Black Valley (14 page)

When she went downstairs to breakfast, the girls remarked how nice she looked, and Mari gave her a knowing grin, which she responded to rather shyly. After breakfast, she drove them all into
town, dropping Nella off first, then Mari, then Rose. Mari and she didn’t get a chance to talk, which she was glad about; this was her secret, for now, and she wanted to keep it to herself,
savour it, for a little longer.

On her way to work, she got stuck in a traffic jam. Normally, she would have been fretting at the wheel, but today she didn’t care. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that her
eyes were dark and soft, the pupils widened within the iris, making them look almost black. She smiled at herself, and looked away.

Impatient motorists began to bang on their horns, but she ignored them. A neurologist would have told her that she was experiencing the effects of dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin coursing
through her system, released by lovemaking after a long period of abstinence. In a paper she’d read recently, there’d been a study on how oxytocin levels – the
‘cuddle’ hormone – increased over time in a relationship, lessening the impact of the more exciting, sexy hormones (dopamine and serotin). Perhaps that was what had gone wrong
with her and Bob, she reflected: too much oxytocin, not enough of the others.

The traffic cleared, and she drove on.

Nella would have put it more succinctly, of course: she was seriously ‘loved up’ – not, in her case, through recreational drug use, but through pleasurable human contact.
Whatever the explanation, hormonal or emotional, she felt young again, and carefree.

She parked the car at the back of the office and walked round to the front, as if in a dream. She walked up the stairs to her consulting rooms, unlocked the door, and went inside. It was only
when she entered the room and saw the light was off that she came back down to earth, remembering that she had seen it turned on the night before. She hadn’t just forgotten to switch it off
after all. Somebody had been in there in the middle of the night.

She picked up the intercom and called Branwen, the receptionist, to ask whether there’d been a cleaner scheduled to come in during the night. Branwen said that generally the contractors
sent staff in during the early evening, but there was nothing to stop them cleaning the offices in the middle of the night if they wanted to. Jess didn’t enquire further, not wanting to alarm
her, but she wasn’t entirely satisfied by this. She looked around the room; there was no obvious sign of any disturbance.

She sat down at her desk, leafed through the correspondence in her in-tray, checked the drawers in her desk, and switched on the computer, which buzzed and flickered as usual. Then she went over
to the old wooden filing cabinet where she kept her case notes, opened it, and skimmed through the files. Next, she went over to her bookshelves and ran her eye over the titles on the spines. There
were some valuable first editions there that she’d collected over the years, but none were missing.

She turned and cast her eye around the room. The windows were shut, the door closed. There was a slight tapping at the window, where the branches of the tree outside brushed against the glass,
and a play of light on the ceiling from the shadows cast by the leaves. The white relief on the wall sat quietly, the circle among the squares. The cushion on the couch beside the window was in
place; the two armchairs by the fireside faced each other. The cushions were plumped up, arranged just so. Nothing had been moved, as far as she could see. A late-night cleaner was doubtless the
explanation after all.

She went back to her desk and checked her diary. She had a busy day ahead. Six clients, including Maria, who was coming in for an extra session after missing one the week before. The only gap
was between eleven and twelve, when Elinor had been due to come in. Jess was still worried about her being away on this camping trip, but there was nothing she could do about that. She’d use
the time, she thought, to catch up on the case. Considering it in depth, and researching some of the aspects she’d neglected so far, might help allay her fears. It would also prepare her for
when Elinor came back into therapy – as, sooner or later, she seemed bound to do.

At eleven o’clock, just as Jess had settled down at her desk with a cappuccino from the deli, and was about to log on to the online
Journal of Phenomenological
Psychotherapy
, the phone rang.

‘Hello?’

Jess immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

‘Elinor. Good to hear from you. Are you back in Cardiff?’

There was a pause.

‘It’s not Elinor, actually. It’s her sister, Isobel.’

Jess was nonplussed. The twins’ voices sounded exactly alike.

‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning you like this.’

Jess was unsure how to respond so she said nothing.

