Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  ‘You can’t get away with any of this,’ Gareth growled.

  Lambert-Chide waved away the two security guards and they backed off, going to stand a distance behind Gareth. He could sense their mica-cold presence at his back.

  Lambert-Chide held up a glass, the amber liquid inside catching the cold light of the bulb. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one? This will be your last chance.’ He put it to his lips, never once taking his eyes off Gareth, took a gulp. ‘And I do mean your last chance. Pretty soon you’ll be on your way to the States. Not first class, I’m afraid. Sadly it will have to be by crate, but you won’t notice as you’ll be asleep the entire way.’ He raised a brow. ‘No? Your choice.’ He took his time walking over to one of the chairs, his aged, thin figure sitting carefully down, and his hand toyed with the silver head of the cane he carried. He scrutinized Gareth. ‘The likeness is the giveaway, of course,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Don’t you agree?’ he asked of Tremain who came to stand on Lambert-Chide’s right. There wasn’t a glimmer of response from Tremain.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘Back at Gattenby House, though that matters little to you,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘The oldest part of the building, as it happens, and never used.’ He flicked a bony finger and Caroline came from behind Gareth, her hands stuffed inside her leather jacket pockets and her mouth still chewing on gum. ‘Well done, Caroline,’ he said. ‘Very well done.’

  ‘Bitch!’ said Gareth under his breath, swiveling his head round to stare at her. She stared back, unconcerned. He could not believe he fell for her lies.

  ‘And Muller?’ asked Lambert-Chide of no one in particular.

  It was Tremain that replied. ‘Taken care of,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t trust anyone these days,’ Lambert-Chide noted, swigging the glass empty and holding it out for one of the guards to take away. ‘I never really trusted Muller,’ he admitted. ‘Fortunately we were informed of his intended duplicity by Caroline here. We must thank Muller, though, for getting you away from Camael alive, Gareth.’

  ‘This is kidnapping,’ said Gareth. ‘You can’t hope to get away with it. What’s more I’m no use to any of you. This is madness!’

  The old man leant forward, both hands resting on the head of his cane. He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Get away with it? Look around you – I already have! Nobody will miss you. Nobody’s looking for you, not even the police. And believe what I say when I tell you that your value to me is immeasurable. Immense. You, Mr. Davies, are the future. My future, their future, everyone’s future,’ he gestured with his thin arm around the room. ‘And as a consequence one of the most valuable assets I shall ever possess. I say one, as there is one other.’

  Lambert-Chide checked himself and ran a thoughtful tongue over his non-existent lips. Gareth noticed how the man’s head fell foul of a slight tremor, as if it were too heavy for his slender neck to support. He waved abruptly for the guards to leave the room, then to Caroline to do the same. Tremain remained where he was. The room fell silent till the door closed behind the last security guard to leave.

  ‘When I get my chance, I’m going to wring that scrawny chicken neck of yours!’ said Gareth. ‘This is all fucking madness! You have me mixed up with someone else!’

  Lambert-Chide smiled thinly, giving his hollow-cheeked face even more of a skull-like appearance. ‘Bring her in for me,’ he ordered Tremain, his semblance of a smile melting like ice in hot water.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Tremain asked.

  Lambert-Chide’s eyes narrowed. ‘As I say, Randall.’

  Tremain passed Gareth a fleeting, mysterious glance, handed Lambert-Chide the book, which he rested on his lap, then went out of the room leaving the two men alone. But Gareth knew that was a fallacy; they weren’t truly alone. The men outside could respond to alarm in a second or two. He searched the room, wondering how he could escape. But what was he escaping from?

  ‘It’s useless to think about it,’ Lambert-Chide said, as if he’d read his thoughts. But Gareth figured his face must be a dead giveaway. ‘Let me fill you in on a few things,’ he said. ‘I suppose you have that right at least.’

  ‘You’ve trampled over most others,’ Gareth observed.

  ‘You can’t but notice we live in hard economic times,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘It is true that my own company has been hard-hit. We are not alone amongst others in the pharmaceutical industry to find that we have a raft of patents on various drugs and treatment that will soon expire, open to the free market, our monopoly on them at an end. The problem is we have very few new patents coming through to replace them. Why? Simple: a lack of investment in research and development of new products. It can take anything up to ten years to bring a new drug to market, and we live in times when we have not been able to invest either the time or the money, unable to shoulder those kinds of investments or timescales. We have been sucking the pot dry and soon it will be a time of reckoning for us. For the entire industry.’

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ said Gareth.

  Lambert-Chide regarded him as if he were an ignorant, errant child. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand the harsh economic realities, so let me approach this in a different way. Take a look at me. What do you see?’

  ‘I’m not playing any pathetic little game to satisfy you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you see. You see a man of ninety-odd years. Frail, eaten by age, fast approaching the end of his days, a fraction of the man that once was, soon to become nothing more than a shadow. Our lives are all shadows, aren’t they, Gareth. We are here but a brief time and we pass all too quickly, staring out as nothing, ending up as nothing. Shadows. Life is God’s rigid impermanence.’

