The Sanatorium(80)

Even her nonexistent German tells her that it’s likely to be a psychiatric facility.

But where?

Elin clicks on the contact page. The clinic’s address is in Germany.

Going back to the home page, she can see it houses several paragraphs of text. Swiping over it, she plugs it into Google Translate.

We investigate the causes of psychiatric disorders to develop better, personalized therapies as well as preventative approaches. The present clinic, focusing on the treatment of mental illness, grew out of the hospital founded in 1872.

Immediate confirmation: it was, and still is, a psychiatric facility.

Why would Laure be carrying around redacted files from a German psychiatric clinic?

Elin knows there’s only one way to find out. Scrolling down to find the clinic’s contact details, she picks up her phone, dials. It rings only a few times before a woman picks up.

“Guten Tag, Gotterdorf Klinik.” Her voice is clipped, professional.

Again, Elin curses her inability with languages. It’s always been her nemesis. She took both French and German in high school, could read it adequately enough, but struggled to speak more than a few words.

“Do you speak English?”

“Of course.” The woman switched with ease. “How may I help?”

“My name is Elin Warner, I’m a police officer in the UK. I’m working on a case and I’ve found some redacted files that appear to be from your clinic, dating back to the 1920s. I was wondering how I could go about finding out more.”

A long pause. “I’m sorry, I would like to help, but any request for file information has to be done formally. As you’re probably aware, patient confidentiality precludes us from sharing any information.”

She’d been expecting this. “I understand, but could you give me an idea of what the records might contain?”

“Wait one moment, please.” Elin can hear the rustling of paper, murmured voices in the background.

“Yes,” the woman says finally. “There is no problem telling you this. For each patient we have records of everything from the very first signs of the pathology and initial diagnosis, leading through to the hospital treatment they received before being admitted to the clinic. Once they’re at the clinic, we start our own records—medication, treatments, the patient’s responses.”

Elin exhales. “These files we’ve found, as they date from the 1920s, would they be paper or electronic files?”

“Both. We’ve made electronic copies of everything that was filed on paper.”

She decides to push her luck. “Would it be possible to check if you definitively do still have these on file? I have what I assume is a patient number.” She keeps her voice neutral. “I don’t need any information regarding their contents, just confirmation they do belong to the clinic and are authentic.”

A hesitation, then: “Okay. Can I please have the number?”

Pulling the file back up on the screen, she spells it out. “87534.”

“Thank you. Please wait a moment. I’ll see if I can find it.”

She can hear the woman’s fingers lightly tapping the keyboard.

There’s a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Elin stiffens. She’s found something.

Several beats pass before the woman speaks again. “There is a file with a number matching the one you’ve given me, but I’m sorry, it’s been”—her voice catches—“it’s been removed.”





64





The record’s gone?” Elin’s unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“Yes, but I’m sure there’s been a mistake, that’s all.” The woman clears her throat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more assistance.”

A sharp click.

She’s hung up, but not before Elin caught the alarm in her tone. Her hand clenches around her mobile. This is no coincidence.

Whatever is recorded in these files is clearly significant enough for someone to go to great efforts to make sure the information doesn’t get into the wrong hands.

But what is it? And how did Laure get hold of the files in the first place?

Elin puts her fingers to her temple. However she positions it, it all comes back to one thing: She’s at a disadvantage, scrabbling around for answers to questions she isn’t even sure are the right ones to be asking.

It doesn’t help, she knows, that she’s doing this on her own with no one to bounce ideas off. While she has Berndt over the phone, it’s not the same. With her team, there’s not only a shorthand but a vital chemistry that can ignite a spark of investigative brilliance that’s often key to cracking a case. One of the team’s seemingly simple questions or observations can set off a chain of thought that can spin a case in a completely new direction.

Scrolling through her phone, she finds the e-mail Berndt sent containing Laure’s mobile phone records.

She opens the first file and pores over the screen. Laure called more or less the same numbers regularly: Isaac, her mother, sister, cousin, several others that have been identified as friends. There are no unusual call patterns in the lead-up to her disappearance.

Elin opens the next file, records from Laure’s second phone, but soon puts it down, frustrated. The call pattern is interesting—clusters of calls to the same number over the past few weeks, including one that was likely to be the call in French Elin overheard the day they arrived, but it’s next to useless. If there’s no way to track the phone Laure had been calling, there’s nothing she can do about it.