Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  The day had dawned grey and overcast. Thick clouds hung low over the building site, its JCBs idle, not a worker in sight.

  Sam woke just after six. He’d barely slept, his bed the hard floor of another upstairs room, the blanket he’d been given barely covering his body. He’d also been haunted by the thought, which came to him in the dead of night, that he was sharing a house with four killers.

  ‘Who are you?’ Aidan asked as Sam sat on the carpet across the room from him. The PM’s son was sitting up, his back resting on a pillow against the wall, a mess of curly hair hanging over his forehead. He wore a t-shirt and jogging pants. He seemed detached, calm and lacking fear. Sam, correspondingly, felt no fear, just the weight and significance of the job in hand. The tall man, who’d observed Aidan under the influence of his drugs on many occasions, said they had a brief window of opportunity – no more than a day – before Aidan became more conscious. He’d then be more fearful, less compliant and potentially dangerous.

  ‘A friend of Eleanor Scott,’ Sam replied.

  ‘Then what are you doing with this lot?’ asked Aidan. ‘She’s nice. They’re Nazis. My Dad’s goons.’

  ‘Would you believe me if I said I was helping you?’ The words caught in Sam’s throat. Aidan might eventually get help as a result of this, but that wasn’t Sam’s goal right now.

  ‘I don’t trust anyone who says they’re trying to help me.’

  ‘Lots of bad experiences?’

  ‘Plenty,’ he said, his lip curling slightly. ‘Shrinks of various shades. Is that what you are?’

  Sam sensed that Aidan would smell dishonesty a mile off. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Aidan. ‘Cure me.’

  ‘What do you need curing of?’

  Aidan’s drowsy face flinched slightly.

  ‘Depends who you talk to.’

  No sense of personal responsibility, thought Sam.

  ‘What would your father say?’

  Aidan grimaced as much as his medication would let him. ‘When I was a child, my father used to say I was an awkward little shit. These days he prefers to call me a “fucked-up train crash of an adult”.’

  ‘And what about your mother?’

  ‘My mother says lots of things. And then she pretends she never said them.’

  ‘Can you give me an example?’

  Aidan’s eyes seemed glassy all of a sudden. ‘I don’t want to talk about my mother.’

  ‘Would you like a rest?’

  Aidan shook his head. ‘Have you got any food?’

  Sam disappeared downstairs. The tall man was in the kitchen with the other two.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Sam. ‘But he’s hungry.’

  ‘He’s a bloody pig when he’s on the drugs,’ said the tall man.

  ‘Give him these,’ said the narrow-eyed man, handing Sam a bag of cookies.

  Aidan devoured the first quickly, taking the second biscuit at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘Do you like architecture?’ he asked, his mouth still full of cookie.

  ‘I do,’ said Sam.

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Art Deco buildings,’ said Sam.

  Aidan nodded, but not with any enthusiasm. ‘I think they’re a bit decorative. I like more unadorned Modernist stuff,’ he said. ‘Frank Lloyd Wright, Denys Lasdun. Do you know the National Theatre?’

  Sam nodded, happy for Aidan to pursue this train of thought. He clearly found it safe territory, a place to retreat to after the brief painful mention of his mother.

  ‘It’s called Brutalism, you know. I like all that concrete. It’s kind of what it is. No fancy embellishments.’

  ‘More honest.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That important to you?’

  Aidan nodded sleepily. ‘I hate bullshit.’

  Sam saw an opportunity. An approach his Jungian would never have used, but that he’d employed once in the past with a client – a very buttoned-up public schoolboy who’d struggled with trust.

  ‘If I tell you a truth about me,’ said Sam, ‘how about you do the same?’

  ‘A game,’ said Aidan, with a hint of relish. ‘You’re more fun than the other therapists, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Shall we give it a go?’

  Aidan shrugged his consent.

  ‘I’m an only child,’ said Sam.

