Gone

by Leona Deakin

  Jameson knew better than to take on Claire when she was angry. He’d lost many fruitless battles over the years. So he waited, saying nothing and letting her pace the room.

  ‘We have to find her. We can’t sit around waiting. We have to do something. I have to do something.’ Deep lines of anxiety creased her forehead. ‘I’ve been calling the police every hour and they just say the same thing every time. No news, no news, no news. They think I’m crazy. And they keep pointing out that they don’t need to update me because I’m not a relative. You can imagine what I said to that, the cheeky bastards.’

  Jameson smiled. He wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of his sister. Was anger her most psychopathic trait?

  ‘What are you smiling at? What the fuck is there to smile about?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, potty mouth. There are kids around.’ Claire frowned. ‘The room next door has a young son who comes in every day.’

  ‘Who gives a—’

  Jameson threw the socks at her. He rubbed his aching head. ‘Augusta says they’re planning a TV appeal for Jane. There’s stuff on social media already and posters are up at King’s Cross and St Pancras, as well as around the school. But until someone comes forward with a sighting, it’s a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you if something happens to her.’

  ‘Me? What did I do?’

  ‘She came to you for help. I told her you’d sort it.’

  ‘Well, that’s on you then.’

  Claire teared up and he immediately regretted saying it.

  ‘Look,’ he added, ‘Lana may have been a crappy mother, but she never hurt Jane or put her in harm’s way, did she? So let’s just hope that’s still the case and that they’re together somewhere.’

  Claire sat down in the seat beside him, her fight gone, and put her head in her hands and cried.

  37

  In the south-west corner of Surrey, not far from Haslemere, Bloom and DC Logan were driving up a private road that belonged to the Llewellyn family.

  Freya Llewellyn had contacted DC Logan’s online alter ego, Craig Hogan, to say that her father, Clive, had disappeared eight months ago after receiving the birthday card, only to return six weeks later. She was more than happy for Craig to pop by for a chat with Clive. She said she hoped it would put his mind at rest; she was confident his sister would be home soon.

  And so, here they were.

  ‘Wow,’ said DC Logan beneath his breath as a large stately home came into view through the trees. Its arched front door was framed by ivy that climbed the full height of the building. ‘Being a corporate lawyer clearly pays,’ he said, as the car tyres crunched on the gravel driveway. He parked and turned off the engine.

  A woman in her early twenties opened the front door and came out to greet them. She had shiny, salon-styled hair and perfect make-up. Her skinny jeans and striped T-shirt were casual but clearly expensive and her nails were painted bright pink.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ whispered Bloom. ‘Tread carefully and if in doubt follow my lead.’

  ‘Freya?’ Craig walked up to the young woman and shook her hand. He was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt with a photo of a band on the front. Bloom guessed he thought it was cool but it made him look like the ultimate nerd. And that was no bad thing.

  Freya Llewellyn flashed her bright white teeth. ‘So nice to meet you, Craig. And this must be your aunt?’

  ‘Alice,’ said Bloom.

  ‘I didn’t want to raise my mum’s hopes by bringing her,’ said Logan, sticking to the pre-agreed back story, ‘but Aunt Alice wanted to be here for some moral support.’

  ‘Certainly. Do come on in. I’ll take you straight through to Daddy. He’s been in New York for the past week, but he came home early this morning and I know he’ll be able to reassure you.’ She led them through the grand hallway, past a sweeping staircase that led up to a balcony that circled the hall below. ‘He said it was a life-affirming experience, actually. A time out that enabled him to reassess his priorities.’

  ‘And he’s happy to talk to us about it?’ asked Bloom.

  They reached a closed oak door with an elaborate doorknob in the shape of a dragon, with rubies for eyes.

  ‘I find seeking forgiveness rather than permission is the best strategy with Daddy.’ Freya opened the door and led Bloom and Logan inside.

  Freya skipped to the large desk at the far end of the room. ‘Daddy, I have some friends who desperately need a little chat with you.’

  Bloom and Logan hovered in the doorway. The man sitting in the chair looking out of the window turned at the sound of his daughter’s greeting. He was a big man with thick black hair, broad shoulders and cobalt eyes. His daughter kissed him on the cheek and he smiled warmly at her before turning to his guests.

  ‘This is Craig and his Aunt Alice. Craig’s sister went missing to do that game thing that you did. I told them you came back fine and they shouldn’t worry, but I hoped seeing and speaking to you might reassure them.’

  Bloom was alarmed by Freya’s naivety. She clearly didn’t know about her father’s real nature; she didn’t understand the game. Clive Llewellyn was evidently a true master of disguise. Without missing a beat, he rose from his seat and beckoned Bloom and Logan forward.

  ‘Of course. Of course. Come in. Take a seat. Freya, ask Mrs Burns to make us some tea and bring up some of that lovely ginger cake.’

  Bloom and Logan sat in the two chairs facing the large desk. Llewellyn shook Logan’s hand and gave him a firm shoulder-pat, and then placed both hands around Bloom’s in an act of warm reassurance. His whole demeanour said, Relax, you’re with friends.

  ‘How old is your sister, Craig?’ asked Llewellyn as he returned to his chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  Llewellyn shook his head and tutted. ‘Your poor mother must be going spare.’ He looked at Bloom. ‘Are you Mum’s sister, Alice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bloom. Llewellyn used their first names with the familiarity of a lifelong friend.

  ‘I can’t imagine what we’d do if Freya disappeared off on a little jaunt like that.’

  ‘A little jaunt?’ repeated Bloom.

  Llewellyn leaned back in his chair and smiled. He had the same sparkling teeth as his daughter. ‘A jaunt, an exploration, a journey of self-discovery. Everyone needs some time out now and again to recharge the batteries and regain the old focus, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe at our age,’ said Bloom. ‘But my niece is just a child.’

  Llewellyn nodded as if he agreed, but then said, ‘Some of us are old souls even at a young age.’

  ‘Do you know where my sister is?’ Logan asked with a fairly convincing tone of desperation.

  ‘Wherever she wants to be, I should expect.’

  ‘Are you saying she chose to go off like this?’ said Bloom. ‘Nobody is forcing her?’

  Llewellyn placed his hands behind his head. ‘Let me tell you a little story. I’m a rich man, as you can probably tell, because I’m a bloody good lawyer. If you want your business sold for millions, I’m your man. If you want to fight the power-grabbing market-leaders looking to gobble up your company, I’m your man. If you want to gobble up the little guys stealing your customers, I’m your man. Up against me, no one wins – never have, never will. But what do I get out of it?’

  Bloom fought the urge to wave her arms around the room and say, ‘A massive house, a pampered, privately educated daughter, a trophy wife somewhere and a stable full of fast cars.’

  ‘I get ungrateful little people complaining. I wanted more, Llewellyn. You need to do it for less, Llewellyn. When they haven’t got the brains or balls to do it themselves. You see?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with my sister?’

  Llewellyn looked at Logan for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing.’

  The silence was broken by a middle-aged woman in a maid’s outfit, complete with white pinny and crisp white headdress,
entering the room. She was pushing a silver trolley with a china teapot, matching cups and three plates topped with huge slices of cake. The maid – Mrs Burns, presumably – poured tea into all three cups and placed them in front of Llewellyn, Logan and Bloom, then positioned the plates beside the cups and put a jug of milk and bowl of sugar in the centre of the desk. Bloom and Logan thanked her, Llewellyn did not. She left without uttering a word.

  ‘Why would my niece disappear to play some game without telling her family where she was going or if she’s all right?’ said Bloom. ‘I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘Is it a game or just an alternate reality?’ said Llewellyn, in an airy, philosophical tone.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Bloom with a good dose of exasperation. She looked at Logan, then back at Llewellyn, ‘But you do. You know exactly what the game – the alternate reality – is. So please … Please tell us what’s going on and where she is.’

  ‘Is your sister a smart girl?’ Llewellyn asked Logan.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well, smart people are always fine, no matter what the challenges.’

