Pain

by Adam Southward

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘But they’re not your friends?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Jamie smiled, and something in it sent a shiver down Alex’s spine. He leaned in to study Jamie’s expression. It was vacant, no emotion, not even a hint. The man was in control. Not enjoying himself, but . . . Alex wasn’t at all sure the police had got this right.

  ‘Can we have a word?’ he said to Detective Laurie.

  She nodded. ‘Interview stopped at sixteen hundred at the request of Dr Madison.’ The door buzzed and two uniformed officers came in.

  ‘Please take Mr Brooks back to holding,’ said Laurie.

  The suspect’s expression was pure poker face, but he flicked his eyes at Alex on the way out. Alex saw something in that instant, a familiar feeling of unease. He’d seen it before in clinically psychopathic patients. He shivered as the man was led from the room.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ said Laurie, pacing ahead of Alex towards the office. ‘I get it – I don’t want to be here either. But he ticked all the boxes for a psych assessment and your name came up.’

  Alex nodded, trying to shake his annoyance. Detective Laurie was right. He could at least give her the courtesy of a proper assessment. Part of his agreement with the Metropolitan Police and the CPS was being on the regular psych roster. One weekend in four he was on call. When the police suspected mental health issues in either a victim or a suspect, Alex got an automated text message asking him to drop by.

  It was low-level work and the least rewarding part of his life by some distance, but he’d agreed to do it. Keeping on the weekend roster meant he stayed top of the list when the more interesting work came along – work that involved more than just violent reoffenders with little chance of rehabilitation.

  ‘What am I missing?’ said Alex, thinking of the brief notes he’d been emailed ten minutes before he arrived.

  Laurie stopped by the water cooler and tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears. She filled a plastic cup and drank it in one. Alex wondered how she managed to look so fresh and motivated on a weekend. Younger than him by a few years perhaps, and with confidence exuding from her every move.

  ‘Three on one,’ she said. ‘Stabbing. Rape – we think. One of the suspects being sought is the victim’s boyfriend. The victim is hanging on for her life. Thirty years old, female.’

  ‘I read the brief. But why am I here, really?’

  Laurie frowned. ‘Like I said, he ticked the boxes.’

  ‘You think this guy has mental health issues. You think he was left as the fall guy.’

  She nodded, offered Alex a cup.

  ‘But that’s not it,’ said Alex, declining the water.

  Laurie smiled. ‘Ah, there it is. They said you were good. No, that’s not it.’

  Alex tried not to react. His last major case for the Met had ended a year ago. The serial killings of Victor Lazar had been huge, but ultimately unresolved. Alex had helped stop one of the most prolific killers London had ever seen, but in the process he’d nearly got his own daughter killed. Victor had escaped his grasp and remained at large. The killings had ceased, but the case remained open. Alex was briefed once a month and the message was always the same – nothing to report, the threat to Alex and his family considered low. Victor had disappeared off the face of the earth and taken any evidence with him. Dr Alex Madison had earned a mixed reputation for his part in the whole thing, in some places a good one, in others bad. Detective Laurie had obviously heard only the good bits.

  ‘I’m a psychologist,’ he said. ‘It’s kinda my job.’

  Laurie stared at Alex, her smile fading. ‘Something about Mr Brooks doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘I know. I see it too. But it’s hard to deduce much from one short interview.’

  ‘I don’t want him released, not yet. I need a thorough assessment. You know what I mean?’

  Alex nodded. He got it. The police had a tough job. Even tougher were all the rules and regulations that meant guilty suspects were often released before enough information could be gathered. Good police had good hunches. They knew when they had a bad apple in their holding cells. When Alex looked at Detective Laurie he saw one of the good ones.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Alex. ‘Give me an hour and we’ll reconvene?’

  Laurie looked at her watch, a white Casio digital. Trendy, thought Alex, tugging his own sleeve down to hide his Rolex.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You can go home, Dr Madison. We’ve got enough to keep him for forty-eight hours. His story doesn’t add up, that’s all. I appreciate you coming out and agreeing to help.’

