Pain

by Adam Southward

  ‘Laurie it is,’ said Alex, finding her manner immediately likeable. Some people had a knack for first and second impressions. He already felt at ease, his head clearing at the thought of a day with Laurie.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get to finish with your suspect,’ said Alex as they walked. Laurie ushered him through the doors towards a stairwell and service lifts. A couple of porters hung around chatting. When they saw Alex and Laurie, they moved off, glancing over their shoulders and whispering to each other.

  Laurie shrugged. ‘Don’t sweat it. This case looks way more fun. I can see why you ditched me.’

  Alex was about to object, but she grinned, pressing the button for the lift. Alex watched her, observing her posture. She held her head and shoulders firm, a power pose. It was intentional behaviour. It made Alex think about his own posture and he found himself straightening up, sucking in his belly and tilting his hips. He lifted his chin and forced his shoulders back.

  Laurie gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘Backache?’ she said.

  Alex pretended he didn’t know what she meant.

  ‘I get it from slouching at my desk,’ she said. ‘It’ll destroy your spine, given time.’ This she seemed to find amusing, and smiled again. It was infectious.

  ‘You got me,’ he said, thinking she was right. His posture was terrible because of the amount of time he spent at his desk. Perhaps he should ask for some tips.

  The lift beeped and opened on the second floor.

  ‘Surgery,’ said Laurie, checking her phone and stepping out. Alex followed as she stuck the phone to her ear and entered into a rushed conversation. She beckoned him to follow and they paced down the corridors until they reached the ward. To the left, Alex saw signs for toilets and the staffroom. To the right, patient bays for pre-operative checks and doors through to the theatres. Straight ahead, swarming with uniformed police, was the nurses’ station, the waiting area and Recovery. It was cordoned off with bright yellow tape and he spotted three armed officers standing to one side. Their weapons were slung and they looked relaxed. Another officer stood talking to them, sipping coffee from a paper cup. This was a crime scene, no doubt, but whatever had happened here was over already.

  ‘Victim number five,’ said Laurie, shoving her phone into her trouser pocket. It created a bulge against the fitted fabric.

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Laurie. ‘The body is the same, but with an interesting addition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come with me.’ Laurie led the way under the tape towards the doors marked THEATRE.

  The stench hit Alex’s nose before they reached the scene. The narrow corridor lined with offices was busy as forensic officers performed their work, hurrying in and out carrying equipment and making their assessments.

  Alex and Laurie were asked to wear plastic overshoes to avoid contamination. Alex hobbled on one leg, followed by the other. Laurie was more practised, slipping the plastic covers over her brogues and looking at him with faint amusement.

  ‘You’ve done this before, right?’ she said, her eyes wide.

  Alex was finding it hard to be serious around Laurie. Her tone was cutting, but always friendly, as though she’d invited him into some private joke. She seemed to be making light of what appeared to be a very serious crime scene. Defence mechanism perhaps, or just well-judged detachment. Alex had met many professionals over the years who coped only because they could laugh and joke while dealing with the nastiest crimes imaginable. It was a mixture of training and innate ability to manage stressful situations. Laurie seemed to have it perfected.

  ‘I have done this before,’ said Alex. ‘Several times, thank you.’

  ‘OK.’ Laurie approached the open door. Several forensics markers were dotted about. Alex took care not to touch any of them.

  ‘We’re not doing a scene walk-through,’ said Laurie. ‘I’ve already done it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alex.

  ‘And the body’s been moved already.’

  ‘Then why—’

  Laurie turned to him. Her smile was gone, but her expression was firm and controlled. ‘The man was mutilated, tortured beyond belief,’ she said. ‘Both eyes had been gouged out, but slowly . . . with a pen.’

  She let that hang. Alex swallowed the taste of bile in his throat as he imagined the pain this person must have been subjected to. And for what?

  ‘You can see the body,’ said Laurie, ‘if you wish, and all of the scene photography. But that’s not why you’re here.’

