by Leona Deakin
‘Fabulous?’ Seraphine was very aware of Dr Bloom’s brown eyes still fixed on her own. ‘Well, you’re very fortunate, Seraphine.’
Something about the way she said it made Seraphine think she meant the exact opposite.
‘Can you tell me in your own words what happened in the sports hall?’
Seraphine took a deep breath. She had prepared for this. ‘Claudia and I had gone inside and the caretaker followed us. It turns out he’s been having it off with Claud for months. Not that she wanted to. He’s been raping her. So he saw us go into the hall and decided he could have a go on both of us. Claudia tried to stop him, but he came at me, trying to feel me up. He had me backed into a corner and I didn’t know what to do. So …’
Seraphine paused: she needed to phrase it right.
‘I had a pencil in my pocket and I hit him with it. I thought it might scratch him, hurt him, give us the chance to run. But it went straight in his neck, like schloop, and then there was a lot of blood. It was everywhere, and he was slipping and he fell and then he didn’t stand up again. And that was that.’
Dr Bloom opened her notebook and wrote three or four words. ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. And when the caretaker had you cornered’ – she was still making notes – ‘before you used the pencil. What were you thinking?’
‘I didn’t want that creep to rape me.’
Dr Bloom looked up. ‘And how did you feel?’
‘Absolutely terrified.’
Dr Bloom nodded. ‘I’m sure you did. And in that moment, what did you see?’
‘See?’
‘Did you become alert to everything going on in the room or were you focused on one specific detail?’
Seraphine remembered staring at the beating pulse in Dreary Darren’s neck. ‘I don’t think … I don’t remember.’
‘Did you shout or scream?’
‘No.’
‘Did Claudia?’
Seraphine shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘He’d locked the doors. There was no point.’
‘So you had no escape and no potential help coming?’
Seraphine nodded.
‘He had you cornered and had made his intentions clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you felt absolutely terrified?’
‘Yes.’ Seraphine suppressed a smile. This was going well.
Dr Bloom paused and took a deep breath. ‘What do you mean by terrified? Can you describe to me what that felt like?’
‘Urm …’
Dr Bloom didn’t fill the silence.
‘How many sessions will we have?’ asked Seraphine.
‘As many as we need.’
‘Typically?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Do you consider this experience typical, Seraphine?’
Shit. I really need to watch what I say. ‘Sorry. No. I just thought there’d be a number.’
‘I’ll know better when we’ve met a few times.’ Dr Bloom closed her notebook. ‘It might be useful for both of us if you kept a diary and wrote down your thoughts on this experience and our sessions. Just what you remember, any details that come back to you, and how you’re feeling and adjusting.’
Dr Bloom lifted an identical notebook from the desk behind her and handed it to Seraphine. ‘Maybe you could use this.’
Seraphine leaned forwards, took the book and placed it in her lap, folding her hands around it. She expected Dr Bloom to react to the very obvious act of mimicry. People often raised an eyebrow or flashed a micro-smile. But Bloom didn’t respond at all. She quizzed Seraphine on her home and school life and Seraphine did her best to deflect and defer.
Seraphine left an hour later feeling rather smug about her ability to manipulate a psychologist. Until, halfway down the corridor, she remembered the tissues. I was supposed to need the tissues. She wouldn’t make such a stupid mistake next time.
5
Bloom checked her coat pocket for her Oyster card as she approached Angel tube station. Then she caught sight of the commuters jostling towards the ticket gates and decided to walk the mile and a half back to Russell Square instead. Meeting a new client was always puzzling and the fresh air would help her to reflect on the session.
She took a right turn into Chadwell Street, planning to scoot around the edge of Myddelton Square and weave through the quiet back streets, and then her phone rang.
‘G’day, Sheila.’ Marcus Jameson had no Australian blood and yet, every day, his greeting was thus, complete with a suitably authentic accent.
