by Leona Deakin
‘But she sent me photographs from Afghanistan.’ Claire got up and grabbed her iPad from the kitchen worktop. ‘She’s been on five tours. I looked after Jane for three of them.’ Claire passed the iPad to her brother. The picture on the screen was of Lana squatting in camouflage trousers and a sand-coloured T-shirt beside two male colleagues, all holding cigarettes and smiling into the camera.
‘Can you send me this?’
Claire took the iPad back and tapped the screen a few times. ‘Done.’
‘This is going to sound weird – and I don’t want you to panic – but would you say there’s anything sinister about Lana?’
‘Sinister?’
‘You know. Dark and twisty. Fucked up. That type of thing.’
‘She’s certainly dark and twisty. She’s a bit fucked up – lots of drink and drugs – but I’ve always thought she was suffering from PTSD. She said she had PTSD. That she’d seen some terrible shit and that it changes a person.’
‘But she hadn’t seen anything. Did she ever show guilt?’
Claire shrugged. ‘I’m sure she did feel guilty.’
‘But did she show it?’
‘What are you getting at, Marcus? Stop being cryptic and spit it out.’
Jameson shook his head. ‘I can’t, sis. Not until we know more. It wouldn’t be fair on Lana or Jane. Last question though: what do you know about Lana’s past? Where did she live before she moved here? I’ve been trying to track down Jane’s father but I don’t even know his name.’
‘I’ve got his name somewhere. Lana gave me Jane’s birth certificate years ago. I needed to get her a passport.’
Jameson raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘She was staying with us one summer and we were planning a holiday. Give me a minute. I’ve still got it upstairs, I think.’ Claire got up and left the room.
Jameson waited, hoping he hadn’t given too much away. There was still a chance that Bloom was wrong about this. They might not have to tell Jane that her mother was a psychopath.
Claire came back into the room with a long slip of pink paper. ‘Here you go. I knew I had it.’
Jameson took the birth certificate, wishing he was as organized as his sister. Their mother was the same. He skimmed the page and there, beside the word ‘Father’, it said ‘Thomas Lake’.
As Jameson opened his car door, he saw a familiar figure sitting on the wall in front of Claire’s neighbour’s house.
‘Claire said you’d gone into town with your friends.’
Jane looked at him with swollen red eyes.
He sat down on the wall beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I heard Claire on the phone to you earlier. You wanted to speak to her without me there. Mum’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, Jane.’ He hugged her a little tighter. ‘There’s no news on your mum, good or bad, I’m afraid.’
‘So why did you need to speak to Claire alone?’
‘Look, sweetheart, you know Claire and Dan think of you as part of the family, as do I, so whatever happens you have a home.’
‘Answer my question. I want to know what’s happening. She’s my mum.’
Jameson took a deep breath. Jane had a right to know what they’d learned, but he would stick to the facts. ‘We found out that your mum isn’t employed by the Army and never has been.’ He paused to let that sink in.
After a few moments, Jane said, ‘So where’s our money been coming from?’
Jane was a practical girl. He had expected a torrent of denial. ‘We don’t know,’ he said.
Jane frowned. ‘Why would she lie?’
The million-dollar question. ‘We don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘We know …’ Jameson hesitated. He chose his words carefully. ‘We know that Faye Graham is alive three months after her disappearance. So there’s a good chance your mum and the others are too.’
‘Someone killed her husband, though. I saw it on the news. How do you know he didn’t kill Faye too?’
‘We’re pretty sure Faye is still alive.’
‘How can you be? Is she home?’
‘I’m sorry, Jane. We’re working really hard and have a team of police officers helping us now. We’re going to do everything we can to find your mum, and in the meantime I’m trying to locate your father.’
Jane jumped down from the wall. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to! I don’t want him anywhere near me. And you said I’d always have a home here. I don’t want him in my life. I want my mum.’
‘OK, OK.’ Jameson held up his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I need to try and find him; I need to ask some questions about your mum’s past.’
Jane placed her hands over her mouth and her eyes widened. ‘You think it’s him, don’t you? You think he’s got her!’
‘No, Jane. We don’t. We don’t think that at all.’
Jane looked at him. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying.’
Jameson was hiding more than he was saying. He pushed himself off the wall and placed his hands on Jane’s shoulders. ‘You asked for our help, Jane, and we’re doing everything we can, but you’re going to have to trust me. Can you do that?’
22
March 27th
Dear Diary,
That bitch Claudia is going to regret messing with me. She won’t know what I’ve done – I’m too smart for that. But she’ll wish she’d stayed in her place.
She thought she could twist this to her advantage. She thought she could take the group. She told them I was a weirdo, a monster or something, even though it was me who saved her from being raped again. Not the sort of thank-you I’d hoped for.
But here’s the thing. She needs to learn to be careful. Dreary Darren Shaw knows it – the pencil in his neck caused a stroke so he’s pretty much a vegetable – and now Claudia will know it too.
