I'd been half expecting suspicion, so I told her that I'd been working with Emma Neilson, the journalist who'd alerted people to the fact that Ann's death might not have been accidental.
'I tend to agree with her theory,' I added, and gave her Emma's number. 'You could also phone Mohammed Mela, my client, although he can be difficult to get hold of.' I gave her a number off the top of my head, and hoped she'd try Emma rather than him.
Dr Cheney fired off a rapid set of directions to her practice in the village of Aldermaston, a ninety-minute drive away in Berkshire, and told me she'd see me at three. We both hung up.
Now I needed transport. A quick look at the road map in a nearby bookshop showed me that Aldermaston was a fair way off the beaten track. I was going to have to hire a car.
When you live under a false identity, you have to be fully equipped. You don't just need a passport in your new name, you need a driving licence, a birth certificate and even genuine credit cards. It's a hassle, but it pays to be thorough, and I was. Much of my documentation had originated in the UK before I left (I think I always knew that at some point my double life would unravel), but the gaps had been filled using expert forgers in the Philippines. So when I went into the Hertz rental office in Marble Arch later that morning, I knew there'd be no problem.
And there wasn't. Fifteen minutes later, I was crawling through traffic in a silver Ford Orion in the direction of the M25, and hoping that this wasn't going to turn out to be a wild goose chase.
32
Aldermaston was one of those quintessential English villages that you see in all the guidebooks. Situated on the edge of the Berkshire downs, and surrounded by green fields and pretty copses of oak and beech trees, it was little more than a collection of houses and converted barns, with the odd thatched roof thrown in, nestling on either side of a road that somehow seemed more suited to a horse and cart than the steady procession of cars that passed up and down it. There was a top-secret establishment that allegedly contained many of the country's nuclear weapons somewhere round here but I didn't see any evidence of it on the way in, and even on a grey, sullen day like this one, the village stood out like a tranquil oasis after the intensity of London.
I drove down what passed for the high street: a narrow road with terraced red-brick buildings on either side, some of which clearly dated back hundreds of years, that contained a handful of antiques shops and estate agents. There was an Elizabethan-style pub on the corner, where the road forked at a near right-angle as it came to a mini-roundabout. A notice board outside advertised high-quality food. I was early so I stopped there for a pint and a steak and kidney pie, which was indeed high-quality but also high-priced. While I was there, I asked the barman — who had a very pink face and a drinker's nose — for directions to the Cheney practice. He obviously knew her business, because he gave me them but conspicuously avoided me after that. I don't think he liked the thought of having the mentally ill dining on his high-quality food. Dr Cheney's practice was in a large, modern house that I assumed was a combination of home and office, situated a few hundred yards down the right-hand fork in the road. It wasn't quite an eyesore, but you could argue it came close, with a brand new tarmac driveway out the front that would have amply parked a dozen cars. Today, however, there were only two: a Range Rover and a Fiat Punto. I pulled up alongside the Range Rover and got out. It was ten to three.
There were two doors at the front of the house. A sign on the main one asked all callers to the practice to use the other, so I rang on the buzzer and was let in without preamble. I found myself in a small wood-panelled foyer that bore more than a passing resemblance to the inside of a Scandinavian sauna. An attractive young receptionist sat at a desk in front of me, wearing a white coat and a welcoming smile that showed a lot of teeth.
I introduced myself with a smile of my own, and announced my business.
'Please take a seat, Mr Kane. I'll let Dr Cheney know you're here.' She stood up and disappeared through a door behind the desk, while I admired the certificates from various psychiatric bodies testifying to Dr Cheney's high standards in the field. I know any idiot could buy these sort of things over the Internet and there was no guarantee that they meant anything, but I had a feeling that in Dr Cheney's case, they did.
The secretary emerged a few seconds later to inform me that, if I'd like to go through, the doctor would see me now. The words immediately brought back terrible memories of visiting the medical profession in my youth, and I was glad I had nothing wrong with me. Or nothing Dr Cheney could cure, anyway. The secretary asked if I'd like a coffee, and I thanked her and said that I would. Milk, one sugar. It was all very civilized.
I stepped inside Dr Cheney's huge office, which was decorated in the same style as the reception area but on a significantly bigger scale, complete with a number of chairs and several desks, but no sign of that old classic, the couch. A slim, tanned woman with a well-worn face and wide brown eyes stepped seemingly out of nowhere and shook my hand with a powerful grip. Her eyes appraised me coolly from behind a pair of fashionable black-rimmed glasses, but the smile itself was warm.
We exchanged pleasantries and she invited me to take a seat in front of her desk, which was at the far end of the room. It was immaculately tidy.
'What is it I can do for you, Mr Kane?' she asked, sitting down with her back ramrod straight and folding her hands slowly and carefully across her lap. It was a disconcerting gesture, and if it was meant to put her patients at ease it didn't work, but then I assumed it was being done specially for me.
I briefly explained the facts of the case, as they concerned her. 'Three people are dead: Mr Khan, Mr Malik and Miss Taylor, all of whom are connected with each other. There is, as you're no doubt aware, a major police investigation going on into the murders, but Mr Malik's uncle wants a second opinion.'
'And one private detective's work is better than the combined expertise of the Metropolitan Police?'
'At the moment, the combined expertise of the Metropolitan Police isn't getting very far. The investigation's been going for close to six weeks, and they've yet to make an arrest, let alone bring a charge of murder against anyone. And until Miss Neilson brought up the subject, Ann Taylor's death wasn't even being treated as part of the inquiry. As far as I'm aware, it still isn't. I'm certainly not suggesting that I can do any better than the officers involved in the case, but I'm hoping I can come at it from a different perspective, and get somewhere that way.'
She nodded slowly, as if accepting my answer, while continuing to appraise me. 'You are aware that what is said between a doctor and her patient is entirely confidential. Therefore, I can only repeat to you what Ann wanted brought out into the open, nothing else.'
She paused for a moment while her secretary came in with the coffee, and I told her that I was fine with that.
'How much of the history do you know?' she asked.
'I know the basics. That she was referred to you by another doctor, who felt she had a possible personality disorder that might have been the cause of the violent attack she committed. And that you got her to remember aspects of her past, which led to her father being arrested and charged with offences of child abuse. But I know very little about the details of the abuse, other than that it was very serious.'
Dr Cheney gave me a thin smile. 'Let me explain something to you, Mr Kane. I'm not a great believer in what in most circles these days is called repressed memory syndrome.' I think I must have looked a bit blank, because she continued, 'Repressed memory is when a patient is considered to have undergone a trauma or traumas so intense that the brain's only coping mechanism is to wipe the memories clean. Effectively, the patient forgets what has happened and carries on with life. It's believed by some within the psychiatric field that these memories can be returned to the conscious mind by certain types of treatment, particularly hypnotherapy. Naturally, it's an area of huge controversy, since it allows for accusations to be made where there is no corroborating evidence, and therefore perfectly innocent people can find themselves facing criminal charges for acts they never committed. But this wasn't the situation with Ann. You see, I wouldn't describe her memories as wholly repressed. I think she knew perfectly well what had happened to her, but created a veneer of toughness to try to cope with it. However, when I uncovered what had happened in her past, the accusations she made were not, I felt, taken seriously enough by the police, because of the controversy surrounding this issue of repressed memory. Although the jury at her trial believed her and she was found innocent of the charge against her by reason of diminished responsibility, the police took a more cynical view of her claims, and their investigation into the allegations was wholly inadequate.'
