Half Truths and Whole Lies

By Tannis Laidlaw

Sophie Rowan has been head-hunted from Colorado to lead a research project at a prestigious medical school in London. It’s a dream come true – she loves being in England; she’s to work with an internationally acclaimed professor and she’s researching a topic dear to her heart.

But cracks soon appear. Sophie hears rumours that the prof is an amoral cheat and her reputation is merely window-dressing. When the prof tries to compromise Sophie's research project, those rumours she’d heard but dismissed become shockingly real. The final straw comes when a tearful former student claims the Prof's latest book was plagiarised from her graduate thesis.

When Sophie starts delving into the prof’s past, she is all too aware of the stakes; her own career could be destroyed through the power the prof can exert, a professor who will fight tooth and claw to protect her well-crafted reputation, backed by a university system which protects its own. Can Sophie both expose the prof and at the same time protect students who are much more vulnerable than herself?

Page by page Half Truths and Whole Lies digs beneath the calm of university life to reveal how the academic dictum of 'publish or perish' can result in exploitation and treachery. It’s an emotionally captivating read which will cause you to view life in the ivory tower through very different eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tannis Laidlaw
• Release date: May 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370651191

Tannis Laidlaw

Tannis has worn many hats: occupational therapist in her early days, psychologist, university researcher and lecturer at various universities and medical schools and now author. She's written many first drafts which are safely stored on her hard drive (perhaps, one day, to be revised...) but she has published four novels and two books of short stories. Two of the novels are in paperback as well as ebook format. She lives with her husband in various places: two homes in New Zealand - a town house in Auckland and an adobe beach house on an isolated bay in Northland - and, to take full advantage of the northern summer, a tiny summer cottage (off the grid and boat-access only) on a remote lake in North-western Ontario in Canada. All are places perfect for writing.

Book preview

Colorado Springs, June

With a frustrated wail, Patty punched Sophie in the chest, on the upper part of her right breast, to be precise. Sophie lurched out of range from another flailing fist, lost her balance and fell backwards toward the fireplace. Only a centimetre or two separated her head from the stone hearth.

That did it. She rushed away to re-read the email.

A job. And an interesting one at that. In Professor McClure’s lab. Decision time. Either reclaim her life or sink into a premature retirement.

She tapped out a positive reply and waited for the outbox to empty. After snapping the laptop shut she headed into the family room to inform Caleb before changing her mind. Sophie knew her leaving would present him with problems and the implications for Patty were grim but it was time to take her life back.

Sophie looked around the tidy little room. She checked under the bed for shoes or books and opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Double checking to make sure everything was perfectly in order, part of the ritual of leaving.

Come on, Soph, Caleb called up the stairs. It’s time to go.

Coming, she said, closing the door on one part of her life.

Airport farewells should be short – a quick hug and goodbye – but Caleb clutched her tight. Thank you, Sophie, he murmured into her ear. No matter how Patty’s been treating you, she’s not had to go into a care home and she appreciates it. Your coming here gave her an extra year. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. He released her to arm’s length. Deep down she’s still that vital young tennis player I married, you know.

Sophie’s heart went out to her brother. I understand, Cale. Don’t worry about me. Water off a duck’s whatever.

I just wish she hadn’t…

She touched the tender spot above her right breast. She can’t help it. She play-punched his shoulder. Seeya, kiddo, she said with a grin. I’ll be back for Christmas.

Sophie watched the drizzle forming parallel streaks slanting down the window as the plane lifted from the tarmac. Even though she knew she’d made the right decision, she still felt guilty. Patty was ill, not malevolent.

The plane was engulfed in cloud for a minute or two before breaking through into a blue and white fantasyland; she squinted in the sudden brightness. Mountain peaks covered in white meringue poked up through pads of cotton wool etched against the sky so aptly called Colorado Blue. The higher they climbed above the clouds, the further the distance from Caleb and Patty, and thank goodness, from her ex-lover Roger. Although she’d been overwhelmed by a mass of complex emotions during the leave-taking, now she felt the buzz of excitement burst into a rush of pleasure; she was on her way towards the next phase of her life. She’d burned her bridges, removing herself from the Colorado academic community, perhaps with little hope of return, and forced Caleb into making serious decisions about Patty. She pushed away such thoughts. It would be fine. A new start in far-away England – unexpected and exhilarating.

