Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,2
true asset.’
Was someone holding a gun to her head?
I didn’t want her praise. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s nice of you to let me know, but is there anything else?’
A short silence plummeted between us.
‘A little bird told me you have some new training under your belt,’ she said, her voice almost childlike.
‘Not quite. My last lecture is today. In around two minutes to be precise.’
The little bird was no doubt Terry Austin from my PhD days in Manchester. Surely he hadn’t dropped me in it again. Then came the words I was dreading. The ones that had meant trouble, last time.
‘I also understand you don’t have any patients booked in at St Luke’s for a couple of weeks?’
My lungs felt like they’d collapsed.
That was the problem with detectives – they tended to find things out about you behind your back. I gave her a non-committal ‘Hmm…’ in response. Let her lay her cards on the table first.
‘Come to my Camden office in the morning and we’ll chat more then.’
‘About what, exactly?’ I snapped.
‘I have a proposition I think you’ll be interested in.’ Without further explanation, she was gone.
2
Elsa Claussen greeted me in the reception area of Stanhope Street police station with something resembling a smile. It was tight and short-lived, but nevertheless, it was the closest she’d ever got to one during our prickly acquaintance. It startled me, robbing me of the polite entrée I’d rehearsed on the way over. Instead, I stood before her with my mouth open, looking like the new girl at school.
It didn’t take Claussen long to resume her customary severity. She looked me up and down, then turned away. At a brisk pace, she led me to an office I’d not seen during my visits the previous year. Her own personal domain, by the look of it.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ she declared, striding behind her desk and offering me a plastic seat at the other side.
She remained standing. Just as I’d pictured her the day before, she wore a high-necked outfit that looked more like a uniform than a dress. Whilst I’d layered up, in keeping with the chilly weather, she seemed impervious to the cold, clad only in short sleeves. A woman who, by being perpetually poised for battle, evidently generated sufficient heat inside her own body.
I sat tentatively, perched on the edge of the seat, waiting.
Everything about the space was austere; no pictures on the wall, only a clinical map of Camden. No photos of loved ones on the desk, only a laptop, papers, a scattering of pens. With relief, I spotted a single plant, a hydrangea, standing on the filing cabinet, but the more I peered at it, the more I was convinced it was artificial. All the while, I felt a latent twisting in my gut as I wondered what my summons here was all about.
She cleared her throat and leant forward, spreading her hands flat and deliberately on the desk, like a sprinter in the blocks. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. We’d like you to look into some cold cases “off the record”.’
I stared at her. ‘Cold cases?’
‘We’ll give you access to our database and you can see if you can offer any insights with reference to delusional behaviour.’ She examined my face. ‘Now that you’re an expert.’
Was this Claussen’s attempt at a joke? I didn’t know whether to smile or not, but she rescued me from my indecision by speaking again.
‘As you have no clinical work for a couple of weeks, we thought it might be a good use of your time.’
It was true, I hadn’t got anything lined up at St Luke’s for a while.
‘Might even pep things up. Stretch you a little.’ She made it sound like a test.
‘For two weeks?’
She shrugged. ‘Starting Monday. Should be long enough to find something, I reckon.’
I stopped to think. I’d barely had the chance to let my newfound knowledge of delusional behaviour sink in. Did I want the responsibility of having to prove myself in this area so soon after my training? ‘How would it work exactly? What would I have to do?’
She straightened up, exuding a breezy air of victory, assuming she’d won me over, even though I hadn’t yet agreed to anything.
‘Simple – you flick through our files and use your psychological expertise to find links we’ve missed.’
Something inside me burst into a full-scale firework display. ‘Like a profiler, you mean?’
‘Kind of – we prefer to use the term Behavioural Investigative Adviser.’