Safe House

Samantha Laschen, a doctor specializing in post-traumatic stress, has moved to the Essex coast with her small daughter, Elsie to escape the problems of her London life. Or so she thinks. Fiona Mackenzie barely survived the savage, murderous attack which left her parents dead. Now she is in need of sanctuary and the police see Sam as the ideal person to offer her a safe house. Already overburdened with the demands of a new job and her mercurcial lover Danny, Sam reluctantly agrees to take her in. But as Fiona makes her way into the hearts of her hosts, Sam discovers that the risks she has forseen are nothing to the terrifying danger she actually faces ... " A potent, emotionally acute psychological thriller." Mail on Sunday " French [sustains] the pervasive mood of terror and suspense before the final surprise. The result is a superior psychological thriller." The Times (p 45-49) Yesterday somebody asked me something about post-traumatic stress disorder, about which I know almost nothing.' I laughed. 'Happy is the doctor who knows that she knows nothing about post-traumatic stress.' 'Not only that, it concerned a problem that has arisen in Stamford. I was struck by the remarkable coincidence that the best person I know in the field has just moved up the road from Stamford, so I came to see you.' 'I'm flattered, Thelma. How can I help you?' Thelma took a bite from her biscuit and frowned. 'You should keep biscuits in a tin, Sam,'she said. 'Left in an open packet, they go soft. Like this one.' But she finished it anyway. 'Not if you eat the whole packet in one day.' 'We have a nineteen-year-old girl whose parents have been murdered. She was attacked but survived.' 'Using my famous forensic skills, I can guess at the case you're talking about. This is the murder of the pharmaceutical millionaire and his wife.' 'Yes. Did you know him?' 'I think I may have used his shampoo occasionally.' 'So you know the details. Fiona Mackenzie's life is not in any immediate danger. But she is scarcely speaking. She has refused to see anybody she knows. I understand that there are no surviving relatives in Britain, but she won't see any family friends.' 'You mean nobody at all? It's none of my business, but she should be encouraged to restore some sort of connection.' 'She allowed the family's GP to visit her. I think that's all.' 'That's a start.' 'What would you recommend for a case such as hers?' 'Come on, Thelma, I can't believe you've come up here from London for my advice about a patient I've only read about in the papers. What's going on?' Thelma smiled and refilled her mug. 'There's a problem. The police consider she is possibly still at risk from the people who murdered her parents and tried to murder her. She needs to be kept reasonably secure, and I wanted some advice about what might be best for somebody who has suffered as she has.' 'Do you want me to see her?' Thelma shook her head. 'This is all unofficial. I just wanted to know what your first thoughts on the subject might be.' 'Who's treating her? Colin Daun, I suppose.' 'Yes.' 'He's all right. Why not ask him?' 'I'm asking you.' 'You know what I'm going to say, Thelma. She should be in a familiar environment with family or friends.' 'There is no family. The possibility of her staying with friends has been considered, but the matter is academic because she has rejected the idea out of hand.' 'Well, I don't think staying in hospital for an extended period will do her much good.' 'It's not practical anyway.' Thelma drained her coffee. 'This is a lovely house, Sam. Large, isn't it? And quiet.' 'No, Thelma.' 'I wasn't saying......' 'No.' 'Just wait a moment,' Thelma said, with a more insistent tone now. 'This is a severely troubled girl. Let me tell you what I know about her. Then say no.' She sat back, marshalling her thoughts. 'Fiona Mackenzie is nineteen years old. She is academically clever, although not brilliant, and apparently she has always been eager to please and conform. A slightly anxious girl, in other words. I gather she was quite dominated by her father, who had a very forceful personality. Since puberty, she has been somewhat overweight.' I remembered the plump smiling face of the girl in the news. 'When she was seventeen she had a nervous breakdown and was institutionalised in a god-awful private unit up in Scotland for almost six months. In the process she lost almost half her body-weight and plumpness became anorexia that nearly killed her.' 'How long has she been out?' 'She was discharged in the summer, missing the last term of school and her A levels; I think the plan was that she was going to a crammer this year and do them. And then she immediately spent a few months going around South America; I think her parents felt it would mark a new beginning. She's only been back a couple of weeks, if that. It seems that the people who committed these murders didn't expect her to be there. It may be the weakest link in the crime. Hence the danger she's in and the help she needs. Aren't you intrigued?' 'Sorry, Thelma, the answer is no. For the last eighteen months I haven't seen Elsie except on weekends, and as soon as she fell asleep on Saturday and Sunday I would do paperwork until two in the morning. Mainly I just remember migraines in a fog of fatigue. If you have seriously considered that I could have a traumatised young woman actually staying in my house where I have my little daughter.....And staying her because she may be in danger. It's not possible.' Thelma bowed her head in acknowledgement, although I knew her well enough to know she wasn't convinced. 'How is little Elsie?' 'Cross, insubordinate. All the usual. Just started a new school.' I was worried by the interested, predatory look that came over Thelma's face when I mentioned Elsie and my home. I had to get on to something else. 'Your research sounds interesting.' 'Mmm,' she said, busily dunking, refusing to be so crudely drawn. 'I've been overseeing some work on trauma in children which might interest you.' I continued, stubbornly, on the same doomed track. 'Obviously, you know that children relive past traumas in repetitive play. A team down in Kent is trying to assess the effect this has on their memory of the event.' 'So it's not your own research?' 'No,' I said with a laugh. 'The sum total of my research on childhood memory is a mnemonic game that Elsie and I play. It's just for fun, but I've always been interested in systems of organizing mental processes and this is one of the oldest. Elsie and I invented the image of a house, and we know in our minds what it looks like and we can remember things by putting them in different places in the house and then retrieving them when we want to remember them.' Thelma looked dubious. 'Can she manage that?' 'Surprisingly well. When she is a good mood we can put something on the door, on the doormat, in the kitchen, on the stairs and so on and later she can usually remember them.' 'It sounds hard work for a five-year-old.' 'I wouldn't do it if she didn't like it. She's proud of being able to do it.' 'Or pleased to get your approval,' Thelma said. She stood up, a dumpy and dishevelled creature covered in crumbs. 'And now I must go. If you have any more thoughts about our problem, please phone me.' 'All right.' 'You can post a reminder to yourself on the front door of Elsie's imaginary house.' I felt I needed to say something. 'You know, when I became a doctor I had an idea about making the world a saner, rational place. I sometimes think that when I began treating victims of trauma, I gave up on the world and just tried to help people deal with it.' 'That's not a small thing,' Thelma said. I saw her to the door and watched her walk across to the car. I stayed in the doorway for several minutes after she'd gone. It was ridiculous, entirely out of the question. I sat down the sofa and pondered it.