Sophie reached for the pile of papers she wanted to review before starting her new job. She adjusted her seat and pulled down the tray in anticipation of pre-dinner drinks. She stretched her arms in undeniable pleasure. Travelling high above the world was pure luxury and she had ten hours of it before her arrival into London Heathrow.

Chapter 2

London, August

On heading into South Kensington for her first day at work some ten days later, Sophie’s constant guilt was moderating. She was more than ready to take on new challenges.

Being head-hunted by the University of London’s St Boniface Medical School had done wonders for her ego. Head-hunted from across the world, even more so. Lulled by the motion of the underground train, Sophie stared into the middle distance. She was still amazed the famous Professor Noreen McClure had heard about insignificant Sophie Rowan from Colorado Springs. A year ago, she couldn’t have imagined being here in London, yet here she was.

Sophie entered the foyer of the busy hospital, immediately assailed by the noise and sheer busy-ness of people en masse. This place was alive with activity, the hustle and bustle matching her growing excitement. Through the chaos she spotted a reception desk and asked for directions to the attached medical school. Sophie joined a throng of hospital visitors headed to a large bank of elevators. ‘Lifts’ not elevators. She poked ‘7’.

In contrast to the chaos of the ground floor, an eerie quiet greeted her when she emerged on the seventh floor. She stood, disorientated for a long moment, until she spotted ‘To Medical Psychology’ over an entrance to an empty hallway. Near its end, new signs appeared on each door, a name or names and ‘Medical Psychology’. Was this it? Her excitement cooled. The university department she’d travelled half the world to reach consisted merely of rooms off a corridor?

Maybe things were different in England. She listened to the silence. Did she have the day right? Was it all a mistake? A gigantic hoax? It had to be the right place. She stifled a desire to turn on her heel and head back to Colorado, to familiarity and safety, forcing herself to tiptoe forward, reading the names on each door, recognising none until the corner. Finally. The door was partially open and a light was on inside.

Professor McClure’s office? she asked the man at the desk inside, obviously not the professor herself. Is she available?

Sorry, she’s away. At a conference in Malta, he said with a smile.

Not here? Sophie felt her disquiet return. What now? I’m Dr, ah, Rowan. Sophie.

Yes, thought so. Ashley Wotherspoon, the prof’s PA. He came from behind his desk with his hand extended. Welcome to our humble abode. Let me show you to your workstation. He led her back into the hallway and past a couple of doors. Here you are, Dr Rowan, he said opening a door to a room overcrowded with desks. Let me know what you need.

The sight was depressing; she hoped her dismay didn’t show on her face. Dammit, dammit, she’d not break down, for heaven’s sake, she was almost fifty years old. The office was crammed with three other desks besides the one assigned to her. It looked as if the entire team shared a space similar in size to her old office in Boulder, a room she’d shared with nobody. She closed the door after Ashley Wotherspoon and stood immobilised, a salt statue who didn’t dare cry. She dumped her bag on the empty desk, the thud loud in the silence. With it, the last bit of her nervous energy died.

She slumped into the chair. It was a long moment before she could force herself to look up. At least the office, even though jam-packed with furniture, had a plate glass window at the end. She peered over the surrounding houses, well above row upon row of red tiled roofs and walled back gardens, sufficiently foreign to lift her mood a notch. She really was in England. And she really had a job here.

She looked at the other desks, all of which showed signs of being in use, but where was everybody? She swivelled her chair to read the spines of the books on the shelves over the desks. Appropriate stuff. Books on statistics, anxiety disorders and substance abuse. Obviously she was in the right room.