‘G’day, Bruce,’ replied Bloom without even trying to conceal her distinctive Yorkshire lilt.
‘What’s occurring?’ Jameson said, switching to Welsh.
Bloom wondered if a man with such a decorated history in the Secret Service should be more politically sensitive. But she expected his penchant for accents was like a pathologist’s sharp humour, a coping mechanism to balance out the dark. Or perhaps she was over-interpreting. Perhaps he just liked accents.
‘I’m on my way back now,’ she replied. ‘I should be with you in ten minutes or so.’
‘How’d it go with the newbie?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Tricky case?’
‘Tricky person, I think. But maybe that’s unfair. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘It’s OK to have a hunch, you know, Augusta. You can’t live in an unbiased vacuum. Sometimes your gut simply knows.’
‘Yes. Yes. That may be so, but the effort to be objective is never wasted. Now I need some time to think. I’ll see you shortly.’
‘Actually … I rang because I need a favour.’
Bloom pushed the phone firmly against her ear to drown out the traffic. This was new. In the five years they’d worked together at their little consultancy Jameson had never once asked for a favour. He was one of those independent do-it-yourselfers. It was why she liked working with him. After counselling young offenders, she couldn’t handle a needy business partner.
‘I’m listening,’ she replied.
‘There’s someone at the office I’d like you to meet. She needs our help. Her mother’s missing and, well, it’s a bit weird.’
‘Will we be getting paid for our help?’ Bloom turned into Margery Street.
‘No. Not paid. That’s why it’s called a favour. Look, I’ll explain when you get back. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, just so you don’t feel ambushed.’
She knew Jameson was lying. He hadn’t called to prevent her feeling ambushed. He’d called to plant a seed because he knew she couldn’t resist a mystery. Her mother’s missing and, well, it’s a bit weird. There was always a mystery. Sometimes they were hired by families wanting to find out what had happened to their loved ones when the police hit a brick wall. Or by the Crown Prosecution Service; or a defence barrister, if the crime was of a particularly obscure nature.
They had met at a conference. Augusta had been speaking on the primary motives behind criminal exploits. Jameson had sought her out and joked that no one was better placed to investigate mysteries than an ex-spy and a criminal psychologist. And six months later they began doing just that.
They made a good team. They were different. Augusta figured Jameson had been that boy at school. She assumed he’d been popular, funny, head boy and captain of the rugby team. And, despite being the most disorganized person she’d ever met, he had the confidence to carry himself with a firm, quiet authority. She, on the other hand, was organized to a fault.
Their office was a rented basement in Russell Square beneath a glossy PR firm. It was small and dark and suitably discreet.
When Bloom arrived, she found Jameson at his desk. His dark hair was a little too long, his curls falling over his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a shirt, and, as always, no tie. A teenage girl sat next to him wearing faded skinny jeans with intentional rips. She had long brown hair tied in a low ponytail and wore a plain grey jumper.
‘Jane,’ said Jameson, ‘th
is is Augusta.’
Bloom placed her bag on the floor and sat down behind her desk.
‘Jane often stays with my sister Claire when her mother is deployed oversees,’ said Jameson. ‘Lana’s in the Army. So we’ve known this one since she was a wee lassie. We’ve had many a fun BBQ and film night over the years, haven’t we? She’s my unofficial niece number three.’ The girl smiled warmly at him. ‘Can you tell Augusta what you told me, Jane?’
The girl’s voice was strong despite her puffy red eyes. ‘They said she left of her own accord and there’s nothing they can do. Even though I told them it’s all wrong.’
‘The police,’ clarified Jameson.
‘This is your mum?’ said Bloom.
Jane nodded. ‘They said she’ll come back when she’s ready, but she’s not well.’ Jane looked at Jameson, then back to Bloom. ‘She has PTSD. She served in Afghanistan and she’s struggled since. She’s gone missing overnight plenty of times, but she always comes home the next day.’
‘How long has she been gone?’ asked Jameson.
