by Leona Deakin
‘A few more things to add in,’ said Jameson. ‘Augusta is facing a tribunal case for fictitious professional misconduct and I was hospitalized by a mystery cyclist. Both in the last week. Then yesterday, the most senior member of our task force was promoted and suddenly half the team are too busy to attend this call.’
‘You think that’s all related, do you?’ said Green’s droll voice.
‘I’m just stating the facts.’
Bloom continued with her summary. ‘Our primary theory is that this game is targeting functional psychopaths. This is based on evidence from interviews with those who knew Lana, Faye, Stuart and Grayson, and from our meeting with Clive Llewellyn too.’
‘We didn’t see anything other than a pretentious prick, did we?’ said Green.
Jameson responded, ‘I analysed the recording and Llewellyn’s manner suggests psychopathic tendencies, such as superficial charm, manipulation and deceptiveness.’
‘Like I said before, just your typical criminal,’ said Green.
‘Psychopaths do make very good criminals, you’re right,’ said Bloom, ‘and I take your point. If this game is not targeting out-and-out psychopaths, at the very least it’s targeting people with a potential for committing crime and evading capture.’
‘On that point,’ said Jameson, ‘while I was relaxing at the NHS’s expense I kept an eye on crimes reported locally and nationally. Even if we ignore all possible terrorist activity, there’s arson, burglary, harassment, intimidation – there’s a lot of noise. And plenty of fraud. People being defrauded of their life savings, online bank accounts hacked. And most have yet to result in an arrest.’
‘Well, yeah, that’s the nature of crime. What are you suggesting?’ said Green.
‘That our players could be out there committing crimes without being detected.’
‘Why are you dismissing terrorist activities? What if ISIS has decided to radicalize natural-born killers?’ said Kaye Willis.
Bloom and Jameson looked at each other.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve not thought of that?’ said Green in response to their silence.
‘No, we have,’ said Jameson. ‘But radicalized terrorism is highly emotive, based on a sense of injustice, or a response towards core religious principles.’
Bloom added, ‘Your average psychopath just doesn’t care enough about other people. Everything is about them. If they’re getting what they want, all is good. It’s highly unlikely they’d be interested in a cause, let alone be willing to sacrifice themselves for it.’
‘What about organized crime then?’ said Akhtar.
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Jameson.
‘This comes right to the core of what we need to know,’ said Bloom. ‘Why is someone doing this? Creating this game would require huge resources, so the pay-off needs to be worth it. So who would benefit from having one hundred con artists, manipulators and morally bankrupt operators without a conscience sitting in their pocket?’
‘I can think of a few answers to that,’ said Green with a laugh.
‘Me too,’ said Jameson, but he was frighteningly serious.
42
Thomas Lake lived in a large detached house in Didsbury, Manchester, with his wife Suzanne and their twin boys, Lucas and Jacob. As Jameson and Bloom walked towards the front door, Jameson braced himself for disappointment. This couldn’t be the same Thomas Lake described by Jane.
A tall man with fair hair and a tanned complexion opened the door. He wore jeans with a checked short-sleeved shirt and Dennis the Menace slippers. Bloom explained they were following up on his call about Jane, and he invited them in.
Lake sat on the edge of a turquoise love seat. Bloom and Jameson sat opposite on a deep-blue velvet sofa. ‘Lana? She was my wife. And Jane is my daughter.’
‘Your wife?’ Jameson couldn’t hide his surprise.
‘For eighteen months. What’s happened to Jane? It was on the news and the policewoman I spoke to said someone would be in touch. Can you tell me where she is?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Lake,’ said Bloom.
‘Thomas, please.’
‘We think she might be with Lana. Lana went missing a few weeks ago. But other than the sighting of Jane at King’s Cross station on Saturday morning, we have no further information.’
Suzanne Lake came into the lounge carrying a cafetière and a plate of biscuits and placed them on the glass coffee table. She was pretty, with long red hair and kind eyes. She squeezed her husband’s arm before excusing herself.