She dumped the contents of her bag onto the empty desktop. She made a neat pile of Professor McClure’s papers at the back and arranged her laptop in the centre of the desk, her favourite pen placed near the new spiral notebook. Ready for something to happen, but all was silent. She wrote ‘Sophie Rowan, Medical Psychology’ on the front of the notebook, then picked up one of Professor McClure’s papers. She couldn’t concentrate. With nothing happening, nobody arriving and her distress mounting again, she couldn’t sit still. Besides, it had been a long journey on the tube; she left to locate the ladies’ room.

Sophie found the ‘loo’ – another word she’d already picked up – near the bank of elevators, labelled ‘Women’. But it was none too clean, probably dating from the middle of the last century, adding to her distress. She couldn’t face returning to her empty office, instead heading down the lift in search of that other necessity of life, coffee. She remembered seeing a sign to a café earlier. She retraced her steps to the main entrance and found it off to one side.

All the way from the United States, making so many preparations for this day, and finding a big fat nothing on arrival. She sipped her hot coffee past a lump in her throat.

When she later pushed open the door to the office, a lanky young man sat at the next desk to hers.

I’m Sophie Rowan, she said with a rekindling of enthusiasm.

Bradley Winters, he said in an Australian twang, his smile straightforward. To her American ears, his name sounded like ‘Bread-leh Weenters’.

Sophie smiled back. I’ve been like a fifth wheel since arriving early this morning. Nobody seems to be here except that male secretary of Professor McClure’s.

Ashley? He’s her PA. Don’t call him a secretary. He objects.

Right. Thanks for the warning. She sat down. Where is everybody?

Noreen doesn’t arrive before noon but she’s away right now at a conference – she’s always at one conference or another. Malta this time, lucky bitch. He pronounced it ‘beach’.

Sophie controlled a smile.

We don’t see much of her anyway. Felix Ducharme waltzes in about half past ten or eleven so he’ll be here anytime. Jon Ndoma is overseas. Oh, and I get here about half nine to ten most days. I was a bit late today. Trains.

Sophie stared at him. Everyone arrives at different times?

Yeah. He looked up at her. Oh, sorry, you’re the boss now. You don’t like it?

I’m too new to object, Bradley, she said. I’ll keep my opinions to myself for a while. She smiled to take away any sting. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?

I’m from Melbourne, he said. Got here a month back. Noreen liked my paper on alcohol rehab. I’ve just finished my doctorate in psychology, ya see. So she recruited me.

Let me see your paper, Bradley. In fact, if you have a copy of your dissertation, I’ll look at it too.

My thesis? Sure. He fetched down a substantial volume from the bookshelves above his desk.

Sophie hid her surprise. It was a hefty tome. Thanks.

It’ll take you ages to read. You Americans are not into big theses like in Aus. And here too, you know. A lot of experimentation, a lot of writing, make for big theses.

Is that so? Sophie said with a raised eyebrow. She sat down to read the summary and discovered the guy could write. His research consisted of several studies on a theme and the results were not only unambiguous but made a real contribution to the world of alcohol studies. Well done, Bradley, she said. I presume your published paper is based on this dissertation?

Yeah. The last study. I’ll download you a copy in a sec.

A dark haired man with well-defined eyebrows came into the room. Hello. You must be Sophie? he asked in a distinct French accent. She imagined in another era he’d have clicked his heels together. Pardon me, Dr Rowan?

Sophie. Please.

I am Felix Ducharme, the occupier of this desk here. He patted its tidy surface.

I’m reading Bradley’s dissertation. Very interesting and relevant to our project. What’s your background, Felix?

Psychology, like all of us. Me, I am the research assistant and the student all in one. Noreen has me on half a salary. The unpaid half to do my PhD and the paid half to be the research assistant for you. Noreen is my thesis supervisor but I bet she means for you to do the work. Both men laughed.

Well, if your topic concerns our project, that could fit in just fine. Sophie winced at her heartiness. She found it strange to be handed the staff for the project with no say in the matter, and a student to boot.

Who is Jon? she asked.

Nigerian guy, Bradley said. Gone to see his family. He buggers off every couple of months.

He’s been here for a while?

