. Use paper and a pen, then type it up. You’ll be amazed how much time you’ll save having edited it before you punch it in.’ Messiter eases his long frame out of the chair and walks over.

  He’s a foot taller than Keely, but a mile naiver.

  17

  After I’ve spoken with Keely, I mooch around, do some chores, and watch the news. Italy is tightening the lockdown, all schools and universities shut, all businesses except those providing essential services shut. The USA has ordered a flight ban from twenty-six European countries. Australia and New Zealand are calling all their residents home. I wonder why I find all this more disturbing than World War Z which I’ve made the mistake of starting to watch. In the film, at least you can tell who your enemy is. At least you can see the zombies coming. Covid-19 is a silent, creeping, stealthy killer. Could be the bloke next to you in Sainsbury’s. Could be the handrail on the Tube.

  I shut off the TV, go to the kitchen and do some work for Josh, eat a biscuit for breakfast while I do so.

  I watch the last half hour of World War Z and am amazed to see the finale of the film takes place in a remote WHO research facility on the outskirts of Cardiff of all places. I know Cardiff. They tell me I played a little rugby and had been to the Principality Stadium more than once to watch international matches. When I see images, a vague recollection stirs. Like seeing a photograph underwater; insubstantial but there. The stadium is in the heart of the city. No long march out to the suburbs like Twickenham or Dublin. I’d like to go back one day and soak up the atmosphere.

  By half eleven I’m flagging but I don’t give in to it. My skin seems greasy and I need a shower. So I haul myself to the bathroom, my brain clogged with the events of the last couple of days vicariously mingling with Brad Pitt’s fantasy adventures, slow-cooked in the real-life terror of a world in the grip of a creeping nightmare.

  I stand in the shower and let the water hose me down from head to foot. Rachel has given me some shampoo that smells of coconuts. I massage a dollop into my scalp, lather up the rest of me with soap and get my thoughts in order, setting what’s real and what isn’t in their rightful places. It’s astonishing how little difference there appears to be between the two.

  Brad Pitt goes into fantasy.

  Covid-19 unfortunately doesn’t.

  Nicole, for a moment, hovers between the two. But then I remember what we did last night, and my flesh responds accordingly. Proof she’s real. Oh yes, she is real. And so is DS Keely and Josh and Rachel. But as the water sluices and pummels my skin, I sense too that I am not the same person as I was before I got into Emma’s VW and drove to Woolwich.

  I’ve been through a sea change. Something that needed to happen to break me out of the doldrums; still I am not sure what it’ll bring.

  The shower is as good as a double espresso. I think of Nicole and get an image of plain sailing.

  But then Keely swims into focus and I wonder if I’m heading towards rougher seas.

  18

  At 13.55 Thursday afternoon, Keely gets a call from the desk sergeant. Someone in reception for her. She walks down from her first-floor desk in Southwark Station and sees Cameron Todd sitting on the bench. He’s put on a little weight since she saw him last. Not a bad thing given his previous scarecrow appearance. She wonders when it was they last talked. A good six or seven months, she reckons.

  He stands when she comes through the security door. Slow movements, careful. His gait is broad-based, his stance rigid, favouring his left leg. She remembers he had balance issues. He looks at her with an intense, serious gaze. She remembers reading in the reports that he has a blunted affect. The report was lengthy, and that little diamond was in the middle of a list of medical problems. She hadn’t known what it meant and had to look it up. But she remembers what she read.

  A person with blunted affect has a significantly reduced intensity in emotional expression.

  He is difficult to read. His emotional tone may or may not be appropriate to the situation he finds himself in. That bothers her because she believes she’s become good over the years at sniffing out the petty liars and cheats. Not that Todd was ever one of those. Again, she finds it oddly disconcerting but pushes it away and offers a greeting. ‘Mr Todd, good to see you.’

  ‘Likewise, Sergeant Keely. But it’s Cameron. Please.’

