Hartmann: Malicious Rules (Hartmann thriller series Book 1)

by Helen L Lowe

  He frowned. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘I’ve had an idea where we can go, by the way,’ she said, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘Where we can go?’

  ‘For our date - remember we said we’d do something together. There’s a really nice restaurant in Soho and they have a floor show.’

  He looked disconcerted. ‘What night were you thinking of - I’m a bit tied up at the moment with one thing and another.’

  ‘I know you’re a busy man but I’m very flexible. What night are you free?’

  He started to walk towards the front door. ‘Perhaps I can think about it and get back to you?’

  She waved a finger at him. ‘It’s rude to make a lady wait. Let’s say tomorrow night. It’s a Wednesday so I doubt you have anything important arranged.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Good, that’s a date then. I’ll be ready by eight o’clock and you’ll need to wear something smart.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Julian left the house feeling unsettled and annoyed with himself for letting her manipulate him into agreeing to a date and, if he read it right, she had heard them last night and had compared him to a randy tom-cat. He was about to get in his car when headlights flashed on a car parked a couple of spaces back. It was DCI Chase in his blue Rover convertible. Julian climbed into the passenger seat beside him.

  He gave Julian a considered look. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m still alive.’

  ‘That cut on your lip looks very recent.’

  ‘He’s aggressive - with or without provocation - and to be honest I think I’m out of my depth. I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.’

  Chase nodded slowly. He picked up a brown envelope off the dashboard and handed it to Julian.

  ‘I wasn’t sure about showing you this but it may help you make a decision about whether to carry on or not.’

  Julian opened the envelope and took out a photo. It was Erikson with Sam. He was horrified to see them together with Sam smiling as if he had no cares in the world. He was wearing his new duffle coat.

  ‘How long have you had this?’

  ‘It was in a file we had on Erikson but no-one recognised the lad as your son until you were arrested and we saw the photos you had been distributing at the Coleherne. This photo was taken by surveillance on the twenty-first of February.’

  ‘He said he last saw Sam at the Coleherne about five weeks ago.’

  ‘The timing is about right.’

  ‘Where was it taken?’

  ‘On the Fulham Road, not far from Erikson’s flat. When we showed it to him he said he didn’t recognize Sam, that he was just some young man asking directions to the nearest tube station.’

  ‘So Erikson may have Sam locked up . . .’ Julian said, as a rush of panic bubbled to the surface. ‘Assuming he’s still alive.’

  ‘If he does have Sam, there’s a strong possibility that he is still alive. The body parts recovered showed signs of injuries over a period of time with some old scaring, which could mean that the victims were kept for weeks, even months, before they were killed. Of course, we may have it wrong and Erikson may not be guilty of the Thames murders but we know he’s a violent man who has a record for assault and rape. As I mentioned before, he was a suspect in the 1958 murder of two men and his last boyfriend, David Woods, is still missing. If Erikson has Sam, at the very least we should fear for his safety.

  Julian nodded but said nothing.

  Chase opened his door. ‘I’m going to stretch my legs and give you time to think.’ He got out and shut the door.

  Julian was so shocked at seeing the photo that he felt winded, as if someone had punched him in the gut. It didn’t take long to make up his mind. All he had to do was imagine Erikson with Sam. He doubted his own ability to defend himself against the man, a lad of sixteen wouldn’t stand a chance. He may have known Sam for only a short time but he was his son and only living blood relative, a life that was created from his love for Lizzie. The thought of losing him was unbearable.

  Chase opened the door and got back in. ‘Have you decided what to do?’

  ‘There’s only one way to go from here.’

  ‘Dr. Hartmann, I know you’re doing it for your son but if you help us nail Erikson you could be saving countless lives.’

  Julian said nothing and there was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I must tell you, we were very interested to hear about the films Erikson mentioned. It’s imperative that we find out where he does the filming and if he has any other locations that we don’t know about.’

  ‘He’s very cagey about them so I’m guessing they’re hard-core porn.’

  ‘See if you can get him to talk about them again. For some time now we’ve known about illegal porn films on the market that involve extreme violence, mainly sadomasochism but it’s possible Erikson is filming the murders.’

  ‘That’s a gruesome thought.’

  ‘It is but we know it’s his style. He filmed the assault and rape he did time for.’ Chase paused. ‘Did you decide about the sedative?’

  ‘Yes – an old friend from my training hospital was able to get some for me.’

  ‘Good. Use it if you’re in any doubt about your safety or our ability to get you out. If Erikson takes you to this other location he might succeed in giving surveillance the slip and if he does, you could be on your own.’ Chase took the photo out of Julian’s hand. ‘By the way, my suspicion that one of my team is on the take has turned out to be correct and I’m in the process of gathering evidence against them. Very few people know about you helping us and I want to keep it that way. It’s imperative that you tell no-one about it.’