  ‘Big deal,’ said Aidan. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’m claustrophobic when I get stressed.’

  Aidan snorted.

  Sam sensed the game had to be upped.

  ‘My mother never loved me. She used to lock me in a cupboard as punishment.’

  Aidan paused for a moment, drinking in this information. He seemed to be weighing up his response. Sam noticed his eyes were welling. Then came the response: ‘My mother used to sleep with me.’

  Sam felt his skin prickle. The small room fell utterly silent. Then shrunk around them.

  Sam’s brain raced with the implications of what he’d just heard. Was it true? He had to assume it was. What possible motive could Aidan have for lying about such a matter?

  ‘You look surprised,’ said Aidan, his voice betraying a distinct tremble, as if he were trying to remain calm and detached, but inside was beginning to unravel. ‘I thought you shrinks had heard it all before.’

  ‘I guess I am surprised,’ replied Sam. ‘You said it in rather a matter-of-fact way.’

  Aidan shrugged, unconvincingly. ‘That was how it was.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We were in Italy when it started. A villa in the middle of nowhere. Another holiday hanging round waiting for my father to arrive. Mother did what she always did in those situations, and got pissed. She was also self-harming.’

  Aidan’s eyes were fixed on the wall beyond Sam. He was now back in Italy, one hundred per cent. Sam stayed silent.

  ‘She was at her worst after lunch. In a cool bath, a danger to herself. I used to help her out, get her dried off, bandage her arms.’ He paused, swallowing hard. ‘And then I’d get her into bed. She called me her little man.’

  He smiled briefly, then his face darkened.

  ‘One afternoon she asked me to climb in next to her.’

  The voice had risen a notch, as if Aidan were reaching a crescendo. Sam sensed a simmering rage under the medication, one just contained beneath the damp blanket of drugs.

  ‘You’re angry.’

  Aidan shrugged again.

  ‘Angry because it happened? Or because you’ve told me?’

  Aidan shook his head. He then slumped downwards, pulling his blanket up around him. The session was over.

  Chapter 85

  Rainham, east of London

  An hour later, a request for food came from upstairs. The tall man insisted on giving him more sweet junk. ‘Apart from little rushes of energy,’ he said, ‘it helps keep him sluggish. The way we want him.’

  ‘You’re a nosey bastard, aren’t you?’ said Aidan to Sam, after devouring another cookie. There was a hint of combativeness about him. As if he were more present, and trying to gain the upper hand.

  ‘Aren’t all shrinks?’ replied Sam.

  ‘I guess. You don’t seem as wimpy as the others. They were always tiptoeing around me. Like I was some delicate flower that might snap at the wrong intervention. I knew what they wanted to ask. They just didn’t have the guts.’

  ‘They’re not really meant to ask questions. It’s too leading.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘In person-centred therapy, the therapist works in response to the content presented, without trying to manipulate the progress of the session, however strong his instinct may be.’

  ‘Do you have an instinct about me?’

  ‘Seeing as you’re the client, then I feel obliged to answer,’ said Sam. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  Sam inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘I think you’re angry with your mother because she st
opped sleeping with you.’

  The effect was electrifying. Aidan froze, his eyes locked on to Sam.

  ‘How,’ he snarled, ‘how, did you know that?’

  Sam felt a charge in the room, some definitive threat of violence from the man opposite. He wanted to get out, but knew he had to press on. ‘You implied it.’

  The eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck you, shrink.’

  And with that, the violence subsided. Aidan slumped down again, retreating under the blanket.

  Chapter 86

  Rainham, east of London

  Time was running out. Sam knew it. During the last session, Aidan seemed more animated, his reactions a degree more physical. He was now more aware of his captivity, and of the interrogation session masquerading as therapy. Which meant the danger had increased. It was time to take a leaf out of Eleanor’s book.

  ‘Go away,’ said Aidan, when Sam entered the room, closing the door behind him and sitting down on the floor.

  ‘No.’

