‘What do you suggest? Putting her in therapy? Weaning her off with a little torture twice a week? Letting her spend weekends on the cancer ward for good behaviour?’
The sarcasm was back. This time it was biting, but Alex understood. He didn’t want to fight with Laurie. They needed to be on the same side, but as they closed in on Mia, he began to worry it wouldn’t be possible.
He shook his head. ‘We lock her up, obviously. But yes, she needs help. Treatment, therapy, whatever it takes to understand and reverse her condition. We need her to be sectioned and hospitalised.’
Laurie shook her head back at him. ‘You know it won’t work out that way,’ she said. ‘She’s killed too many people. She’ll hang, figuratively speaking.’
Alex worried she was right. He was one voice in a force of hundreds. The profile of this case was high and getting higher. If they didn’t kill her taking her in, there was a good possibility she’d be sedated and thrown to the courts, which would do their utmost to demonstrate their power with maximum sentencing. Would she even get a proper psychological consult once captured? He’d heard of cases where the outcomes were already documented, the psych assessments pre-filled by a remote psychiatrist based on the police arrest report and no patient contact. Alex couldn’t pretend the justice system wasn’t sometimes as corrupt as the society it claimed to protect.
‘You won’t help her?’ Alex sipped his coffee, lowering his voice, deciding confrontation was not the answer here. He tried not to plead.
Laurie’s eyes said she wanted to, but he could see the battle in them.
‘I need to go,’ she said, standing. ‘Get the image out there, get the CCTV checked and re-checked. Kick the butts of my team until they turn up with something.’
Alex paused. Laurie hovered at the table. She seemed to want him to say something.
‘Sounds like a late night,’ he said finally, knowing their disagreement was finished but not wanting to end on a low. He wanted to reassure Laurie she was doing well and that he was trying to help her. They were on the same side.
‘I don’t get many early nights,’ she said.
‘You should,’ said Alex. ‘Good for you. Sit back, have a glass of wine. Relax.’
‘I don’t like drinking alone,’ she said, looking as though she was going to say something else, but then stopped. She shrugged.
‘Then I’ll take you for a drink.’ Alex saw a brief spark in Laurie’s eyes, but it was quickly hidden. His heart hammered. Was this a mistake? ‘I mean, as a . . .’ He stopped. ‘I’m not sure, actually.’
Laurie smiled, genuine and warm. She seemed to relax, her shoulders dropping a fraction. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, tapping her finger. She shuffled her feet and chewed her bottom lip, glancing at him then back to the desk. Alex was familiar with this body language.
‘But?’ he said.
‘But, I’m even more screwed up than you are, Alex,’ she said.
Alex opened his mouth to protest but Laurie put her hand up.
‘Yes, you are. And your timing is poor.’
Alex didn’t know quite what to say. She certainly knew how to reject a man. He frowned, unsure whether to feel hurt or to laugh.
‘I’m not saying you wouldn’t make a wonderful drinking partner,’ she continued, ‘but perhaps not now.’ She backed away and opened the door. ‘Not never. Just not now. OK?’
‘OK,’ Alex replied, watching her leave, wondering what had just happened, hoping he hadn’t turned a great new working relationship into an awkward one.
As Alex left the station he felt a brief thrill of excitement at the idea of taking Laurie out, but it was quickly dampened as his thoughts turned to Grace and Katie and the impact this would have on his future with them. What would Grace think? How would Katie react? His mind swirled in a mess and he began to feel guilty in advance of a date he hadn’t even had with a woman who’d turned him down.
Get a grip, Alex, he said to himself, sinking into his car seat, pulling the door shut and closing his eyes. He realised he was exhausted, and would probably have dozed off had it not been for his phone, which started buzzing.
He reluctantly pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Mikey, his long-time friend and trusted drug dealer.
‘I was getting worried,’ said Alex.
Mikey laughed. ‘That’s what I’m here for – to worry you, then sell you the pharmaceutical answer to those worries.’
‘Funny,’ said Alex. ‘No problems, I hope?’
‘Never for you, Alex. Usual supply. I’ve been away, that’s all.’
‘Somewhere nice?’ He heard a sigh.