‘How old are you?’ asked Bloom at the same time.
‘Sixteen,’ Jane replied.
‘And where’s your father?’ said Bloom.
‘I don’t have one.’
Bloom glanced towards Jameson.
‘How long’s she been gone?’ he repeated.
‘Over a week. She took all our money, left me nothing for food or rent and no one’s seen her. I’ve checked with everyone.’
‘No calls? No emails? Nothing online?’ asked Jameson.
Jane shook her head. ‘No one will help me,’ she said, her eyes still on Jameson. ‘But Claire said you might.’
Bloom watched Jameson nod and felt uneasy. He’d never asked for a favour before, so she knew this was important, but investigating the lives of family and friends was fraught with danger, as she knew only too well.
‘You said your mum was in the military?’ Bloom said.
Jane nodded.
‘Then they will help you … eventually.’ Bloom knew that particular machine wouldn’t kick in until Lana was due back at work. ‘But if your mum is in the habit of taking off unexpectedly then that’s probably what’s happened here.’
‘But I haven’t even told you the weird stuff yet.’ Jane lifted her bag on to her lap and began to rummage through it.
Bloom looked at Jameson and raised an eyebrow.
Jane thrust a stack of papers at Bloom. ‘There are more of them. I asked online if anyone else had gone missing like this and four people came back to me.’
Bloom kept her voice soft. ‘Hundreds of people go missing every week.’
Jane waved the papers until Bloom reached out and took them. She spread the pages across her desk. Each contained a thread of email correspondence.
‘There’s a pregnant woman in Leeds whose fiancé had his car run off the road, then he just got out and walked away, and she hasn’t seen or heard from him since. Another man in Bristol said his wife—’
‘Where’s the link?’ Bloom said to Jameson.
Jane frowned.
‘She means the thing that makes this more than random people going missing for random reasons,’ said Jameson.
‘They all went missing on their birthday,’ Jane said, as though this explained everything.
‘OK,’ said Bloom, stretching out the word. She wanted to be kind.
‘Show her the card,’ said Jameson. He had a look in his eye, a quiet confidence. He thought this would be the clincher.
Jane handed over a white envelope. ‘They all received one of these before they disappeared. Look …’ She pointed as Bloom turned the envelope over and read the small silver writing. ‘It says mum’s name. Then all the cards have the same thing inside.’
‘“Happy First Birthday.”’ Bloom opened the card. ‘“Your gift is the game. Dare to play?”’ She turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back. ‘Did anything else come with it?’
Jane shook her head.
‘And they all received the same card?’ Bloom flicked through the stack of emails again.
‘The guy in Leeds left his in the car. His fiancé told me the police found it on the passenger seat.’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Jameson said.
‘And you showed this to the police?’ said Bloom.
Jane nodded. ‘They said it was evidence that these people chose to disappear and grown-ups were allowed to do that.’
‘Maybe because it says “game” they dismissed it,’ said Bloom.
‘Have we seen anything like this before?’ Jameson asked.
Bloom didn’t need to respond to his question. He knew every detail of every case they’d ever worked on. Beneath that mop-haired head sat a hugely impressive brain. A brain that could see angles and manage complexity like none she had ever known. There was no one else she had even contemplated partnering with.
‘And why happy first birthday?’ Jameson said.
Bloom placed Lana’s card back in its envelope. ‘I expect if we knew the answer to that, we’d know what all of this was about.’
‘So, what do you think?’ Jameson said after he’d sent Jane to Costa for a latte. ‘She was always a funny one, that Lana. A bit off, you know, never really around. Claire used to worry about Jane. The war really messed Lana up and that kid has paid the price. All the kids do.’
He wasn’t subtle. She noticed the switch from talking about one sad little girl to the importance of standing up for troubled military kids in general, but she said nothing.
‘I know what you’re going to say. We’re too busy. We can’t afford to work for free. But this is a friend. You know why I wanted to do this work with you … to make amends, or do some good or … whatever. And if I can’t do that for my friends and my family, what’s the point?’
