Blood dripped on to the floor, seeping around the foreign object, and Mia felt a dull scratching sensation. She stared at the nail, wondering how many times she’d performed this experiment.
No pain. Not for Mia. But the memory of pain . . . it was in her somewhere. Mia knew this should hurt, and could almost remember what it felt like.
But not today.
Mia pulled the nail out and hurled it across the floor. She held her finger until the bleeding stopped before lying back in the seat, her lips trembling, her heart breaking.
A single tear escaped, then another.
To cry because of a lack of pain. But also because of what that made her.
It was almost too much to imagine. Almost too much to bear.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man’s left leg was mangled, blood visible on the sheets and metal guards. The photo was in close-up, brutal and sickening. Hartley tilted her monitor and Alex nodded, remaining silent. He breathed through the feelings of nausea. Nobody ever got used to seeing dead bodies, Alex was sure of it.
He stirred two sugars into his coffee, staring suspiciously at the brown liquid, then sipped and winced. It didn’t taste any better sweet.
‘Not what you’re used to? Sorry. This is public-sector coffee,’ said Hartley. ‘If you want luxurious, you’d better hop back along to Harley Street.’ She slurped her own, hammering her keyboard at the same time.
Alex watched her face – alert and focused. More than he could say for himself at eight o’clock on a Monday morning.
DCI Hartley had found Alex during the case of Victor Lazar, and although she and Alex hadn’t seen eye to eye, she’d been professional and let Alex run with his theories. Since that case their relationship had been courteous yet distant. Hartley ran big cases – murder, trafficking, serious organised crime – and liked to do it her way. She reluctantly brought in outsiders, but at least it showed she knew what she didn’t know. Alex had worked on several cases for her over the months, mostly profiling and minor assessments for the CPS. Nothing as big as Lazar.
‘I’m supposed to be somewhere else today,’ he said.
‘Holborn? Yes, I contacted Detective Laurie, told her to find someone else.’
Alex wasn’t sure whether or not to be put out. Detective Laurie had been nice, but her suspect was bound to be a dead end. Anybody could work it; it didn’t need to be him. Besides, although Hartley hadn’t told him anything about her case yet, she was clearly agitated. That in itself was intriguing.
Despite Hartley’s jibe, Alex had been reducing his private practice over the last twelve months. He was down to two days a week in Harley Street, which was necessary to pay his exorbitant mortgage and the luxuries he hadn’t yet figured out how to let go of. His new Mercedes was one of them, replacing his Porsche, which Grace and Katie had both hated. His collection of expensive watches was another. But he was turning a corner. His extravagance was on the decline and he was happier for it. These days he found a simple smile from his daughter was worth more than all the luxuries he’d accumulated over the years.
As a clinical psychologist, his private clients were real, but their needs were mundane. A lot of money and a lot of anxiety. Alex could have retired at fifty with his hourly rate, but after the events of the previous year and the death of his father, he’d promised himself he’d make better use of his profession and expertise. He could do better than provide CBT to millionaires struggling with their first-world problems.
So Alex offered the rest of his time to the CPS and the Met, working on a standard contract for a fraction of his private salary. It was worth it, though. Big cases like this made it worth it, particularly when the psychological aspect was so unusual. He craved this type of work, and that’s how he’d managed to drag himself out of bed at six on a cold morning.
He glanced around at the modern office. The Metropolitan Police HQ on Victoria Embankment in London was famous for its revolving sign at the entrance. The press liked to camp out and film this gleaming mark of London’s finest, but the interior of the building would have shown a different picture. Particularly on a Monday morning, where chaos reigned and overburdened officers fought to stay above water.
‘OK,’ said Hartley. She stared into her mug, taking a few deep breaths, and then glanced back at the screen. ‘This is Paul Shaw, thirty-three, father of two. Motorbike accident, serious but not life-threatening.’
Alex raised his eyebrows. ‘He looks pretty dead to me.’
‘He is, but not from the accident. He broke his tibia – open fracture – and popped his kneecap out.’