  Laurie led them into the room. Alex scanned the small office, nodding to the one remaining forensic scientist, who was scraping what looked like blood out of the carpet. There was no shortage of it to scrape either. The body had lost several pints during whatever trauma it had suffered. Alex put his hand to his nose.

  Laurie pointed. ‘The body was found supine here. Exact cause of death is unclear; the pathologist will call me when he knows. I’m putting a tenner on blood loss.’

  Alex nodded, scanning the rest of the room.

  ‘Dr Paul King,’ he said, reading the black lettering on the door.

  ‘A well-respected surgeon,’ said Laurie. ‘Fifty-six years old, very experienced, well liked.’

  Alex pointed at the filing cabinets. One of the drawers was open at the end. It had been dusted for fingerprints, the black residue still coating the handle and edges of the metal. As he scanned the others, he saw that every drawer had been dusted.

  Laurie nodded. ‘The extra detail.’

  ‘She robbed him?’

  Laurie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Assuming it’s our suspect from the hospitals’ CCTV, she’s a she.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Laurie. ‘Only a woman would be clever enough to get away with this many murders in London for this long.’

  Her expression held, but Alex could see the sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ said Laurie. ‘Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. You’re a psych – you can probably tell me why I do it, one day.’

  Alex opened his mouth to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Gender is irrelevant at this point unless it pertains to motive,’ continued Laurie. ‘But yes, I think the doctor was robbed.’

  Alex walked over to the filing cabinet. ‘Do we know what was taken?’

  ‘No. But all of the drawers were opened by the same hand. We’ve had the hospital records staff here and they say a few files are out of order, have obviously been searched. The last drawer – the open one – didn’t contain patient records. It doesn’t contain anything.’

  ‘So she found what she was looking for?’

  ‘Or she didn’t,’ said Laurie, shrugging. ‘We don’t know what was in it. We think the only person who could tell us is on a pathologist’s table being cut into bits.’

  Alex frowned.

  Laurie looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, but the surveillance CCTV in these hospitals is shit. We’ve got nothing of value because the cameras don’t cover any of the staff areas. We’re tracing the public areas and the proper street CCTV outside to see if we can figure out which direction she headed in.’

  ‘But you’re right,’ said Alex, trying to ignore Laurie’s flippant behaviour, for the moment, anyway. She was a fast thinker and correct . . . This changed everything.

  ‘It’s not random,’ said Alex.

  ‘See,’ said Laurie, waggling her finger at him, ‘I told you you were good.’

  Alex ignored her, smiling. ‘She’s returning to hospitals not just because of easy victims but because she’s searching for somebody or something.’

  ‘What?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Then why are we paying you?’

  Alex feigned hurt. ‘Sorry I let you down.’

  They both sobered as the forensic officer stood and excused himself, carrying an array of sample bags. He nodded to them both.

  ‘Later, Laurie,’ he said, leaving the
office.

  Alex glanced at Laurie. She waited until the officer had gone, then perched on the end of the desk, staring at the blood-stained carpet. Her smile had faded.

  ‘Why the torture?’ said Laurie. ‘I’m used to crimes of passion, but this is different. This is revenge, isn’t it? A lone torturer. But why so many victims?’

  Alex found his stare following hers. The carpet where a man had died a few hours earlier.

  ‘I don’t think it’s revenge,’ said Alex. ‘At least, not in a personal way. Perhaps in a broader sense – revenge against the world.’

  Laurie paused for a few seconds before looking up. ‘That doesn’t help me in the least.’

  ‘And it’s probably not true,’ said Alex. ‘Her choice of victims is so far unexplained but her choice of locations is clear. But she was at City Hospital looking for something or someone. Perhaps today she found that someone.’

  ‘Dr Paul King.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps we need to focus on this doctor. Find out a little more about him.’