‘No,’ said Mikey. ‘My parents’ place in Cornwall. I hadn’t seen them in a few months, thought I’d put in some time. You know how it is. They aren’t getting any younger.’
Alex knew what he meant. He checked his watch. ‘You’re back in London?’ he said.
‘Yep. Got back today.’
‘Fancy a drink?’ said Alex. ‘It’s been ages.’
‘I feel privileged,’ said Mikey. ‘You’re not taking some hot date out? You used to stand me up all the time.’
‘No hot date,’ said Alex, smiling at the thought of Laurie’s rejection. ‘Usual place?’
‘Sure. Give me an hour.’
Alex hung up. It would be good to see Mikey, not to mention the reasonably priced six months’ supply of Xanax he’d bring with him.
There was also another matter Alex wanted to pick Mikey’s brains about. Mikey knew all about the pharmaceutical supply chains and players in the UK. He might know something about Nova, or at least give him a lead.
Alex pulled out into the traffic, heading for their usual restaurant, a small, independent Italian not far from Alex’s house in Ealing. The food was good and the chef was authentic, from Naples. Alex often went there alone if he couldn’t be bothered to cook; a takeaway for one was too depressing. It was quiet and the tables weren’t packed together like at some chains. It was a good place for a date, a family meal, or in this case a drug deal.
‘Doctor!’ Mikey’s friendly voice boomed from the door. Alex turned and waved him over, pouring a second glass of Chianti and shoving it into Mikey’s hand as he approached.
‘Good to see you, Mikey.’
Alex waved to the waiter, a young Portuguese man called Fausto who was studying law at the London School of Economics. They often chatted and Fausto would insist on describing the latest medical malpractice case in the literature. He smiled at them both and delivered menus, bread and olives.
‘You look tired, Alex,’ said Mikey, taking off an expensive-looking blazer and draping it over the back of his chair.
‘You’re looking too chirpy,’ said Alex, raising his glass.
They toasted each other’s appearances and drank. Alex found the wine slipping down all too easily. His aim of reducing weekday drinking wasn’t panning out so well, but Mikey’s thirst seemed to match his. They ordered a second bottle and pasta to soak it up.
‘So how’s business?’ said Mikey. ‘You still treating hot footballers’ wives?’
Alex smiled. ‘I never did, and I certainly don’t now.’
‘No?’ Mikey stuffed a chunk of bread in his mouth and rummaged through the olives with his fingers.
Alex slapped his hand away and grabbed a few for himself. ‘I’m reducing that sort of work,’ he said. ‘Private clients. I’m taking on more with the Met and the CPS.’
Mikey swallowed and sucked his breath through pursed lips. ‘Sounds serious.’ He glanced around the restaurant, ducking his head. ‘This isn’t a sting, is it?’
Alex smiled. His addiction shouldn’t be a joke, but the wine, mixed with Mikey’s infectious joviality, was affecting his ability to keep a straight face. His friend was a pleasant distraction from the seriousness of life. Alex regretted their arguments and the distance there had been between them over the years.
‘If it is, we’re both in it,’ he said. ‘I’m fin
ished.’
Their food arrived and they talked around the edges of their lives. Once close friends, Alex saw the strain in Mikey’s face and knew Mikey would see the same in his. Neither of them had ready excuses for how they’d turned out the way they had. Both had had a privileged upbringing, a good education and were successful in their chosen professions. Both had failed in their own eyes to make the most of it but knew they still lived wealthy and fortunate lives.
‘How’s Katie?’ asked Mikey.
‘Great – growing up, getting too smart.’
‘For you, no doubt,’ said Mikey. ‘But that’s good. She’ll need to be smart with you as a dad.’
‘Funny,’ said Alex, who spent altogether too long pondering Katie’s future, the immediate and the distant. As much as he tried to hide his own issues, he knew that she picked up on it, and had done from an early age.
‘Just be there for her.’ Mikey pulled at a piece of bread. He paused. ‘And sort yourself out.’
Alex nodded, staring into his wine. ‘Like you have?’ He wished he hadn’t said it, and followed with a smile, but it was awkward. Mikey was right.
