The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(56)

He groaned, his joints stiff. His arthritis was playing up for the first time in months. He supposed this was the way it would be from now on. But his discomfort was nothing compared to where he was heading. He approached the prospect of prison with a sense of resignation. He’d always known that one day his past would catch up with him, that not everybody would understand. The modern world wasn’t ready to hear of the sacrifices he’d made for advances in medicine. He thought about the tests he had conducted over the years. Some were legitimate, many were not. But they had all provided the basis for the research that had made Zitalin possible. The drug was deemed a lifesaver and, without testing, it would never have got off the ground. But would the police see it that way when the truth was revealed? He had taken drastic measures to protect his methods up until now. Nobody knew of the lethal dosages of Zitalin he had prescribed in the guise of anti-depression medication to Sasha during the last few weeks of her life. She had been an unwitting test subject, and the day he found her snooping in his office was the day he knew she would not come out of it alive. Zitalin worked differently in adults, slowing their movements rather than sharpening their minds. She was a sacrifice, just like the children nobody wanted, whose names he could barely remember anymore. It had come as a shock to discover Luka was alive.

He watched as Nicole’s eyelids flickered. The respirator had been removed and she was now breathing on her own. Soon she would surface from her drug-induced coma, but did he want to be there when she did?

Her hand was lukewarm as he clasped it, her skin deathly pale. He had not expected her to survive, yet here she was, battling for her life. Fighting to see Ellen again. But the chances of that happening were low.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I hope one day you’ll forgive me.’ Gently, he squeezed her hand, before turning and walking away.



The sideways glances and hushed conversations were driving Amy to distraction. It was why she had insisted on visiting Deborah McCauley herself. When life gives you lemons, she thought; if nothing else, she could put her special skills to good use. Given her background, she was particularly deft at detecting signs of fear. A twitch of the eye, flushed skin, the inability to keep still – such emotional leakages were things Amy homed in on.

Deborah McCauley was a woman of means who worked in a private practice part-time. In all likelihood she could afford to retire, but she seemed the type of person who wanted to be kept on her toes. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ Amy said, admiring the colourful artwork on the walls as she followed her down the hall. Her home had been tastefully decorated by someone with an eye for design.

Deborah walked ahead of her, her sparkly cane tapping against the floor with each step.

‘Beautiful house.’ Amy cast an eye over a freshly plastered wall in the kitchen. ‘You’ve had some renovation work done.’

‘Yes.’ Deborah leaned her cane against the glossy breakfast bar before perching on a tall stool. She gestured for Amy to take a seat. ‘I expanded the kitchen by knocking down a wall. But you’re not here to talk about home decor, are you? What brings a detective inspector to my door?’

Amy glanced at the bar stool and decided to give it a miss. She had yet to perfect the art of getting on them gracefully. High stools did not mix well with legs as short as hers. ‘I’m investigating the abduction of Dr Curtis’s daughter and the poisoning of his wife Nicole.’ She would not waste time in trying to build a rapport. She filled her in on the details already in the press. ‘My team’s had quite the job, tracking you down.’

‘I think Dr Curtis is a fine example of why one should stay private in one’s endeavours,’ Deborah replied haughtily.

Amy crossed her arms. Now she knew she had not imagined her earlier condescending tone. ‘Have you spoken to him lately?’

‘Hugh and I parted company years ago. If I kept in touch with every professional I worked with, I’d never get anything done.’

‘And you’ve definitely not spoken to his wife, Nicole?’

Deborah averted her gaze, concentrating intensely on her manicured nails. ‘I barely knew the woman. We sometimes bumped into each other at charity functions but that’s as far as it went.’

Amy watched her swallow hard before finally meeting her gaze. She was lying and they both knew it. But she would not press her any further just yet. Such questions were better placed in a police interview, if it came to that.

‘What about your other colleagues? People you worked with at the Curtis Institute?’

‘There were only two, Christina and . . . what was the chap’s name?’ She tapped her bottom lip. ‘Stuart, that’s it. Stuart Coughlan. They were orderlies. They helped out during the day and took turns to stay overnight when the dorms were occupied.’

‘We need to speak to them urgently. Is there any chance you have their details? And what about the other children involved in the tests? We’ll need to see them too.’ The words felt sour on Amy’s tongue. She made an effort to keep her expression neutral. What sort of person would be involved in testing children? There was a lot more to Deborah McCauley than met the eye.

‘The tests were decades ago. What’s it got to do with Ellen and Nicole?’

‘We’re following a strong lead that suggests there’s a link. What can you tell me about the orderlies? What do you know about Luka Volkov?’