  ‘We’re good at that,’ said Laurie. ‘It’s what the police do, Alex.’

  The sarcasm was back. Alex held her gaze, deciding she was altogether more pleasant to work with than Hartley.

  ‘I just wanted you to see it, the scene,’ said Laurie. ‘That’s all. So you can start working that giant brain of yours Hartley told me about. I thought it might spark something.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Alex, ‘and it may have done, I just don’t know it yet. However, I expect Hartley’s flattery has an ulterior motive. Does she want to cut my rate?’

  ‘At least by half,’ said Laurie. Her phone buzzed and she jumped up, pulling it out of her pocket. Her face dropped as she read whatever she’d received. She tucked the phone away.

  ‘The commissioner is sticking her nose in,’ said Laurie, beckoning Alex to follow her back out into the corridor. ‘I’ve gotta go. She wants a progress report. This is becoming high profile. The press are downstairs.’

  ‘You’re making a statement?’

  ‘God, no,’ said Laurie, weaving back out into the waiting area. ‘We’ll go back down the service lifts. But she’s serious. Scrutinising everything. Every resource.’ She looked at Alex. ‘And every cost.’

  Alex nodded as they waited for the lift. He knew what that meant. He had better produce something of value soon or he might find himself scrutinised off the case.

  He jumped into the lift, his mood tempered but still somewhat buoyant, in no small part due to Laurie. But she was right, and the commissioner was too. Alex must do better than tag along for the ride, stating the obvious at every scene.

  He was better than this, normally ruthless in his analysis. He knew the distraction of Grace and his private life was leaking into his professional life and it irked him. He’d always maintained such a rigid line between the two. He needed to let things go with Grace, for now at least. He needed to focus and provide the expertise the police were paying for.

  Thinking hard as they bumped downwards, Alex tried to picture the killer stalking along these very corridors, searching for her next prey. He imagined the thought process that had led her to the private offices of the surgical team and the patient records within. He wondered what had transpired when she met her latest victim. Did they know each other? Did he catch her stealing and she killed him as a result?

  No, it was more than accidental. This was no botched robbery. This woman was predatory and disturbed, haunted by a psychosis of some description. No sane person could commit such atrocities against other people, repeatedly and in the same fashion. Her desire – her motivation – was born out of something significant. But Alex didn’t have a hope in hell of figuring out what without more information.

  The doctor was the key, Alex was sure of it. What was the link between their mass killer and the prominent surgeon who lay dead and mutilated in her wake?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He had a choice. The surgeon could have told her why he knew her. How he knew her. Where he knew her from.

  He chose the outcome. He chose to die.

  Mia didn’t believe it for a second.

  The lust had taken her. She’d lost control and drained his body for every last drop of pain. The questioning had quickly turned into frenzy as his pain engulfed her, rendering her powerless to resist. She had wrenched every drop out of his body, impervious to his screams, unable to listen to his pleading.

  What could he have told her, had she controlled herself?

  The darkness had descended fast. Mia had made it home to her lair, weeping and struggling to keep from screaming, her whole body shaking with revulsion and the after-effects of her fix. Again, it was not enough. She panicked, hyperventilating, pleading with a god she didn’t believe in for an end to it, by whatever means.

  It was only after several hours of sweat and tears that Mia sank to her knees, her head starting to clear, her body trying to reset into something resembling that of a normal person.

  She undressed, heading to the basin and scrubbing herself with the icy water. She kept scrubbing all over until her skin was red in patches. The tape around her arm peeled off and the metal poles clanged on to the hard floor. She retrieved them to re-tape once she was dry. Her bones wouldn’t have set yet. She had several more weeks of the makeshift cast.

  Why had he resisted? She saw the recognition in his face, his pupils jumping and his body tensing. He’d been surprised, but not scared. Not initially. Not until she’d wrestled him to the ground.

  Not until she started hurting him.