Alex winced. ‘Painful.’
‘Indeed. He was stabilised at the scene, conveyed to St Mary’s, where he lay in AMU on pain relief, waiting for an X-ray and a surgical team. They planned to reset the leg with a plate and pins. He’d have been home in a week or so, back to his family.’
Alex studied the photo. ‘So he bled out?’
‘Yes. But only after he’d had a visitor.’ Hartley flicked away from the image and opened a folder containing video files.
‘He lost four pints and went into shock,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t be stabilised. Died at 23:36.’
Alex nodded, watching Hartley’s monitor.
‘These are from St Mary’s Security – emergency room and AMU. Low quality,’ she said, opening the first file. A black-and-white video of a hospital corridor.
‘This is the link corridor between the emergency room and the AMU.’ Hartley referred to her notes and fast-forwarded the video to a particular time. When it reached 23:04, she pressed play.
‘This is our suspect,’ said Hartley.
A figure came into view. The camera pointed towards the emergency room, so it captured the front of the person. The figure ambled towards the AMU, pausing for a few seconds to stare past the camera along the corridor. The lighting and poor quality made it impossible to pick out the face.
‘Dark clothes, hooded, boots, slim build,’ said Alex.
‘Young.’
‘Male?’
‘Probably.’
‘Why?’
Hartley shrugged. ‘If the appearance is indeterminable, we go by their actions. What follows is sadistic violence. This sort of crime is unusual, but statistically he’s male.’
Alex conceded the point. Seventy-eight per cent of violent crimes in the UK were committed by men. Out of those, the vast majority were aged between twenty-five and forty. Young and male was the obvious deduction without even seeing the CCTV footage. It didn’t help much, though.
‘So why am I here?’
Hartley closed the first video and opened the second.
‘Inside AMU. Quality is as bad, but it gives a decent angle of the bed over the top of the curtain.’ Hartley paused. She swallowed. Alex gave her a moment. He forgot how much mental trauma senior inspectors such as Hartley were forced to experience on a daily basis. She acted tough and in control, but Alex knew it hurt. Deep inside, Hartley hated watching this crap as much as the next person. She pressed play.
The figure approached the nearest curtained bed. The angle was awkward and distorted by a wide-angle lens. Alex noted the medical staff huddled half out of view at the station.
‘Handover?’
‘Yes. Bang on.’
So the timing was planned, thought Alex, as he watched the suspect slip inside the first cubicle and stand over the patient. A few seconds passed. Assuming the suspect was male, he appeared to watch the patient before reaching out, touching their chest. Alex kept one eye on the clock – it was hard to judge the seconds due to the jerkiness of the video. The suspect then stepped away and out of the cubicle. Less than a minute had passed.
‘Strange,’ said Alex, wishing the video was high resolution. ‘What are they doing?’
‘No idea,’ said Hartley.
‘Injuries?’
‘No. That one was in for a minor heart attack. Stable, pain free and ready to be transferred to a ward.’
Alex watched the figure slip
behind the next curtain into the bay holding the now-deceased, Paul Shaw. The suspect paused, as before, examining the patient, peering into his face. He put something across the man’s mouth.
‘Tape?’ said Alex.
Hartley nodded. ‘Standard duct tape, branded.’
The man reached for Mr Shaw’s leg, feeling under the bandage. Nothing happened for a few moments until the arm jerked, visibly wrenching the damaged leg left and right.
‘My God,’ said Alex, peering in more closely, his eyes blurring at the grainy image. The patient writhed on the bed, clearly in agony, arms thrashing. The suspect continued, his arm moving, shifting forcefully on the leg, pulling one way then the other. He used his whole body weight to push into the joint, twisting and grinding. Given the original injury, the pain must have been unbearable.
‘He’s torturing him,’ said Alex. ‘For what reason?’
The suspect threw his head back. The hood covered the top of his face, but the lower half was visible. His mouth dropped open and he swayed, chest heaving. The movements lasted a minute or so, before his head dropped again.
‘What was that?’
‘You tell me?’
