Perfect Bones: A Tense Psychological Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked Read online

  My eyes clamped shut. ‘Why? Why not?’

  ‘He won’t talk to anybody.’

  Oh, great.

  ‘And what makes you think he’ll talk to me?’ I laughed. ‘A complete stranger?’

  ‘No, what I mean is – he can’t speak. At all. The psychiatrist says he’s been rendered mute by the situation; he was diagnosed this afternoon. He hasn’t uttered a word to anyone in twenty-four hours. Not one word.’

  2

  I switched off the television that had been rolling on in the background and stared at the black screen. DCS Claussen had broken off to deal with another call and said she’d get back to me, but I could already feel the smouldering sun slipping down behind the ocean waves, the sand between my toes rapidly dissolving.

  It was all Terry’s doing. I backtracked to the conversation I’d had with him over lunch that day. Something told me at the time that he wasn’t being upfront with me. I should have followed my gut instinct and questioned his motives there and then.

  Terry Austin was an old friend from my PhD days at university, long before he’d joined the police force. We hadn’t been in touch for years until I met him at the hospital where I was working as a clinical psychologist about two years ago. He was having a check-up following surgery and we’d ended up chatting in the waiting room. He’d been shot in the leg during an armed robbery and had been signed off for months. After that chance meeting, we’d followed each other on social media, but had no proper face-to-face contact. Then out of the blue he rang me this morning, asked if we could meet for lunch.

  ‘Just thought it would be nice to catch up,’ he’d said.

  I was taken aback, but there was a tight edge to his voice that gave me the feeling it could be something serious. I’d told him if he’d left it another day I’d have been lounging on a beach by the Ionian Sea munching feta cheese.

  ‘Romantic getaway?’ he threw out with a smile in his voice.

  ‘Hardly. I’ll explain when I see you.’

  I’d spotted him as soon as I stepped inside The Archduke, awkwardly perched on a stool at the bar. A carved walking stick hung over the back. His leg must not have properly healed.

  The bar was open-plan and airy, nestled within the railway arches outside Waterloo Station. It still retained the bare brickwork of its original construction with additional broad windows, mezzanines and cosy alcoves. I’d not been here before and was startled when the first train rumbled overhead, making the glasses tremble, harking back to the structure’s original raison d’être. Somehow, the atmosphere of grimy nostalgia wasn’t at odds with the upmarket clientele.

  I dropped my bag on the stool beside him and leant over with a casual hug so he didn’t have to get up.

  ‘Looks like I just caught you before you disappeared,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘Early plane in the morning. I’m getting away for a while with my sister.’

  I glanced down at the tall glass with a straw and lemon in front of him. Not drinking. I should have taken that as confirmation he was still ‘on duty’.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.

  ‘Chablis, please.’

  ‘Drinking at lunchtime?’ His smile belied any judgement. ‘What’s got into the cool and consummate professional I used to know?’

  I threw up my eyes with a huff. ‘Dr Samantha Willerby finished work this morning.’ I flung my jacket over my bag with a flourish as the barman plonked the glass in front of me. ‘This is my first holiday in years and it starts now.’ I chinked my glass against his. ‘I’ve got the afternoon to pack and I’m more than ready to slip into vacation mode, I can tell you.’

  Terry knew me well. Most people regarded me as detached and never ruffled, like any good psychologist should be. But it wasn’t just about my job. Long before I worked at St Luke’s I’d had a reputation for being an ice-maiden. Miranda once said that if she was a tagine of spicy, multi-coloured kedgeree, then I was a plate of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She’s wrong, of course. As are all the others who think I breeze through life with a natural resilience against everything fate throws at me. In truth, I’m often curled up into a little ball inside, fighting silent battles over making the right decision, struggling to hold my own against self-doubt. Terry understood that. He was one of the few individuals who’d seen me at my worst. He knew I was more like a Creme Egg; solid on the outside, soft and melty in the middle.

  ‘I’d join you, but I’ve got meetings this afternoon,’ he said, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘Shame.’

  I shuffled onto the stool, but it was too high for me, forcing my skirt to reveal more of my thigh than I intended. I nonchalantly hoisted it down.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he said, glancing at my leg, then back to his drink with a tiny flicker of his eyebrows.

  ‘Somewhere warm in the Mediterranean. It’s Miranda’s choice. To be honest, it’s only partly pleasure.’

  A fold appeared in his forehead. ‘How come?’

  ‘In a nutshell, I’m going away with her partly as her sister, but mainly as a psychologist.’

  He winced. ‘Whoa – sounds a bit technical. Not a break at all then?’

  I laughed. ‘It will be – I hope. Miranda was involved in a minor hit and run about a month ago and since then, she’s definitely lost weight.’

  ‘She was a slip of a thing to start with if I remember correctly. Was she badly hurt?’

  ‘No, just bumps and bruises; the car tipped her into the kerb and didn’t stop.’

  He glanced down at his own knee.

  ‘She was lucky…’ I said, my gaze following his. ‘But, I need to find out how she’s coping. Really coping. It’s not that long ago that she was in intensive care after a fire. I won’t go into details, but she suffered nasty burns on her arms, legs and back.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ He reached out for my hand, then once he’d taken it, awkwardly let it go.

  ‘She dealt with the aftermath of the fire incredibly well at the time, but I’m not sure if this recent incident could have triggered something. I don’t want to suddenly discover she’s struggling with hidden anxiety that’s escalated into anorexia or self-harm or–’

  ‘Can’t you talk to her here, in London? Invite her round for coffee or go shopping together?’

  ‘It’s not quite as easy as that. Miranda is terribly slippery and the world’s best at avoiding her feelings. She hates me interfering, as she calls it, and regularly goes through periods when she blanks me or stops answering my calls. On holiday – just the two of us – I can wait for the right time and do it all very slowly, inconspicuously.’

  ‘So, you’re going to spend your well-earned break sussing her out?’

  I took a long sip of wine. ‘I won’t even dare to broach the subject until we’ve settled into our rooms and knocked back our first cocktail. In fact, I’m going to wait until she’s had her first dip, shaken the sand out of her towel and peeled the bikini straps from her shoulders, then I’ll ease my way in, ever so gently.’

  ‘So she’ll hardly notice…’ he gave me a wry smile as he sipped on his straw.

  I laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. It’s rather optimistic, isn’t it? It’s so annoying when you want to be there for someone, but they refuse to let you in.’

  Terry’s expression slid into a knowing grimace. He knew about Miranda’s delicate mental health, about her past. He’d been there many times at University, when I’d come back from a fraught family weekend pulling my hair out. He’d helped restore my sanity, sitting up with me well into the night as we shared bottles of wine.

  While many sufferers of schizophrenia show signs of depression and withdrawal, Miranda tended to have ‘outbursts’. These symptoms had started during her childhood, when we didn’t know about her diagnosis and thought she was going through random episodes of attention-seeking behaviour. On one occasion, she tossed over twenty packets of frozen peas onto the floor of a supermarket before my mother was able to catch up with
her. One winter, she set fire to her bed, because the voices in her head were telling her that the room was gradually being frozen by the snowman on the neighbours’ front lawn.

  Miranda told me, much later, that she’d spent most of her upbringing believing she was in a different reality to everyone else; one where other people lived behind sheets of glass, but she was out in the open, vulnerable and unprotected. That was before she was getting the right medication, but even now she only had one foot in the same world as the rest of us. I’d never stopped being on my guard; any new upset could set her off.

  I pulled a shameful face. ‘Miranda would kill me if she thought I had any plans to throw therapy into the mix.’

  Terry put his hand over mine and held it there, this time. Even though I hadn’t seen him for two years I felt as if we’d last met only a few days ago. Some friends are like that. Terry had always been a rock; reliable, straight down the line and gentle. I’d always thought he’d fit snugly into the role of brother, if we’d kept in touch better. I’m not sure why, but I’d never considered him as potential boyfriend material, which was a shame, because he probably ticked all the right boxes. He was loyal, uncomplicated and made an amazing mushroom risotto. But there was no spark. You can’t make someone fit the part if a crucial bit is missing, no matter how perfect they might seem on paper.