It didn’t take much. Just a few calls to the other girls. I told them how hurt I was that Claudia was lying. I told each of them that I’d only phoned them, that they were my bestie, and they bought it because they all love me. Then I told them a few of the things I’d heard Claudia saying to Dreary Darren. Like how much she loved him and how much she wanted him. All lies, of course, but a little doubt was enough … and poor little Claudia became a freak.
And believe me, there’s more to come for that little traitor.
Seraphine sat back and re-read her diary entry. Dr Bloom was right. It was liberating to write simply for yourself. She could stack up all her victories in one little book, then re-live them and enjoy them whenever she fancied.
23
Bloom was sitting with her feet curled beneath her on the large chair in the corner of her bedroom reading Go Set a Watchman when her phone rang. She didn’t mind being interrupted. She wasn’t even sure she liked the book. It was no Mockingbird.
‘Bloom,’ she said, by way of hello.
‘Augusta. This is Steve Barker. I’m sorry to ring so late, but I’ve had a call from our Chief Constable asking why we’re looking into these birthday-card disappearances.’
‘How did they know about it?’
‘When DC Logan started trawling the internet for related clues, a red flag went up.’
‘So they were aware of the case already?’
‘Yes and no. It turns out one of our own is missing too: a DCI from the Merseyside force. He didn’t turn up to work three shifts in a row so his boss sent a couple of PCs to check his home. They found one of these cards.’
‘When?’
‘Last week. Wednesday. The DCI has something of a chequered record. He’s been investigated three times. As a young PC he was implicated in the Hillsborough cover-up. Then there was an allegation of attempted rape ten years ago. It was from a witness on one of his cases; she dropped the charges. And he was recently investigated again. There were rumours he was taking back-handers from a local crime family to look the other way.’
‘I see.�
� Bloom opened her tablet. ‘Can you give me his name?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Warren Beardsley.’
‘Anything else from your Chief Constable?’
‘That we need to be careful what we say. And to who. His priority is public relations.’
The line went quiet for a moment and then Barker said, ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling you might be right about this, Augusta.’
While Bloom was speaking to Chief Superintendent Barker, Lana Reid was struggling to get comfortable in a shop doorway beneath a stolen blanket that smelled of stale beer and urine. She’d picked bad marks; that was the problem. A banker and a barrister. It was too ambitious. They weren’t keen on her drinking – bedtimes were early; work in the morning – and they were ruthless too. The barrister had kicked her out two hours ago and refused to give her the things she’d accumulated over the past two weeks. He’d said it was collateral for the shit he’d put up with. She was supposed to be fleecing him, stealing his money, manipulating him.
It was the drink. She needed to stop. She was better than this. She should be flying through this game.
Sometimes she couldn’t cope with the boredom of suburban life as a single mum. So she took off – just for a few months – and created a separate life. She found a bloke, strung him along, manipulated him, lived off him, call it what you will. She was good at finding affluent, needy men who would fall for her particular brand of sexy, the vulnerable heroine. She enjoyed the role. But she could never desert Jane completely. Jane was her child, her responsibility, and so, eventually, she always returned home.
24
Jameson considered taking the main road to work, past the British Medical Association building, but instead followed Bloom’s normal route, left off Euston Road and through the quieter back streets. It was a fortuitous choice. A few minutes from the office, he came across a small independent cafe called Fork. Nestled in between tiled partition walls, its pale wooden panelling and large arched windows reminded him of the cafes of continental Europe. There, in the queue at the counter, stood Dr Sarah Something. She was wearing a simple black dress and black heels that showed off her toned calves. Her blonde hair was in a neat bun.
‘Hello again,’ Jameson said, joining the queue.
She turned. ‘Oh,’ she said, bemused. ‘Hello.’
‘Marcus Jameson. We met the other night at the Marquis. You were there with Steph Chambers.’ He was only slightly disappointed that she hadn’t remembered him.
‘Sorry,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve met so many new people recently. They’ve all merged into one!’ She turned back to the counter to order a flat white.
Ouch, thought Jameson.
‘Yes?’ said the girl behind the counter.
‘Large latte to go, please,’ he replied.
‘Just one size.’ The girl had a strong Eastern European accent. She waved her hand at the blackboard behind her.
Sarah collected her coffee. She’d be leaving any minute. He handed over a fiver, then called to Sarah, ‘Is the coffee good?’
She looked back at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Is it good? The coffee? I’ve never been here before.’
‘Yes.’ She pulled the door open.
‘Maybe I’ll see you here again, then,’ he said.
With just a small nod of her head, she was gone.
Jameson took a sip of his coffee. She was right. It tasted pretty good. A second reason to make this his regular coffee shop.
‘G’day, Sheila,’ Jameson said as he walked into their small office.
‘G’day, Bruce,’ replied Bloom. ‘Sit down. You’ll want to hear this.’ Jameson perched on the edge of his desk. ‘We have another player. A DCI from Merseyside. He went missing last week and colleagues found the card in his flat.’
‘A copper?’
‘And a dodgy one at that. He’s been investigated for everything from corruption to attempted rape.’