  There was silence. Sam had read of a therapist who’d been counselling a traumatised war veteran. The man was so disturbed – and so mistrustful – the therapist had endured weeks of silence before his client finally opened up. Sam did not have that luxury.

  It had started raining gently, the window flecked with tiny droplets of water.

  ‘You don’t like me because I saw through you.’

  ‘I don’t like any shrinks,’ hissed Aidan. ‘I thought you were different but you’re just the same. And why am I here?’

  ‘So I can speak to you. The alternative is that hospital – and lots more of your medication.’

  Aidan’s eyes welled again.

  ‘Your father has you locked away. Why is that?’

  ‘My father hates me,’ said Aidan, the tears now dropping from his eyes.

  ‘You’re the “awkward little shit”.’

  Aidan nodded.

  Sam took another deep breath, trying to slow his heart, which had begun to hammer against his ribs.

  ‘Did you kill that girl in Marrakesh?’

  It was as if Aidan’s mattress was crawling with insects. He suddenly shot up, and began pacing up and down.

  Sam pressed back against the wall. He looked Aidan up and down. Although he was in poor shape physically, the man before him was agitated – scratching his head furiously, as if his scalp were riddled with lice – and that agitation would count for a lot if he got violent.

  ‘The warehouse had mosaics on the walls and pillars,’ said Aidan, the words spilling out. ‘Geometric designs repeated everywhere.’

  He let out a short cry. ‘She lied to me,’ he said, his voice now full of anguish. ‘Just like Mum lied to me. She said we’d be together forever. But then she changed her mind. Told me what had happened was dirty, wrong. That girl was just the same. She promised everything with her eyes, then denied me.’

  He stopped, his head falling forwards. He then looked up at Sam. His eyes blazed and he suddenly lunged, sinking to the floor on his knees as he grabbed Sam’s throat with both hands.

  Sam could feel the air supply abruptly cut off as his windpipe constricted. He grabbed Aidan’s wrists, but his assailant’s elevated position – and the strength of a man possessed – made removing them an impossibility.

  Sam’s eyes bulged. His chest tightened with an intense pain. Surely the men downstairs would come running?

  ‘I was so mad with her,’ Aidan was muttering.

  Sam looked into Aidan’s eyes, which were wet with tears. The last words Sam heard were clouded by the sensation of a dark wave about to engulf him, but they still resonated in his head.

  ‘And so I killed her.’

  Chapter 87

  Rainham, east of London

  The rain had stopped. Sam and the tall man stood in the back garden of the house, below the window where Aidan was now sleeping.

  He’d been given another tranquiliser. Sam gently rubbed his neck. His fingers were trembling. He’d passed out just after Aidan had admitted killing the girl. According to the tall man, he’d come to shortly afterwards.

  ‘Nasty piece of work, that boy,’ said the tall man.

  Sam closed his eyes then rapidly re-opened them as an image of Aidan descending on him invaded his head.

  ‘You’ll need to get checked out. You’re probably fine, but just in case.’

  Sam shook his head in slight disbelief. The man who’d been trying to kill him for days was now offering him health advice.

  ‘And sorry we cut it so fine,’ continued the tall man. ‘But we needed a definitive confession.’

  Sam asked if he could have a cigarette and the tall man went inside. He returned with one lit.

  Sam drew hard then inhaled deeply. He felt sick, light-headed. This was probably the worst thing for a man who’d just been strangled.

  Despite the rage and hatred Sam now felt for Aidan, he couldn’t help but think of the damaged individual upstairs, and how those loathsome elements in him were a direct result of an existing condition made a hundred times worse by his ghastly parents.

  Minutes after the tranquiliser had been administered, Aidan was curled up asleep on his mattress, his knees drawn into the foetal position, some natural echo of his earliest days in the womb. Sam thought of the woman who’d carried Aidan there, who’d brought him into the world – only to destroy his life.

