Here The Truth Lies Page 13

  Yes, you were broken and I could not put the pieces of your life back together again. You were burdened with a secret too grave for your young mind. The trauma had been too great.

  You may now know enough to understand that I applied the principle of regression, through hypnosis, to take you back to the troubled times when the terrible events of your past had taken place, allowing you to live through them again in the safety of the knowledge that when you returned to the waking world, you would not have to face them again. I hoped that by taking you through this path and shouldering the burden of substituting myself for your oppressor, I could rebuild your fractured personality and allow you to become a rounded, untroubled person. But the more I tried, the more distant that goal became.

  Yet something else happened. Something I’d seen before in other patients. Another personality began to emerge. Someone more like the woman you needed to be.

  We called that person Emma.

  From that moment our work together made progress. The more you believed in Emma, the more you flourished. The more Emma emerged, the more distant your earlier, troubled self became. Until that former self became an irrelevance. And I took the decision to leave you only with Emma.

  As Emma.

  We found a way to ensure that you could live as her.

  It was difficult. Something many would say was unethical. But the difference this made to your life was proof enough.

  Within weeks you were set to become a well-rounded, positive person ready to claim a place for yourself in the world.

  If what I have done now offends you, please understand that it was solely in your best interests, to give you the hope of a full life where before there had been none.

  Remember, everything I did was for you and for your happiness.

  Best wishes

  Bernard Kautek

  I look at the date on the top of the letter. It is ten years ago when I was sixteen. Kautek was treating a teenager. A girl I once was.

  The woman I now am.

  I take another gulp of scotch.

  What have they done to me?

  DAY 6

  CHAPTER 43

  The sound of the alarm wakes me. I rub my eyes and take in the time from the phone. 7.30 AM. If I don’t get up and start out straight away, I’ll be late for the trip to Southampton.

  There is no work for me at the Herald today. The journey into London has none of the feeling of inclusiveness I’ve come to expect. I’m no longer comfortable amongst this mass of self-assured commuters setting out to take on the challenges of the day. I’m isolated and alone with Kautek’s words repeating themselves in my mind.

  How could I have been so broken as to be in need of such drastic therapy? When such a young girl?

  What gave Kautek the right to do this to me?

  And, worst of all, who was looking out for me back then? It wasn’t John or Mary Chamberlain. I discovered that at Brompton cemetery. So, if not them, who had my true parents been?

  Why would they give me over into the hands of Kautek? They must have given him the authority to change the course of my life.

  There are too many questions I can’t answer. And all the while last night’s drinking is taking its toll. I feel queasy and take a long time to self-diagnose hangover as a factor that’s intensifying the feelings of estrangement I’m struggling to keep at bay.

  I arrive at Waterloo Station to find that the train to Southampton is scheduled to depart in four minutes, leaving just enough time to purchase the ticket and run to meet Sophie who is waiting for me on the platform.

  We find vacant seats and settle in for the journey. Sophie checks the details on her phone. “It should take about an hour. We’ll have all this time together with no interruptions.”

  I lean back in the train seat and try to relax. “It’s exactly what I need.”

  Sophie gives me a knowing look. “You’re still stressed.”

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t be that obvious.”

  “Bad night?”

  “I’ve had better.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  Reaching into my bag, I pull out the letter from Kautek. “Read this.”

  When she’s finished reading, Sophie shakes her head in disbelief. “What does this mean?”

  “That’s what I need your help to find out.”

  “You have every right to demand answers.”

  “I plan to do just that.”

  “If you need legal back up, let me know.”

  The conversation turns to my suspension from the Herald.

  “At least I don’t have to see McLeish’s ugly face again. Nor keep myself away from Angela Smith’s prying eyes.” I pause. “You know what I miss most. My phone contacts.”

  “And there I may be able to help.”

  Sophie goes through her phone contacts and finds those that she shares with me. We transfer them to the pay-as-you-go phone. It’s a modest progress but it feels like I’m taking the first hesitant steps to rebuilding my life.

  It is a small start but an important one.

  My confidence is beginning to lift and I don’t resist when Sophie wants to know more about James Walsh. How close to him am I? The truth comes out bit by bit.

  “You mean you slept with him?”

  I nod.

  “You hardly know him.”

  “That’s true. I hadn’t thought it through. But it happened, and it just seemed right.”

  “You weren’t drinking?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “So, where do you stand now?”

  “I’m not sure. He left in the night.”

  “No message?”

  I hold up my phone. “I’ve lost his number, and he doesn’t have this one.” It’s a believable excuse. “We made a plan to meet again for lunch today. I guess that’s when I’ll see him next. I should be able to get back to London in time.”

  Sophie gives a reassuring smile. “Well, take care. The last thing you need is to be hurt.”

  “I’m a big girl now.”

  “Of course. It’s wonderful you’ve found someone. When can I meet him?”