Yes, he’s at the end of his PhD with Noreen. I gather he didn’t intend to stay afterwards, but liked the sound of you, Sophie. He told me he’s used your panic breathing technique with patients. Everyone seems to know what it is except me. What did you invent?

Hardly an invention, Sophie said, flattered to be asked. I only made a good theoretical idea practical. It’s all part of the mind / body interaction literature. When someone panics, they have horrible thoughts. Do you know this stuff?

Never worked in the area, but panicky thoughts are catastrophic thoughts, aren’t they? As if they’re about to faint or they’re dying or having a heart attack or something like that?

Uh-huh. The person becomes so panicky about their own thoughts, their breathing goes haywire. Their heartbeat races; they sweat, can’t think – everything that happens with extreme anxiety. That makes some of them pant or hold their breath and sigh which affects their carbon dioxide levels in their blood. She glanced at Bradley to see if she’d lost him. He was leaning forward, his eyes on hers. They’re ridding themselves of all the CO2 from their bodies. Trouble is, we need CO2. The blood stickiness gets affected and the brain cells – and every other cell for that matter – start to malfunction a bit. At least that’s one theory.

And your intervention? Bradley asked.

Simple. It merely teaches them to slow their breathing to keep some of their CO2. But it’s impossible to accomplish something you know about but have never practised while in the midst of a panic attack. So I train them, over-train them, beforehand.

This is your famous technique?

Hardly famous, but yes, this is the technique in my paper. A psychologist teaches them what to do, recommending them to practise over and over again to train them into a normal rhythm. That’s about one breath every five seconds. It’s not particularly easy for them to learn. At first anyway.

Because of the panic itself?

Not sure. She smiled at him. These people are ragged breathers at the best of times. But if you force yourself to do a ten-minute training twice a day, in a couple of weeks the pattern becomes ingrained.

Bradley seemed to be making a good show at buttering up the new boss by asking intelligent questions.

If you ever feel the first glimmer of a panic attack coming on, you switch to this rhythm. It’s not that you don’t know how to breathe, but you do forget normal rhythms when panicky.

Brilliant, Bradley said, leaning back in his chair. Jon recognised your name right away when Noreen told us you were coming.

So he’s clinical? Sophie asked, relieved at the topic change.

Clinical first, trained in Lagos. Then came to the UK to do his PhD.

When’s he due back?

Sometime soon, Felix said. Perhaps you shall meet him later this week.

Nigerian, you said. How’s his English?

Better than mine, Felix said, smiling. And better than Bradley’s. Nicer accent anyway.

Watch who you’re insulting, Frenchman, Bradley said. If you think my English is bad, you should hear my French.

Please, no, Felix countered. He turned to Sophie. We must be patient with him. After all, he couldn’t help being born Australian.

She looked from one to the other and her shoulders relaxed. Maybe this would work out, after all. Something occurred to her. We’re all foreigners. It was a statement not a question.

The two men looked at each other. I noticed it too. Most of the department is from outside the UK, Bradley said. It seems Noreen likes it that way.

How interesting. More than interesting… extraordinary. Usually it was the other way around.

Bradley handed her a sheaf of papers from the printer. My sole publication so far. Unlike Jon. Shit, you should see his CV and he’s not even finished his PhD yet. He didn’t seem to notice swear words punctuated his language. Sophie told herself to stop noticing.

I hope to do the same, Felix said. It is one of the reasons I applied for a post here. He smiled at Sophie. Would you like the guided tour?

The department consisted of only three tenured staff, but also numerous scientists on time-limited ‘soft money’ working on four separate research projects. Each team occupied their own small office and each had a graduate student or two. Like academia in general, all the staff on soft money at Bonney’s had finite contracts the length of their grants.

We are called the PAD group, Felix said. Panic and Alcohol Disorders, PAD. He explained that Noreen tried to obtain funding for a major new project each year. Most research projects in the department had something to do with substance abuse. She saw her role as fundraiser and front person, bringing the findings of the research she’d thus organised to the attention of the world. But Noreen was not an active researcher herself.

