Gone

by Leona Deakin

Jane felt the ground shift beneath her feet. That was impossible. Her mother had never been married. And sixteen years ago her mum would have been living in London with Jane’s druggie dad. Jane studied Thomas Lake. He looked athletic and healthy, like some of her friends’ dads: men with jobs in the City who spent their weekends cycling and camping with their families.

  ‘Mum was never married,’ she said, but her words didn’t sound convincing, not even to her. Her mum’s career had been a lie, so how could she be sure of anything?

  ‘Come to the kitchen. I’ll explain everything, I promise. I just need to make a very quick call.’ Lake held an arm out to direct her to the back of the house. ‘And Jane, you’re safe here. Suzanne and I will take care of you.’

  59

  Bloom still sat in her mother’s attic with her papers on Seraphine spread around her. Jameson’s reaction had been as expected. But if she was right and Seraphine really was behind this, she felt sure that the situation was salvageable. This had been a test for Bloom, not a punishment for Jameson.

  Her phone rang; it was forever ringing. She didn’t recognize the number.

  ‘Dr Bloom,’ she said.

  ‘This is Thomas Lake,’ said the caller. He dropped his volume. ‘I’m Lana’s ex-husband.’

  Bloom closed her eyes. He wanted an update on Jane; she couldn’t tell him anything. Not yet. ‘Hello, Mr Lake,’ she replied. ‘I’m afraid I have no news about Jane.’

  ‘She’s here,’ he said, in the same whispered voice.

  ‘She’s what?’ This didn’t make sense. She’d been released already? ‘With you? Where?’

  ‘At my house. She arrived five minutes ago.’

  ‘And is she OK?’

  ‘I think so … She’s confused … I don’t think she knows who I am. She thought Lana would be here.’

  ‘How did she find you?’

  ‘She was sent. By the same person who called me.’

  ‘Who called you?’ Things were moving incredibly quickly; it was impossible to keep up with this damn game.

  ‘A woman. She didn’t give a name. She said that Lana was unable to look after Jane any more and that it was my turn to step up. Then she said I should call you.’

  ‘She told you to call me? What exactly did this woman say?’

  ‘She said that before I did anything else, I had to call you and tell you that you did the right thing, that Jane is safe now.’

  Bloom felt a surge of hope. Maybe she’d been right. ‘Can I speak to Jane, please? Just quickly. She knows me.’

  ‘Would you? That would be great. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want her to freak out. If she believes all those things about me that Lana said …’

  ‘I’ll explain.’

  ‘And one more thing. The woman who rang – she said something strange about someone called Carl Rogers and positive regard.’

  ‘Unconditional positive regard?’

  ‘That’s it. What’s that?’

  ‘Carl Rogers was a psychologist. He developed a therapy for his patients founded on the principle that we only need unconditional support from one person in order to recover from psychological abuse.’

  ‘Why would she mention that?’

  Bloom thought about it. ‘I think she’s saying that Jane needs a different kind of parenting, someone who will love and respect her unconditionally.’

  ‘Because Lana doesn’t?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know enough about their relationship to comment.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you think you can do that?’

  The line fell quiet for a moment. ‘Be her father, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

  Bloom asked again to speak to Jane and was relieved to hear her voice, clear and confident, down the line.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Jane. ‘Who are these people? Why is he calling you? Where is my mum?’

  ‘Jane, I need you to listen to me carefully. Marcus and I met Thomas earlier this week, because we’d discovered that your father was nothing at all like your mother had described. He wasn’t a drug user or a child abuser. When you were born, he was a newly qualified dentist who loved you and your mum very much. He’s spent most of your life trying to find out where your mum took you.’

  ‘This man is my father?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s a good man with a loving wife, and you’ve two step-brothers who you can get to know now. I know this is a shock, but you’re safe there.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘I’m going to call Marcus. He’ll want to know that you’re safe. We’ve all been so worried about you. He or Claire will come and get you soon. But, in the meantime, talk to Thomas. Get to know him.’

