by Leona Deakin
‘I don’t know that we’ll ever find her.’
Sarah was quiet for a moment. ‘Why? What happened?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want to talk about it, I get it. But if you need me, I’m here, OK? Just call.’
He thanked her and promised to keep in touch. When he rejoined Bloom her glass was empty. ‘Tough night,’ he said. He’d never seen his partner this affected. He wanted to know why she blamed herself for that girl’s suicide, but he couldn’t think of the right words. So instead he simply sat and waited, on the slim chance she might want to talk.
‘She was this beautiful little thing,’ Bloom said eventually. ‘With long curly hair and angelic features. Looking at her, you’d think she was the sweetest child.’
‘But?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. This case has brought it all back. She was magnetic and intelligent and so inquisitive about how and why she was different. I wanted to be the person who harnessed all that potential and moulded it into something good.’
‘She was a psychopath?’ Another piece of the Augusta Bloom jigsaw clicked into place. This explained her lifelong obsession.
‘I was naive. She was more vulnerable than I thought. I’d viewed psychopaths as another species, a sort of giant mutation. Then I did what so many of us do. I generalized. I expected her to be exactly the same as these tough, cold characters, but at the end of the day she was just a young girl who knew she was different, who wanted to fit in.’
He really felt for Bloom. There was no guilt as grim as someone’s blood on your hands.
‘What was her name?’
‘Seraphine. Seraphine Walker.’
50
Bloom heard footsteps on the landing outside her room. She’d been dreaming about trains and bridges and smashed-up bodies. She sat up and blinked at the clock beside her bed. The small white cube her grandfather had given to her for her tenth birthday. 5.13am. The footsteps came closer and she sat up, scanning her childhood bedroom for a weapon. A rarely played guitar leaned against the wall in the far corner. There was a letter opener still in the drawer of her dressing table. Look at the damage Seraphine Walker had achieved with a sharpened pencil. She’d been a quick thinker with an exceptional knowledge of human anatomy and the sort of dispassionate ruthlessness that chilled Bloom to the bone. The idea that there were hundreds of Seraphines playing games with other people’s lives, games like the one they had played last night, made Bloom both anxious and furious.
She paused for a second as an idea began to form.
There was a gentle rap on her door. ‘Augusta?’
She’d forgotten that Marcus was staying.
‘Come in,’ she called. She could see from the light in the hall that he was wearing only a T-shirt and his boxers.
‘Have you seen your WhatsApp?’ he said.
She reached for her phone. She always set it on silent when she went to bed.
Jameson took a few steps into the room and then paused. Bloom flicked on the bedside light and he looked deftly around the space, taking it in, no doubt revelling in the insight into her youth. She expected him to make some sarcastic remark about the girly decor, but he didn’t. Which meant that whatever was in the WhatsApp message was not good.
She clicked on the icon and saw only one new message in a newly created group consisting of her, Jameson and one blocked number. The title of the group was ‘Dare to Play?’ She looked at Jameson briefly before reading the message.
Blocked
Dear Dr Bloom and Mr Jameson. You are clearly intrigued by our activities and we have been impressed with your tenacious deductions.
So we wanted to afford you the courtesy of an invite.
Dare to Play?
5:00am
‘What do we say?’ said Jameson.
‘I take it you want to reply with a yes?’
Jameson shrugged. ‘I thought bring it on had a nice ring to it.’
‘Of course you did.’ Bloom clicked on the text box and typed a reply.
Bloom
I thought we were already playing.
5:17am
Jameson read it. ‘Or that could work.’
Bloom looked down at the screen, waiting for a reply.
Blocked
Whatever would give you that impression, Dr Bloom?
5:18am
Let me show you what it’s really like to play.
5:18am
Bloom and Jameson looked at each other. Then Jameson began to type his own message.
Jameson
And who is ‘we’?
5:19am
Blocked
That, Mr Jameson, is for me to know, and you to find out … if you can …
5:20am
‘I need coffee for this,’ said Jameson, and left the room.
What was motivating this invite? There must be a reason for it. Clive Llewellyn had been sent home, presumably because he’d passed the challenges. He was successful, self-controlled and perfectly immersed in the real world. Not even his daughter suspected anything. Perhaps the game searched for psychopathic personalities who knew how to hide? But then what? What were they being asked to do?
Bloom thought about the key motivators for those with a high degree of psychopathy: excitement, self-aggrandisement and manipulating others for personal gain. On a grander scale, what would that mean? How might that convert to a collective goal? She reached for her jumper and typed one more message before heading downstairs to join Jameson.
Bloom
Why would we play? What would we gain? How can we compete when we don’t have the basic characteristics required?
5:26pm
In the kitchen, Jameson was dressed and pouring coffee into two mugs. He’d turned on the main light, flooding the space bright white. Bloom turned it off again and switched on the wall lights instead, which shone a soft yellow.
‘Coffee OK?’ Jameson said.