‘We think Lana might have been recruited by someone,’ said Bloom.
‘Run that by me again?’
‘When was the last time you saw Jane?’ said Jameson.
Thomas Lake looked down. ‘Too long ago.’
‘Why? Why haven’t you made more effort?’ Jameson knew not to look at Bloom; he didn’t want to see the warning on her face.
‘Things between Lana and me were very complicated. She made some pretty horrific accusations.’
‘That you were a violent drug-user who harmed his own child?’ Jameson hadn’t intended to sound quite so judgemental.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lake looked from Bloom to Jameson. ‘Is that what Jane thinks of me?’
Jameson didn’t respond.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Bloom. ‘Is that not the case?’
‘I would never hurt Jane – or any child, for that matter – and I have never taken drugs.’
Jameson didn’t buy it. ‘So what did you mean when you said things were complicated between you and Lana?’
Lake exhaled and looked down at his hands in his lap. ‘I was young and naive when I met Lana. I thought … I thought that she was all I’d ever need. She liked the things I liked, enjoyed the same sports, liked the same clubs, the same music and films. I thought I’d met my soulmate. My parents were livid when they found out we were engaged. They said I was rushing things – but I was in love. Or I thought I was in love. I was infatuated. And within a few months she was pregnant. We married in the town hall when she was four months gone. I thought we were set for life.’
‘But?’ said Bloom.
Lake looked at the ceiling and then at Bloom. ‘None of it was real. She was … I can’t describe it. She was sort of empty.’ He reached for a biscuit and broke it in half. ‘She just tuned out. I couldn’t get any response. She couldn’t have a conversation without hurling abuse at me. I thought it was pregnancy hormones, but she just got worse after Jane was born. As far as Lana was concerned, the baby was hers. I had no say and no rights. All she wanted was my money. She kept pushing me to get a better job. She wanted a better house, nicer clothes, foreign holidays. She was killing me. And when I couldn’t keep up, she …’ Thomas looked at the broken biscuit in his hands. He placed both halves back on the plate and brushed the crumbs from his palms. He looked at Jameson. ‘Do you know Jane?’
Jameson nodded. How had Lake clocked that?
‘Is she OK? I mean, other than going missing … has she been happy?’
‘She’s a great kid, very mature and capable, probably because she’s had to mother her mother.’
Thomas frowned.
‘We think Lana might be a psychopath,’ said Jameson.
The stunned look on Thomas Lake’s face was mirrored on Bloom’s. She clearly didn’t approve of Jameson’s blunt pronouncement, but Jameson wanted the man to know what a bloody awful decision leaving his daughter with Lana had been.
‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ said Bloom, leaning forward in her chair. ‘What Marcus means is that we think Lana may have an extreme personality type. We don’t think she’s necessarily dangerous, we simply believe—’
‘No, I agree.’ Lake looked at Bloom and then at Jameson. ‘I’ve never said it out loud to anyone, not even Suzanne, but I’ve always thought my first wife was a psychopath. It’s a relief to hear you say that.’
Jameson clenched his fists, trying to get a handle on his temper. Then he spoke as calmly as
he could. ‘And yet you left Jane with her?’
‘Good God, no. I would never, never have done that. But Lana took Jane with her when she left for the women’s refuge. She said I’d beaten her. Obviously they believed her. They helped with a restraining order. I fought it for a year, but Lana was relentless and vicious. She’d be sweet and lovely in front of the social workers or in court, and then when it was just me and her she’d become this sneering monster. She scared me. And as soon as she had the court’s approval for sole custody, she was gone. I never saw them after that day.’ Lake looked at Jameson. ‘But I have never stopped looking.’
‘I know it’s been a long time, Thomas,’ said Bloom, ‘but can you think of anywhere Lana might have taken Jane?’
‘If I could, don’t you think I’d have found them by now?’