  ‘And my mum?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, Jane. When did you last see her?’

  ‘She left me with a woman called Denise two days ago.’

  ‘What was Denise like?’

  ‘Sort of plump, with short dark hair. I think she was mixed race.’

  Not Seraphine. She’d been very fair. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘There was a man at the house one day. Mum brought him to the attic. I don’t know why. He didn’t speak to me. He just looked around the room, nodded at Mum and then left.’

  ‘Did you get his name?’

  ‘No. But he was skinny and sort of creepy. Denise said that if I came here, I’d see Mum again. She’ll be OK now, won’t she?’

  Bloom wasn’t surprised by Jane’s concern for Lana. She knew as well as anyone that your mum is always your mum, no matter how flawed she might be. Jane had never known any parent other than Lana – she might have been inadequate and irresponsible, but she’d been the only constant in Jane’s life.

  ‘She’s with these people voluntarily, so yes, I hope she’ll be OK.’

  60

  Blocked

  Mr Jameson. Your colleague Dr Bloom has played well. But how might you fare, I wonder?

  3:30pm

  Half an hour had passed and Jameson was still sitting against the wall of the hotel corridor. The phone buzzed again in his hand.

  Blocked

  As a man of action I expect you’ll prefer a physical challenge to a mental one. In ten minutes the lovely Sarah will be taking a closer than usual look at the view from the top of the Q-Park multi-storey. Can you get there in time, I wonder?

  3:31pm

  Oh, and for every police officer you approach for help, I shall deduct five.

  3:31pm

  Jameson stood in one smooth motion, his migraine a fading memory. He so wanted this to be over, but it was only just beginning. He walked past Sarah’s room and away from the police officers. He needed to find Sarah. He called Bloom’s phone, but the line was engaged. He swore under his breath and googled Q-Park Leeds. Five bloody car parks. Of course there were. As the lift descended, he checked the capacity of each. Something told him to find the tallest. Two had a capacity of only 250 cars, so he focused on the other three. Wellington Street and The Light each had a 400-car capacity and Sovereign Square could hold 500 cars. He set the timer on his phone for eight minutes. Then he walked to the reception desk.

  The woman behind the counter was speaking to a young colleague who looked nervous and new. She was concentrating hard on the screen in front of her. The older receptionist caught his eye and smiled, but continued to speak to the new girl. Jameson didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I have an urgent matter. Can you tell me which is the tallest of these car parks: Wellington Street, The Light or Sovereign Square?’

  ‘Well, The Light is underground,’ she said. ‘I’m not familiar with Wellington Street, but Sovereign Square is a high-rise.’

  ‘I saw someone jump from the car park next to the market once. They were totally dead,’ said the new receptionist. Her colleague glared at the young girl. Her cheeks turned pink and she looked a
way.

  ‘Which car park was that? A Q-Park?’ Jameson asked.

  Both women looked at him curiously.

  ‘Is someone jumping?’ said the girl.

  ‘The market car park isn’t a Q-Park, as far as I’m aware,’ said the older receptionist. ‘Sovereign Square is the closest. It’s just around the corner.’

  ‘How long to walk?’

  ‘A couple of minutes, tops. You can see it from the door.’

  ‘And what about St John’s?’

  ‘That’s further away. Ten minutes … maybe more?’

  Would they choose a place that he couldn’t get to within their time limit? Of course they would. Catch a cab, man, he thought. ‘But Sovereign Square is higher?’

  Jameson’s phone rang. Bloom.

  ‘Good news,’ she said as he answered.

  ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. Did you see the WhatsApp? They’re threatening to throw Sarah off a car park in just over five minutes.’

  The two women behind reception looked at each other, one shocked, the other excited.

  ‘I’ve been on the phone to Jane. Wait.’

  ‘Jane? Is she OK?’