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ said Alex, thankful for the reprieve. His weekend was almost over and he wanted to go home, open a bottle of red and binge-watch something on TV.

  Solitary, but as good as it got these days.

  Alex headed out to the parking lot. The rain had cleared and the day was bright with broken cloud. It would have been a good day to take his daughter, Katie, out, had he not been on call. Booking something in and then having to cancel would be worse than booking nothing at all.

  His relationship with Katie had grown stronger over the last few months. She was still recovering from the major incident last year when Alex’s suspect had decided to make the fight personal. But Katie, like her mother, was silently strong and resilient. She’d dealt with the trauma and tried to get on with her life. The problem was that most of her life continued without Alex. Grace hadn’t forgiven Alex so easily and quashed any thoughts he had of patching things up.

  Grace knew how difficult the year had been for him. Losing his own father had conjured a lifetime of complicated emotions and so far Alex had kept them locked away, stifling the grief, pretending it would go away. Grace sympathised but she was independent – fiercely so. She didn’t need Alex as much as he needed her, and she knew it. Grace wasn’t hostile but she’d made it clear Alex had a long way to go to prove himself – as a father first and foremost.

  Thoughts of his familial mess caused Alex’s mild mood to evaporate. Sinking into the seat of his car, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled open the packet of Xanax he always carried. He’d been cutting down, but the thought of his empty house and an evening alone caused the familiar sinking feeling; his throat narrowed and his stomach tightened as the anxiety crept outwards from his chest.

  He swallowed the pill dry, took a deep breath and pulled out into the main road.

  It was a short drive home to Harrow. A familiar car waited outside his house, lifting his mood as he pulled in behind it.

  Speak of the angel.

  Grace had a key – he’d insisted, part of his proving that she could drop in any time and be welcome. His string of unsuitable girlfriends had ended and he was single. Single and responsible. But Grace rarely used the key, most often waiting in the car when dropping Katie off.

  Today it looked like she’d caved. The car was empty.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ Alex shouted, slamming the front door behind him. Grace and Katie were in the kitchen. Grace looked unamused at his entrance, but Katie jumped up, throwing her arms around his neck. Although thirteen years old, she still weighed next to nothing and hung off his neck while he walked.

  ‘Happy Sunday,’ she said, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

  ‘You too, although mine wasn’t great.’

  ‘Work?’ Katie pulled a face.

  Alex nodded, glancing over at Grace. Their eyes met and he saw warmth in them, but restraint. Forgiveness would be a long time coming.

  She’d cut her hair into a bob. It suited her, he thought, curving perfectly around her face – the face Alex still pictured in his dreams. He tried not to let his eyes stray but he couldn’t help it. She looked great, athletic and glowing.

  ‘Been working out?’ he said.

  Grace smirked. ‘A little. You?’ She pointed to his belly, which had relaxed a little over the last year. His exercise routine had taken a back seat with the stresses of work a
nd lack of time. At least, that’s what he told himself. He had a long list of ready excuses. He sucked his belly in.

  ‘Don’t have to,’ he said, smiling back. ‘Naturally svelte.’

  Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘So,’ she said, ‘the reason we’re here—’

  ‘You’re invited to my party,’ said Katie, releasing her vice grip around Alex’s neck and dropping to the floor.

  ‘End of term,’ said Grace. ‘Katie persuaded me to let her fill the house with her classmates.’

  ‘Brave,’ said Alex, pulling out a stool from the breakfast bar.

  ‘And she wanted you to come. We wanted.’

  Alex forced a smile. Grace hadn’t invited him to the house in a long time. The family house in Ealing was hers in the settlement. He didn’t resent it, but he wished it wasn’t like this.

  ‘And there’s something else.’ Grace turned to Katie. ‘Can you give us a minute, love?’

  Katie huffed and went out into the back garden. The door clicked behind her.

  ‘Sounds serious,’ said Alex.

