by P L Kane
For a couple of hours or more, he’d quizzed her about various disorders and treatments, ranging from OCD to schizophrenia, and when it came time for them to say goodnight she realised she knew barely anything about the guy, aside from the fact he was a widower and a huge Bruce Springsteen fan.
‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Gordon,’ Robyn had said, holding out her hand when their respective taxis arrived.
‘You too, Doctor. I’m sorry I monopolised your time, but it was all genuinely fascinating … Oh, and please call me Peter. Or Pete if you prefer.’
Robyn had assumed that was that, because he didn’t ask for her number or anything and didn’t proffer his own. She didn’t find out until a day or so later that she’d spent the entire evening talking to one Superintendent Peter Gordon (whose nickname in some quarters was ‘The Commissioner’ after that famous character in a certain comics series). He got in touch with Robyn through the uni and asked for her to come in to their local station at Hannerton. It had been weird seeing him out of context – the switch between dinner jacket and bow tie to full dress uniform jarring – but he’d given her that same warm smile from the other night, then offered her a seat across from him as he settled down behind a huge, oak desk.
‘Am … am I in trouble?’ had been her first question to him, and he’d laughed.
‘Far from it, Robyn. Far from it. Indeed, I think we might be ones in trouble and could really use your help.’
Over tea and biscuits, he’d told her about a case his people were working on that had stumped them all. A series of killings that had been in the news – young girls who’d been found dumped in various locations. Who’d been killed, bitten and partially eaten, then wrapped up in rope. ‘Some kind of bondage thing, was our initial assessment,’ Gordon informed her and Robyn had frowned. ‘What?’
‘I don’t think the tying up is a sex thing, Superintendent.’
He shook his head and for a moment she thought he was disagreeing with her, but then he said, ‘Peter, or Pete. Or plain old Gordon. Look, maybe it’s best if I take you over and introduce you to some of the team working on this. Get you to have a look at what they’ve come up with so far …’ He paused suddenly. ‘If that’s okay with you, of course?’
She’d nodded and that’s exactly what Gordon had done: he introduced Robyn to people like DI Rick Cavendish and his loyal band of DSs and DCs, many of whom had worked together for ages. She hadn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms by everyone, some saying that Gordon was too trusting and they didn’t need a person like her – a psychologist – sticking her nose in. But once she was given access to the findings so far, the evidence they’d been sorting through, she’d come up with some theories, and even the naysayers had started to take notice.
Then, after she’d drafted a profile that helped them catch the person they were looking for, Robyn was definitely flavour of the month – especially when she insisted it be classed as a team effort. ‘You guys had already done the legwork on this; it just needed a fresh set of eyes was all.’
Fresh eyes to see that the cannibalism was the key, that the person they were looking for – Adrian Nance – thought he could outdo Iranian serial killer ‘The Spider’, Saeed Hanaei. But Nance not only lured women back to his place like flies into a web, he also tied them up and ate bits of them, ‘becoming’ the arachnid he wanted to emulate. That extended to actually keeping spiders, the more exotic the better, and that was how they found him in the end: tracking anyone who’d bought such animals in the area.
So now, whenever Cavendish and his team needed those eyes of hers, she was called upon. In the time she’d spent with them, she’d helped with cases such as the so-called Postcode Killer, who was chopping up people who lived in a certain location; and Dennis Wilde, who some called The Baby, because he was leaving bodies in the foetal position … Right up to this last case she’d worked on, paying a personal price for his incarceration.
Kevin Sykes. The one who’d taken her prisoner, who’d almost killed her. The man she was on her way to see right now, today. Who was the reason she was hesitating, questioning why she was coming here in the first place and putting herself through all this.
Breathing in deeply, she just placed one foot in front of the other. The material of her trouser suit was swishing with each step, causing her to wince, every sound magnified in this place of echoes. Even her shoes – flats rather than heels (for one thing, the latter could be used as a weapon if any of the inmates got hold of them) – were still making clacking sounds, beating out the rhythm of her journey, matching her heartbeat that was quickening with each metre she covered in this place. The place they called Gateside. Located out in the middle of nowhere, this maximum-security facility for the criminally insane was definitely a misnomer, because it only had one gate – at the front, rather than on the sides – which was so heavily guarded that even if an inmate somehow reached it they would get no further.
