‘Lazar. I gave you the case reference.’
Alex heard the detective sniff and hammer at his keyboard several times. ‘Yes, I see. This case was handed over to the CPS. We’re not working on it at the moment, pending . . . Ah yes, a psych evaluation. That’s you, is it?’
‘That’s me, and the other members of the team here, yes.’
‘And you’ve completed your evaluation?’
Alex clenched his fist. ‘No. I thought it would be prudent to—’
‘Prudent, yes,’ said DCI Laird. ‘Prudent is good, but we’re not twiddling our thumbs here. I’ve got several cases in front of me with plenty of evidence, and I don’t even have time for those.’
There was silence on the phone, followed by more tapping.
‘Look,’ said the detective. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I can’t do anything with your request.’
‘But—’
‘We don’t have the resources to interview God knows how many people – thirty or more – just because you want us to.’
‘I see.’ Alex stared out of the window. Heavy clouds chased each other across the grey sky.
‘That’s a polite way of saying bugger off and come back when you have something concrete, Dr Madison. Perhaps new evidence or an admission of guilt. That would be great.’
Alex nodded to himself, resigned. Of course the police wouldn’t do anything. He’d given them nothing they didn’t already know.
‘It was good of you to consider us in the course of your evaluation,’ said the detective in a softer tone. ‘Good luck with your assessment. Please call back if you have something I can work with.’
The detective hung up, leaving Alex rather pissed off and feeling very much put in his place. Years ago, he would have dominated the conversation with the inspector, negotiating his position and having significant influence on the proceedings. Three years of private practice had lost him his edge and he needed to regain it. He grabbed his coat. His next conversation would do nothing to improve his mood, but he knew he must do it anyway.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Alex.’
His father opened the door and stood with his legs wide, hands on hips. He regarded Alex for a moment, eyeing his expensive suit with contempt and making an obvious glance at the Porsche. His father considered Alex’s penchant for fast cars infantile and wasteful, so Alex made a point of always arriving in the Porsche, or his other favourite – a classic Alfa Spider, kept in his garage under cover.
‘Your mother’s in bed. Sleeping. You should have called.’
Alex was disappointed, but it was often the case. He glanced up at his childhood home, a large 1920s townhouse. It evoked the usual complicated mixture of emotions. He stared at his father’s Volkswagen Passat, parked on the immaculate block-paved driveway. Neat borders held pruned rosebushes, ready to emerge in the coming weeks as spring dragged them out of their winter slumber.
The door had been painted green since his last visit. Not by his father – he’d never touch DIY – but his mum often had sudden ideas and wouldn’t be satisfied until the urge was met, whatever it might be. She would have arranged it all – his father wasn’t home enough to notice what colour the door was, or present enough to care.
‘I was passing,’ said Alex. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
His father nodded and stood aside. Alex entered the hall but stopped. He didn’t feel like he belonged here. He was a guest and the formality was stifling.
They went through to his father’s study – somewhere he was forbidden to enter as a child. God forbid he should be allowed to encroach upon his father’s personal space and share quality time with him. His father sat in a recliner by the window. Alex scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with textbooks and journals, several of them with his father’s name on the spine. He remained standing. He didn’t plan on staying long enough to get comfortable.
‘So?’ A lack of emotion in his father’s voice. Alex expected nothing more. ‘You’re taking the case then?’
Straight to business. Typical of his father. No pleasantries. No How are you? or How is Katie? or even How’s your career going?
‘Did you tell them to call me?’ said Alex. ‘The CPS?’
His father shrugged. ‘I thought it would be good for you,’ he said. ‘Call it one final attempt to stop you wasting your talent.’
‘How’s Mum?’ Alex wasn’t going to let this conversation run on his father’s terms, like it usually did.
‘Catherine is the same as always. She won’t accept my help or anyone else’s. Don’t pretend to care. You haven’t visited for three months.’