  He wasn’t in her dream. She examined the fragments she could remember, but his face was absent. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Her body had been twisted and violated by many people in her dream; she could see only a couple. The man with the scar, he stood out, his face flashing a warning. But the doctor yesterday had no scars, just a round, pale face that dripped with blood and saliva and finally stopped moving.

  Mia dressed and attended to her arm. Her hand shook as she worked, a mixture of adrenaline and fatigue battling in her tired body. But her mind wouldn’t rest. She changed into fresh clothes and paused at the mirror, forcing herself to tidy her hair and apply some make-up to try to hide the bags under her eyes.

  She sat on the mattress, practising breathing techniques she’d developed herself to settle the shakes and subdue her cravings, if only for a few hours.

  Opening her bag, she retrieved the items she’d taken from the filing cabinet in the doctor’s office. The black address book she placed to one side. Taking each of the three folders, she emptied their contents in front of her and shuffled them together.

  The first pages were stapled. The top sheet was a statement from a UK high-street bank in the name of Dr Paul King. Mia scanned the amounts. A few thousand here, a few there. Mia had no idea how much a surgeon got paid, but the amounts were high. This doctor was making tens of thousands a month, according to this. Mia flicked over the pages. They were all similar, a month per page.

  Mia put them down, flicking through the next few pages. Delivery slips, orders for medical supplies. The name Nova AG was stamped all over everything, but it still meant nothing. None of the documents meant anything. Mia guessed this was hospital paperwork, the kind you’d find in any doctor’s office. She threw the rest of the papers down and closed her eyes.

  Food. Mia rummaged in her bag and found a chocolate bar. She ate it in three bites, grabbing a cup of water to wash the thick lumps from her throat. She imagined the sugar already working, seeping into her blood. She wasn’t keeping to her promise of more calories. She was getting thinner by the day.

  Next, Mia flicked through the address book, black and dog-eared. She’d resisted getting too excited at this find, but she couldn’t help wondering.

  Seven names in total, spread throughout the pages. Why seven? Mia knew she had no contacts, no friends and no family, but she assumed normal people had plenty. Did this doctor have only seven friends, or were they
something else?

  Only three had addresses. The others had phone numbers but nothing more.

  Mia checked and double-checked the pages. She closed her eyes against the drumming in her head, the relentless beat signalling that the beast within her needed satisfying.

  Suicide had occurred to Mia. Several times she’d woken from the darkness ready to do it, the knife poised at her neck. It wouldn’t hurt. The blood would drain from her body as she’d watched blood drain from other people. They closed their eyes long before all the blood had escaped. It would no doubt be the same for her. Drifting into sleep, she supposed.

  But what if it wasn’t like that? Who knew the terrors of feeling your life slip away? Mia was no coward, but she feared the unknown as much as any other.

  It wasn’t cowardice or even fear that stopped her. It was not knowing. How could she die without knowing what had happened to her? Her parents, her mother in the car – if that’s who it was – what became of them? Did they live three streets away, mourning the loss of their daughter? Were they dead and forgotten? Did they suffer the same affliction, addicted to the pain of others, wandering the streets of some other city in the world?

  She had to know. She needed answers.

  Mia found the first house without trouble. It was hard to stay hidden in a modern city.

  It was an upmarket terrace in the north-west. Mia had walked, using the journey to eat and drink, forcing the food into her stomach. Two double espressos woke her up and she felt almost in control by the time she faced the house.

  Almost.

  It was getting late, the light already fading behind the slate roofline. Mia paused, looking both ways, feeling exposed. She usually hung around busy shopping malls, public areas, hospitals . . . The lack of people was disconcerting and the risk of being seen and reported was obvious.

  Another ten minutes passed before Mia made her decision. She crossed the road, jumping up the concrete steps to the front door, knocking three times, hard, firm, panicked.

  She was about to give up and leave when the door creaked open. An elderly lady peeked through the gap before opening the door wide, presumably seeing Mia as no threat.