by Leona Deakin
‘Hey! Don’t get grumpy with me because you’re lonely and single. Be pleased that I can find good stuff to balance out the shit.’
‘I am not lonely and single.’
‘You are single though.’
‘Yes, and happy that way, thank you very much.’
‘Do you even know that for sure?’ Jameson finished his croissant and brushed the flakes into his waste-paper bin. ‘When was your last relationship?’
Bloom turned back to her work. She was not having this conversation. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said. ‘I had a call from the Health and Care Professions Council yesterday. They’ve received a complaint about my competence to practise and have put me under investigation. I had the formal letter this morning.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jameson. ‘I thought you were about to tell me you were a lesbian.’
Bloom looked at him. She was definitely irritated now. ‘And would that be such a problem?’
Jameson held his hands up and flashed her his don’t-take-offence smile. ‘Not at all. Some of my favourite women are lesbians.’
‘You’re better than that, Marcus.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ He smirked and took a sip of his coffee. ‘Are you worried? Is there anything to this complaint?’
Bloom passed him the letter. ‘Dave Jones thinks I had an inappropriate relationship with his daughter. He’s claiming that I met her informally outside the consultation rooms and even at my home.’
‘Wow.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, no. Of course you didn’t. You’re … Bloom.’
‘No need to be glib.’
‘I’m not! I’m just saying you’re the most straight-laced, moral person I know. Even our local vicar has more questionable ethics than you.’
Bloom raised her eyebrows.
‘I was a choirboy. Didn’t know that, did you? Dad was really into the Big Man.’
Bloom couldn’t help but smile. He was the best cure for a terrible day. ‘They won’t find any evidence because there isn’t any, but it’s going to tie me up in an investigation.’
He handed the letter back. ‘We’ll sort it. And here’s a question that’s been bugging me. This website is a fortress, right? And our psychopath players all disappear eventually. So why bother with these cards? Why not email people? Or text them? Or even better, WhatsApp? That bloody thing has end-to-end encryption so we’ll never find out what was going on.’
‘I’ve wondered that myself. They must want us to know what they’re doing. Without the cards we wouldn’t know that the disappearances were linked or how many players there were. The recipients are told to remove something from inside – whatever the sticky patch holds in place, I’d guess directions to the website and their unique user reference – so why not tell them to destroy the card too? At the last count we have one hundred and nine people who simply left it behind to be found.’
‘So it’s a calling card, after all.’
‘It’s a Look at me, aren’t I clever? card. That’s what it is.’
‘They’re showing off. They might mess up at some point.’
‘We’re dealing with a very high-functioning psychopath here, so probably not. Most people make mistakes when they become emotional and forget to follow their own rules—’
‘But psychopaths don’t get emotional.’
‘Not as often, no. The one angle we have is ego. They might get carried away with their own brilliance and become complacent. The question is, how do we make them do that?’
Jameson thought for a moment. ‘We make them think they’re winning. They need to believe that we have nothing and know nothing because they’re simply too clever. It’s a Romanova play.’
‘Romanova?’
‘It’s what we called an operation in MI6 that required psychological manipulation. It’s from the Black Widow. The Marvel comics? Natasha Romanova? Have you seen that scene in The Avengers where she’s tied to a chair being interrogated, but in fact she’s interrogating them? I can see from the look on your face that you haven’t, but you get the gist.’
Bloom did get the gist, but until they knew who was masterminding the game, tactics were worthless.
30
In Yorkshire, Stuart Rose-Butler – or Stuart Lord as he now preferred to be known – walked out of Leeds train station and towards Park Square in the city’s financial district.
The streets surrounding the park were silent apart from the occasional passing car and, when he reached it, the park was empty. There were Georgian buildings on either side, all with large windows and grand doorways. Most were occupied by firms of solicitors or barristers’ chambers. Stuart checked the message again.
We are very impressed. Meet me in Park Square, Leeds, tomorrow at 1.30pm.
