by Nick Louth
Mordant had slipped out of Christie’s and taken a side street away from Old Brompton Road and its many CCTV cameras. Five minutes brisk walk and he emerged on the Fulham Road, parallel but further south. It was raining. He went into a charity shop and using Featherstone’s cash bought a battered raincoat, a threadbare deerstalker and a scarf, which he put on. He then found a hardware store, bought a pair of secateurs and ducked into a pub nearby to go into the toilet and snip off the plastic bracelet of the electronic tag. It took surprisingly little leverage. He knew that by now his absence would have been reported, and the monitoring centre would be tracking the tag’s movements on GPS. Time for a little fun. He took a bus to Buckingham Palace Road, and at Victoria coach station saw a queue of people waiting to board a bus to Edinburgh. He engaged a pretty Chinese student in conversation, and then while pointing out some sights worth seeing on her map, slid the tag into her backpack. That would be good for a twelve-hour Scottish jig in the hunt to find him.
Now he had a few chores to sort out. The equipment he needed was in a lock-up garage in Stoke Newington, and would be no more than a couple of hours work. Still, it would certainly make them take him seriously.
He was already confounding their expectations. They would assume he would take the first opportunity to get close to Mira. That was to underestimate him. He was still sure they didn’t have any idea of the insidious umbilical from all those years ago that linked Mira to him. He didn’t need to go to her. When the time was right, Mira would come to him.
* * *
Mordant remembered so clearly the first day he saw her. It was 2005. He was on his second week of supply teaching in the art department at Halliday High School, Clitheroe. One of the better schools in the area, and one which took its art teaching seriously. He was still getting used to the new identity that had been given to him at the retirement debrief six months before. John Peirce was his name. It was similar enough to Jonathan Pearson, the name under which he’d been assigned to Moscow, and under which he’d lived for the previous four years. He was on break duty, a windy March day, invigorating gusts from the Irish sea with a hint of rain. A group of boys, hulking shambling creatures, uniforms ripped and collars awry, were loitering behind the communal bin shed with an air of purpose. That was something these fellows exhibited only during mischief. Mordant moved for a better view, and saw they were casually but methodically twisting the arm of a smaller fellow. From the moment of his first teaching post, a dismal East London comprehensive, he had seen many such scenes. The smaller boy, presumably the possessor of cigarettes, money or pornography, had his face twisted in exaggerated agony as he was parted from his property. How perfectly even the most stupid children ingest the DNA of gangsterism: extortion, threats, ritual and public punishment, obedience, and – most important of all – silence to authority.
Then there were the victims. Here was one now, a year-eight female, Lydia Roskova, even newer to the school than he. She was probably just thirteen, coltishly leggy, pretty beneath her cheap and grim spectacles, scurrying through the playground with an A3-size art exercise book gripped in her hands. At yesterday’s assembly, three girls had been excoriated by the housemaster for scorching her rather lovely wavy chestnut hair with a lighter. She still had a bandage on her neck. The wrong accent, spots, being tall and studious as well as new, she hardly stood a chance. No wonder she was crying.
‘Lydia Roskova. Come here.’ He beckoned her over. Her shoulders slumped at the summons, and she slouched over, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The unfashionably conservative hemline of her blue uniform pinafore dress, the scuffed flat shoes and the droopy socks gave her a gangling clownish air.
‘What’s the matter, girl?’
‘Nothing.’ Lydia flushed scarlet, unable to meet his gaze.
‘It can’t be nothing. You’re crying.’ He smiled at her.
‘It’s nothing, Sir.’ She was gripping the exercise book as if her life depended on it.
‘Show me.’ He put out his hand. Reluctantly she handed him the book. Past her indifferent homework attempts, on the first hitherto empty page, someone had scrawled a large cartoonish version of her face, daubed in spots with huge glasses and goofy teeth. It was labelled ‘Hideous Lydia’. She started sobbing, her body wracked with shudders.
