Mr. Nobody(6)

    Simon glares at me for a second before he replies.

“I see,” he says finally. “Um, well, obviously, I hadn’t realized I was causing him so much distress….”

People don’t want truth from us doctors, not really; they may think they do but they don’t. People want doctors to be like priests. They want hope delivered with authority.

I catch sight of an RN waving over to me from the nurses’ station: she gestures to a phone receiver at her ear. I suggest family support counseling to Simon and say goodbye.

With a rallying smile, the nurse hands me the phone. On to the next.

“Hi, Emma.” The voice on the other end of the line is my secretary, Milly. “Sorry to chase you round the building but there was a phone call earlier from the U.S. I told them you were on call and they said they’d call back at half past. And I haven’t seen you since, so I thought I should let you know.”

I look down at my wristwatch: 8:27. I can make it back to Neuropsychiatry in that time—at a jog.

“Who was it, Milly?”

“Er, a man named Richard Groves. Dr. Groves.”

I frown at her down the line. “Richard Groves? That can’t be right. Are you sure?”

“That’s definitely what he said his name was.” She says it with mild disinterest. I can hear her continuing to type as she talks.

“The Richard Groves?”

The line goes silent for a second. “Um…I don’t know, Emma, sorry. He just said his name and I wrote it down. Why? Who is he?”

I momentarily consider explaining who he is to Milly, then think better of it. She wouldn’t have nearly the right reaction if I told her who Richard Groves was. If she googled him, which I’m absolutely certain she won’t, she’d see a career spanning thirty years at the forefront of neuroscience, she’d see bestsellers, essays, university placements, corporate and political consultancies resulting in new tech, new procedures, new government policies. If she googled my actual job title, which again she wouldn’t, but if she did google the word “neuropsychiatrist,” Richard Groves’s name would come up in the Wikipedia “Notability” section. Mine would not. Well, not yet.

    “Okay. Did he at least say what he was calling about, Milly?”

“Um…” I hear a rustle of papers. “Um, no. No, he didn’t.”

I have met Richard Groves twice. The last time briefly at a medical conference networking session in Dubai three years ago. I wrote my thesis on him, and I had—have—disagreed with some of his methods, but that’s what medical papers do. That’s the scientific method, right there. He was affable when we met, collegial, but I wouldn’t say we were quite on telephone-chatting terms. Out of the blue doesn’t even begin to describe this phone call. Why the hell is he calling me from America at 8 A.M. on a Monday morning?

It’s a question I’m pretty sure Milly won’t have the answer to. I look at my watch again—two minutes now. I can make it if I run.





3


THE MAN


DAY 1—PEOPLE ARRIVE

“This is Bravo Seven for Sierra Four-Three. Sierra Four-Three, proceed immediately to the car park at Holkham Beach. Report of suspicious behavior: IC-One, white, male, thirties-forties, approximately six foot, dark clothing, erratic behavior. Elderly caller has eyes on suspect, has been advised not to approach.”

Static.

“Received, Bravo Seven. Sierra Four-Three en route. Go ahead, over.”

Static.

“Non-urgent call. But proceed with caution, suspect may be under the influence or possible mental health issues. Appears to be in some distress. No visible weapons but potential suicide risk, over.”

Static.

“Received, Bravo Seven. Sierra Four-Three proceeding to location. On our way. Out.”



* * *



—

    Fifteen minutes later, the patrol car is the only car in the beach car park. The long stretch of ochre shingle usually packed with vehicles during the holidays is now abandoned, deserted for the winter season. The officers—one female, one male—exit their car, the slam of doors the only sound as their breath clings in warm clouds in the early morning air. As they crunch their way out toward the beach path, the female officer slides up the zipper of her fluorescent high-vis coat, a sharp slice of color cutting through the forest.

The path opens, its gravel giving way to the boardwalk over the reed marshes that connect the forest and beach. Ahead, the vast expanse of Holkham Beach rolls out before them. An elderly man stands waiting on the blustery peak of a steep dune and they cross the soft sand to meet him. Their approach catches his eye and he turns, waving his umbrella to draw attention.

He shouts something down to them but his words are lost in the wind.

The female police officer throws a look to the male officer. He drops back almost imperceptibly as she takes the lead. As they reach the dune’s crest, the full extent of the beach rises into view, the long flat sweep toward the breaking waves and the North Sea. It’s choppy out there today.

The two officers can make out his words now, over the wind, mid-sentence—

“—don’t know what’s wrong. I asked, but I couldn’t seem to get through to him. He just kept going. He’s gone on down there now.” The old man throws an arm up toward the east and the officers’ eyes follow his motion down the beach. “Over there. Do you see?”