‘Yes, please.’ She sat at the table and took the mug. Jameson pushed the milk her way and she shook her head.
‘I saw your last message. Was that the best idea?’ He sat opposite her. ‘I thought we wanted to play. That’s why I did all that reading, isn’t it?’
‘That was when we wanted to insert you as a stooge. They won’t be inviting us to play for real.’
‘So what do you think they’re up to?’ He checked his phone. He smiled and typed a response.
‘What does it say?’
‘It’s Sarah. A message I missed last night.’
Bloom sipped the coffee. ‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘She’s not bad.’ Jameson’s smile gave him away. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing, Marcus. Nothing at all.’ She wished she was as good as Claire at winding him up. This felt like a prime opportunity.
He shook his head. ‘What are they up to then?’
‘Why us? What do we gain?’
‘Jane. That’s what we stand to gain. We need to cut a deal. Get them to let her go.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘But that’s what we want. I couldn’t give a … whatever, about Lana or Stuart or that kid in Sheffield.’
‘Grayson.’
‘Let them play. I couldn’t care less what they’re doing. It’s not our problem and we can’t fight them or stop them on our own.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘But we can get Jane.’
‘I know.’
‘But we’ll have to play.’
Bloom nodded. ‘They can’t control us through a network or an infrastructure as they can with the police. We’re independent and that makes us harder to pressurize. Which is why they’ll attack us personally … and those we care about.’
‘You mean Jane … or Claire?’ Jameson sounded worried.
Bloom nodded slowly. ‘And Sarah.’
‘But they don’t know about that.’
‘How do you know?’
Blocked
What would you gain? I’m disappointed that you haven’t worked this out for yourself, Dr Bloom. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that a family friend of Mr Jameson’s is one of our players? Lana Reid is not exactly the calibre we normally require, but I have persevered with her because she provides something I want.
5:30pm
‘What the hell?’ said Jameson.
Bloom grabbed her phone and typed a reply.
Bloom
Which is?
5.32pm
She had a horrible feeling she knew the answer, and when it came a second later, the knot in her stomach tightened.
Blocked
YOU.
5.33pm
51
Jameson was on the train from Harrogate to Leeds, sitting opposite a teenage boy with earrings that opened vast holes in his lobes. What did it look like when he took the earrings out? How would he secure a decent job with saggy lobes? Jameson felt tired and old. This boy’s generation would be different; their world would be full of saggy earlobes.
In Leeds, he followed the map on his phone past the queuing taxis towards Laynes Espresso on the opposite side of the road. The terracotta-coloured cafe reportedly sold some of the best coffee in Leeds. Jameson entered and scanned the small space. Sarah was sitting at a table for two.
‘I ordered you a latte,’ she said as the waitress delivered two coffees with perfect rosetta designs in the milk.
‘Are you here for work or family?’ said Jameson.
‘Neither.’
‘Oh?’
‘It sounded like my boyfriend needed me, so I came.’
Jameson tossed the word ‘boyfriend’ around his mind for a few seconds and decided he rather liked the sound of it. ‘Really? I assumed you’d be visiting family. Don’t they live nearby?’
Sarah shook her head and a strand of hair fell in front of her face. She pushed it behind her ear. ‘They’re way up in North Yorkshire. It’s the largest county, you know.’
‘I had heard that. You didn’t need to come up here for me, though.’ He absolutely didn’t mean it, but it felt like the right thing to say.
‘Don’t worry. I have a meeting with the Chief Executive of Leeds Hospital Trust later today.’
Jameson did his best to mask his disappointment. She was here, having coffee with him, resting her calf against his leg, and that was all that mattered. After spending a futile fourteen hours knocking on doors in Ilkley yesterday, this was exactly what he needed.
‘Well thank you, Mr Chief Executive.’
‘Mrs Chief Executive,’ said Sarah from behind her coffee cup.
Damn it. ‘Wow. They have a professional doing the job. Good for them.’
Sarah placed her cup in its saucer. ‘Nice recovery.’
He grinned. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘I missed you.’
He hadn’t expected that and he knew he’d failed to hide his surprise. Sarah dropped her eyes and he wasn’t sure what to say next. In a simple world, he’d say, I missed you too, and in an ideal world he’d say, I’m so glad you said that because I want to spend every minute of every day with you. But his world was neither simple nor ideal, so he said, ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to get any better.’
She shuffled in her chair. Her leg was no longer touching his. ‘I see.’
He took one of her hands in both of his. ‘No, you don’t. It’s complicated. This case is twisted and bad and I can’t have you anywhere near it.’
Sarah frowned at their hands.
‘The research Augusta and I do is for the justice system, or for the victims of crimes. Sometimes it involves meeting unsavoury characters. And in this case, with Jane, I don’t even know who we’re up against. But what I do know is that they’re playing games with Augusta’s life, and with mine too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they don’t want us interfering in whatever the hell they’re up to. But we can’t stop. We have to get Jane back, so things might get hairy.’