What? Sophie couldn’t keep the surprise from voice. Noreen McClure? Not her own research? Her eyes flicked to the pile of McClure articles she’d brought with her, publications she’d been studying since she was offered this position.

No. Bradley’s answer was unequivocal. She’s not a researcher. She’s good at writing things up and she’s an excellent presenter but, no, not a researcher. She finds statistics…er…challenging. Sophie stared at him; she was flabbergasted. If McClure wasn’t an active researcher herself, then why was her name on all this published work?

Sophie snagged a seat on the crowded train home. Quite a day. Her mind slipped to how she’d come to be in England. She’d fallen into a care-giving role some months before, almost a year now. After completing her contract for a complex research project, she didn’t have another project lined up, an unusual circumstance since leaving her tenured teaching post at Boulder. As a consequence, she’d been rattling around the Rowan Ranch annex for a month readying herself to make further applications for research grants when her brother Caleb rang her, asking for her help with his disabled wife, Patty. Sophie couldn’t refuse, particularly since she had the time.

The extra nursing help Caleb had hired during the day while he was at work was killing him financially. Of course Sophie would help, and yes, she’d be fine in the guest room. It was only temporary and at least she’d have other people to talk to while waiting for a new project to surface.

The move to her brother’s house began a fraught year. Patty’s repetitive strokes had left her ‘labile’, the medical word for hair-trigger responses to anything emotional. She cried out in frustration whenever she dropped something or she couldn’t reach something with her stroke-affected arm. She railed at the indignity of needing help in the bathroom and toilet. She hated not being able to cut her own meat or dress herself or do a million other ordinary little things. Worse, if frustrated, she lashed out at whatever and whoever was nearby. A garbage dump of vexation had suddenly been deposited into the midst of their middle class mediocrity.

On top of all this, Patty was depressed.

No wonder Caleb was having trouble coping. Even though Sophie moved in to share the burden, dealing with the constant emotional storms was near to impossible. Both brother and sister became crushed by not only the physical demands of it all, but also the overwhelming emotional burden.

Then came the email from England. Would Dr Rowan be interested in heading up a team to investigate the connections between addictions and anxiety disorders?

How could she refuse?

The University of London is a monolith composed of countless separate colleges. Sophie’s new position was in a ‘new’ department with a history stretching back a mere thirty years, a history dominated by Professor McClure who had published articles in an impressive variety of areas within alcohol research. Her excellent review of foetal alcohol syndrome, the damage that occurs when the prenatal brain is exposed to alcohol, was one of the first Sophie had read. Although McClure wrote this over twenty years ago, it stood the test of time. A complex subject clarified. Low levels of alcohol consumption by a pregnant mother were permissible, according to McClure’s extensive review of the literature, although higher levels harmed the unborn child, as many other publications asserted. She’d come up with a practical recommendation, one that avoided being dogmatic yet was solidly based on evidence. Soon Sophie would meet the author of these interesting publications and she was thoroughly confused. According to her new colleagues, none of them were based on original research done by Prof Noreen McClure.

Sophie had finally found somewhere to live, an apartment, a ‘flat’. She’d worked eight hours a day for a solid week trying to find a flat walking distance from the university, but she hadn’t realised how expensive rental flats were in that corner of West London. In the end, her new flat was some distance away, in Hampton not far from Kingston, near the River Thames – a pleasant part of the world. The walk/train/tube commute would take about an hour door-to-door. So what? This was London and such a commute was considered ordinary. Besides, it would provide free reading time.

She’d moved in three days before starting her new job. The flat desperately needed housecleaning and the local supermarket provided a range of materials. Sophie rolled up her sleeves. This was hardly her life when married.

Sophie had met her husband Keith when she’d enrolled in the university at nineteen years of age. It was love at first sight. He had an effervescent personality, careless good looks and he was urbane. To her surprise, he fell for her too. They were a couple from then on and they married right after graduation. Keith joined his grandfather’s firm and Sophie … well, Sophie played tennis, enjoying both the break from college and having married into wealth. At twenty-five, she discovered she was pregnant. They lived with Keith’s grandfather in Rowan Ranch which had plenty of room for the baby and the nanny on the outskirts of Colorado Springs, along with a cook who was married to the gardener and a large staff.