‘You see, Elinor’s disappeared off somewhere. I wondered if you could help me find her. We’re . . . I’m . . . worried about her.’

Jess glanced up at the white relief on the wall. Earlier in the day, the circle had been sitting quietly among the squares, but now it seemed to be pulsating.

‘I’m sorry but I don’t think I can help you.’ Jess did her best to be polite. ‘Elinor’s treatment here is confidential. I can’t discuss the details of
it with family members.’

There was a brief silence.

‘So you say you’re worried about your sister.’ Jess paused. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Well,’ Isobel began, ‘she’s gone off on this camping trip. Did she tell you that?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re not exactly sure where she is. She didn’t tell us where she was going. We’re concerned for her.’

‘We?’

‘Myself and my husband, Blake. Blake Thomas. Elinor must have talked to you about him.’ She paused. ‘And I believe you met him at the private view for Hefin Morris.’

‘Yes, briefly.’

‘Well, we wondered . . . I wondered . . . Do you have any idea where Elinor might have gone? Did she say anything to you before she left?’

‘Mrs Thomas—’

‘Powell. I’m married, but I still use my maiden name. And please call me Isobel.’

Jess didn’t respond to her invitation. ‘As I said, I’m not at liberty to talk about anything my clients tell me while they’re in therapy. I’m sure you can
understand that.’

‘The thing is, you see, she’s in a very fragile state of mind. Before she left, the claustrophobia was getting out of hand – well, I’m sure you know that. She was very
upset about the fact that she couldn’t go into the studio.’ Isobel paused. ‘She couldn’t paint any more after my mother’s . . .’ Her voice trailed off for a
moment, and Jess realized that, underneath her confident exterior, she, like Elinor, was still recovering from the shock of what had happened. ‘I’d hate to think she’d gone off
somewhere, by herself, and . . . I don’t know.’ Isobel paused again. ‘Done something silly.’ Then she added, rather timidly, as if giving voice to her worst fear would
somehow make it real, ‘Did she mention anything like that?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what we talked about in our sessions.’ Jess spoke more gently, responding to Isobel’s evident distress. ‘But I
can tell you that she didn’t mention suicide, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Jess decided it was time to end the conversation.

‘Well, thank you for calling—’

‘Can you help us find her, Dr Mayhew?’ Isobel cut in. ‘It’s urgent. The police will start to suspect her motives if she stays away. I don’t want her to get into
trouble, you see.’ She hesitated. ‘She can be a little naive at times. She depends on me, you understand. She needs looking after.’

There was genuine emotion in Isobel’s tone, but the way she talked about her sister lacked perspective, Jess thought. Elinor was clearly deeply troubled, yet she had a certain strength of
character, too. And Isobel’s idea that Elinor was completely reliant on her seemed a little exaggerated, to say the least.

‘Tell me.’ Jess paused. ‘If Elinor was in trouble, why wouldn’t she contact you?’

There was a silence.

‘Things have been difficult between us for a long time,’ Isobel said eventually. ‘And since Ma died’ – the word came out this time – ‘it’s been
worse. She was completely unhelpful about all the arrangements – the funeral, the will, sorting out the house in Italy, and so on. I had to do it all by myself. She hasn’t been
supportive at all.’

There was a pause. Jess said nothing, so Isobel filled the silence.

‘Look, I need to tell you this. I think my mother’s death pushed Elinor over the edge. She lost touch with reality. She became very paranoid. She began to suspect that my husband,
Blake, stole a painting from her and caused the death of my mother. Did she tell you that?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

‘So she did?’

This is why she’s called, thought Jess. She wants to find out if Elinor has said anything in the session that might incriminate her husband. Did that mean Blake had something to hide? Had
he told Isobel to call, perhaps, to help cover his tracks?

‘I’ve explained my position.’ Jess was quiet but firm. ‘I can’t discuss what Elinor told me in confidence in her therapy sessions.’ She paused. ‘Is that
clear?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

‘If Elinor doesn’t want to get in touch with you or your husband, for whatever reason,’ Jess went on, ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept that.’