  Julian nodded. ‘But I have a question for you. How much force can I use to defend myself against Erikson?’

  ‘Until we have some answers I’d like you to hold back as long as you can but I’m mindful of the fact that he’s a violent man and everyone has the right to use reasonable force in self-defense,’ he paused, ‘but if push comes to shove I’d prefer it if you didn’t actually kill him.’

  * * *

  Julian waited impatiently in the waiting room of Dr. Deacon’s surgery. He had made the appointment last week as directed by the doctor but he hadn’t had the X-ray done and had forgotten to do the twice daily peak flow readings. He was going to ring and cancel the appointment but Charlotte had persuaded him to get some help for the panic attacks. It was a ten minute wait until he was called in.

  ‘Good morning Dr. Hartmann,’ she said, motioning for him to sit in the seat by the desk. ‘How are you feeling now, any improvement in symptoms?’

  ‘Yes, I think so - I’ve only had to use the salbutamol once.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, looking at him more closely. ‘You look like you’ve been in a fight, are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  She looked down at the notes on the desk. ‘I have the results of your blood tests - no problems there but I haven’t received the results of the X-ray yet. When did you have it done?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You did have it done?’

  ‘I’m sorry - I’ve had a very busy week.’

  ‘Well, we’re all busy but I would have thought you of all people would have understood the importance of ruling out anything serious. Did you do the peak flow readings?’

  ‘No - I’ve been . . .’

  ‘Very busy - yes, I’m getting the gist of it. Take off your jacket and shirt please.’ She pulled the curtains around the couch and directed him inside.

  He removed his jacket and shirt and waited for the comments. She didn’t disappoint.

  ‘I can see the injuries weren’t limited to your face. Have you been checked over by a doctor for these?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just a few cracked ribs and some bruising.’

  ‘And the bites and scratches?’

  He tried to find an answer off the top of his head but nothing surfaced and there was a di
fficult silence.

  She held the stethoscope on his chest and started giving her instructions on breathing as she changed the position of the scope. It was minutes later before she was satisfied and told him to get dressed.

  ‘Slight improvement I think, so we’ll continue with the Betamethasone. I suppose I should be grateful that you found time to use that.’ She hung the stethoscope around her neck and went back to the desk. When Julian had sat down again, she passed him a peak flow meter. ‘Best of three.’

  Julian took deep breaths and blew into the meter. The readings were 400, 425 and 430.

  ‘Good - an improvement there as well. Do you think you could manage to get to St Mary’s for an X-ray before I see you again?’

  ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you.’

  She looked up from the notes she was writing and waited for him to continue.

  ‘When I was here last time you mentioned that it might be worth trying something to control the panic attacks.’

  ‘Yes, I remember but I meant for you to see a psychologist at St Mary’s.’

  ‘I was hoping you could give me something to calm me down. Maybe diazepam and a beta-blocker to slow my heart beat - stop the palpitations - that sort of thing.’

  ‘I think it would be better to find out why you’re having them, not just treat the symptoms.’

  ‘I really don’t want to go down the road of psychotherapy,’ he said, wishing he’d never mentioned it.

  ‘Because you don’t believe in it or because you don’t want to talk about what’s causing the attacks?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want . . .’ he broke off, realising that he had raised his voice and was sounding upset.

  ‘Can you tell me what you think is causing them?’

  ‘I don’t want to take up your time - you have other patients to see.’

  ‘My next two appointments have cancelled so I have the time now.’ She stood up and pointed to the sofa on the other side of the room. ‘Sit with me.’

  He reluctantly did as she asked and sat down next to her. ‘I don’t know where . . . I don’t know how to start.’

  ‘Would it help if I asked you questions?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you have a good relationship with your parents?’

  He inwardly flinched, she was right in there - hit the jugular. ‘It was ok.’

  ‘Any siblings?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘So you had your parents all to yourself, lucky boy, I had to compete against three sisters and a brother. Did you enjoy being an only child?’

  ‘I didn’t see my parents very often,’ Julian said, trying not to sound bitter. ‘They were very busy. My father was in the army and when war broke out my mother started working at Bletchley, something to do with national security. I was sent to a boarding school in Cambridge in 1939, before the bombing started.’

  ‘How old where you then?’

  ‘Six.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘What was that like for you?’

  He felt hot and loosened his collar. ‘It was . . . it was tough.’

  ‘What was your favourite subject?’

  He didn’t answer but his breathing was getting faster and his heart was pounding in his chest.

  ‘Did you enjoy sport - football, rugby perhaps?’

  He stood up abruptly and put his hand to his chest, pressing over his heart. ‘I have to go . . .’ He walked towards the door.

  She followed him and gently put her hand on his arm. ‘We’re going to slow your breathing down - breathe in for two counts and out for two - one, two – one, two - again, keep it going - that’s good.’