A long time ago. Sophie cleaned her new flat with gusto.

Chapter 3

Sophie’s first day at Bonny’s, with its shaky start, was over. She opened the door to her flat and it seemed terribly empty, perhaps reflecting her own personal life at the moment. She missed her son. She also missed having friends.

Nonetheless, she liked the group assigned to the project and that boded well for the future. She was confident in her leadership abilities and she had perseverance in plenty, characteristics that had always served her well. How wonderful again to be involved within the cloudy seas of original research. She had no doubts she could outlast anybody when the going became tough. She was a survivor of many academic battles and not a few personal ones.

Sophie opened up her laptop to check if her new Internet connection was working; it was, as was her new email account.

To: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

Re: New flat; new job

Hi Caleb and Patty,

New flat is small but in a hundred year-old-house near the Thames, so can go for walks along the tow-path. Maybe I’ll invest in a bicycle. Especially with the long summer evenings we’re having.

Work is weird. Totally different from Boulder or Denver (or the Springs, for that matter). I’ve met everybody in the department, other than the prof herself who is off at a conference (or maybe a Mediterranean holiday?) and one of my team members who is in Africa (!). Also, a strange situation … I am one of only two women in the entire department (plus the prof, of course)! Would you believe it??? In psychology where only 20% are male? In addition, they are all incredibly good-looking men (IMHO!) and come from all over the world.

It’s strange I haven’t met the professor yet. Evidently she is away a lot – conferences and workshops. Nice work if you can get it. More when I know more.

Patty, I do hope you are settled into the home now. Again, am very sorry that I had to leave, but it was time for my life to go off in another direction.

Sophie wondered if she should say this. Maybe she should write a separate email to Caleb, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to be honest with her own brother. She sat back and stretched. Families.

I met two members of my team and they seem bright and capable – and that means I’ve finally met people to talk to! The English are a tad stand-off-ish. Tomorrow we start planning what we want to do. It seems funny to have the money for the research but no research plan.

Caleb: remember to water the plants!

Love to both,

Sophie

She thought it through; Patty was in no shape to troll through emails, so a personal one to Caleb was safe enough. Yes, and she could be more open.

To: To: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

Re: Other stuff – separate email for just you.

Hi Caleb,

How are you bearing up, Bro? I can’t get rid of that sinking feeling I abandoned you by escaping. I hope it’s working out. Please be honest.

How is Patty? Has she recovered any more from that last stroke? Are the quacks happy with the new meds? Has she stopped striking out? She must be driven crazy with the utter frustration at having another stroke. I don’t blame her. How are your shins? That big bruise on my chest has now faded… Once again I can wear summer tops with no rainbow hues showing (86 degrees yesterday – who said English weather was terrible?).

Please keep me informed. As you reminded me at the airport, Patty is still that tennis player inside in more ways than one. She’s unbelievably strong and as determined as ever. Dear Patty. Keep reminding her I love her and think about her all the time. Thinking of you too, Bro, lots of love,

-Soph-

Several days later, Sophie was eating a sandwich by herself at her desk, the ‘boys’ having gone for a smoke downstairs. The huge man filling the doorway could only be Jon Ndoma.

Hello, Dr Rowan, he said in a Paul Robeson rumble. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.

She quizzed him about the department, his PhD and his decision to stay after finishing his thesis. He’d intended to leave for a post-doc elsewhere, but it didn’t work out. Prof McClure promised him he could work with Dr Rowan of the Breathing Training intervention, if she could recruit her. Sophie found the story charming.

Jon held some sort of position in his tribe that necessitated travelling back and forth from Nigeria. His wife and children were in Lagos. There seemed to be enough money; he mentioned something about oil.

Sophie was relieved. It appeared she’d inherited a diverse group of co-workers. All of them seemed to be capable and intelligent and got along well in spite of age and