‘I’m trying,’ said Mikey, his own smile disappearing, his eyes flicking to Alex’s. ‘I’ve joined GA.’
‘Gamblers Anonymous?’ Alex looked at his friend. Was Mikey seeking approval or driving home a point? ‘Does it help?’ he said.
‘It’s a long road, but I think it will.’ Mikey examined his wine, sipping more slowly. ‘And you?’
He was making a point, then. Mikey had taken a major step in seeking therapy. A step further than Alex. This is where the arguments started – Alex’s fault. He was too proud and stubborn, even with a close friend.
‘Can I ask you something relating to my case?’ said Alex.
Mikey’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t finished but allowed Alex to change the subject. He nodded.
‘We’re trying to research a pharmaceutical company by the name of Nova AG. Do you know it?’
Mikey shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. UK-based?’
‘Don’t know. It’s not listed. But they’re running clinical trials in the UK.’
‘Then they’ll be published on the MHRA website.’ Mikey poured them both more wine. ‘They all have to be.’
The Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency was the UK government’s executive branch, covering all medical regulation. Any company offering medicine or devices in the UK had to be registered, regardless of their country of origin. The rules were clear.
‘I’ve checked and they’re not on there.’
‘Then they’re illegal,’ said Mikey, shrugging. ‘The police can raid them and the MHRA will shut them down.’
‘If we could find them,’ said Alex. ‘We have a few references to their activity, but not to the company.’
Mikey nodded, pulling out his phone. ‘I’ll make some inquiries,’ he said, ‘through my unofficial channels.’
‘Appreciate it,’ said Alex.
Mikey tapped out a long text message before putting his phone on the table. ‘So I’ve done you a favour,’ he said. ‘Now answer my question.’
‘What question?’ Alex beckoned Fausto over again, asking for more water. Anything to distract.
Mikey huffed. He produced a small brown parcel from his jacket. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘but talk to me.’
Alex took the package, tucking it into his own jacket. ‘Six months’ worth?’
‘You tell me,’ said Mikey, wiping his mouth with the napkin, leaning over the table. ‘We only met four months ago for the last lot.’
Alex stared at his empty bowl of pasta. It was hard to lie to Mikey – after all, Mikey must know that if he’d already run out, then things were getting worse.
‘How many are you taking?’ said Mikey.
Alex stared through the window. First Grace and now Mikey. They cared, he knew. But this was his problem and he’d fix it in his own time.
‘You’re getting help your way,’ said Alex, ‘and I’m pleased for you. Let me do my thing.’
‘I get that, but you’re taking more than the recommended limit,’ said Mikey. ‘I am a pharmacist, remember. Seriously, as a friend, let’s talk about this. What’s changed?’
Alex sank another half-glass of wine. What had changed? Nothing and everything. His pursuit of an acceptable work–life balance seemed to trip him up at every stage. Grace, Katie, his job, his attitude. Lots of things had changed and Alex never seemed to keep up. He had hoped to come out and forget about everything for a few hours, but now realised the futility of that. Two addicts sitting across a table. What were they expected to talk about?
‘The world,’ said Alex, ‘and my ability to cope with it. The hours in the day. The race towards middle age. Time speeds up, Mikey. I look at the calendar and weeks pass, months. My daughter is a teenager. Grace is seeing someone. What’s changed is that I can’t react quickly enough. My thoughts plummet and I spiral. The drugs fix it. I know the dangers and I know the physiology and the psychology. I am a psychologist, remember?’
Mikey didn’t smile, but he nodded, his eyes warmer, less confrontational. ‘Did that help?’
‘What?’
‘Telling me all that. Have you told Grace?’
Alex sighed. Trapped by his friend. ‘No.’
‘You could tell a psychologist,’ said Mikey. ‘Not in the mirror, but another one. You never know what they might come up with.’
Alex knew exactly what they’d say. The first thing would be a plan to wean him off the Xanax. He wasn’t ready. Still. Not yet.
A welcome reprieve came from Mikey’s phone as it buzzed a couple of messages. Mikey picked it up, his brow creasing. He cleared his throat. ‘Mmm.’ He glanced at Alex. ‘What have you got yourself into, mate?’