  He doesn’t reciprocate when she smiles. Instead, his eyes track hers with unnerving directness. Took her a while to get used to it before, even though she now knows there’s no subtext. Merely his way of trying to read expressions. A skill that most people take for granted but which he has had to learn afresh. She notes the scars over the left side of his cheek, the lines and a jagged star whiter than the rest of his skin. A slight depression in the bone signifies where metal has been used to repair some fragments too, but his left eye, the one damaged in the accident, is no longer red and angry-looking.

  ‘Still no vision in that one, I’m afraid. I see vague shadows, light and dark. They got to it too late.’

  Keely nods, annoyed with herself at making the tell so obvious. She hadn’t meant to stare at his damaged face. But that’s the thing with Cameron Todd. There’s no outward sign that he’s aware of what she is doing. But he’s intuited it anyway. He’d make a great poker player.

  She’s read the reports again prior to his visit so she remembers that his retinal detachment went untreated while they kept him alive, though they pushed it back with a gas bubble eventually. Difficult to blame the doctors; they’d left it so long because they’d had no idea he would survive. Loss of vision in one eye was on the bottom of their list of potentially bad outcomes. It said so in the reports.

  His dark hair is short at the sides and back, a little thicker on top, flecked now with a little grey at the temples. He’s clean-shaven and when he moves to follow her through the door into the belly of the old building, he does so smoothly. None of the staccato movements she remembered from before, though there is that slight remnant of a limp, she notices.

  ‘You found us all right then?’ she calls over her shoulder.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Another couple of years and I doubt we’ll be here. Budget cuts and all.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I like this old building.’

  ‘Bugger to heat in the winter.’

  She takes him to an interview room and gives him some water in a paper cup while she retrieves her file from her first-floor desk. An informal chat, not an interview. Even so, he deserves a little privacy.

  ‘You’re looking well, Cameron,’ she says, re-entering the room.

  ‘Thank you. So do you, sergeant.’

  Keely cocks an eye. She knows he’s being polite and that she needs to get to the gym more than the once a week she’s managing now. And she needs to stop going to Viri’s mum’s for supper every Friday night. Trouble is the food is wonderful and far too convenient even if it is in Harrow. She goes because Viri’s their only son and he’s dutiful. No hardship; they’re sweet and his mum is a brilliant cook.

  Keely and Viri visit Keely’s parents every other Sunday. That’s an altogether stuffier affair. Her dad still works in Northwick Park Hospital as a stroke consultant and she has no idea what they’ll do when he retires. How th
ey’ll cope. The job is his and, by default, her mother’s life. Neither of them understands why Keely chose to work in the Met and not go into medicine like her sister. Sometimes neither does Keely. But those times are rare. Cases like Cameron Todd’s keep the flames of interest flickering. Part of the reason why she hasn’t rushed to climb the ladder. After DI there’s DCI and that would mean much more of a desk job than out and about in the meat of investigations. Some would say slog. Keely knows she bucks the trend by enjoying the hands-on stuff. Even if it means having to wash the dirt off with industrial strength disinfectant a lot of the time.

  She glances down and opens the file. ‘So, Cameron, what can I do for you?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve started driving. I visited Emma’s old surgery at Woolwich. The doctors say I should revisit old places. Someone there gave me what was left of Emma’s stuff. Wasn’t much, just an old folder, but there was a notebook and Emma had written something and I… it made me wonder about us.’

  ‘You and Emma?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you wonder?’

  He has a slight tremor in his left hand, and he holds his left thumb in his right fist to quieten the movement. ‘My memory is like a lost hard drive. What’s happened to me is in there, but I can’t access the damned thing. Like having a search engine at your fingertips but with no keyboard to type in a request.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking what she wrote?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind.’ He pauses and for a second Keely wonders if he’s being literal, missing the nuance of her questions, but then he reaches to his pocket and adds, ‘I’ve written it out for you.’ Cam hands over a sheet of paper. On it, in capital letters are the words: