by Peter James
His new patient moved his hands from his thighs to his knees, scratched both of his cheeks, then the tips of his ears, then patted his thighs and shrugged.
‘So, how are you hoping I can help you, Dr Hunter – may I call you Harrison?’ the psychiatrist asked. It was his customary opening line for his first consultation with any new patient. He glanced briefly down at his notes, then placing his elbows on his desk, he steepled his hands, rested his chin on them and leaned forward.
‘Harrison is fine.’
‘Good. Are you a doctor of medicine?’
‘I’m an anaesthetist. But a rather unusual one.’ Hunter smiled. He had a dry, slightly high-pitched voice that sounded distinctly neurotic.
They were both forced into silence as another siren screamed past, followed by a third. When it faded the psychiatrist asked, ‘Would you like to tell me in what way you consider yourself to be unusual?’
‘I like to kill people.’
Van Dam stared at him with an expressionless poker face. Anaesthetists could occasionally be quite spiky, believing their role was as important as the surgeon’s, yet they were getting paid less. He’d had one tell him that it was the anaesthetist who held the power of life over death in the operating theatre and who described surgeons dismissively as nothing more than butchers, plumbers and seamstresses. He had heard most things during his career, and patients often said things calculated to shock him. He remained silent, studying the man’s face and body language, then looked straight into the man’s eyes. Dead eyes that gave nothing away. He held his silence. Silence was always one of his strongest tactics for encouraging people to talk. It worked.
‘The thing is, you see,’ Harrison said, ‘I work in a busy teaching hospital, and I’m expected to lose an average of eight to nine patients a year through adverse reactions to the surgery or anaesthetics – from syndromes such as Malignant Hyperthermia. I’m sure you are well aware of the dangers of anaesthesia?’
Van Dam continued to fixate on him. ‘Yes, very aware.’
The anaesthetist finally cast his eyes down for some moments. ‘Every now and then I kill an extra one, and sometimes two, each year, for fun.’
‘For fun?’
‘Yes.’
‘How does this make you feel?’
‘Happy. Satisfied. Fulfilled. And it is fun.’
‘Would you like to tell me about the kind of fun you experience when you kill someone?’
Harrison Hunter balled his fists and raised them in the air. ‘Power, Dr Van Dam! It’s my power over them. It’s an incredible feeling. There isn’t any greater power a human being can have than taking the life of another, is there?’
‘Not such fun for your patients, though.’
‘People get what they deserve, don’t they? Karma?’
‘Some of your patients deserve to be killed?’
‘This is what I need to talk to you about – it’s why I’m here. Are you a religious man, Dr Van Dam, or a Darwinian?’
The psychiatrist stared back at him in silence for some moments, blinking. Another emergency service siren dopplered past. Heading to a crime scene? One of this strange man’s victims? He picked up his pen and held it with the forefinger and thumb of each hand, focusing on the black barrel and silver cap for some moments. ‘This consultation is about you, Harrison, not about me and the views I hold. I’m here for you. And before we go any further, I must remind you that I am bound by the requirements of the General Medical Council. I’m not bound to protect a patient’s confidentiality if I believe him or her to be a danger to society, these days. The reverse is in fact the case, I am duty bound to report that person. So from what you are telling me, I am duty bound to inform the police about you.’
‘But first, Dr Van Dam, you would have to get out of your office alive, yes?’
Van Dam smiled back at him. He tried not to show his discomfort, but there was something intensely creepy about this man – although at the same time, fascinating. He exuded a deeply troubled darkness. On occasions in his past, working at Broadmoor, he had encountered similarly disturbing people. But he could not remember the last time he had felt himself in the presence of such feral evil. Dr Crisp had written that his patient was delusional. Was this one of his delusions?
‘True, Harrison,’ he replied, with a half-hearted laugh. ‘Oh yes. Yes, of course.’
‘You are not going to go to the police, Dr Van Dam. Firstly, I think you would hate to lose me as a patient. And secondly, I sense that although the law has changed, you don’t agree with the change. You’re a pretty old-fashioned guy, with old-fashioned views about the sacrosanct right of confidentiality between a doctor and patient. I read a paper you published in the Lancet over a decade ago. You put forward a very cogent argument for maintaining it.’
‘I wrote that a doctor should not be under a legal obligation, only a moral one. But let’s talk more about you. Why are you here, what are you expecting from me? How are you hoping I might be able to help you?’
His patient looked at him with a curious expression. It felt to the psychiatrist that the man was staring right through his soul. ‘I need to cope with my guilt.’
A number of thoughts went through the psychiatrist’s mind. People did die every year from allergic reactions to anaesthetics – a tiny percentage of all those who had operations. It was a tragic fact that every anaesthetist would lose a few patients over the course of his career. Was this simply Harrison Hunter’s way of coping with his guilt, to confess to killing them deliberately? Or was Hunter a fantasist?
Or was he, as he said, really a killer?
The psychiatrist decided to humour him. ‘I’m not sure I believe what you told me about you killing people deliberately,’ Van Dam said. ‘When you qualified as a doctor of medicine, surely you agreed to be bound by the basic ethics of medicine, Do no harm. So tell me why you are really here?’
‘I’ve just told you.’ He was silent for some moments, then he said, ‘There’s a local newspaper published in the Brighton area called the Argus. Take a look online, later. You’ll see a story about skeletal remains of a woman discovered yesterday in a small park close to the seafront, called Hove Lagoon.’
‘Why do you want me to look at this story?’
‘Because I know who killed her, and why.’
The psychiatrist studied him for some moments, watching his chaotic body language. Then he said, ‘Have you told the police?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, Dr Van Dam, you and I need each other.’
‘Do we? Can you explain that to me?’
‘There’s another story in the Argus today. It didn’t make the printed edition this morning, but you’ll be able to read it online. You have a niece, Logan Somerville?’
Van Dam stiffened, visibly. ‘What about her?’
‘Are you very fond of her?’
‘I don’t discuss my private life with my patients. What does my niece have to do with this?’
‘You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘Heard what?’
‘About Logan. She disappeared last night.’
Van Dam blanched. ‘Disappeared?’
‘There’s a manhunt going on all over Brighton for her. For your niece. Logan Somerville. You need me very badly.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I’m the only person who may be able to save her life.’
23
Friday 12 December
Roy Grace pulled up outside the Chesham Gate apartment building, behind a white Crime Scene Investigation van, a marked police car and two unmarked police vehicles. A short way along, the silver Specialist Search Unit van was straddling the kerb in order not to block the narrow street. A small knot of curious onlookers were standing around watching, and a youth was taking pictures with his phone.
On his way here, from the Lagoon, he’d had an idea for the brief, but very emotional speech he had to make on Monday, at Bella’s
funeral. He jotted it down, then he climbed out into the cold, blustery wind.
Fluttering crime scene tape sealed off the entrance to the car park. The gates were open and a PCSO scene guard stood in front with a clipboard. She directed Roy Grace to the van to suit up. He entered and shared some banter with two search officers, the highly experienced POLSA Sergeant Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and a recent recruit to her team, Scott, he had not met before, who were having a coffee break.
As he wormed his way into a protective oversuit for the second time this morning, he asked Lorna what was happening and where the Crime Scene Manager, John Morgan, was.
‘Lots of pissed-off residents who can’t get their cars out, sir. And another bunch who can’t get their cars in. You might like to have a word with some of them. John Morgan’s in a stroppy mood this morning and not being at his most diplomatic.’
Morgan was good at his job, but not always known for his tact. Protection of a crime scene was vital to prevent contamination, but when it inconvenienced the public, as was often the case, it required a delicate hand to explain the reasons. Mostly the public were understanding and helpful, but some were anything but – those who hated the police, and those who were just plain selfish or bloody-minded.
He signed the scene log and walked down the ramp into the underground car park in his clumsy, ungainly protective blue oversuit and shoes. A wide variety of cars were parked in the bays, including several sleek shapes beneath covers. There was a sharp, dry smell of engine oil, paintwork and dust. Several search officers, similarly clad, were on their hands and knees, shoulder to shoulder inside a taped-off area. Further along he saw another officer from the unit, on top of the SSU’s portable scaffolding tower, checking behind a roof-light fitting.
The stocky figure of John Morgan appeared from around a corner and greeted him with a surly but polite, ‘Morning, boss!’
‘What do you have, John?’
The Crime Scene Manager shook his head. ‘Something that might be of interest – a footprint in a patch of engine oil.’ He led Grace over to an empty parking bay next to where the Fiat had been parked, where there was a small pool of black sludge on the ground. ‘Looks like a male, because of the size. There are several weaker prints heading across towards the far end of the car park, but that’s it.’ Then he pointed up at a CCTV camera. ‘If that had been working, we might have got a lot more that could be useful.’
Accompanied by Morgan, Grace walked around the entire car park, noting the fire escapes, the lift and the main steps up beside it. Plenty of ways in which someone could enter pretty much unnoticed except by cameras. Then the caretaker took them to the couple’s flat, where Grace had met the boyfriend last night. Morgan told Grace that Logan Somerville’s laptop and mobile phone had been taken across to the High Tech Crime Unit for a high-priority examination. In particular they’d be looking at recent calls, her emails and social networking sites to see if there were any clues to her disappearance there.
The boyfriend was lined up for a 1 p.m. appeal on the local news, with Grace. Meanwhile the police CCTV camera footage around the city was being examined for any sightings of Logan Somerville, or the estate car that had been seen in the area.
The good news was that most of the mispers reported annually in the UK turned up within a few days, and there was always a raft of different explanations for their absence.
Was Logan Somerville going to turn up within a few days, with a perfectly plausible explanation for her absence? He had a bad feeling about this particular young woman. The report by her fiancé of her screaming. The vehicle coming out of the underground car park at high speed around the same time. Despite Jamie Ball’s alibi that would appear to eliminate him from suspicion, Roy Grace was not happy about this man. No one at this stage would be eliminated entirely. He’d be in a better position to decide on the young man after he had been interviewed, and in particular, after his performance at the televised appeal, later. Would he be shedding real or crocodile tears?
He looked at a photograph of the pair in cycling outfits; then at another of them lying on a beach. A young, attractive, happy-looking couple, like a thousand other young lovers, seemingly without a care in the world. Except, in his jaded cynicism, he didn’t believe there were many people who genuinely could say they didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone had some kind of a problem they had to deal with.
His phone rang. He answered it, looking down at the signal on the display which showed just one dot. ‘Roy Grace.’
It was Glenn Branson, his voice crackly, sounding excited. ‘Hey, boss, are you very tied up for half an hour? We’re at the mortuary. There’s something I think you should see.’
Grace looked at the time on his phone. 10.55 a.m. At midday he was due to attend a meeting with ACC Cassian Pewe to brief him on Logan Somerville. He needed to prepare for it, and ensure there was no missing persons procedure he had missed out that Pewe could trip him up on. And he wanted to be in time for the 1 p.m. appeal as well as to observe the interview due to be taking place later with Logan’s fiancé – but he could watch the recording if he missed it.
‘I’ll be over as soon as I’ve finished here.’
24
Friday 12 December
Jacob Van Dam and his patient stared at each other across, what felt to the psychiatrist, a dark void. Just who the hell was this creepy fellow and what was going on inside his head?
‘May I take a moment to verify your story about my niece, Dr Hunter?’
‘Be my guest. Provided I can see what you are doing.’
The psychiatrist turned his computer screen sideways, so that Harrison Hunter could see it. ‘The Argus online you said?’
Hunter nodded.
Van Dam opened Google then typed in the words ‘Brighton Argus online’.
Moments later the Argus homepage appeared, and he saw the headline.
ABDUCTION FEARS OVER MISSING WOMAN
Both men read the story printed below.
Logan Somerville, 24, of Chesham Gate, Kemp Town, has not been seen since she left the Chiropractic Life Clinic premises in Portland Road, Hove, where she worked, at 5.15 p.m. yesterday afternoon. Her fiancé, Jamie Ball, 28, a marketing manager, reported to police that she had phoned him, concerned about a stranger in the underground car park of the apartment building where they live, at around 5.30 p.m. yesterday, which was the last communication from her. Her car was subsequently found in the car park.
A police spokesperson said that her disappearance is being treated as a possible abduction, and Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team is in charge of the investigation, Operation Haywain. A television broadcast by her fiancé is being made at 1 p.m. today, which will be followed by a press conference, at which more details will be given.
Police are appealing for anyone who might have seen anything suspicious in the vicinity, or a dark-coloured estate car, possibly an older model Volvo, being driven erratically or at high speed around that time. The driver is described as male, middle-aged, clean shaven, wearing glasses.
The psychiatrist was visibly shaking as he looked back at his patient. ‘You know where she is?’ he said.
‘I didn’t say that. I said I’m the only person who may be able to save her life.’
‘What do you need?’ the psychiatrist said sternly. ‘Money? How much money?’
‘This is not about money.’
‘Then what is it about?’
Harrison Hunter stood up abruptly. ‘I have to go now.’
‘Wait!’ Van Dam said. ‘You can’t go now, for God’s sake tell me where she is, what’s happened to her. Who is she with? Has she been hurt?’
But his patient had already reached the door. As he opened it, Hunter turned and said, ‘Don’t go to the police, Dr Van Dam. If you do you’ll never see her again. I can help you, you’ll have to trust me on that.’
‘Please, how exactly are you going to help me, Dr Hunter?’
‘B
y you helping me.’
The door closed behind him.
‘Wait!’ Van Dam shouted, pulling the door open. But the man had gone past his secretary and out of the far door. As Van Dam reached it, he could hear the man’s footsteps heading down the stairs. He stumbled down them after him, but long before he reached the front door, calling out, ‘Please wait!’, he heard it slam.
He returned to his office, out of breath, looked at the phone number on Crisp’s referral letter and dialled it. After a few rings it was answered by a cheery, recorded voice.
‘Hello, this is Dr Crisp’s surgery. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can. Bye for now!’
25
Friday 12 December
Deep in thought, Roy Grace drove around the Lewes Road gyratory system. It was coming up to 11.15 a.m., around eighteen hours since Logan Somerville had vanished. If she had been taken, as he feared, rather than simply gone of her own volition, then with each passing hour the chances of finding her alive diminished. That had long been his grim experience. But he was curious about why Glenn Branson wanted him to come over so urgently.
He turned left, in past the wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, and the sign in gold letters on a black background which said BRIGHTON AND HOVE CITY MORTUARY. He was confronted with death constantly in his work, and whilst crime scenes and deposition sites often yielded vital clues for enquiries, the mortuary – combined with the associated pathology and DNA labs – had become in many ways the crucible of murder investigations.
Whilst he preferred not to dwell too much on his own mortality, this place always made him think of it. Not many people, other than tragic suicide victims, actually expected to end up here. And he wondered just how many of those, even, had really wanted to be spending the night in a cold refrigerator, rather than in their beds. He’d interviewed a number of survivors from suicide attempts over the years, and a high percentage of them had told him, and colleagues, that they were grateful to have failed and to still be alive.