‘Come along,’ he said. He took her into the art block, and sat her on a chair in the classroom. The smell of floor polish, poster paint and Copydex glue wafted into his nostrils.
‘Do you know who did it?’
Lydia swallowed her lips, as if they might otherwise speak of their own volition. She shook her head slowly.
‘I think you do.’
Lydia shook her head, and tears slid slowly down her face.
‘You’re certainly not ugly, you must know that.’
She looked up at him, as if seeking confirmation. Her eyes were a startling pea green.
‘Do you know the work of Botticelli?’
She shook her head.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever had the chance to go to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.’
‘No, Sir.’ She looked distracted and uncomfortable. Keen to escape.
‘Well, Botticelli was a renaissance master who managed to capture timeless female beauty in his work.’ He went over to a chalk-covered cupboard, took out a bunch of keys and unlocked it. He pulled a thick and heavy book The Florentine Masters from underneath a pile of papers. ‘Let’s see.’ He flicked through carefully. Finding what he was looking for, he carefully turned the book so that Mira could see it. ‘This is La Primavera. What do you see in it?’
‘It’s a load of women under some trees, Sir.’
He sighed heavily.
‘I think they’re apple trees. And it’s evening time,’ she said brightly.
‘But what does it mean?’
‘Dunno, Sir.’
‘It means Spring, and is full of meaning about fertility, beauty and potential.’
‘Sir, I’m going to be late for music.’
‘You can borrow this if you like.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? You ask why! Because you are there. In this painting, scattering petals of perfection before an unseeing world.’
‘It’s heavy, Sir.’
‘I suppose it is.’ He hefted the tome, and shrugged agreement. ‘The burden of beauty was ever thus. Never mind, girl. On your way.’
She might be plain now, but he could see what she would become. It was there in her cheekbones, the symmetry and angle of her eyes, her neck. Small signs, which the rest of the world didn’t yet see. This girl was destined for beauty. But even he never imagined the stellar trajectory that destiny would take.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was ten to midnight, and the rain was lashing down in St John’s Wood. Runnels crawling down the windows and bouncing up from the roads. Baroness Suzannah Earl was getting ready for bed when she heard the text tone vibrate on her phone.
Im here 4u. let me in.
It wasn’t from a number she recognised. But she looked out of the window. Across the street, in the glare of a streetlamp, she recognised him. Despite the deerstalker, the rain-darkened macintosh, there was an unmistakeable poise. How could he be here? He wasn’t even supposed to be out. Had he escaped? Or had he absconded from an escorted trip? Part of her thought: phone the police, now, quickly. For God’s sake, this man dissolves girls in acid. But the fact he had come here, to her, showed trust. He was a man besieged by mistrust, yet he had come to her. How could she betray him? When the buzzer went, she pressed the outside door release. Two minutes later she went to the door of her flat and opened it. He was standing there, drenched. He pushed the door open and walked in without waiting for an invitation. Water ran down his face and his jacket was soaked.
‘You can’t stay here, Will. You can’t. It’s impossible.’
‘Suzy, I need your help.’ In a second he was enfolding her in his arms, kissing her neck. ‘Suzy, they are never goin
g to let me out. The tribunal will be a farce. I’ll die in there. Despite all your efforts it isn’t going to work.’
‘Look, Will, I’ll fight for you. God knows I have already laid myself body and soul on the line in the cause. But you can’t stay here.’
‘Just one night, Suzy. Just one night. I promise.’
‘No Will, it would be the end of me. Think about it. I’m a politician acting from a principle, not some lovelorn girlfriend.’
He stared at her, those mesmerising eyes, almost violet in her hall light. ‘Suzy, that is precisely why no one would think of looking for me here. I’ll be gone by six tomorrow morning. That’s a promise.’
She searched his eyes. ‘Okay, Will, I’m trusting you. But they will track you down, you know. You can’t escape in the end.’
‘Perhaps. But even if they find me here, your reputation will not be hurt. You could say that I held you hostage. I’m supposedly a dangerous psychopath after all, for whom human life has no value. No one would disbelieve you. They would never guess that I was drawn to you by the trust, the kindness and the desire that you kindled in me….’