Alex could see the concern in Mikey’s face, a touch of fear creeping in. Mikey tapped away at the phone, responding to the message.
‘Looks like Nova AG isn’t a pharmaceutical company after all,’ he said. ‘It’s a front.’
‘For what?’
Mikey shrugged. ‘Could be anything. My contact isn’t saying.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Alex saw the phone buzz again.
Mikey shook his head and kept tapping away. His phone buzzed as the messages went to and fro.
‘What is it?’ said Alex.
‘A warning,’ said Mikey. ‘From a guy I trust.’ He put his phone down. ‘To stay away.’
Alex sipped his wine, feeling the adrenaline surge. ‘Who are Nova AG?’
Mikey grabbed his napkin and wiped his hands. ‘No idea.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What do you expect? My friend is keeping schtum. If he knows anything, he isn’t saying. I’ll ask around, but by the sound of it, I’d better not dig too deep.’
Alex sighed, draining the last of his wine.
‘Thanks for trying.’ He studied his friend, wishing he could talk more openly. Perhaps one day he’d learn how to do it. The conversation dried up and they finished their desserts and drinks in near-silence. Alex offered to pay the bill and Mikey didn’t object. As they left the restaurant Alex held Mikey’s hand and gripped his shoulder.
‘It did help,’ said Alex. ‘Saying what I said. It was a step.’
Mikey smiled, embracing him.
‘Don’t leave it so long next time, OK? We addicts need to stick together.’
Alex smiled, looking for a taxi. How right Mikey was. It was exactly why he needed to find Mia.
An addict who needed his help.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He was almost dead. Almost.
Mia stood over the man’s body, soaring above, rapturous in the waves of pleasure coursing through her tired veins.
Unplanned but inevitable, Mia had succumbed to her urges and hunted her prey. Happenstance took her past a care home on the way to the address in east London. She’d paused at the sounds from the front garden, her ears pricking and her heart giving a
thud, telling her she sensed what she needed.
The high hedge was broken by a small metal gate, which creaked open. A stone pathway beckoned. Mia closed the gate behind her and gazed across the grass. Three residents of the home sat together, two women on a bench and an elderly man in a wheelchair with a drip attached to a long metal pole. Mia saw pain in all three and forced her breathing to slow, conscious of the thumping in her chest.
‘Can I help you?’ A nurse blocked the path, appearing out of the front door of the large red-brick house. He was young, healthy and friendly. His tone was warm and his posture non-threatening. Mia needn’t worry.
‘I have a friend here,’ said Mia. ‘Over there, in the wheelchair. I popped in to say hello.’
‘Oh, Cecil,’ said the nurse, nodding thoughtfully. His eyes saddened and he touched Mia’s arm. ‘He’s due to go back to his room. Do you want to take him?’
‘Sure. Just remind me which one?’
‘Room sixteen,’ said the nurse, frowning.
Mia nodded, containing her smile. She touched the nurse on his arm, leaving it there long enough to remove the frown. ‘I’ll take him,’ she said.
Mia suspected it shouldn’t be this easy to enter a home for the sick and elderly. Pretty people, she thought. Pretty people got to go places others didn’t. They brightened other folks’ days.
Now she would brighten her own.
The wheelchair bumped up the path and over the threshold. With each jerk, Mia experienced the pain stabbing through the man’s chest. She didn’t know the cause, only that each breath this man took was agony and that movement made it worse. Mia wobbled the wheelchair left and right, jolting it to a stop at each door.
‘Not this one,’ she whispered, gasping at the sensations creeping up her legs. His pain was fragrant and lush, his sweat rich with the chemical by-products of a body in distress. Mia drew it in, writhing as she walked, dizzy in anticipation.
Each room the wrong number. Cecil tried to talk and turn his head, but Mia thrust the chair forward, almost dancing along the corridor in her glorious foreplay.
‘Who?’ The whisper emerged from the dear old man. His chest was pierced with agony and he coughed, rattles echoing down the narrow corridor. His voice cut through Mia’s thoughts for an instant, creating a faint shadow of guilt, but she dismissed it. She’d feel it later. She’d have time later.
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