  Bloom sat up straighter at that. ‘What sort of challenges?’

  Llewellyn removed his hands from behind his head. ‘Life. Love. Loss.’

  ‘Is she in danger?’ asked Logan.

  ‘Craig, my dear boy, we are all in danger all of the time. It’s an illusion to think otherwise.’

  ‘OK, OK. But specifically – does this game make you do dangerous things? Could she get hurt?’

  Llewellyn leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. ‘Nobody can make you do anything you don’t wish to do, now can they, Alice?’ He flashed a smile at Bloom and winked as if the two of them were in a secret alliance.

  Bloom took the opportunity to make an appeal. ‘Look. We just want to know that Sally is safe, that she isn’t doing anything risky or getting into trouble.’ She added her own touch of desperation. ‘Surely as a father you can appreciate that?’

  ‘One man’s risk is another’s daily task. One man’s trouble is another’s fair play.’

  ‘How about real crime, though?’ said Logan. ‘You’re a lawyer. If my sister’s disappeared of her own free will, then what’s she doing? Is she breaking the law?’

  Llewellyn smiled and Bloom imagined a huge computer embedded in his brain working to calculate the appropriate response.

  ‘You said the experience helped you,’ said Bloom. She hoped that encouraging him to talk about himself would hold his focus. ‘How did it do that?’

  ‘It didn’t help me. It helped me to help myself.’

  ‘But a woman in Bristol killed her husband after playing this game for three months,’ said Logan. ‘So please, is my sister in danger of being coerced into criminal behaviour?’

  Logan’s words gave too much away. Not only were they too ‘police speak’, but the fact that Faye had murdered Harry was not yet public knowledge. Llewellyn stayed perfectly motionless, a smile still glued to his face, but something changed in his eyes. He stared at Logan with an intense, cold glare. DC Logan pushed himself back into his chair. His eyes flickered from Llewellyn to the floor and then back again.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Llewellyn demanded, his charm abating quickly.

  ‘Detective Constable Logan, Avon and Somerset Police. We’re investigating the death of Harry Graham.’

  Llewellyn’s stare slowly moved from Logan to Bloom. ‘And you?’

  Bloom set her expression to neutral and held his gaze.

  ‘You’re really the aunt of this Sally? No. Of course not. There is no girl, is there?’ He looked back at Logan. ‘Let me see your warrant card.’

  That was a bad idea. Llewellyn might have already registered and remembered Logan’s name and the police force, but Bloom hoped not. She interjected, ‘How did you get selected? People are invited by name, so how did they know you were a suitable and willing candidate?’

  ‘My dear lady,’ said Llewellyn, ‘we live in a world of constant and complete surveillance.’

  ‘But how were you specifically selected?’ Bloom couldn’t imagine Llewellyn completing questionnaires on Facebook.

  ‘Imagine that in a beach of pebbles and stones there’s a handful of precious jewels. How would you find them?’

  ‘You don’t know,’ said Bloom. ‘I see.’ She looked at Logan. ‘I think Mr Llewellyn has outlived his usefulness to us.’ She stood up and Logan followed.

  ‘A good attempt to rile me, Alice, or whatever your name is, but it won’t work, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not trying to rile you. I’m just disappointed. Based on your job, your house, your obvious intellect, we’d hoped to meet one of the masterminds, maybe even the mastermind, behind the game, but it’s clear that you know nothing.’

  There was the smallest of twitches on Llewellyn’s forehead. Psychopaths might be immune to fear and empathy, but anger and ego were a whole different story.

  Suddenly the door burst open and in strode Chief Superintendent Barker with DS Green behind him. They’d been parked down the road, listening, and had promised to stay put unless Bloom and Logan were in immediate danger – which they categorically were not. Bloom saw Llewellyn smile. He’d seen her disappointment before she could mask it.

  ‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?’ he whispered.

  Freya Llewellyn cried and apologized to her father as he climbed into the back of Superintendent Barker’s car. He’d reluctantly agreed to accompany the police to the station to assist with their enquiries.

  ‘I told you not to come unless we were in danger,’ Bloom said to Barker, who was looking frustratingly pleased with himself.

  ‘He blew your cover. We had to get in quick. We’ll get to the bottom of this now.’

  ‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?’ said Bloom, repeating Llewellyn’s words. Barker frowned. He looked at Llewellyn sitting in the back seat of the car calmly flicking through photos on his iPhone screen and ignoring his crying daughter. ‘These people are not pit bulls. They don’t bite when you poke them with a stick because they don’t have any buttons. They’re alligators waiting just beneath the surface. They wait until you’re vulnerable and then they strike. You blew it, Steve. You won’t get a single thing out of him now. He knows how badly we want what he knows, so he’ll talk a lot, but I guarantee he’ll say very little.’

  Barker shifted his jaw from side to side. ‘So why have you wasted valuable police resources leading us on this merry dance?’ Barker was clearly more pit bull than alligator.

  ‘Because, despite his talents for subterfuge, he’s still human, and humans slip up when you catch them off guard.’

  ‘But he didn’t slip up.’

  ‘He revealed that he’s one of the most dangerous psychopaths around, that he’s in total control of himself and those around him.’

  Barker rubbed his chin with his right hand and watched DC Logan sternly reprimand Freya Llewellyn for inviting strangers from the internet into her home.

  ‘But this wasn’t a waste of resources, Steve,’ Bloom continued. ‘I may be frustrated that you cut our time with him short, but Llewellyn did slip up, and more than once.’

  38

  Jameson was sleeping fully dressed in the big armchair in the corner of his room. The TV was muted, subtitles flashing up on the screen.

  ‘Jameson?’

  He opened his eyes.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Missing out, clearly.’

  Bloom smiled and placed the takeout latte she had purchased at Fork next to her partner. Then she sat in the plastic seat beside the bed. ‘Did you listen to the file I sent over?’

  ‘You know, I thought you were joking when you said you were going to bring my work in.’ He picked up the cup. ‘For me?’

  She nodded. ‘Tell me what you heard.’ She’d emailed him a recording of the meeting with Clive Llewellyn.

  ‘Thanks,�
� he said, taking a sip, then reached for the spiral-bound notebook on his bedside cabinet. ‘He’s a slippery old fish, that’s for sure. He didn’t answer a single question with a straight answer. He was all philosophical shit and metaphor, but my research suggests that’s to be expected.’

  Bloom nodded. ‘Most psychopaths love playing conversational games in order to control and manipulate.’

  ‘But he took your concern for your missing niece at face value, at least for a while. I think he gave a few things away early on.’

  She knew Jameson would notice the slip-ups, but it was always good to have her high expectations confirmed. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t dispute having played the game. He’s a self-obsessed narcissist with an ego the size of his bank balance. And coupled with the charm offensive and question-dodging, that makes it look like he’s a psychopath.’

  ‘You almost sound like a psychologist.’

  Jameson looked up from his pad with a raised eyebrow. ‘Was that a joke, Dr Bloom?’

  She waved his comment away. ‘He was completely calm throughout. He treated us like old friends, and then he simply switched it off. And when these people look at you with that stare, it’s cold and empty. It spooked Craig.’

  Jameson nodded. ‘So no more doubts. The game targets psychopaths.’

  ‘I’d say so. Although why he returned home after six weeks while others have been missing for months is strange …’

  ‘OK. So it’s a game for psychopaths. Or budding psychopaths, people with psychopathic traits. And whatever it entails, they enjoy it. That’s the other big thing he revealed.’

  ‘Indeed. In rather flowery language.’

  Jameson read from his pad. ‘Jaunt, exploration, journey of self-discovery, recharging the batteries, regaining focus. He said it was about life, love and loss. And that the smarter you are, the easier the game.’

  ‘“Smart people are always fine, no matter what the challenges,”’ said Bloom. ‘I think the challenges are a crucial component.’

  ‘So they’re set a series of challenges?’