They walked back to the car in silence. Jameson knew what was coming. He climbed into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. Then he sat, eyes front, not looking at Bloom.
‘What was that?’ She turned in her seat to look at him. ‘Marcus?’ she said when he didn’t respond. She faced the steering wheel again and started the engine. ‘I know Jane is important to you and your family, but you can’t go on the attack like that. That poor man is not responsible for Jane going missing.’
‘No?’ He could hear his own petulance.
‘No.’ Bloom pulled out of the parking space. ‘He’s as much Lana’s victim as Jane is. He said he’d been looking for them all these years.’
‘Well, he didn’t look hard enough then.’
Bloom sighed. ‘Even if he’d found them, Lana had sole custody. What could he have done?’
Jameson stared out of the window. He knew Bloom was right. And he knew it was a good thing that they’d found Jane’s father and discovered such a good, kind, honest man. Would he really rather he’d turned out to be an addict? Only because he was so damn angry and desperate to vent his frustration on someone. God help Lana when he finally got his hands on her.
43
Jameson lay on his side and watched Sarah sleeping. He wanted to trace his finger down her cheek and across her lips. But she looked so peaceful. So he simply watched. Their date had been a huge success – obviously. They had met at the Serpentine Gallery as agreed. Sarah had brought a picnic rug and a bag full of Marks and Spencer goodies, and he’d brought a bottle of chilled Sancerre and freshly baked chocolate brownies. She’d been impressed. He’d explained that it was his grandma’s recipe and usually reserved for his nieces, but that he’d made an exception for her.
‘I’m honoured,’ she’d said, taking a bite. ‘Gorgeous.’
‘Me or the brownies?’ he’d replied.
She had been right about the weather. Almost. They’d enjoyed an hour or so of warm sunshine before the first drops of rain splattered on to their picnic. They’d packed up quickly and run for shelter. Sarah had giggled as they’d splashed through puddles of water. Jameson remembered taking her hand and feeling her lace her fingers through his.
They’d spent the afternoon in a bar and then, when he thought she’d make her excuses and leave, she’d suggested dinner, and then they were heading back to his. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sarah opened one eye and smiled. ‘Hi.’
‘Morning,’ he replied. ‘How are you?’
‘Comfy.’
‘Good. I like the women in my bed to feel comfy.’
Sarah closed her eyes. ‘You make it sound like there’ve been dozens of women in here.’
‘I realized something last night,’ he said, knowing to ignore the silent question in her statement. ‘You aren’t a good girl at all.’
Sarah rolled on to her back and smiled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Later, as they sat at the breakfast bar eating toasted crumpets with butter, Jane’s appeal came on the radio. Jameson turned it up. There was nothing new, just the same request for information.
‘She’s a friend of the family,’ Jameson explained as he turned the volume down again.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Sarah placed her mug down. ‘What do they think happened?’
‘We think her mum might have taken her. She’s going through a rough patch. It’s hard to explain.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘Well, she’s not normal, that’s for sure.’ He clocked Sarah’s expression and elaborated. ‘She has a history of drink and drugs. She’s not been the most responsible parent.’
‘Well, at least with her mum it’s better’ – Sarah paused – ‘than someone else taking her.’
‘I really hope you’re right.’ Jameson kissed the top of Sarah’s head. ‘Let’s change the subject. I want to hear more about those secrets you don’t have.’
‘Is it related to your work? To your research?’
‘Why would you think that?’ he asked.
‘You get this haunted look on your face when you talk about your job – or should I say, when you don’t talk about your job – and you have it again now.’
He must be losing his touch. He used to be better than this. Or maybe it was Sarah. He found himself wanting to confide in her and that had never happened before.
‘You’re not trying one of those staring competitions again, are you? Because I should warn you, Marcus, I’ve been practising.’
The sound of his name on her lips made the muscles in his stomach clench.
‘Practising with who?’
Her lips twitched. ‘That would be telling.’
‘So we both have secrets. I knew it.’