Alex shook his head. He watched the next three minutes. A porter pulled back the curtain; the suspect lashed out, kicking the porter before sprinting away. Alex stared at the grainy fuzz of blood dripping from the leg of the patient. The floor turned dark grey around the bed.
The hairs on the back of Alex’s neck prickled. Hartley was right to be worried.
‘Any more footage?’
Hartley huffed. ‘Nothing from St Mary’s. Two other hospitals have submitted files. That’s why the case was created and I was assigned.’
‘Same MO at the other hospitals?’
Hartley nodded. ‘Very similar. Spaced less than three months apart. Two others dead, that we know of. The CPS is going crazy, wondering how many post-mortems they’re going to have to request. A lot of people die every month in London hospitals, Alex.’
She left it hanging. Alex sat back in his chair. He tore his eyes away from the monitor and Hartley paused the video.
‘Security has been tightened at the ten biggest city hospitals,’ she said. ‘Uniformed officers on rotation at the emergency entrances, but we can’t keep it up for long. Without a decent lead, I’ll be forced to pull the officers away again in a week or so. Besides, it causes panic. Patients start asking awkward questions.’
She checked her watch. ‘I’m headed over to re-interview one of the witnesses from St Mary’s. Officers recorded strange testimony from outside the hospital. I’m not sure whether to believe it.’
‘Strange?’
‘I’ll be back later,’ said Hartley. ‘I’ll take you through it then.’
Alex nodded, processing what he’d seen, resisting the urge to push Hartley too hard for information. She’d be under pressure from above. Giving a case like this to Hartley meant the commissioner wanted it solved yesterday.
‘Good,’ said Hartley, the strain in her eyes clear. ‘I can see the cogs turning. You have the case notes so far. I want your thoughts. That’s why you’re here, Alex. Read the notes, watch the footage. Tell me what the hell is wrong with this person, and tell me quickly.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The dream lingered for several seconds after she woke, fractured and incomplete. Mia shuffled on to her knees on the torn mattress, hugging herself, arms wrapped tight until the shaking subsided.
Rain hammered overhead, shaking the metal roof, dripping through on to the hard concrete below. Mia shivered, trying to grasp fragments of the memory before it left her for the day.
The car. Faces in the darkness. One of them turned to her. Mia recognised the woman, felt a rush of familiarity and emotion. Mia loved this woman and saw herself in her face.
Mia closed her eyes but the face faded. The features blurred into grey and only the woman’s eyes remained. Flashing lights, overhead. They blinked out in an instant, and Mia was again left with blackness and longing.
Not just longing. Hunger.
So soon, she thought, and so strong.
Mia threw aside the thick blankets she slept under. Dressed only in her underwear, she examined her bruised body, running her finger over the familiar scars. She had a small one running from her belly button straight down three inches. The large one, under her left breast, was raised and ugly, stitched in a hurry perhaps. She had two more scars on her back, over her spine. She had no idea where any of the scars came from.
Otherwise, she was in great shape. She flexed her muscles, watching her slender thighs tense and relax. Her left arm remained taped and splinted. She couldn’t tell how well it was healing, although the swelling seemed to have subsided. Her shoulder joint moved with a grinding sensation, but it moved. It was enough.
She rummaged in her small pile of belongings for the thermometer. Sticking it in her mouth, Mia shuffled towards the office at the back of the warehouse. She washed in the metal basin, shivering again in the frigid water, rinsing her underwear before hanging it on a rail, slipping on a dry set in its place.
She spat the thermometer out. Normal range. Good. Infection was hard to judge and she’d formed a habit of taking her temperature every few days, just to be sure.
Black jeans followed, a black hoodie and a dark grey trench coat. Black boots completed her look, which was intended to blend in and hide. Become a shadow to most people. For some, a nightmare.
A cracked mirror reflected her young face. She stared at herself for several moments, wondering why she looked like the woman in the dream. Mia had no family that she could remember, and yet . . .