  She carried on counting while he leant on the edge of her desk and struggled to control his breathing until, ten minutes later, they got to four counts between breaths. She removed his jacket and led him back to the sofa and pressed his inhaler into his hand. While he sat there with his head in his hands, she went over to the sink and came back with a cold wet hand-towel which she folded neatly in quarters before placing it on his burning forehead.

  ‘Keep counting, slow it down.’ She stayed on the sofa with him, her fingers on the pulse in his wrist. ‘That’s good - your pulse is coming down nicely. Now, I’m going to ask you some more questions - take your time with the answers.’ She kept her hand on his wrist. ‘Are you reacting to what’s going on right now or to something in the past?’

  ‘The past.’

  ‘From something that happened at school?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Were you abused?’

  He closed his eyes tight.

  ‘You must face it at some time. You can’t let an event in the past have this control over you.’

  He nodded but kept his eyes closed and tried to block her out. There was a long silence before he sat forward, removing the towel from his head. He took a puff of his inhaler and waited for it to work.

  ‘The abuse started the moment I arrived - it was a nocturnal sport - for the older boys, and one of the tutors – I was an easy victim.’

  ‘How long did it go on for?’

  ‘Until I was ten . . .’ he paused while he took another puff from the inhaler.

  ‘What happened when you were ten?’

  ‘I was . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s alright - take your time.’

  He shook his head again. ‘If I talk about it . . .’ he stopped, knowing he was close to breaking down.

  ‘What happens if you talk about it?’

  ‘It comes back and takes over my life,’ he said, anger and despair bubbling to the surface.

  ‘What comes back, Julian?’

  He leant forwards with his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, and they sat in silence.

  ‘It was after a rugby match,’ he began suddenly, ‘I was having a shower - I always went in last to be on my own. The changing room was noisy, full of boys laughing and shouting at each other, and suddenly it all went quiet. I can still remember how I felt - I knew what was coming - it was my turn, you see, they told me I was next.’

  He stopped talking and took some deep breaths, lowering his hands. ‘There were two of them - senior prefects – they were grinning - making jokes about which one would go first. They carried me through to the prefects’ changing room.’ He paused again while he tried to slow his breathing down. ‘I don’t know if they didn’t notice I was having a panic attack or whether it spurred them on but they took turns until I blacked out. If it hadn’t have been for my class mates going for help and for a six foot rugby player who dragged the boys off me, I might have died.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone - a teacher or the headmaster?’

  ‘I didn’t but Gwyn Llewyen, the rugby player did – the prefects were expelled from the school.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It was all hushed up and I was told to forget it ever happened.’

  ‘When I asked you how long it went on for, you said until you were ten and you mentioned a tutor and the older boys – what happened to make it stop?’

  ‘Gwyn took me under his wing and none of the older boys dared touch me again.’

  ‘And the tutor?’

  ‘A few months later, during a maths lesson, he had a heart attack and died.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Unfortunate for him but a blessing for all the boys he abused.’

  A moment’s silence.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ she said.

  ‘Exhausted.’

  ‘You’ve taken a big step forward by telling me and you should be proud of yourself. I think you need to work out some tactics you can use when you feel an attack coming on. I noticed you almost smiled when you mentioned Gwyn, so remembering him might help and telling yourself that you’re reacting to something that happened in the past and there is no danger to you now.’

  ‘But what if there is?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

&n
bsp; ‘Suppose something is happening that’s similar to what happened years ago?’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  He hesitated. ‘It could be.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re in an abusive relationship – with a man?’

  ‘Yes, in a way but it’s not what you’re thinking - I can’t tell you much about it but I’m helping the police with a suspect and it could get very abusive. I’m worried I won’t be able to handle a difficult and dangerous situation because of these attacks.’

  ‘Is there no one else who could help the police?’

  ‘No - it seems only I have his trust.’

  Her eyes widened. She stood up and went over to her desk. ‘I think I’d better put you on something to help.’ She scribbled on a prescription pad and took it over to him.

  She had written him up for a beta-blocker and diazepam, just as he had suggested earlier. ‘Thank you - you’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ she said, walking with him to the door. ‘Try and remember to have the X-ray and make an appointment with me the following week and please, take care of yourself.’

  CHAPTER 19

  After leaving the doctor’s surgery on Queensway, Julian walked down Porchester Gardens and into Kensington Gardens Square. The large Victorian terraced house at number twenty was in good condition. His parent’s ground floor flat came with off-road parking through a set of double gates and a pretty walled garden at the back. Julian had lived here when he was a medical student at St Mary’s and being here again reminded him of a happy time in his life.

  He rang the doorbell and only had to wait seconds for it to open. A young man wearing an anorak and holding a rucksack stood on the threshold.

  ‘Hello, I’m Julian Hartmann. I’m the landlord of the ground floor flat and was hoping to speak to the tenants.’