Alex bit his tongue. If he didn’t have to put up with his father, perhaps he would visit this place more often. He found it hard to meet his father’s eye, instead focusing on the rows of dusty periodicals.
‘Why me?’ he said.
‘The prosecutor is an old chum of mine. He asked my opinion, naturally.’
Naturally, thought Alex.
‘And I thought it would be good for you. Get you out of the tabloids. Stop you dwelling on the past.’
Alex ignored the jibe. ‘Do you know about the case? Victor Lazar?’
‘Not my thing.’
‘Why do you think I can help?’ said Alex.
‘Because you’re a clinician? Because I paid tens of thousands of pounds for you to get the best education in the field? Because treating footballers and celebrity chefs is getting too stressful for you?’
There was no humour in his father’s voice, the sarcasm edged with distaste. Alex’s father had helped him get police work in the first place, his wide contacts ensuring Alex got treated with respect and was given serious work. Alex always wondered how much of it was to boost his father’s reputation, rather than his own. Since Alex had taken up private practice, his father could barely contain his disgust. In his view Alex was throwing it all away for an easy life. He didn’t understand why Alex felt so guilty for his mistakes. He knew about Alex’s failed case and simply encouraged him to shrug it off with professional arrogance. Get back in the saddle, he’d said. Forget it.
‘Can you offer me anything useful?’ said Alex, wondering why he’d come. What did he expect from this man? This stranger who happened to be his father.
His father huffed. ‘You can’t do this yourself?’
‘I can. But I wondered, through professional courtesy, what information you might have to assist me.’ Alex spoke through his teeth.
‘Have you spoken to the prosecutor?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then start there.’
Alex listened to a few moments of silence. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. Look, I’m busy, Alex—’
‘Fine. I’ll leave you to whatever it is you do.’
‘Work, you mean?’
‘If you say so.’ Alex was being petulant now, but he wasn’t quite at the stage of forgiving his father. A childhood of endless repetition, watching his mum suffer through fruitless trips to the GP, cycles of drugs and behavioural therapy. All of it ending in failure. She never wanted help. What she wanted was a husband who wasn’t quite so self-centred and work-obsessed. One who would help raise their son and be there once in a while to read him a story at bedtime. Her OCD progressed throughout Alex’s teens until she was housebound and dependent on carers.
‘You have no idea, Alex. You’re just like your mum.’
‘Happy to be that way,’ said Alex. He turned and faced his father now, conscious of the lie. He was well aware his own anxiety was a product of his upbringing, his mum’s OCD rubbing off on him. How could it not? Caring for your own mum from six years old was bound to leave its mark. But he would defend her to the death against an insult from his father.
Alex squeezed his fists together, angry at himself. He never expected anything useful from his visits. Why did he expect it now? His father wasn’t interested in helping.
His father closed his eyes briefly. Alex coul
d see the struggle in his face, but offered him no help.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Alex.’
Alex bit his lip for a moment. ‘You made it like this.’
‘I gave you the chance to understand it.’
‘Living takes more than an expensive education, Father.’
His father frowned and Alex lost sympathy. His father, of all people, should understand that the damage done at an early age will resonate forever, however normal the adult might appear.
‘I’m pleased you’ve taken the case,’ his father concluded, nodding to himself.
Alex huffed, turning away again. His eyes were drawn to a stack of dusty brown texts at the far end of the bookcase, near the door. He recognised many of the titles, having them on his own bookshelves.
The crests of several universities jumped out at him, but most were from King’s College Cambridge, which was his father’s establishment and place of employment for most of his career. The words on some of the spines were so old and faded as to be almost unreadable. The titles were wide and varied: Clinical and Forensic Assessment of Psychopathic Manipulation; Stabilizing Bipolar Manic Episodes Through Hypnotic Imagery; Unconscious Agendas in Deep Regression Therapy.
Alex hadn’t realised his father was so well read in clinical disciplines. He was a research psychologist, not practising. It wasn’t like Rupert to be modest about anything. Alex was surprised, and a little peeved.