Those who called Gordon ‘The Commissioner’ also referred to Gateside as Arkham, though once again they were totally wrong. Far from the gothic monstrosity that asylum was, this was new and clean – all white walls and metal and toughened glass. None of which made her feel any better about being inside its walls. Because as much as she knew the science of how the people kept here ticked, as much as she’d studied things like nature versus nurture, behavioural patterns and brain scans showing whether people had shrunken amygdalae (the seat of emotion, of empathy, conscience and remorse) or not, when you got right down to it, the prisoners shut away in this place were just plain scary.
Robyn usually did her best to hide her fear, putting on a front as always, because showing it only made things worse. You’d get nothing out of subjects if they thought you were terrified; it would just make them want to ‘play’ with you more. Serial killers liked to be in control, liked that feeling. If Robyn was to find out anything during her visits to Gateside, she had to at least appear as if she was the one in the driving seat. Easier said than done, when the man you were facing had once towered above you and been ready to take your life.
All too soon she was there, at the final door. Robyn peered in through the square of glass in an otherwise solid metal barrier, seeing him handcuffed at the table there, attached to chains that ran through metal hooks welded to the table – which itself was bolted to the floor for added security. She would be safe enough, especially with the guards just outside the doors here. Sykes wasn’t deemed as dangerous as some in Gateside, who you could only communicate with through bars or toughened glass, guards on either side ready to Taser the person. She was at least allowed to sit in a room, sit down at a table with her … patient. A patient Robyn knew would never, ever be cured.
She swallowed again, sucked in another breath, and nodded at one of the guards who’d been with her since the inner door. He was dressed like something out of Judge Dredd, everything padded for his own protection, baton hanging from a belt at his waist – Taser on the other side, looking for all the world like some kind of futuristic handgun. When he nodded back, helmet wobbling slightly, he reached out with gloved hands and undid the lock with a key card, then held his hand out for Robyn to enter, like he was a butler at some kind of swish stately home.
Sykes barely looked up when she stepped inside the room, which was probably a good thing because the door slamming shut again made her start a little. Instead, he kept his head down, as if he was studying something in front of him on the table – though there was nothing there – bald patch on top clearly visible; premature for someone of his age. He wore the pale-yellow, boiler-suit-style uniform of all the prisoners here, the theory being you wouldn’t then confuse them with the guards who were in muted blues and greys. Here, yellow rather than orange was the new black, but then Robyn doubted any of them were concerned about fashion.
Only when she reached the table itself did Sykes acknowledge her presence, looking up slowly and regarding her with those penetrating eyes. The ones she’d gazed into
when she thought she was about to die.
‘Hello, Dr Adams,’ he said with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. ‘I wondered when I’d see you again.’
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Acknowledgements
As always, I won’t start naming names here because I’ll inevitably leave someone out. There are just so many people who’ve helped and supported me during my years as a professional writer. But I do owe a huge debt of gratitude to my tireless and excellent editor Belinda Toor; her comments, notes and edits have made all three P L Kanes much better than they were originally. I also want to thank everyone from the HQ/HarperCollins family, from Abigail Fenton and Lisa Milton, to Suher Sofi and Audrey Linton. Thanks, as well, to anyone and everyone who took the time to read, review or offer a quote for the first two thrillers. Finally, thank you to my actual family for their support, help and encouragement while writing this novel; it wasn’t easy for any of us, I know, especially as it was during the first lockdown. And a massive ‘words are not enough’ thank you to my better half Marie for, oh, just everything really! Love you more than I can possibly express in words, sweetheart.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for choosing to read The Family Lie.
The first two P L Kane novels dealt with family ties. The first, Her Last Secret, was primarily concerned with an estranged father and daughter, while in Her Husband’s Grave it was cousins who were more like sisters. Both were also about coming home or back to a hometown, such as Redmarket or Golden Sands. In The Family Lie, I wanted to take things a step further.
So, not only do we tackle head on the relationship between a son and his father this time, but also Mitch Prescott’s relationship with the rest of his family – including his sister, Bella, who is a bit of a black sheep because of her ‘line of work’. And Mitch is returning to his childhood home, in the form of Green Acres, which allowed me to talk about how much things change – or maybe shouldn’t – as you get older. I’ve wanted to write something about cults and the phenomenon of the cult of personality for a while now too; I just find the whole subject fascinating, including people’s beliefs when they’re in a cult. This book allowed me to dovetail all these subjects and more.
Although totally standalone, if you’ve read the other two P L Kanes you will definitely spot links. Bella, Ashley and O’Brien, for example, first cropped up in Her Husband’s Grave, so if you want to know the full story of what happened with Robyn Adams, it’s there waiting for you. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading The Family Lie and, if you did, perhaps you might consider leaving a review … even just a line or two would be very welcome.
Warmest wishes once again,
P L Kane
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