Pretty, on certain days. Mia would look at herself and liked what she saw. She compared her face and body with people in the street, with women in magazines, with billboards and lingerie posters. She compared herself with the women in suits who strode around the city, with the politicians on TV in the store windows. She compared herself with the doctors and nurses who paced the corridors of the hospitals she visited.
How old was she? Younger than the doctors in the wards, but older than the schoolchildren she watched crowding the pavements of London. Her features were dark and she blended in, yet she sensed she didn’t belong. Not from here. Then from where?
Perhaps one day she would join the crowds. Perhaps one day she wouldn’t need to compare.
A noise broke her thoughts. A scratching, scraping coming from the far side of the warehouse near the door. Mia froze, listening. Rats were common, but they rarely came close and Mia paid them little attention. This was a different sound, made by a larger creature.
Mia crept across, approaching the sliding door from the side, tiptoeing, pressing her ear against the thin metal. Visitors were rare in this neighbourhood. Mia had seen off the odd vagrant, but most people had better places to be. More scratching and a whine. A pant. Heavy breathing. Not human.
Mia slid the door back slowly and crouched to meet her visitor. A small black dog, knee height. It stepped back and stared at her, its wide eyes pleading through matted fur. Skinny and dirty, the stray shook with nerves, forming the beginnings of a bark. A faint whine emerged.
‘Are you lost?’ Mia tilted her head, examining the animal. At her voice the dog approached, trying to nuzzle one of her hands. Mia let it, for a second, before pushing it away.
‘You can’t stay here,’ she said, seeing the hope in its eyes, wondering if it could see the sadness in hers. Too risky, too noisy. Much as she craved a companion, it couldn’t be this one.
‘Go away.’
Again the dog stepped forward. It managed to bark this time, gently, into her face. It licked its lips and sat. Mia saw the stumpy tail begin to move.
Mia shook her head, but the dog laid itself across the threshold, its eyes widening, staring up at her. It wanted her, needed her. It had presented itself at her mercy, ready to be her friend.
But Mia didn’t have friends.
‘Go,’ she said, harshly this ti
me. She pushed the dog and it stumbled to its feet. It stood a few feet away, waiting.
Mia took a chipped brick from a stack near the door. She weighed it in her hand. The dog didn’t move, calling her bluff. Mia watched as the dog sat again, shuffling a little closer. She raised the brick, pulled her arm back and hurled it as hard as she could.
The brick flew high, well into the distance, crashing into the waste ground beyond. She cursed as the sound echoed around the buildings. The dog followed with its eyes but didn’t move.
Mia cursed again but the dog seemed to get the message. It sniffed the air in front of her, raised itself on all fours and backed away slowly. Its eyes had lost their initial curiosity and the tail had stopped wagging. Mia watched as the dog turned. Their eyes met and she saw sadness. It gave her one last look before scampering out of sight.
She stared after it, biting down on the loneliness until she felt a tooth crack. She spat the fragment on to the floor, wondering if it hurt.
CHAPTER SIX
The PC blinked into life. Two new video files were available, labelled as STBARTS and LONDONBRIDGE, both large city hospitals. These would be the other instances of their suspect caught on CCTV. Alex double-clicked on the first one, leaning back in his chair, notepad and pen at the ready.
Thoughts of Grace and John had plagued him on the way in. His morning Xanax wasn’t working and he popped another as the video loaded. Two each morning, he registered with some discomfort. Grace was right – he should seek help. But Alex had been saying that to himself since his early twenties. It was much easier to medicate than to seek therapy, and cheaper. He should know.
Alex checked his watch. Hartley hadn’t been in the Met office when he arrived, but he got waved through with a visitor’s badge and a signature; they had his name and photo. He was on their list and had been allocated a desk with a terminal.
It took forever to load and he scanned the bustling office while he waited. Uniforms and detectives scurried around. A few glanced his way, sizing him up. He tried to remain discreet, but was aware of his tailored suit and Barker brogues. Essential for impressing private clients, but way out of place in this office. Why couldn’t he shop in the high street? He heard Grace’s voice, her amused tone, and his mood dropped again.
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