And that was it. No name. No description. Stuart looked at his watch: 1.28pm. He took a seat on a bench and waited.
Exactly two minutes later, a tall man, thin and olive-skinned, strolled into the park. Stuart recognized him immediately. He stood as the man approached him.
‘Good afternoon, Sir.’ The man held his hand out and his shake was so firm as to be painful. ‘Sebastian Forbes.’
Sebastian wore a tweed jacket and a navy tie with what looked to be a diamond-encrusted tie pin. Stuart was glad he was wearing his new Armani suit. ‘Good afternoon,’ said Stuart, making his accent as refined as possible. Sebastian no doubt knew his history, but things had moved on and he wanted them to see it.
‘And by what name shall I address you?’
Stuart had been instructed to change his identity several challenges back. He had thought long and hard about his new name. ‘Stuart Lord.’
‘From a Butler to a Lord. Very good. Please, come with me, Mr Lord. There are some people keen to meet you.’
Sebastian Forbes led Stuart to a building a few roads away. There were no signs outside and no doorbell, just a shiny black door. Forbes knocked firmly, just once, and waited. A second or two later the door opened on an automatic hinge. The two men entered an elaborate hallway. The tiled floor led to a wide staircase and, as the door closed behind them, Stuart could hear voices coming from upstairs.
‘What is this place?’ Stuart said as they walked up the stairs.
‘This is a place that doesn’t exist. It’s a place you’ve never been to, where you will meet people you have never met.’ Sebastian Forbes stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back at Stuart, two steps behind. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Sure. I never came here.’ Stuart had experience with the criminal underworld; he’d forgotten plenty of places before this one.
The large sunny room at the front of the building screamed money despite the subtle décor. Leather chairs in groups of two or three were set around wooden tables and, at the far end of the room, a black glass bar ran the length of the wall. A man in a red bow tie and white shirt stood behind it, mixing a drink in a cut-glass tumbler. In front of the bar, three men and two women stopped talking and looked Stuart’s way.
‘May I introduce Mr Stuart Lord,’ said Sebastian Forbes, taking the drink from the barman.
Stuart shook their hands. Each said, ‘Welcome, welcome,’ but they didn’t give their names.
The younger woman handed Stuart a cold glass of lager. ‘Your tipple of choice, I believe?’ He took the glass, and she said, ‘You are not yet one of us, Mr Lord, but you have shown great potential, a certain degree of class in your manner of operation.’
For a brief moment, Stuart felt stupid. He had been so engrossed in his new life and the pure, unadulterated pleasure he’d been taking from each and every challenge that he hadn’t thought to consider why he’d been invited to play the game. He raised himself to his full six foot two and squared his shoulders. It was a recruitment drive. Of course it was. And this was the final interview.
31
It was nearly midnight. Bloom knocked at the door.
‘Jane’s missing,’ said Jameson, p
ulling it open.
‘I know,’ said Bloom, stepping into Claire’s hallway. ‘Since when?’
‘She left school at lunchtime to go to the sandwich shop, but never came back. They thought she’d gone home and the stupid teachers didn’t check because they knew she was having a tough time.’
‘She left school alone?’
‘Apparently. Dan and I are about to head out, search the streets. Claire’s called all her friends, but we’ll knock on some doors anyway. We’ve tried the hospitals.’
‘You’ve told the police?’
‘Claire rang them, but they’re saying it’s only been a few hours and most teenagers come back.’
‘Did Claire tell them about Lana?’
‘Yeah, but Claire doesn’t know everything, does she?’
‘OK. You go. I’ll call Barker and then stay with Claire.’
‘Thank you.’
Bloom pulled out her phone and called Steve Barker. She’d be waking him up, but this was urgent.
‘Hello?’ he said groggily.
‘Steve,’ she said, ‘it’s Augusta. Lana Reid’s daughter has been missing for the last twelve hours or so.’
‘What?’
‘Jane Reid is missing.’