‘You admit you’re keeping secrets?’
He almost choked on his tea. ‘You don’t miss a beat, do you?’
‘Would you want me to?’
She placed her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him closer. His phone started to vibrate on the table in front of them. She didn’t let go. The tightening in his stomach travelled towards his groin and he pulled away while he still could.
‘One minute,’ he said.
It was Claire. There might be news.
He sat upright and answered. ‘Hey, sis. Give me one sec.’ He placed a hand over the microphone. ‘Yes, Jane’s disappearance is related to my research.’ He felt strangely liberated speaking the truth.
‘Sorry, Claire,’ he said into the phone. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I’ve had a message from Jane.’
Jameson stood. ‘What? When?’
‘She sent me a private message on Facebook yesterday morning. I never go on so I didn’t see it until today when Dan was showing me pictures of his cousin’s new baby.’ She sounded agitated.
‘It’s all right. Calm down. Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve seen it now. What does it say?’
Jameson glanced at Sarah. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed, ‘Bad news?’ Jameson shook his head.
‘It says, “Hi Claire. It’s Jane. I’m with Mum. I’m OK but she has me locked in the attic of some house near Leeds—”’
‘What? How did they get to Leeds?’ said Jameson. The police said she hadn’t boarded a train. Idiots.
Clare continued, ‘“We were in the taxi for about half an hour and came to a town. I don’t know what it’s called, but I remember a church. I think it was All Saints. And a Majestic Wine shop. Sorry. That’s all I can remember. The house we are in is a three-storey terrace on a back street.”’
Jameson scribbled notes on the back of an envelope: 30 minutes from Leeds, All Saints Church, Majestic Wine, three-storey terrace on back street.
‘Then she says,’ Claire went on, ‘“I’ve only managed to get hold of Mum’s phone because we had a fight this morning and she dropped it, so this might be my only message. She’s acting weird and I want to come home. Please ask Marcus to find me.”’
Jameson stopped writing and swallowed the lump in his throat. How were they supposed to find her? A house with no number, no road name, no idea which suburban town near Leeds.
‘What does she mean, they had a fight?’ said C
laire. ‘Lana won’t hurt her, will she? Tell me she won’t hurt her?’
Jameson knew he couldn’t do that. ‘Let me call Augusta.’
‘You have to find her, Marcus.’
‘We’ll do our best, Claire. I promise.’ He put the phone down.
‘I’m going to head off and let you get on,’ said Sarah. ‘This sounds important.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ She came over and kissed him softly.
He instinctively covered the notes with his hand.
Sarah stepped back and narrowed her eyes. ‘Wow. You really do have trust issues, don’t you?’
It wasn’t the first time a woman had said something like that. ‘Force of habit. Sorry. I used to work for the Secret Service.’ He blinked a couple of times. Why had he said that?
‘Oh,’ said Sarah. ‘I see.’ She ran a hand through her hair and pulled it over one shoulder, smoothing it over her left breast. ‘That explains a lot.’ She stood still for a moment, as though taking it in, and then burst back to life. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said, ‘I have something for you.’ She walked through to his bedroom, returning a moment later with her coat and handbag. She placed the latter on the table and reached inside to remove a paper bag.
‘Here,’ she said.
‘A book?’ he said, opening the bag.
‘I have a friend at the publishers. It’s an advance copy. I know you like cycling and I really liked it.’
‘The Hardmen: Legends of the Cycling Gods,’ Jameson read aloud. Then he looked at her. ‘You’ve read this?’
Sarah nodded. ‘It’s about the craziest, bravest cyclists in history. I like my cycling too, you know. Maybe we could go for a ride some day?’
‘I thought we already had?’
‘All right, smutty mouth,’ she said, putting one arm and then the other into her coat. ‘Go be a hero, then. Call me when you’re ready to mix with mere mortals again.’
Jameson took her face in his hands. ‘I’m not a hero. And you’re the one who saves lives.’