  ‘You’ve spouted all this before,’ said Gareth. ‘I’m getting bored of it. Damn you! You can’t keep me here against my will!’

  ‘I can do as I please.’

  ‘You think that having money gives you the right,’ Gareth fired angrily, ‘to simply do as you please?’

  Lambert-Chide’s eyebrow lifted a fraction, and he pretended to give the comment serious thought. ‘I’m not the one in your position, and you’re not the one in mine. Work it out for yourself. As I was saying before your rude interruption, I may be old but I am not ready to die. Not yet. I have too much to do, too much life to live.’

  ‘Tough. We all have to die sometime. Get used to the idea.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you are wrong, Gareth. Death is not an inevitability. Did you know there are organisms that can potentially live forever? There are certain types of jellyfish, for instance, and many bacteria, that simply do not grow old and die.’

  ‘Lucky jellyfish.’

  ‘The fact is no one knows why we humans grow old; why we slip into decay, cease to function. Scientists have been divided on the subject for decades. Some say it’s evolutionary, a method by which the species keeps replenishing itself. Then there’s the telomare theory which posits that with each successive reproduction the cells in the body get weaker, and so they eventually fail. Or it’s DNA damage through chemical, radiation or viral infection that causes ageing; or the auto-immune theory that blames antibodies for attacking tissue. Those and a hundred other similar theories. But in truth no one has yet been able to discover what the trigger is that starts the onset of ageing.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘You’re giving me a Christmas lecture!’

  ‘I think you deserve the courtesy of an explanation at the very least,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t wish to know…’

  Gareth thought the man had the look of a cat playing with a mouse. He sighed despondently. ‘Explain,’ he said. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Think on this, Gareth. What if we could find the ageing trigger, find some way of blocking it? What if we didn’t have to grow old and die? Can you imagine how many billions that would be worth to any company that could develop that? It would be the dominant player in the market for a century to come.’

 
; ‘Whatever,’ said Gareth, half-listening. He thought about rushing the old man, making for the door beyond him through which Tremain had disappeared. He’d no idea where it led.

  Lambert-Chide, in any case, had all but turned off from what Gareth said, had stepped inside his own world. His attention was distant. ‘I would not have to die,’ he said. ‘I would not have to yield to a twisted natural law that allows a jellyfish to live almost indefinitely, whilst I, being all that I am, having all that I have to offer the world, has to succumb to a miserable, ignoble inevitability.’ Lambert-Chide rested heavily on his cane, his breath rattling in his throat. ‘Such a prize would be worth taking any risk, don’t you think? The means totally justifying the end.’

  ‘You’ve said it yourself; the means to turn off the trigger doesn’t exist, so it’s a moot point. You’ve had your time, more than most, and you’ve been a wealthy man too. Difficult for me to feel anything but pity for you and your delusions. And no, the means do not justify the end. Holding me here against my will for God knows what reason; people having died already whilst you and Doradus – whoever he is – play your weird games between you thinking that you’re both outside the law. You’ll pay for it, sooner or later.’

  The old man clapped mockingly. The soft skin made little noise. ‘Bravo, Gareth! That’s the spirit! A rousing speech is just what’s needed. Very Henry the Fifth!’ He lifted the book, but turned his head at the sound of the door being opened behind him.

  Tremain entered, holding onto a woman by the arm. She had her head down, long hair unkempt, and she appeared to be drunk, for she found it difficult to place one foot in front of the other, staggering uncertainly. Tremain’s grip was firm; he was all but preventing her from falling over.

  At first Gareth didn’t recognize her. She was dressed plainly in a sweatshirt and jeans, her feet, he noticed completely bare. There were a few spots of what appeared to be blood on the front of her sweatshirt. She groggily lifted her head, her eyes rolling, blinking at the light as if it were far too bright. She looked across at Gareth but there was no sign of recognition, only a bleary, vacant stare.

  ‘Erica!’ Gareth exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He saw Tremain’s hand move instinctively towards the inside of his jacket where he kept the gun. ‘What have you done to her?’ he said angrily, wanting to go to her aid but obeying Lambert-Chide’s raised hand. ‘What has my sister done so wrong that you have to treat her like a dog? You think she stole your precious jewels?’

  Lambert-Chide bade Tremain take the woman over to a chair, and Gareth watched as she was allowed to slump heavily down to the seat. Her head rolled briefly, then her chin rested limply on her chest.’

  ‘Erica you call her? That’s as good a name as any,’ he said. ‘And don’t let this upset you; she is far from being treated like a dog – quite the opposite. She is merely being kept sedated, for her own good. Such a feisty creature. It looks worse than it actually is.’ He rose from his seat, the book in one hand, the cane in the other. He put the end of his cane under Erica’s chin and raised it. There was a brief flash of recognition in her eyes, which quickly turned to anger, but it faded as fast as it rose. ‘Your sister and I are long and dear friends, is that not so, Erica? We are renewing an old and cherished acquaintance. Thankfully we didn’t have to rely solely on Muller to find her; I had more than one team on the case and we caught her less than a week ago.’