Jameson whistled.
‘There are more psychopathic traits higher up the corporate tree. So I expect this won’t be our last player in a position of power.’
‘I reckon I’ve worked for a few in my time.’ Jameson switched on his laptop. ‘I have a name for Jane’s father. Thomas Lake. Claire knew it all along.’
‘How did she take the news?’
‘About Lana? She couldn’t believe it. She showed me a photograph Lana had sent from Afghanistan. I should have an email from … Yep. Photoshopped, according to my man. He found the original.’ Jameson leaned in closer to his screen. ‘She swapped in her own head. Did a pretty good job, too.’
‘She’s resourceful. I can’t argue with that.’
‘So where the hell has she been going all these years?’
‘It’s not unusual for psychopathic personalities to live double lives – triple lives even. She could have another family running in parallel. Some male psychopaths have dozens of children via multiple marriages, sometimes all over the world. They’re an impressive bunch; they cover their tracks.’
‘You really love psychopaths, don’t you?’
Bloom tutted. ‘I have a healthy interest. And it’s my job. And,’ she continued, ‘it makes sense to understand those who might struggle to understand and think like us.’
Jameson turned back to his laptop. ‘Like I said, you love them. Whereas I’m freaking out that the conscienceless are out there murdering their loved ones.’
‘We don’t know that. I find it hard to believe that Faye was the first to start playing and the first to finish. There must be others.’
‘Maybe. But murders happen all the time. The police might have missed the link. We should get protection for Jane and the other families. If we can’t convince the police to foot the bill, I’ve got a few old mates who work privately now.’
‘I think you do our crime-fighters a disservice. If there’d been other linked deaths, I’m sure we’d know.’
‘Can we take that chance? We should assume that the other players will do a Faye.’
‘OK. Talk to the police, then.’
‘And what made you suspect Faye was a psychopath? It wasn’t the kid waving the tiger?’
‘It was, actually. I’d noted some common traits from our interviews, but nothing too alarming. But when Fred described Julia’s lack of fear, things clicked. I asked myself why Julia’s fearlessness stopped Faye. Faye would have seen that Freddie was afraid. She might have recognized such fear, but I don’t think she’d be able to relate to it. But when Julia strode forward and growled – that she could relate to.’
‘She saw herself in Julia?’
‘I think most six-year-olds would instinctively know that something was wrong. Julia might not have witnessed her father’s murder, but her mother would have been covered in blood and carrying a knife.’
‘But she wasn’t scared.’
‘Exactly.’
Jameson looked horrified. ‘Can a child even be a psychopath?’
Bloom exhaled slowly. ‘Some would say so. Personally, I think we’re born with certain tendencies that are either exaggerated or negated by our experiences. But there may be a few characteristics that are fixed from birth.’ She thought about Seraphine. The girl had described her parents on numerous occasions as fabulous, but the description always felt too overstated to ring true, and she could never back it up with any examples of how they were fabulous. The true nature of Seraphine’s home life remained a mystery.
‘So potentially psychopathic traits can be inhibited in the right circumstances?’
‘I didn’t say that. There’s evidence that the brain of an adult psychopath functions very differently to that of other adults, but it’s impossible to say whether those differences are innate. Some share your fear – they argue that psychopaths are the natural predators of our species – but they’re also our wildest adventurers, our risk-takers, those willing to sail across an ocean with no knowledge of what’s on the other side.’
‘So you’re saying th
ey contribute? That they’re essential?’
‘They work as surgeons, soldiers, firefighters, entrepreneurs. Many contribute positively to society. Sure, some steal, some murder, but most don’t. I think the problem here is that the game seems to be encouraging antisocial choices.’
‘We need to stop thinking about the game.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You said that “the game” encourages antisocial choices. But it’s not “the game”, is it? It’s the person behind the game.’
‘Right.’
‘Because they’re a psychopath, too. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’
Bloom looked at Jameson. She liked that he was quick; it was one of his most attractive qualities. ‘I expect so. To recruit latent psychopaths—’
‘And corrupt them?’
Bloom nodded. ‘You’d need a solid understanding of what motivates them.’
‘So what’s the motive? You think they’re being primed for something?’
‘That’s my fear.’
‘Christ, Bloom.’
‘And sending them all off home to kill their husbands or wives is too … pedestrian. What’s in it for the puppeteer?’
‘Power?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bloom. ‘But I think it’s more than that. This game is ambitious; it’s outlandish. There’s more than power at play.’
25
‘Dr Bloom is right,’ said DC Craig Logan.
Jameson rolled his eyes. Bloom shrugged. She couldn’t help it.
They were on a conference call with Chief Superintendent Barker, DC Logan, DI Carly Mathers and DC Kaye Willis. DC Logan had trawled the internet for questionnaires that might profile psychopaths and had found a few that might fit. There was one on Psych Central – ‘The Psychopath Test’ – and a few floating around on various social media platforms: ‘What 80s Film Would You Be?’ and ‘Are You a Genius?’