There was a brief pause, then Barker said, ‘What do you need?’
‘We need the local police to take it seriously. We need them to know who Lana is and what she might be capable of. My next call is to Superintendent Briggs at the Met, but I’ll need to tell her everything.’ Briggs was another of Bloom’s course delegates and one of the most impressive police officers she’d ever met.
‘I know Briggs. She’s a sensible copper. Tell her what you need to and I’ll speak to her tomorrow to keep this tight.’
Bloom thanked him and then called Grace Briggs, who, as luck would have it, was wide awake and dealing with a major firearms incident. Bloom filled her in as quickly as possible – the psychopath collector, the Graham family, the disappearance of Jane Reid – and Briggs promised a high-priority call-out to all officers.
Bloom headed towards the kitchen. Claire was pacing round and round the kitchen island.
‘Claire?’ said Bloom quietly, not wanting to scare her.
‘Augusta. Thank you for coming.’
‘Of course. What can I do? Have you eaten anything?’ Bloom asked, switching on the kettle.
Claire shook her head.
‘Can I ask you some questions?’
‘Please. Anything at all.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to Jane?’
‘This morning at breakfast. She always helps me with the girls.’
‘And how did she seem?’ Bloom put teabags in two mugs.
‘Normal – just normal. I’ve been wracking my brain for something I missed, but there was nothing. I know she’s been subdued this last week, but she’s a tough little cookie.’
‘Would she go anywhere without telling you?’
‘Jane’s the most mature young girl I’ve ever met. She always tells me where she’s going and who with. She’s never out later than eight thirty, and, most importantly, she talks to me. She told me she was upset that you and Marcus were looking for her dad. She tells me everything.’
‘Did she say why that upset her?’ asked Bloom.
‘He’s a loser, isn’t he? She doesn’t want anything to do with him, and I suppose she’s scared that if her mum doesn’t come back, he might have some claim to her.’
‘Might that make her run away?’
Claire sighed. ‘We talked it through and she seemed fine. I said no one would force her to see him and that Dan and I would make sure she got to choose if the worst came to the worst. I thought she was OK with that.’ Claire started pacing again. ‘I’ve no idea what I’m doing, you know. How am I supposed to help her? What if I’ve said the wrong thing?’
‘We’ll find her,’ Bloom said. ‘Have you considered where Lana might have taken Jane, if that’s what’s happened?’
Claire stopped in her tracks. ‘Is that what you think’s happened? Marcus was asking me all these weird questions about Lana the other day, whether I thought she could be sinister, but he wouldn’t tell me why.’
‘I see,’ said Bloom.
‘I think I should know the whole story, don’t you?’
‘Let’s sit down,’ said Bloom, handing Claire a mug of tea. ‘I promise I’ll tell you everything. But let’s wait for Marcus to get back.’
They sat in silence, cradling their steaming mugs and both stealing quick glances at the clock. An hour later, the front door opened and Jameson and Dan walked in.
Claire jumped up. ‘Have you found her?’
Dan shook his head, his curly blond hair falling over his eyes. ‘Sorry, love. We came back to see if there’s any more news.’
Claire sat back down. ‘No. But Augusta promised you’d tell me what’s really going on.’
Jameson gave a small nod. They both knew that it was pointless to hide the truth now.
‘Claire,’ said Bloom, ‘we think the people selected to play this game may have psychopathic personality traits.’
Dan sat on the arm of his wife’s chair. Neither spoke, and so Bloom continued. ‘There are many people who possess these traits and most of them function very normally. They may sometimes surprise us with their actions or their views, but lots of non-psychopathic people do that too. The main thing that differentiates psychopaths from others is that they lack a conscience or any real empathy. They experience emotions more dimly than the rest of us. This makes them more rational on the one hand, but also unconcerned about the impact they have on others.’
‘Why is someone selecting them? Who would hunt psychopaths?’ asked Claire.