‘It’s time I woke Catherine for her dinner,’ said his father, appearing behind Alex.
Alex nodded, looking at his father. ‘I’ve never seen these,’ he said, waving towards the shelves.
‘Nothing useful, I’m afraid,’ said his father, a faint, cold smile on his lips. ‘A gift from a visiting professor.’
Alex looked at his father’s face and saw the familiar impatience he’d grown to hate over the years. He’d wasted his time coming here and was glad to leave the cold and unwelcoming man behind.
Alex turned the Porsche around and spared his father one last glance before he roared off. Rupert stood at the doorway, his face a mask. He reached over and plucked a couple of leaves from a climbing rose before discarding them. He didn’t wave before heading back inside and slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Mr Lewisham? It’s Dr Alex Madison. Thank you for taking my call.’
‘Ah, Dr Madison. Morning. The CPS is pleased to have you on board. You come highly recommended.’
‘I’m not sure I can help,’ said Alex.
‘Your father spoke highly of your talents.’
Alex paused, deciding not to tell the prosecutor that most of his father’s motives were self-serving. ‘My father and I have a professional understanding,’ he said. ‘He thought I should look at the case, perform my assessment. No guarantees.’
‘Dr Madison, I have five dead bodies including the suicides at Whitemoor, and I need to provide an explanation to the families and a case for the CPS. I’m not asking for guarantees. As it stands, this case will be dead within months and Victor Lazar will be deported. If he’s responsible I need to know.’
‘Which is why I agreed to take the case,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve met Victor.’
‘And?’
‘And the man is intriguing,’ said Alex, ‘unnerving – terrifying even. Everything Dr Bradley said he was, but I need more background. Mr Lazar made references to his past, but nothing specific. Our first conversation was cut rather shorter than I planned. I was hoping to be better prepared before I next see him.’
He heard the prosecutor take a deep breath. Deciding how to proceed.
‘To be effective, I must—’
‘Yes, you must,’ said Lewisham. ‘But that does seem to be a problem for us. Victor’s history is incomplete. He appeared in the UK a few months ago and was arrested at our scene of carnage. Before his arrival in the UK he was in Romania. He is a Romanian national.’
‘And what did he do in Romania?’ said Alex.
‘We don’t know,’ said Lewisham, ‘but the Romanians are being obstructive. He cannot be returned there at this time, and he cannot be released.’
Alex suspected the police and legal teams would have gone to considerable effort to trace Victor’s background. But there had to be something.
‘Can you at least give me a contact? A medical lead? It’s what I do. I’m trying to establish motive and the source of Victor’s behaviour. I’ll struggle without more information.’
Lewisham sighed. ‘I can put you in contact with Dr Aron Petri at the University of Bucharest. The police have already spoken to him. Other than the Romanian immigration office, he was the only official who would acknowledge Victor Lazar’s existence during our research. My impression was that the Romanians are embarrassed by the man and happy to leave him imprisoned here indefinitely. I don’t know how responsive Dr Petri will be – we had to request the initial information through quite sensitive channels. It’s all very political. I’ll ask my secretary to send you his details.’
‘Thanks,’ said Alex, doodling a series of question marks on the paper. ‘Any reason why this information wasn’t in the case file?’ Alex knew he was pushing it, questioning the CPS’s motives for withholding information. But if you don’t ask, you don’t get.
‘We gave the prison service what we thought they needed,’ said Lewisham. ‘None of this is secret, Dr Madison, but it all takes time and work. Now, if that will be all, I’ll leave you to it.’
Alex made a coffee while he waited for the details to be emailed through. It was still early and he decided to contact the Romanian doctor right away. He remained at his office, thinking that the privacy of his study might be better than the open desks at Whitemoor.
At first he thought he’d been given the wrong number and cursed. The series of beeps at the other end sounded like a disconnected line, but they stopped and a brief hiss was replaced with a male voice.