  ‘It’s not,’ said Grace, ‘but I wanted to tell you, otherwise Katie would.’

  Alex felt an unsettling in his gut. Brief, panicked thoughts raced through his head. ‘Are you sick? Is Katie sick? What—’

  ‘I’m seeing someone,’ said Grace. It took a few moments to process. She looked away, awkwardly playing with her hair, pulling a strand from her face. ‘It’s not serious, just . . . someone from work.’

  ‘Who?’ Alex caught himself before continuing. His tone was demanding, as if he had a right to be. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a softer tone. ‘I mean . . . shit.’

  ‘Life goes on, Alex,’ she said, turning to face him. Their eyes met and again he saw the same warmth, mixed with hurt. The hurt he had caused. She still felt that way. He still meant something to her.

  He wanted to say something light, something jokey. He didn’t want to admit how he felt, as if she’d punched him in the gut and kicked his legs out from under him. The anxiety bubbled again and he forced out a few small breaths.

  ‘How long has it . . . How long have you been seeing each other?’

  He didn’t care. Or did he? He stared past Grace and through the kitchen window. Katie sat on the lawn, playing on her phone, her face a picture of feverish concentration. This was the wrong future for her. Her future was supposed to be with him and Grace, back together. Alex had almost convinced himself of it. It dawned on him slowly. What an idiot he was.

  ‘Not long, and it’s not like we’re getting married, but John will be at the party.’ Grace reached out and held his arm. He didn’t deserve her sympathy. He’d had several girlfriends after they split up. What right did he have to judge her for this?

  He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek with such force he tasted blood.

  John. Grace’s new partner. Lover. Future husband?

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ was all he could offer before turning away. He rummaged in one of the drawers, found the corkscrew and pulled a bottle of red from the rack.

  ‘Stay for a drink?’ he said.

  Grace shook her head. ‘Thanks, but we’ve got to go. We were driving past, on our way back from a friend of Katie’s. Katie insisted we stop in and wait half an hour to see if you showed. She tried calling. No answer.’

  Alex pulled out his phone. Flat battery. It must have died while he was at the station. The second time this week. He made a mental note to get a new battery or a new phone.

  Grace stood, picking her bag up from the worktop.

  ‘How are things, Alex? You know, with your . . . health?’

  ‘OK,’ he said, pouring a large glass of Rioja, swirling it around. ‘Under control.’

  ‘Talking to someone? Therapy?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes.’

  Grace knew about his anxiety. It had almost crippled him after a particularly distressing case several years ago. She didn’t know about his benzo addiction, though. He’d been longing to tell her, to come clean, but he’d never found the right moment. Now wasn’t it.

  Grace’s eyes narrowed. Why did he lie to her? She always knew when he did. He regretted it but it was too late.

  ‘You said you would.’

  ‘I will – I have a name. I’m busy at the moment. You know how it is.’

  He grinned, fake, and her expression said it all. She returned the smile and called for Katie.

  ‘Bye, Alex. I hope you come to the party.’

  It was two hours later when his landline rang. Alex had polished off one and a half bottles of Rioja, and his mood was dark, plagued with visions of Grace and her new lover, John. The worst bit was that he hadn’t seen it coming. He’d tried, not as hard as he could have but more than ever before, to focus on his family, Katie and Grace, and win their hearts back. He had Katie’s – she adored him and he her. But he’d assumed Grace would follow. As someone who studied the human mind for a living, he was disappointed at his failure to see his own delusion. These last few months hadn’t been about Grace preparing to come back into his life. They’d been about her preparing to leave it.

  The incessant ringing cut through the haze. He checked his phone and recognised the number immediately.

  ‘Good evening,’ he answered, trying his best to sound lucid. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘It has,’ said DCI Hartley, her voice booming down the line. ‘Why the hell is your mobile switched off? Don’t tell me, I don’t care. Anyway, I’ve got something for you.’

  Alex swallowed. He reached for his wine glass, thought better of it, and walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, pouring a glass of water.

