platform. You’re speaking to a woman with a toddler and I start to wonder if I’ve got it all wrong.
Sam
The Present – Thursday, 10 January
It should have come as no surprise to find the lift was out of order on the one day I was running late. It wasn’t a great start to my final day of training. Not after my brolly had blown inside out on the way over and I’d got my heel caught in a drain cover, sending me straight into a puddle.
Not only did I have one sopping wet foot, but my thighs were burning when I reached the seventh floor. I was gasping for breath. Mid-thirties and I felt ancient. Too much sitting down since I’d started this course at Guy’s Hospital; thank goodness it was nearly over.
From the following day, everything was going to change. No more Kit Kats with morning coffee. No more sitting at the back of the lecture theatre with a bag of crisps stashed away for those yawn-inducing moments. Once I’d got my certificate, my daily commute back to work would have to be on my bike again.
Professor Landy must have spent the initial five minutes trying to set up the PowerPoint because the lecture theatre was still buzzing with chit-chat when I peeled open the door. By the time the first slide came up, I’d found a seat.
I was glad I hadn’t missed anything, because the final day of lectures turned out to be the best yet. As soon as the professor mentioned the forensic applications of ‘delusions of grandeur’, I felt my spine snap up straight.
‘Such delusions are a common trait in serial killers,’ she said. ‘They drive individuals to believe they have special powers or are being given secret instructions to kill.’ I shuddered at those last two words. I’d worked with several delusional patients in my own practice, but none where their behaviour had ended in murder. At least, not as far as I was aware.
During the break, I wandered over to join the queue for coffee. I had half an eye on a plate of chocolate digestives on the table, but as I pulled out my mobile, my appetite absconded. A missed call. A hot wave of nausea rolled over me when I saw who it was from. Someone I hadn’t expected to hear from ever again: Detective Chief Superintendent Elsa Claussen from the Metropolitan Police.
What did she want? Keen to get it over with, I stepped out of the queue and called her straight back.
After a few pleasantries, DCS Claussen weaved her way to the point. ‘So tell me, Dr Willerby – how did you feel after the Aiden Blake case?’
Claussen’s familiar brisk tone brought her into my mind in full colour. The speckled grey short-back-and-sides haircut, the ample bosom kept at bay under a formal shift dress – invariably buttoned-up to the chin. Not forgetting the black ‘hospital ward’ lace-ups, as if she’d come straight from breaking in new army recruits on an assault course.
How did I feel?
‘Well, it was very – how can I put it – challenging,’ I said, my body recoiling as I relived a flashback to the ordeal last summer. ‘As it turned out, I was also within an inch of losing my life… but…’ My words fizzled out. Why was she asking me this now – six months down the line?
‘Your expertise as a therapist saved the day, did it not?’
‘That’s… I–’
My mind whirred.
The last time I had a call out of the blue from the Met I lost my annual leave. I was forced to trade in a long-awaited trip to Greece for drifting up and down the Regent’s Canal on a narrowboat. On reflection, it was a poignant, life-affirming case to work on, but it still ruined my holiday.
She continued. ‘I’m not sure how we’d have proceeded without you, if I’m honest.’
Okay, now I really was worried. Why was she talking to me like we were in a Nancy Drew novel?
‘After some initial hiccups,’ she added, ‘you blended into the team admirably.’
Initial hiccups, eh? Is that what they were? More like unacceptable and abominable arrogance from a number of police officers who should have known better. And insensitivity that was bordering on bullying towards a vulnerable witness. And a lack of respect for my professional input. My list could have gone on.
She cleared her throat. ‘We were impressed by your handling of the situation – most particularly your dogged tenacity. Some might say you were a