He held her fiercely and kissed her, his lips and tongue running up and down her neck. His wet face and clothes soaked into her blouse, water from his hair ran down between her breasts. As he leaned her against the wall she heard herself begin to moan his name. He’s right, she thought. One unforgettable night, for which I have the perfect excuse. I am the one woman who means something to him. I have created his pathway to freedom. He whispered in her ear what he was going to do to her, and she thrilled to the idea. ‘Do it to me. Now.’
She didn’t know whether it was two hours later or ten. It was still dark outside. The lamp on the bedside table was on, and he was lying naked, on one elbow, looking at her as she caught her breath. She saw the faint slick of sweat on his chest, flexing in the slow rhythm of his breath. ‘You’re an amazing lover, Will. But you don’t have to catch up on all those years of enforced abstinence in one night, do you?’
‘Don’t I?’ He smiled, the kind of smile that said: I know I’m good, but I still enjoy being told. ‘Let’s have a bath,’ he said.
He helped her out of bed, still floaty and tingling. The en-suite light was already on. He ran the water while she sat on the linen basket and watched his muscular form, firm buttocks, defined stomach muscles, his cock softened but still swollen, slick with her juices.
He put out his arms, and lowered her into the warm water. Standing at the side of the bath he soaped her body carefully, her breasts and neck and legs. Then he sat on the linen basket, leaning over the side of the bath as he rinsed her petite form.
Mordant squeezed some shampoo into his hand and worked it into her copper hair, sliding his fingers into the tresses. Then as he rinsed her gently, he noticed at the ivory scalp just a few millimetres of iron-grey roots showing. A wave of revulsion swept through him. This won’t do. Not at all. He knew there was only so long that he could pretend, when the only real perfect beauty was still out there, beckoning him. He slid her head further up the slope of the bath until it crested on the rim. He supported her extended head with his right hand, gently lowering it so her long, slender throat was exposed. With his left hand he caressed the full length of her body, from groin via tummy, breasts and clavicle to her neck. Her eyelids were fluttering in pleasure. He closed his own eyes, trying to recollect exactly the instruction book from all those years ago. There it was, page 61, with the diagrams, the text, but it was the exact vertebra that he needed to know. Where to apply the pressure, C1 or C2? He speed-read the words in his cavernous mind, and when satisfied let a small smile escape. She murmured his name and her eyes opened, lazy with pleasure, and trust. With his fingers he counted her neck vertebra, and finding the second, eased her head just a shade lower.
He took a deep breath, removed his left hand from her body and held her jaw shut. The final movement took less than half a second, before the scream had time to form. A twist of the head sharply left towards him, produced a sharp ‘pop’ and a gasp from the baroness. Then he knelt on her chest with one knee, and with all his strength snapped her head back and down, using the edge of the bath as a fulcrum. The loud crack of the vertebra parting masked the shrill animal noise from her. Her eyes were open; shocked but lifeless.
Mordant laid her carefully in the bath, drained the water, then towelled himself dry as he walked into the kitchen. He took an apple from the fruit bowl and examined it. The skin was mottled a beautiful polished red with striations of green. A Braeburn? Or a Discovery? The refectory at Broadmoor had only ever stocked the insipid Golden Delicious, despite his requests. He bit into the apple. It was crisp and tasty. He chewed carefully, and hummed to himself as he walked around the flat. Now to get to work on Lady Earl’s mobile phone and computer. As her daughter was apparently one of Mira’s best friends, it shouldn’t be hard to lure them here.
* * *
FOUR DAYS
Richard Lamb wasn’t looking forward to what he had to do today, but it was inevitable. Dawn Evans came in, looking for all the world like a dog dragged to the vet to be put down. Professionally, he supposed, that was just what was going to happen. She had been a very promising and enthusiastic nursing assistant, only her lack of guile had let her down. But then who was equal to William Mordant? He offered her a seat and took off his glasses. She was rubbing the backs of her hands and looking in her lap, unable to make even the semblance of eye contact.