‘I know. But I thought perhaps . . . I was hoping, if she told you where she was going, you could just check up on her. See if she’s OK.’ Isobel’s voice trembled.

‘Look, I’m not a detective.’ Jess spoke gently, responding to the vulnerability in Isobel’s tone. ‘I’m not in the habit of chasing around after my clients if
they decide to take a break. But if Elinor does contact me, I’ll ask her to get in touch with you. How’s that?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

‘Goodbye. And thank you.’ Isobel took the hint and rang off.

Jess put down the receiver, got up from her desk, went over to the window and gazed out, thinking about their conversation. Isobel was upset that Elinor had gone missing, that much was clear.
The question was, why? Was she genuinely concerned for her sister’s wellbeing? Or had she called, perhaps at Blake’s behest, for another reason? Namely, to find out exactly what Elinor
had revealed in therapy. If the latter were the case, that made both of them, Isobel and Blake, look guilty of something, didn’t it? Perhaps Elinor’s suspicions about Blake were not
just paranoia, but had a basis in fact – that Blake had actually been involved in the theft of the painting, possibly even Ursula’s murder.

Her gaze travelled up to the hotel on the other side of the road where she and Dresler – no, Jacob; she must get used to thinking of him by his Christian name – she and Jacob had
spent the night. Their room was on the second floor of the building, a little to the right of the front entrance. She could just make out the white curtains framing the window. They hadn’t
drawn them together all night. Under the window was the street lamp that had borne witness to their lovemaking; it was unlit and innocent now, as if nothing untoward had ever taken place up there,
or in the street below. Yet she distinctly remembered waking from her nightmare, standing at the window, and seeing that the light in her consulting rooms was on. Could Blake have slipped in there,
perhaps? Or sent one of his minions to find Elinor’s file and check up on her notes?

She turned away from the window and went over to her filing cabinet, where she kept her clients’ case notes. She always handwrote the notes and filed them in a cabinet. It seemed more
respectful to her clients than storing them on a computer.

She opened the middle drawer, leafed through the hanging files until she found the one marked
Elinor Powell
, and drew it out.

Inside, there were several sheets of paper, one for each of Elinor’s sessions so far. She always took care to keep the notes brief and to the point, referring to disturbing issues in an
oblique way, just in case they got into the wrong hands. Also, to tell the truth, she didn’t have time to write copious notes; most of what her clients told her was stored in the increasingly
crammed filing system of her brain.

She scanned the notes. On the first sheet was a heading, giving Elinor’s name, her date of birth, and her contact number. Under this was the day and time of her session:
TUE 11
.
There followed a series of initials, mostly using abbreviated technical jargon. There was a checklist for symptoms of PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder: C (claustrophobia), marked with a tick;
FB (flashbacks), SR (startle response) and DP (depersonalization) marked with a cross; and DT (detachment) with a question mark. Elinor’s relations were referred to by initial only: M
(mother); F (father); TS (twin sister); SH (sister’s husband). Beside her mother and father was the initial ‘D’, signifying ‘dead’. Next came various words, rather
than sentences, jotted down in a random way that wouldn’t have made much sense to a lay person, or even to a therapist who wasn’t familiar with the case.

She shuffled through the sheets of paper. She couldn’t see anything amiss. There was nothing there that revealed confidential information about Elinor or any of her family – not to
the casual observer, anyway. The notes simply served to jog Jess’s memory of what they’d discussed in the sessions. She’d have to add a sheet, she thought, detailing the phone
call from Isobel she’d just had. She wouldn’t normally include such information, but since the twinship between Elinor and Isobel appeared to be so tangled –
‘enmeshed’ was the technical term – it seemed relevant in this case.

Before she put the notes away, she counted them to check that they were all there. She always wrote one sheet per session, never more, never less. There were three in all.

Surely, there’d been four sessions, she thought. She went over to her desk, bringing the file with her, and looked up Elinor’s sessions in her diary. As she’d suspected, there
were four sessions booked in, each one ticked off after it had taken place. Four, including the assessment session. Not three. One of the sheets was missing.