  Gareth could not hold back any longer; he went to her, noticing how Lambert-Chide waved Tremain away as he stepped forward protectively. Gareth dropped to his knee before her. Saliva had glazed her chin and he wiped it carefully away. ‘You bastards!’ he said. ‘This is inhuman.’ He brushed her hair back from her forehead with a tender hand. A spark in her pretty eyes told him she knew who he was; but it was sorrow she flashed him. He could feel her fighting the drug, trying to regain control of her mind and limbs, and her fingers grasped his tightly. ‘I’ll get you out of here,’ he promised, and meant every word. He rose to his feet, anger swelling up inside him. He stared into the barrel of Tremain’s gun, his passion threatening to plunge him into doing something foolish. He forced himself to calm down. Now was not the right time. But he’d find it.

  ‘Many, many years ago, my father met a young woman,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘He was still grieving the loss of his wife, my mother, at the time, and thus one might say susceptible to the attentions of any young opportunist, and clearly this particular woman was highly skilled at the game. She landed him hook, line and sinker. So much so they’d hardly known each other before he announced they were to get married.’ He came over to Gareth, the book clutched to his chest. ‘A little digging on my part soon revealed her for the fraud she was. I confronted her, unbeknown to my father, and naturally, faced with such overwhelming evidence she melted away lest her fraud be disclosed to the police.’ He handed the book to Gareth. He saw that it was a photograph album. ‘My father was a keen amateur photographer. Take a look at the pages marked with the strip of paper.’

  He resisted for a second or two, then did as he was bid, opening the album at the marked pages. There was a large photograph on each page, roughly eight inches by ten, black and white images but acquiring the sepia tint of age. One of the photos showed a large white-painted stucco garden shelter supported by four stone columns, an arched, glazed window casting light onto the seated figure of a woman. She was sat on a cushion, wearing a light summer dress, head bent to a book.

  But it was the picture that appeared on the opposite page that drew Gareth’s attention. It was a head and shoulders shot of the same seated woman, the image snapped as she looked up from her book, as if disturbed in her reading, quite natural and un-posed. What Gareth found disturbing was the woman’s face. He looked from the photo to Erica and then back again.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said at length.

  ‘Yes you do,’ countered Lambert-Chide. ‘The woman in the photo is of Evelyn Carter, my father’s young fiancé in 1939. The woman sitting before you is the one and the same.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’ he said. ‘So there’s a resemblance, maybe even a family likeness, who knows…’

  Lambert-Chide shook his head firmly. ‘You say we do not have the trigger that turns off old age? Well you see the answer before your eyes. Here is proof we do not have to grow old and die.’ His laugh was brittle and mocking. ‘And well you might be amazed, Gareth. The woman sat here, the one you call Erica, the one you call your sister – well, I’m sorry to tell you she isn’t; your sister died at birth. This woman is your mother.’

  * * * *

  38

  Sorry to Disappoint

  She stood at the long window, watching him as he busied himself with preparations for the wedding. The large marquee was being raised on the lawn, and she had to smile, because he couldn’t help himself; he had to be supervising the affair, from the first peg in the ground to the arrangement of the rose-heavy garlands. He said he was making such a fuss because he wanted it to be perfect. Like her, he’d said, brushing a finger against her cheek. He wanted the day to match her skin: flawless.

  ‘And the mirror crack’d from side to side…,’ a voice said.

  It caused her to start, to look back suddenly. She’d not heard him steal up behind her. He saw her expression change instantly from one of unalloyed happiness to one of quiet distrust. He took pleasure in eliciting this from her.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, composing herself and turning her attention to the activity outside in the grounds. But her posture had shifted; her back a little more rigid than before, her hands clasped protectively in front of her.

  ‘You know, from the poem by Tennyson, The Lady of Shallot; she that can only look upon her beloved Lancelot through a mirror, but alas she cannot resist turning to look upon him in the flesh and her world collapses around her. One of my father’s favourite poems. He is such an old romantic, my father,’ observed David Lambert-Chide, close at her shoulder. ‘He doted on my mother just the same as he d
oes you, you know. He is such a fool – no woman is worth that. Least of all you, Evelyn.’

  Her head spun round, eyes momentarily blazing, but she knew he was baiting her. ‘Why can’t you be happy for him, David? Just once you might find it in yourself to do that, after all he has done for you, all he has given.’

  ‘He holds back more than he releases. But one day I will have my due. He cannot last long.’ He rapped a fist against his chest. ‘Dodgy ticker, we’re told.’

  ‘That is such a cruel thing to say, David! You can be such a heartless young man. You forget who you are and who you talk to.’

  David laughed. She felt him coming round to her side. ‘Really?’ he said, so close to her ear she felt the heat of his breath. He came to stand in front of her, between the window and her. ‘That’s just the point, Evelyn; I don’t know who it is I talk to.’

  ‘You are so spiteful, David,’ she said and made as if to walk away. He grabbed her tightly by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ she snapped. ‘Let go of me!’