‘Dawn, a very serious matter has come to my attention. As you will be aware, William Mordant has absconded. When searching his room yesterday evening, we found some items.’
She nodded, and reached for the handkerchief that was up her sleeve. A slow sniffing began.
Lamb opened a large manila envelope and fished out a card. It was a Valentine’s Day card, wreathed in hearts. He decided not to read out what was written inside, to embarrass her with the gushing endearments. He pushed it across the desk towards her. ‘Did you write this?’
Dawn Evan’s eyes, brimming with tears, flicked briefly up to look at the card. Her head sagged as if her neck had suddenly failed. She nodded, and whispered an emotion-choked ‘yes’.
‘It seems from the…er…sentiments written inside that you have formed an emotional attachment to this patient. Is that true?’
She nodded again.
‘Then there are all these.’ Lamb upended the envelope, out of which slid dozens of cards, a tiny teddy bear, and finally a homemade embroidered silken heart with a few words neatly stitched across it: Will. I’ll love you forever.
‘All yours, yes?’
Dawn nodded.
‘That is bad enough. But since this discovery I have taken the liberty of checking the camera footage outside Mordant’s room, and discovered that you visited him alone at night, in contravention of all regulations, on at least five occasions in the last month.’
Her head jerked up, and she looked confused.
‘Dawn, you seem surprised that we know this. Are you?’
She hesitated. ‘He said that the C corridor cameras didn’t work.’
‘He, meaning Mordant?’ Lamb steepled his hands.
She didn’t reply.
‘Dawn. How long has this been going on? Your affair with him.’
‘Six months. Six months on Wednesday,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask this, but did these trysts involve activity of a sexual nature.’
There was a long silence. ‘We made love, if that’s what you mean,’ she murmured.
Lamb shook his head. ‘Dawn, for goodness sake! You have been on the courses, the training for this. You know exactly the kind of manipulative and antisocial personality Mordant has.’
‘I do know what he’s really like, but actually you don’t,’ she said, suddenly fixing an intense gaze on him. ‘Will is a good man, a kind man. He should never have been here at all. He has never killed anyone. He swore on his life.’
‘Well,’ Lamb s
aid, leaning back and taking off his reading glasses. ‘His ability to lie convincingly isn’t really in doubt, is it?’
‘He loves me.’ She said it flatly, as if trumping the argument.
Lamb restrained the snort of derision that he wanted to express. ‘I doubt it very much, Dawn. You were useful to him, that’s all. Now in less than an hour the police will be here to question you in the light of your relationship with him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you might have helped him set up a life outside, ready for his absconding. If you have smuggled anything in or out for him, provided him with a place to stay, or any similar help it would be much better to volunteer it now to me, rather than wait to have the truth dragged out of you by the police.’
She said nothing.
Lamb sucked his teeth in exasperation, and looked out of the window, across the wire fences of his domain. ‘Look, Dawn. I decided to do this informally, rather than go through the full formal procedure of a security inquiry. I think it will be a little easier for you, though no doubt it isn’t going to be easy per se.’
‘Thank you, Dr Lamb,’ she murmured.
Lamb’s voice was low but grave. ‘I have two specific questions. One. Was Mordant to your knowledge involved in the assault on Leonard Lucifer Smith?’
She didn’t reply, but nodded her head.
‘As I suspected. And two. Did you ever allow him access to the security control room?’
No reply.
‘If you did, that would constitute a very serious criminal offence.’
Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Hmm. I have my doubts about that answer.’ He leaned back, and put his hands behind his head. ‘I’m not an idiot, Dawn. I do understand the reality. William Mordant is a very attractive and extraordinarily clever man. You are not the first member of staff to fall for such a dangerously charismatic patient. I’m sure you won’t be the last, despite all our precautions. There is much about him that remains to be discovered, which makes him all the more dangerous.’