  “Maybe I’ll bring him to the Tate and you can bump into him there. By accident.”

  “That would be a good idea.”

  As the train passes through Basingstoke, I take the opportunity to change the subject. “We must be the best part of halfway there and we haven’t said a word about Marsha Kent.”

  “All I’ve got is what she told me when I phoned her. She was defensive to say the least. Didn’t want to be troubled. The hope is that, face to face, she’ll open up a little more.”

  “But I can tell there’s more reason than that to send us both down there to meet her.”

  “I did some digging around about the people she used to hang out with back in the day. Turns out she was quite a player on the Southampton scene. Got mixed up with a first team footballer at one time. She was cited in the divorce proceedings when the affair made it to the front pages. More important for us, she was also involved with unsavory types on the club scene, including several sent down for drug dealing. Cocaine mainly but also heroin and methamphetamine.”

  “In other words, people who would have been known to Brian Cooper.”

  “Almost certainly. Her original statement that Cooper was with her in a Southampton club, the Night Owl, on the night of the murder is all the more credible because of that. She was part of that world.”

  “But when her statement wasn’t used at the trial, she chose not to come forward?”

  “It would have been inconvenient for the prosecution. They would have needed to show how Cooper could have travelled back from Southampton to the house in Morden at the time of the murders. The times that Marsha Kent claimed that Cooper was with her in Southampton meant that he couldn’t have been in Morden that night. But in the absence of her statement the prosecution could depend on Alison’s testimony that placed Cooper at the murder scene at the time of the k
illings.”

  “So, she came under pressure to keep herself out of the picture?”

  “Or perhaps she just didn’t want to get involved.”

  When we arrive at Southampton, we take a taxi to Maybush where Marsha Kent works.

  She isn’t pleased to see us when we present ourselves in the reception at Wild Nails and ask for her by name. “I told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

  It’s difficult to imagine what she looked like back then when she was current on the club scene. Much thinner. Less worn down by the passage of time.

  Sophie tries persuasion. “We just need a few minutes.”

  But she isn’t listening. “Look, there are customers waiting.”

  Sophie makes a point of looking around. “I don’t see them.”

  “I still don’t want to talk.”

  I try something different. “Look, Marsha, you knew Brian Cooper. You were close to him once. You must have stopped to think more than once about what he’s going through. Eighteen years in prison. And no chance of parole unless we can come up with new evidence. It’s in your power to change that. Allow him to start a new life.”

  Marsha looks down at the floor. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “You came forward once. You cared enough then.”

  She looks back up again and there is something different in her eyes, a glimpse perhaps of the woman she once was. “That was before they got to me.”

  “They?”

  “The police. I could have been put away myself. Soliciting. Using. They could have spun it into five years inside if they’d implicated me in dealing. And they had plenty of opportunities to do that. So he gave me no choice.”

  “He?”

  “I don’t want to say any more.”

  “You’re the only one who can help.”

  “He was a DI, working the drugs scene here in Southampton. He’s moved on now, risen in the force, but back then he was the one we all feared. Knew too much about everyone. Had enough on most to put them away whenever he wanted.”

  “This DI asked you to drop your statement and stay away from Cooper’s trial?”

  Marsha nods. “He left me no choice. I had my daughter Cheryl to think about. She was just three. He played on that. Knew I couldn’t bear to be without her.”

  “So you did what he said and watched as Brian Cooper was sent down. When all along you could prove he was with you here in Southampton?’’

  Marsha turns away. “I did what I had to do. I’m not proud of it. But I survived. My daughter survived. What else is there to say?”

  Sophie catches Marsha by the arm. “It’s not too late. You can still help right the wrong that’s been done.”

  She pulls away. “You don’t need me. You know about the statement. Isn’t that enough?”

  “We need the name of that DI and we need you to corroborate the statement. It’s worth next to nothing without that.”

  Marsha points towards the door. “I want you to go now. Leave me.”

  “How old is your daughter now? Twenty-one? Time has moved on. There’s nothing they can hold over you now.”

  “Leave.”

  “Just give us the name.”

  “If I tell you that, will you go?”

  I nod.

  “OK. His name was Wilsden. Ray Wilsden. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “But you will think it over. About corroborating the statement. Please.”

  On the train returning to London, Sophie looks up from her laptop. “I’ve found him.”

  I’m deep in thought about the Kautek letter and why Montago Clinic has so much to do with my life.

  Sophie repeats the question. “Did you hear me, I’ve found him.”

  “Who?”

  Sophie turns the laptop screen towards me. “Ray Wilsden. Or should I say Chief Superintendent Raymond Wilsden.”

  The screen shows a man dressed in the full regalia of a top ranking police officer, resplendent in epaulets and military style decorations. His smile is that of one sure of his hold on power. Respectable, but with a look that told you that he was a man you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of.