  Charlotte Stirling had drawn him close to her – no doubt seducing Aidan with a muddled, poisonous blend of mother’s love and her own confused, damaged needs – only to push him away when she finally came face to face with the magnitude of her crime.

  ‘You need to get Aidan back to that clinic as soon as possible,’ said Sam, casting the cigarette to the ground. The smoke had done nothing to improve the bitter, acidic taste in his mouth and he felt too light-headed to inhale any more.

  Sam sensed it was the first time Aidan had ever admitted to anyone, perhaps even to himself, what had happened in Marrakesh. It would ripple through him, like tremors after an earthquake. Part of Sam relished the thought of Aidan suffering with the knowledge. Another part worried.

  ‘We’ve replayed the recording,’ said the tall man. ‘It’s everything we need to force Stirling’s resignation.’

  The tall man would have his revenge – and the money owed him and his men.

  For Sam, Stirling’s resignation was not enough. Aidan would never be tried in Morocco. That case was now closed as far as the Moroccans were concerned. But Sam felt strongly that what he’d done couldn’t be left untried. He wanted Philip and Charlotte Stirling to be exposed as the unspeakable parents they were, and for Lalla’s family to have their day in court.

  Sam briefly considered asking if a copy of the recording could be sent to the police, but quickly dismissed it. The tall man would never agree to that. Bound up in Aidan’s crime was the cover-up, in which his unlikely ally had played a major role. No, there had to be another way.

  Chapter 88

  Sussex

  They were walking Baker along the edge of a wood. To their left a view of the Downs stretched out in the distance, soft hills like gently undulating waves. A sharp wind whipped across the landscape, and Sam pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. It was still bruised and tender, but Sam had ignored the tall man’s advice. He felt fine and dreaded a doctor’s inevitable questioning of why he had fingerprints on his throat.

  Lynch, the policeman who’d interviewed Eleanor in Downing Street, had just left, having sat round the kitchen table, his eyes slowly widening as Sam and Eleanor told their story, revealing the real reason for the struggle in the apartment. The police officer promised to pursue every potential lead including, in the first instance, interviewing Aidan and his parents.

  ‘It may not be enough,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I know,’ said Sam. ‘You can be sure Stirling will have the best barrister in London. But at least we tried.’

  Baker was sniffing the base of a tree. He then began waddling off again, a p
lump torso over narrow legs.

  ‘If it does go to court, what will happen to Aidan?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty certain he’ll end up in a psychiatric unit.’

  Sam thought back to the small room in that house – to the cold core within him that had pressed Aidan so relentlessly, and the violence that had erupted.

  ‘Sam?’

  Eleanor’s voice brought him back into the moment. He shook the room’s image from his head.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about him now.’

  Sam smiled. ‘You sound like a shrink.’ He paused. ‘No, I think I want to. The thing is, Aidan’s screwed unless he gets the right treatment. A psychiatrist would probably label him with an antisocial personality disorder – he’d certainly tick most of the boxes on the checklist – and pump him full of more drugs.’

  ‘But you disagree.’

  Sam’s eyes were looking over the hedgerow to the left, on to a vast ploughed field. Some distance below them a small group of deer were standing so still, they looked like statues. Baker’s nose twitched but it was clear his body wouldn’t tolerate a chase.

  ‘There are certain traits in him that entirely conform to that type. He’s arrogant and, at least in part, struggles to take responsibility for his actions. He doesn’t appear to have formed any significant friendships, and relationships with the opposite sex are, understandably, out of the question. But psychiatrists also argue that antisocial personality disorder types tend to be heartless and lacking remorse.’

  ‘That’s not how I would describe him,’ said Eleanor. ‘I mean, when he went for the soldier in the apartment, he was actually defending me.’

  ‘And although he attacked me, there was, underneath the rage, a huge sadness,’ added Sam.

  ‘Of course they’ll probably make as little of that in court as possible – go for diminished responsibility.’