  ‘Are you still working at the same mental health unit?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘Yep. Same old.’ I was about to ask how his own work was going, but he had another question.

  ‘What sort of issues do you deal with?’

  I halted, suddenly cautious. Was Terry looking for a counsellor? Was this the reason he wanted to see me? Getting shot, then coping with a long-term disability must have been a tough ordeal for him. Not only his leg, but his career in the Met had been shattered. I’d learned via social media that he’d been forced to give up his role as a detective for a position in data training instead. He must have had support through work at the time, but it would have only been for a few months.

  I stayed on course with his question, remaining neutral. ‘Any sort of trauma. I’m brought in when the nightmares and flashbacks won’t go away. When patients jump at the slightest noise, lose their appetite, withdraw into themselves… can’t cope any more.’

  ‘So, your work involves all kinds of accidents, terrorist incidents, domestic and street crimes?’

  I couldn’t play the game any longer. ‘What’s this about, Terry? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Me?’ he snorted. ‘No. I’m just interested, that’s all.’ He snatched a sip of water too quickly and I knew he was covering something up.

  I carried on, hoping all would be revealed eventually. ‘I’ve been doing research into art and play therapy; not with kids, but with adults instead. To recover repressed or distressing memories.’

  He fingered his chin looking thoughtful. ‘You get them to draw or paint?’

  ‘Not just drawing; some patients would run a mile if I gave them a blank sheet of paper and a crayon. We use lots of different methods.’ I laughed. ‘My office looks like a toy shop. I’ve got Lego bricks, pebbles and shells, a sandpit, Tarot cards, dolls, model cars – you name it. You should come and see sometime. It’s all about symbols. I often work using fairy tales or ask patients to describe themselves using characters from a soap opera or film. Sometimes it’s easier for them to describe what happened through another persona.’

  He tapped his lip. ‘Wow...’

  Was this really an idle interest? It was rare for anyone to be this enthusiastic about what I did, but Terry seemed genuinely entranced. It spurred me on to tell him more.

  ‘I had one guy last week who could only tell me about himself if I referred to him as Captain Picard. I had to be Counsellor Troy.’ Terry gave me a dubious look. ‘I know – it can sound a bit kinky at times, but this guy was above board. He talked me through various scenes from Star Trek, through the eyes of the ship’s captain. Using that means of separation he was able to explain how he felt in a way that was safe for him.’ I leant forward. ‘That’s confidential by the way. I use all kinds of approaches to help patients express themselves, often without using any words at all.’

  ‘You have patients who don’t speak?’

  ‘They can – but they don’t have to. Words can get in the way sometimes. Speaking can seem too direct and confrontational at times. Sometimes it’s easier, safer, to show…’

  He stared into his glass. ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Okay, Terry. Spill. Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’

  I saw his chest rise and fall. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Oh, come on, all you’ve done is fire one question after another at me. It’s very flattering, but I’m rather mystified. What’s going on?’

  For one strange moment, it crossed my mind that Terry might have fancied me since our paths crossed at Manchester University, and had only now chosen this obscure moment to pluck up the courage to tell me. My life was certainly low on love-interest at the moment, but with all the will in the world, Terry wasn’t ‘the one’. I was starting to panic about how I was going to let him down without offending him.

  He got to his feet. ‘Let me get you another drink,’ he said.

  I was still standing in the sitting room, holding the phone in my hand when it rang again. In the light of that odd lunch date, Claussen’s request now made perfect sense. At least I didn’t need to worry about any possible romantic interest from Terry; instead I’d walked straight into his trap. Once he’d realised I was just the person they needed, he’d confirmed with Claussen and I’d been ‘requisitioned’.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Claussen said, her tone clipped. ‘Drugs bust just gone tits up.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Right – we’ll send a car over at seven-thirty tomorrow morning for the briefing, okay?’