  There was no answer. Bloom was checking her messages. ‘I see,’ she said, when she came back on the line. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Is Jane OK?’

  ‘She’s with Thomas Lake. She’s fine.’

  How the hell …? Jameson forced the thought aside. He didn’t have time to dwell on that right now. The psychos had been true to their word: Jane had been returned.

  But that news only made Sarah’s situation worse.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ he said to Bloom. He needed to concentrate. People rarely picked a location at random. In MI6 he used to run sessions with new recruits in which he instructed them to select a location to meet a source in a city they weren’t familiar with. They could choose the city and the specific location. The only rule was it had to be somewhere they didn’t know well. His job was to guess where in their given city they’d selected, to within a radius of one mile. They all went away to research their locations and then returned with a smugness that said: You’ll never guess this. But he usually did, because people couldn’t escape their own unconscious biases. If they preferred to travel by public transport, they’d pick somewhere within walking distance of the train station. If they preferred to drive, they’d go for somewhere near a car park – especially if they had a decent motor. If the recruit in question was a football fan, they’d pick a point within a mile of the stadium. The more Marcus knew about them, the easier it was to guess. It’s surprisingly hard to pick something at random. He was banking on that being true for psychopaths, too.

  He looked at the options again. St John was one of Jesus’s disciples. Was religious symbolism likely for a psychopath? Sovereign signified royalty and independence, and Wellington, if you were talking the Duke of Wellington, was a master of war. Either of those could work. He thought about the message again. The lovely Sarah will be taking a closer than usual look at the view. What could be seen from the top?

  ‘If you were standing on the top of each of these car parks, what would you see?’ he asked the receptionists.

  The older woman looked down as she thought about the question. ‘From St John’s, you’d see the top end of town, towards the university. Wellington Street goes out towards the ring road, so maybe you’d see all the business buildings along the waterfront. But like I said, I don’t know exactly where that car park is. And from Sovereign Square, you’d see this hotel and the train station.’

  ‘The train tracks?’ said Bloom in Jameson’s ear.

  ‘The station or the tracks?’ he asked, but he was already moving. Sovereign Square was the largest, so probably the highest, had a name that signified standing out from the crowd, and overlooked the train line. That was enough. His gut said it was the place.

  ‘Both,’ called the receptionist as he dashed towards the door.

  ‘I’m going to Sovereign Square, Augusta. It’s the largest, so probably the tallest. Why are they doing this? If this is your Seraphine girl, why is she after the people I care about?’

  Bloom sighed. ‘I expect because you’re the person I most care about.’

  ‘What?’ he replied. He could see the Q-Park sign at the corner of the road. He broke into a run.

  ‘You’re not only my business partner, you’re my closest friend. My mother’s in a home, my father’s dead and I don’t have any other family. If someone wanted to hurt the people closest to me … well, it’s you.’

  ‘Great. I befriend some loser with no friends, and now I have to suffer.’

  Bloom didn’t reply.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, they’re not coming after you or me without a bloody good fight. I’ll call you back.’ He reached the pedestrian entrance to the car park. He needed a ticket. Damn it. He ran towards the vehicle entrance. One car was waiting to go in and two were queuing to come out. As the car drove into the car park, he sprinted up to the ticket machine and pressed the button. It emerged frustratingly slowly. When it finally came out he ran back to the pedestrian entrance, inserted the ticket, then took the stairs two at a time.

  The open-air top floor had ten cars parked directly in front of him, another dozen in the central parking bays, and a couple more further away. Beyond them, he could see the city and the train-station roof. But in front of that, at the very edge, were two figures with their backs to him, one behind the other, just as he’d held Lana over the railway bridge.

  Should he run at them? Or creep up quietly? Neither had turned to look his way. As he was going through his options, his phone began a jingle that indicated his eight minutes were up. He silenced it, but it was too late. The man holding Sarah turned and locked eyes with Jameson.

  Stuart Rose-Butler.

  Rose-Butler smiled.