Sarah squeezed his hand. ‘Are you in danger?’
‘I’m always in danger, babe. I live on the edge.’
She kicked him underneath the table. ‘That’s neither impressive nor funny.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And it was downright cheesy.’
He laughed. It felt good to break the tension.
‘How are they messing with your lives?’
Jameson recalled Bloom’s cautionary words as he left to catch the train: Be careful what you share. He knew she was right. Telling Sarah the whole story would make her vulnerable. But he wanted to be as honest as possible. ‘It turns out Jane and her mother may have been targeted deliberately because they know me, and because I know Dr Bloom.’
‘Dr Bloom?’
‘Augusta. She’s a psychologist.’
‘Your partner?’ Jameson nodded. ‘Why are they targeting her?’
‘We’re not sure, but she has a history of working with these kinds of people, so maybe she pissed someone off.’
Sarah fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘What kind of people?’
Jameson selected his words carefully. ‘Well, she’s a forensic psychologist, so she’s dealt with a range of challenging characters.’
‘Bad people?’
‘Some of them.’
‘And the ones after her now – do you think they’re bad people?’
Jameson shrugged.
‘Are they dangerous? Have they done anything to harm her … or you?’
He took a breath and tried to think of a way to change the subject.
‘Marcus! Tell me. Do you think these people are trying to hurt you?’
‘Not physically, no.’ He thought about the cyclist who’d knocked him over.
‘What does that mean, “not physically”?’
‘Look, Sarah, I said I don’t want you involved in this. I can’t tell you any more.’
She nodded solemnly. They talked instead about her medical research, something to do with DNA profiling, but neither was concentrating fully.
‘I have an hour or so before my meeting,’ Sarah said after the waitress had cleared their cups. ‘And my hotel is just around the corner.’
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Jameson walked back through the lobby of the Malmaison Hotel feeling pretty damn good. He smiled at the well-dressed businessman still working on his laptop. He’d noticed him when they’d arrived – or rather he’d noticed his Breitling watch. He waved a cheery goodbye to the receptionist and headed to the station. He had three messages from Bloom.
Today 11:15am
I’ve been summoned back to London by the HCPC. My tribunal has been set for tomorrow. They had a cancellation. Bit convenient! Call me when you can. A
Today 11:35am
DS Green called. There’s been an unconfirmed sighting of Jane in Manchester. He wants to know if you can go and help the officers there?
Today 12:00pm
The games are most definitely on, Marcus. I’ve just heard from Libby Goodman. Stuart sent her a text message this morning. CALL ME!
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘My phone was on silent.’
‘I do not need the details, thank you.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘I’m on the two p.m. train back to London, so I need you to speak to Libby and then go to Manchester. Can you manage that?’
He fought the urge to apologize again; it would only irritate her. He had acted irresponsibly; he knew it and she knew it. All so he could have the enjoyment of Sarah.
‘Of course. Who’s the witness for Jane?’
‘A security guard at Piccadilly station. He tried to speak to her, but apparently she ran away. DS Green will fill you in.’
‘Why would she run? Her message to Claire said she wanted us to come and get her. That doesn’t sound like Jane.’
‘Maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t Jane. But if it was and she really is travelling
to Manchester alone, she is doing so for one of two reasons. Either she’s escaped, in which case she’ll be trying to contact you and Claire, or …’
‘She’s out on condition.’
‘Yes. And who knows what they’ve threatened her with if she talks or gets caught.’
Jameson passed through the ticket barriers and walked towards Platform 1c for the Harrogate train. He’d pick up the rental car, drive to Manchester and call Libby Goodman on the way. He squeezed on-board and into a seat beside a large lady with five big shopping bags. She shuffled her significant backside and nearly pushed him off the seat.
‘Sorry,’ Jameson said as he pushed himself back on. Why was he apologizing? And that was when it hit him. The thing he had missed. The type of thing he’d been trained to spot. Shit. He was losing his touch. He stood and moved to the end of the carriage. The train wobbled and he almost fell, grabbing the handrail above to steady himself. Sarah’s phone went straight to voicemail. He checked his watch. She would be in her meeting with the Chief Executive. He googled Leeds Hospital and found a number, but halfway through the instructions for selecting a specific department, his phone lost signal.
‘Shit!’ he said loudly, and the people standing nearest looked his way.
No reception.
Jameson closed his eyes and took three very deep breaths. Now was not the time to panic. He’d been an idiot. Bloom had warned him and he had dismissed her concerns. But she’d been right: they knew about Sarah. That businessman in the designer suit and the Breitling watch was Stuart Rose-Butler. He remembered him from the photograph on Libby Goodman’s mantelpiece.
One bar of reception. He dialled the hospital again.
‘Good afternoon. Chief Executive’s office.’
‘This is Dr Jameson from the BMA. I need to get an urgent message to my colleague Dr Sarah Mendax. I believe she’s in a meeting with your CEO.’