  I paused, trying to gather my thoughts. We hadn’t actually had the part of the conversation where I’d agreed to anything, but I knew there was little use in pointing that out.

  ‘Let me make a call,’ I told her. ‘Let me do that first – one call – before I agree to this.’

  ‘Sure,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll wait for you to ring me back.’

  It was after 10pm. I hit redial, with an entirely different quality of trepidation to twenty minutes ago. This time she answered.

  I jumped straight in. ‘Miranda, I’m really sorry to call so late, only I’ve got bad news…’

  ‘So have I, as a matter of fact.’ There was tremor in her voice; she’d been crying. ‘I was going to call you.’

  ‘Why? Are you okay?’ I said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t go… on the trip…’ she spluttered, ‘something terrible’s happened.’ She’d borrowed the words I was about to use, almost word for word.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’ She broke down into heaving sobs. ‘It’s Kora … someone’s tried to kill her.’

  3

  Friday, July 6 – Day One

  The patrol car pulled up at Stanhope Street Police Station in Camden promptly at 8am. As a ‘civilian’, I wasn’t allowed into the major incident room, so I was taken by the desk sergeant into a space reserved for general meetings; comfy chairs, a white board, coffee in silver pots in the corner. There was an oily smell of new carpet. As I scanned the area I was immediately able to put a face to the robust female voice I’d heard late last night. DCS Elsa Claussen was reprimanding two uniformed officers, one of whom was visibly cowering. Her voice blasted across the room like a polar vortex, filling the space with icy fumes, sucking out all the air.

  I braced myself as she headed towards me and gripped my hand without a smile. She’d sounded on the phone like she was Danish; but from what I could see she was about as far removed from the delicate pastry variety as you could ever imagine. Everything about her was bulky with straight lines; the back-and-sides haircut, balcony bosom, clompy lace-ups. Not a curve in sight. She looked how I’d imagine a female Sumo wrestler would look.


  I reined in my cruel assessment of her, but I knew where the negativity was coming from. I was angry with her. Angry that she’d stolen the precious time I’d set aside – at last – for my getaway. In thirty minutes time, I should have been soaring above the city, switching off from patients and crises, and looking forward to my first tequila. Finding a way to check on Miranda after the hit and run had been my main motivation when I’d booked the break, but its status had shifted since then. Once I’d packed my bags yesterday, I saw how desperate I was for time out and the trip had recast itself as a blissful retreat that I not only needed, but deserved.

  When I accepted this case last night, my first thought was that I’d let myself down. But that self-reproach had been short-lived once Miranda revealed that her best friend had been involved in a brutal attack. Getting pitched off the road at Baker Street was nothing compared to this. Now Kora was at death’s door. Even for a ‘normal’ person the impact could be devastating, but for Miranda, diagnosed with schizophrenia, the after-effects could be far more damaging.

  The Chief Super introduced me to DCI Keith Wilde. He was tall and frowned slightly as he offered his hand. His handshake was flimsy, but his pupils were hard, like rivets. A difficult man to please, I surmised. Next in line was DI Jeremy Fenway with whom I’d be working most closely. He had a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to his neck where he’d cut himself shaving, which warmed me to him straight away. He was the only one so far who looked vaguely human.

  Several other plain-clothes and uniformed officers joined us and I took a seat on the second of three rows. DCI Wilde outlined the gist of the situation: a nineteen-year-old art student, Aiden Blake, had rung police from his mobile just after 9.30pm on July fourth, having witnessed a gruesome incident.

  ‘Carry on, constable,’ Wilde instructed, stepping to one side.

  A young male officer loped forward, holding a spiral notepad in front of him with both hands, as if it was a hymnbook. He cleared his throat. ‘Right… Mr Blake managed to mutter something about a woman with her throat cut,’ he explained. ‘He sounded pretty confused, but he did tell us a figure came out of nowhere, right up to the boat.’ The officer’s eyes darted about the room as if expecting a big bang to occur at any moment. ‘Then Mr Blake went silent and couldn’t say a thing after that. When we got to the scene, we found him squatting beside the victim, but he wouldn’t say another word.’