  ‘We thought it was a one-off, but we’ve pulled CCTV and found a string of them.’

  ‘Of what?’ Alex’s ears pricked up. Hartley sounded excited.

  ‘Killings. At several hospitals in London. One perp, or so it seems. It’s serial.’

  Alex frowned. Some doctor on a euthanasia trip, no doubt.

  ‘Not a doctor,’ said Hartley, pre-empting his question. ‘Not an employee.’

  Hartley paused. Alex could hear her breathing.

  ‘You need to prepare yourself, Alex,’ she said in a softer tone, as if choosing her words carefully. ‘The scenes aren’t typical of anything I’ve ever seen. Our perpetrator is . . . Well, that’s why I need you. There’s something wrong with this person, Alex, very seriously wrong. I need you to figure out what.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mia laid her tools out on the workbench. She’d slept fourteen hours straight, a big comedown, but woken to find her left forearm swollen and bent. It needed re-breaking and straightening. An hour’s work at most, but not pleasant.

  She rested her arm on the rough wood, trying to remember. She’d done this once before, three months ago – or was it four? She didn’t mind having a bent arm, but even though it didn’t hurt, it might be permanent. Mia knew there were two bones in the forearm. If too badly damaged, it would limit her ability to rotate her wrist. It would be a handicap, and one she wasn’t willing to risk. Besides, it looked odd. Distinctive. The sort of thing she didn’t want. Mia blended in. She kept her light brown hair tied back tightly under her hood. She wore black, loose clothes, hiding her thin muscular body. A bent forearm might be hard to hide. It would invite questions, create memories in people she wanted to forget her.

  At first she tried to pull the bone straight. Taking hold of her left hand with her right, she tugged. Her joints cracked but the forearm didn’t part. The muscles and tendons were strong, pulling it together. She needed to break it again.

  The club hammer was a recent item, lifted from a hardware store five minutes’ walk away. She raised it, then put it down again. With the fingers of her right hand she tried to feel where the break was, prodding through the fast-swelling tissue.

  There, she found it: an uneven fracture a third of the way between the elbow and the wrist. Again, she raised the hammer, twisting her arm around so
she could strike the bone without the muscle getting in the way.

  She brought the hammer down as hard as she could. A satisfying crack echoed off the walls and concrete floor. Mia was pleased to find the end of her forearm malleable enough to straighten. Blood rushed to the site of the fresh trauma and she picked up the two lengths of metal rod she’d already prepared, laying them alongside her arm. She grabbed the duct tape next, using her mouth to rip off several long strips.

  It was tough and frustrating, but eventually Mia’s arm was straight and strapped to the metal rods. She’d leave it like this for a few weeks to heal. It should be strong enough then. If not, she’d break and splint it again.

  She rested for the next few hours, deciding not to venture out of the warehouse. The police would be searching. The chances of her being found were slim but Mia found these hours the hardest, as her conscience battled its way to the fore. She was drowsy, distracted and worried.

  Mia sat in an old car seat, long ago ripped from its vehicle, and gazed at the ceiling high above. Rusty metal stanchions supported huge sheets of corrugated iron, and birds nested in the nooks, watching Mia suspiciously. An intruder in their world.

  Although abandoned, the warehouse still had power and water. Mia stole everything else she needed, which wasn’t much. Situated in north-west London, it was close enough to walk into the city but remote enough to ensure privacy and seclusion when she needed it. Mia had been living here for as long as she could remember – twelve months according to the calendar on her phone, which she’d stolen from one of her first victims. Mia had no idea of where she’d been before that time. She knew her name and little else, but she had memories and she had dreams. She could make sense of neither.

  Tension crowded her chest, and hopelessness threatened to draw the darkness closer.

  She picked up a stray nail from the concrete. It was short, rusty but still sharp, and she examined it in her hand, then forced it under her left fingernail, watching the spike break the skin, edging upwards. Pushing harder, she jammed the nail deep into her finger.