The Therapist by B.A. Paris

Thirty-Eight

The next morning, I check out of the hotel and cross the square to the house, my feet rustling crisp fallen leaves as I walk. I could have booked myself in for another couple of days but I don’t like being bullied, and making me afraid to stay in the house is a form of bullying. So, I’m going to do what I did before, and stay awake during the night. If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll call the police.

It’s cold, and there’s no-one sitting on the benches in the square, no-one even walking across it on their way to work, which isn’t surprising, given that it’s half-past ten. It’s amazing how conspicuous it makes me feel. For all I know, any number of people could be watching me from their upstairs windows. I raise my eyes and turn my head, scanning the houses as I walk, starting on the left-hand side with number 1 and carrying on to numbers 2, 3 and 4, then to Eve and Will’s, past theirs to ours, onto Lorna and Edward’s, then Geoff’s, then Maria and Tim’s. And stop. Because Tim is there, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, watching me watching him. I raise my hand in a wave, glad he can’t see the shiver that runs down my spine, and he waves back. I pick up my pace, eager to be inside but as I go through the gate, Edward comes out of his house, his gardening shears in his hand.

‘Good morning, Alice,’ he calls. ‘Been for a walk?’

‘Yes, it’s always lovely at this time of the year. How are you and Lorna?’

‘We’re fine, doing well.’

‘Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’m going to be leaving The Circle. But not Leo. He’ll be staying.’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’ he says. ‘When will you be leaving?’

‘I was going to leave next weekend but I might go earlier.’

‘Really? Right. Well, we’ll be very sorry to see you go.’

‘Would you tell Lorna?’ I ask.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll come and say goodbye,’ I promise.

‘You do that. Lorna will be pleased to see you.’

I flick my eyes towards Maria and Tim’s house. Tim is still at the window. Edward follows my gaze and gives Tim a wave.

‘Bye, Edward,’ I say distractedly. I start to move off but he shuffles closer.

‘Don’t tell anyone when you’re leaving,’ he whispers. He pitches his voice back to his normal level. ‘Bye, Alice.’

I let myself into the house, my heart thumping. First Lorna, now Edward. Two warnings, don’t trust anyone and don’t tell anyone. Who are they warning me against? Edward had seen Tim watching us. Is that why he said it?

I pace my study, thinking about Tim. There’s nothing physically creepy about him and when they all came for dinner, he was perfectly lovely, helping me in the kitchen. But there’s something slightly creepy about the way he always seems to be watching from the window. It could be perfectly innocent. He’s studied psychology, and isn’t psychology the study of people, how they act, react, interact? And if he’s training to be a psychotherapist, it’s normal that he finds people fascinating. Anyway, psychologists and psychotherapists help people, they don’t kill them.

No sooner has that thought entered my head, something shoots forward from the recesses of my mind, a news story from a few years back about a woman and her therapist, who ran off together. It had made the headlines, because at first, the woman had been reported missing and when she hadn’t been found after a few days, the media focus was that she had possibly been murdered. I can’t remember why that changed, if she herself had come forward to say she had run off with her therapist or if someone had seen them together.

I find my laptop, open my search engine and type in ‘woman and therapist’. There are several links to news articles, from June 2016. I click on one; it’s more or less as I remembered – a thirtyyear-old solicitor, Justine Bartley, left her office one lunchtime to go for an appointment with her therapist and never returned to work. She was reported missing the next day by her husband, after she failed to return home the previous evening. I trawl through other articles about the same story and discover why it had no longer become newsworthy. Justine’s best friend told the police that Justine had fallen in love with her therapist and in the weeks leading up to her disappearance had become both excited and secretive. The friend also told the police that Justine had been experiencing problems in her marriage, hence the therapy sessions. Because no trace was found of her therapist – a Dr Smith – her friend believed he and Justine had run off together, and the police seemed to agree that it was the likeliest possibility. I search for further news stories about the case, but like Justine Bartley, it never re-surfaced.

June 2016. Eighteen months before Marion Cartaux’s murder in France. I don’t get too excited. Apart from Justine Bartley having long blond hair, there is nothing to link her disappearance to the murders of Marion Cartaux and Nina, especially as nobody seems to think there was anything sinister in her having gone missing.

I carry on looking into Justine Bartley’s disappearance anyway, watching videos of news bulletins and interviews. She was last seen turning into a street in Hampstead. Her phone had been turned off not long after.

I phone Thomas.

‘Did you know that Nina saw a therapist?’ I ask.

‘No, but I think it’s quite usual for therapists to be in therapy.’

‘It’s just that when Tamsin told me that Nina saw a therapist, I presumed the therapist was a woman. But what if it was a man?’

‘Um – what if it was?’ Thomas sounds puzzled.

‘Do you remember the case about three years ago, the solicitor who went missing, Justine Bartley?’

‘Yes, I think so. Didn’t she disappear after going for an appointment during her lunch hour? Ah, I see where you’re going with this – her appointment was with her therapist. I’m not sure that there’s a connection with Nina, though, because didn’t the police come to the conclusion that they had run off together?’

‘Yes, but what if they didn’t? I’ve just read up on the case and apparently, the police couldn’t find any trace of a therapist called Dr Smith. What if that wasn’t his real name? Maybe they didn’t run off together, maybe he murdered her.’

There’s a pause, as if he’s wondering how to tell me that I’m being ridiculous.

‘If you’re thinking that Dr Smith might have been Nina’s therapist, I think – again – that it’s a long shot,’ he says diplomatically. ‘But you could always check with Tamsin, see if Nina ever mentioned the name of her therapist, that sort of thing.’

‘I’ll try but Tamsin isn’t always very forthcoming about Nina. I don’t know if it’s relevant or not but Tamsin asked Nina to refer her to her therapist, and Nina never came back with a name.’

‘Maybe she didn’t get around to it or maybe she felt uneasy about Tamsin seeing the same person as her. But it’s good to keep it in mind. I’ll call Helen and ask her if she knows anything about Nina seeing a therapist. If we don’t come up with a name, I’ll speak to my police contact.’

‘Great.’

‘Thanks, Alice, let’s speak soon.’

I hang up, realising I’ve already hit a problem. I can’t phone Tamsin and start asking her about Nina’s therapist. I need to be subtler than that, see her face to face, chat about other things first. It would also be easier if Eve were there. Except that it’s Thursday, and Eve spends Thursdays with her mum. The thought of not being able to speak to Tamsin until tomorrow is frustrating – and that’s presuming that both she and Eve are free to meet up.

I think for a moment, then message Eve, asking if she’s free for lunch the next day as I feel like getting out and there’s a brasserie I want to try near Finsbury Park. I’ve eaten there before, with Leo, but she doesn’t have to know that. I also suggest that we ask Tamsin and Maria to join us, if they’re free.

Her reply comes in ten minutes later – it’s a brilliant idea, she’s already checked with Tamsin and Maria, they can both come if we meet at one o’clock, as that’s the time Maria has her lunch break. Relieved that they can make it, I message her back with details of the brasserie and tell her I’ll make a reservation.

In the middle of the afternoon, there’s a ring on the doorbell and I run down to answer it, thinking it’s Thomas, because it’s about the time he usually calls. Maybe he’s had news about the murder in France. I check my hair quickly in the mirror and open the door.

But it isn’t Thomas, it’s a young man with sandy hair and a confident smile.

‘Ms Dawson?’ he asks.

I look at him warily. ‘Yes.’

‘We haven’t met before.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Ben, Ben Forbes. From Redwoods, the estate agents.’