Bloom sighed. She wanted to think it through, consider all the angles, assess the risks. Their work often involved digging deeply into a person’s private life, examining their hidden views, behaviour and motivation. How would that affect Jameson and Claire’s relationship with this Lana?
‘What would we do with our other work while we help your friend?’ she said.
‘We’d manage.’
‘What would our clients say when we miss our deadlines?’
‘We wouldn’t. We’d make it work.’
‘Do you really think snooping about in your friend’s life is a good idea?’
‘Lana’s not my friend. And we’d be helping a vulnerable teenager find her mother.’
‘An irresponsible mother who might well disappear on a whim again.’
Jameson rested his forearms on his lap and studied Bloom for a moment. ‘You were intrigued, though, weren’t you? I saw it on your face. Five people missing after receiving identical dares. It’s not just one flaky mum going rogue. It’s bigger than that.’
He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And he was right: she was intrigued.
‘Speak to these other families,’ she said. ‘Make sure they’re not just telling Jane what she wants to hear. I’ll speak to Jane.’
‘And you’ll tell her we’ll help?’
‘No.’
‘Augusta—’
‘No, Marcus. Not yet. Not until we know if we can. We are not in the business of making false promises.’
6
Who the hell do they think they are? Pushing her around. Her! They should watch themselves. Idiots. Stupid idiots.
Seraphine paced the cold tiled floor of the police-station toilet. Yes, she had stabbed him in the neck with a pencil. Yes, she had pierced an artery. But the guy was a creepy shit. He deserved it.
But now that bitch of a policewoman wanted to know if Seraphine had aimed her weapon.
‘Do you know where the carotid artery is located?’ Seraphine mimicked PC Watkins’s high-pitched girly squeak. ‘Did you aim for the carotid artery? … Were you trying to kill Mr Shaw?’
‘Yes,’ she rehearsed, her voice a slow sin
g-song. ‘I know where the carotid artery is. I learned it in Biology.’ They were trying to catch her out. Did they think she was stupid? As if she would tell them the truth. Stupid, stupid idiots.
Seraphine squeezed a few tears out of the corners of her eyes. She stared at her reflection as she practised the words. ‘No, I didn’t intend to kill him … No, of course I didn’t intend to kill him.’ She remembered the break in Claudia’s voice when they had been confronted by Dreary Darren and tried adding it on the word kill. ‘No, I didn’t intend to kill him.’
Nailed it, she thought, heading back to the interview room before she forgot how to do it.
7
‘Hello?’ said Bloom, holding the phone to her cheek. She turned the kitchen radio down.
Jameson launched into the details without any traditional niceties.
‘So three of the four other disappearances are legitimate. I spoke to family members and their local police stations. They all received the same dare-to-play card on their birthday, which was some time in the last three months. First was Faye Graham, a mother of two who turned forty-two on the fifth of January, then Grayson Taylor, a political science student who turned twenty on the tenth of February, then Stuart Rose-Butler, the father-to-be who deserted his car. He turned twenty-nine on the twenty-fourth of February.’
‘And Lana’s birthday was just over a week ago?’
‘Yes. The ninth of March.’
‘What’s her surname?’
‘Reid, spelled with an “e” and an “i”.’
Bloom noted it down next to Lana’s birth date. ‘And the fifth person?’
‘Seems to be a red herring. A girl called Sara James contacted Jane through Facebook and said her mother had gone missing too, but there were no details other than what Jane had already revealed.’
‘Jane’s message?’
‘She asked if anyone knew of someone who’d received a white birthday card with a dare-to-play message and then gone missing.’
‘Great,’ said Bloom, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
‘I know, but she’s young and that’s what they do these days, vent their every thought on social media. So I wondered if this Sara might be a fake, and sure enough the email came from an office building in Swindon. I checked and no one in the company knows of a Sara James.’