‘Bună dimineaţa.’
‘Ah,’ said Alex, looking at some notes he’d scrawled on his pad. ‘Bună dimineaţa. Vorbiţi engleză?’ There was a pause and Alex hoped he’d got the phrase correct.
‘Yes, I speak English,’ said the man.
Just as well, thought Alex, or it would have been a short call. He cleared his throat. ‘My name is Dr Alex Madison. I’m a clinical psychologist consulting for the British prison service. I’m trying to get hold of Dr Aron Petri. I understand he teaches at the psychology department there in Bucharest?’
‘You’ve found him,’ said the voice, sounding suspicious. ‘I’m Dr Petri. I head the faculty of psychology here.’
‘Great,’ said Alex, ‘and apologies for my appalling lack of Romanian. I’ve never had much of a need to—’
‘What can I do for you?’ said Dr Petri.
Alex paused. The line crackled. ‘Your name was given to me by the British Crown Prosecution Service.’ He waited before continuing, hoping for some recognition or outpouring of useful information. There was nothing but silence. ‘It concerns the case of Victor Lazar, a Romanian national who is imprisoned here at HMP Whitemoor.’ Still silence. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here.’ The suspicion remained.
‘So you know who I’m talking about?’
There was a tapping at the other end, as if a pencil or a fingernail was being repeatedly struck on a table.
‘Look, Dr Madison. When your authorities first contacted us about this man they were rude and demanding. They made various requests and managed to get our immigration department to support them. I made some enquiries and I told immigration and your prosecutor what I found at the time. That was several days ago and as far as I’m concerned my involvement is unnecessary. If the man is a criminal I’m sure he’ll pay for his crimes in your prisons. I’m not sure what else you want from me or my country.’
‘I’m sorry if the prosecutor was rude,’ said Alex. ‘It’s unacceptable. I didn’t call to make demands or insult you. I’m rather desperate for your help.’
Starting with an apology was an old trick, but it worked on everyone. ‘Mr Lazar will be deported,’ Alex continued, ‘if we can’t connect him to our case and prove his guilt. He’ll be heading back to Romania.’
‘What are you trying to prove?’ said Dr Petri, his voice softening. ‘What did he do?’
‘Something I was hoping you’d help me understand,’ said Alex. ‘I can’t give you the full details—’
‘Which is what your CPS said.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Alex. ‘I can give you some details. Some I can’t because it’s an ongoing criminal investigation. You can appreciate that, Doctor. I’m bound by patient confidentiality.’
‘You’re his doctor now?’ said Dr Petri. ‘What is his diagnosis? What is his treatment plan?’
‘I can’t, er—’
‘Of course you can’t,’ said Dr Petri.
‘He was arrested at a murder–suicide, Dr Petri,’ said Alex, unsure if legally he should be sharing this information but aware he needed to give Petri something. ‘He may be an innocent bystander but he’s not acting like one.’ Alex struggled with what to tell the man. He wasn’t comfortable telling this foreign doctor the gruesome details over the phone.
There was an audible sigh on the other end of the phone, and the tapping stopped.
‘Look,’ said Dr Petri, ‘I don’t want to repay rudeness with rudeness. It’s not my way or the Romanian way. I don’t want to hear about his crimes, so I will tell you what I know, then you’ll leave me alone. OK?’
‘I’ll be grateful for anything,’ said Alex.
‘I have some information about this Victor Lazar. He’s not well known to the state, but his childhood is recorded in our faculty research programmes. Some of this I told to your CPS. Some emerged later and to be honest I didn’t bother passing it on.’
Alex’s ears pricked up. Information the CPS didn’t have. ‘What did he have to do with the university?’ he asked. ‘I assumed you were only involved because you once treated him for something.’
‘I never treated Victor Lazar for anything,’ said Dr Petri. ‘I’ve never met him either. But he was sponsored by this university for a time. My involvement, as requested by immigration, was to search back through the faculty records.’
Trance Page 7