‘We can’t be sure. We don’t yet know the content of this game. But my guess is these people are being groomed for something specific, something related to their unique talents.’
‘We know of one player who’s emerged from this game—’ said Jameson.
‘Are you sure you need to cover this?’ interrupted Bloom. Jameson glared at her. ‘Sorry, carry on,’ she said.
‘Faye Graham who disappeared in January turned up at her family home last week.’
‘Well, that’s great news, isn’t it?’ said Claire.
‘I recognize that name,’ said Dan at the same time.
‘She stabbed her husband to death,’ said Jameson.
‘Jesus, Marcus.’ Claire stood. For a moment Bloom thought Claire might throw her tea at her brother. ‘Shit,’ she said in a faraway voice as she sat down again.
Dan took his wife’s hand. ‘What are the police doing about this?’
‘They’re helping, but it’s not easy. At the end of the day, these people have disappeared of their own accord and, other than Faye, we have no evidence of any wrongdoing.’
‘A woman killed her husband!’ Dan looked furious.
Bloom sat forward in her chair. ‘Yes, and the police are trying to find her.’
‘Is that what Lana’s going to do to Jane?’ said Claire.
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ replied Jameson.
‘Faye Graham has two children who remain alive and well despite being home at the time of the attack,’ said Bloom. She felt Jameson turn towards her. He knew her theory about why those children were spared and that she was avoiding that detail deliberately.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Dan.
‘I need to join this game.’ Jameson turned to Bloom. ‘I need you to get me in. I need to become one of them, get selected, and see what the hell is going on.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ Bloom asked. As if she had the power to manipulate a game embedded deep within the dark web.
‘We have all the questionnaires and quizzes. I’ll complete as many as I can as though I’m a psychopath. You can tell me what to say.’
Bloom shook her head. ‘They won’t just be using the quizzes. They’ll be looking at your whole online history, the cho
ices you’ve made, the views you’ve expressed. That’s what I’d be doing.’
‘You see! You know what they’d do, so you can get me in.’
‘We’d have to fake a whole persona, a whole background, not to mention a birthday that’s coming up soon.’
‘We’ll get DC Logan to help.’
‘It’s too risky. We’ve no idea what you’d be asked to do.’
Claire spoke up. ‘Marcus can do this. He’s done it before. He has medals for it.’
‘What?’ said Jameson, startled.
‘You told Dad.’
‘On his deathbed,’ Jameson said through gritted teeth.
‘Well, he had a little time to show off about your medals before he popped off. He was proud. So am I, for that matter.’
‘It’s called the Secret Service for a reason, Claire.’
‘Then you should have kept your big mouth shut.’
‘He was dying.’
‘And you still had to show off.’
‘I wasn’t showing off. I was explaining why I hadn’t been around and why I’d been so distant. I thought he deserved to know.’
Claire ignored her brother’s indignation and looked at Bloom. ‘He can do this. You have to let him do this.’
Bloom looked at Jameson. It was a foolish idea. An absolute long shot, at best. But maybe, just maybe, it would work.
32
The day of Jameson’s accident started so well.
The police called Claire because a girl matching Jane’s description had been seen at King’s Cross station. They couldn’t tell if she was alone – she was surrounded by commuters – but they were confident that she had walked through the station concourse. They were checking CCTV to confirm that she hadn’t boarded a train.
Jameson knew there was nothing he could do but wait and so he set off on a bike ride. The cortisol was making him jumpy and irritable. If he wanted to pass himself off as an authentic psychopath, he needed to know how they operated, what they thought and what they felt. Bloom had recommended Robert Hare’s Without Conscience, a study of psychopaths from the man who invented a way to identify them, Confessions of a Sociopath by M. E. Thomas, an autobiographical insight into life as a sociopath by an American lawyer, and The Wisdom of Psychopaths by Oxford University’s Professor of Psychology, Kevin Dutton. Jameson parked his bike and downloaded Confessions of a Sociopath to his phone.