  Sophie provides more details. “One of the highest ranking policemen in London. Playing a key role in spearheading the Met’s programs against organized crime in the city. It’s all there in his bio.”

  I look back in surprise. “But can we be sure he’s the same Ray Wilsden that Marsha Kent told us about?”

  “There’s no doubt. Earlier in the bio it says that Wilsden came from the Southampton force where he worked in the Drugs Unit. It’s the same man, all right.”

  “So, you think that explains why she’s still worried about coming forward?”

  “Well, if what Marsha says is true, this takes matters beyond what was a serious enough matter of the prosecution deliberately withholding a witness statement from the defense. If true, this is a whole different order of interference in the law.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Ives joins Lesley at Lions Yard for their morning briefing.

  “I asked you to look at the victims to see what they have in common?”

  Lesley pulls back the cover on her tablet and opens the chosen file. “This is all. Three victims. No sign that they knew each other. Few common interests. At first sight, you’d think Cargill must have selected them at random.”

  “Few common interests? So where is the overlap?”

  “Well, it’s not much. No email contact. No social media contact. Two of them, Cavendish and Finch were both season ticket holders at the Saints rugby club. But Bishop wasn’t. Cavendish and Bishop were both Masons. But there’s nothing to indicate that Finch was.”

  “Maybe he was very good at hiding it.”

  “They’re less secretive than they were and there’s more intelligence on them these days. I’d say Finch wasn’t involved in them. But, I agree we should put that on the list.”

  “So, Cavendish has contact with Finch through rugby and with Bishop through the Masons. Isn’t he the link?”

  “Maybe. But that’s stretching it. There’s nothing to indicate that all three communicated with each other in any way.”

  “Anything else.”

  “Well, we’re down to charitable giving. They all claimed tax rebates on money given to charities.”

  “Any of those in common?”

  “Well, between them they gave to over twenty organizations. There are just four that all three of them donated to.” She pulls up the relevant content of the file. “Mainpoint Housing, Assent Trust, Juneberry and The Alencion Project.”

  “It’s all we have?”

  “That’s it. There’s nothing else I can find.”

  “Well, I suggest we look at the rugby club and the charities.”

  Lesley opens wide her hands. “It will take more manpower than we can call on, Steve.”

  He nods to show he understands. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.” He pauses. “So, what updates do we have on the Finch killing?”

  Lesley has been preparing herself for the question. “The news is not all good. First off, the gun is registered to the security guard who died at the scene. His name is Brad Wheeler. East End and just this side of the divide between us and them. Employed by Dradbear Security, a shady outfit specializing in protection of building sites and empty properties, though they’ve been accused more than once of taking money for a different type of protection. The guard killed in the compound yard was his brother, Stan, also employed by Dradbear.”

  “And the bullets?”

  “Just one recovered from Brad Wheeler’s skull and matched to his own gun.”

  “But two bullets missing from the clip?”

  She nods. “And an extensive search of the scene has failed to find the one that’s missing.”

  “Meaning it was carried away by Peter. Hence the trail of blood.” He pauses. “Which brings us to Julienne.”

  “She’s pulled out all the stops in preparin
g the blood samples for analysis. The preliminary DNA results are in and she has a match. But there’s good news and bad news.”

  “I’ll take the good first.”

  “She was right. The samples taken from the trail of blood leading out of the Finch master bedroom are quite distinct from the other blood samples taken from the scene.”

  “So, we have a line on the killer?”

  Lesley nods. “It’s his.” She pauses. “Julienne has found a match. The name is Evan Cargill.”

  “Where’s the bad in that?”

  “Cargill’s last known whereabouts were two years ago in Afghanistan.”

  “And before?”

  Lesley pulls up more information on her screen. “His record goes right back. Children’s homes. Borstal. Out at eighteen and angry. More petty crime. Given a chance in the Army. Did well enough in training but couldn’t control his anger. Army jail and then dismissal for insubordination. Joined up as a mercenary in a South African led group that put itself out for hire in central Africa. Then there’s a break in the record before he’s tracked again as a subject of interest for involvement in terrorist groups in the Middle East. One intelligence report suggests he was captured and tortured by rival extremists. Our security sources monitored him as a potential terrorist threat when he returned here but he did them a favor when he got himself banged up in Pentonville for five years for aggravated assault and battery. Almost beat a man to death in a fistfight in a bar in Lewisham. Served three years before heading out to Afghanistan as a mercenary.” She pauses and looks up. “At least that’s what the security services were led to believe. The match Julienne found means he must have re-entered the country.”

  Ives scratches his head. “Not much there to suggest serial killer behavior. So what turned him?”

  “It’s a track record of bitterness and violence.”

  “Like ten per cent of the male population. No, there has to be some defining moment, some series of events or some kind of specific influence that sparked this killing spree.”

  “I can contact counter terrorism and ask if there’s more on him?”