  Jameson charged at them. It was the only option left.

  Rose-Butler grabbed hold of a pole that supported a narrow canopy running the circumference of the car park and pulled himself up on to the perimeter wall. He yanked Sarah up on to the wall beside him. She still had her back to Jameson. He’d been expecting her to cry out or plead for her life, but she wasn’t making a sound. He was in awe of her bravery.

  ‘Rose-Butler,’ he called. ‘You psychopathic fuck! I made it in time. Let her go.’ He was too far away. Even if he grabbed Sarah, at this speed he’d send her over the edge. Rose-Butler had the advantage.

  ‘The challenge was to get here in time, Mr Jameson. But not in time to stop me – in time to watch.’ Rose-Butler stared right at him. The fucker was enjoying himself.

  ‘You’ve got a son now,’ Jameson shouted. He was still five rows away. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll hurt him. You have my word.’

  A flash of anger crossed Rose-Butler’s face but disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. He still had Sarah by the arm. He winked at Jameson. He tugged Sarah around to face him.

  ‘Sarah!’ Jameson called.

  Her wide eyes met his. ‘Marcus?’ she whispered.

  And then they were falling backwards, both Rose-Butler and Sarah, toppling over the edge of the wall, her arms reaching out, her legs kicking.

  He was too late.

  61

  Psychopaths never commit suicide.

  When Bloom had sat on the stairs all those years ago, holding Seraphine’s note, that had been the thought that dominated her mind. It was a simple truth. It was evidenced in all the research. Psychopaths were incapable of feeling anxiety or depression, guilt or shame. And they had an inflated sense of self-worth. They were immune to the main causes of suicide.

  Only if there was a calculated benefit – such as avoiding jail – might a psychopath consider suicide.

  And so she’d thought she must have been wrong. That Seraphine wasn’t a psychopath, after all. Perhaps she’d had mild Asperger Syndrome. That might explain her lack of emotional sensitivity.

  Bloom’s guilt had intensified over
the past fifteen years. She thought she’d seen a psychopath in Seraphine because that was what she’d wanted to see. And that the girl had paid the ultimate price.

  But that was not the case. She’d been right. Seraphine Walker was a psychopath.

  She looked at the file now spread across her mother’s kitchen table: the session notes, Seraphine’s diary, the pathologist’s report, and a handful of press cuttings about the original stabbing and Seraphine’s suicide.

  She felt a strange sense of relief.

  If Seraphine was the puppeteer and the game a means of gathering like-minded people, then they wouldn’t harm Sarah. It was designed to test its players, and that was exactly what it was doing. Bloom had been set a moral challenge, based on her particular experiences and knowledge, and Jameson a tactical one based on his particular talents and background.

  Bloom studied the suicide press cuttings again. Seraphine’s pretty blue eyes stared out from the photographs. There was a statement from her parents saying that she’d never caused them any trouble and was the perfect daughter. Seraphine’s kind words about her family had never seemed genuine, and Bloom doubted the veracity of their statement. There were no anecdotes or evidence to back up the rhetoric. Perhaps there’d been something going on that Seraphine had wanted to escape from. Bloom knew that Seraphine’s mother, Penny, was overbearing and indulgent. And Bloom’s own mother had described Penny’s husband, Kevin, as a bully – and she rarely made such dramatic character assassinations. Any child would struggle with one parent who smothered them with emotional drama and another who attacked them. But a psychopath would quickly become intolerant of that level of irrationality. Seraphine’s inner life would have lacked emotional depth. It would have been flat. She wouldn’t have been able to understand her parents, because their behaviour had been completely devoid of calculated gain.

  Bloom looked at the photograph of Seraphine again. What was she missing?

  62

  Sarah’s scream was unbearable. Jameson froze a metre from the edge. He stared ahead, waiting for the impact. He knew what he was waiting for. He’d heard it before: the sound of a human body hitting the ground. It was always much louder than expected.