Trance

by Southward, Adam

  ‘Well, why would you?’ said Jane, laughing. ‘Murderers need more than CBT.’ She giggled in a way Alex had once found attractive. Why did he now find it irritating? He let her rant on, zoning out as she talked about her friends. One had a new job in the City, banking or something. The other did nothing except drink.

  ‘She could do with talking to somebody,’ said Jane.

  Alex paused. ‘What?’

  ‘Helen,’ said Jane. ‘She works fourteen-hour days for Goldman Sachs and has panic attacks every Sunday morning in the shower.’

  Alex zoned back in. ‘She should.’ He thought about it some more. This was something he could help with – should help with. ‘Talk to someone, I mean. I’ll give you a number to pass on.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jane, giving him an appreciative smile.

  ‘Although leaving her job would probably solve the problem.’ A great bit of advice, Alex thought, coming from a man struggling to manage his own.

  Jane nodded, turning back to her phone. She laughed, reciting one of her messages.

  Alex busied himself grinding more coffee than he needed. As he switched the coffee machine on he was vaguely aware she’d stopped talking again.

  ‘Is that OK then?’ said Jane.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘What I just said.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ said Alex.

  Jane huffed. ‘On the twenty-first. Staying with Peter and Cara for the week at their cottage in Petersfield. OK?’

  Alex faded back in and looked at the fridge door. There was a cute kitten calendar hanging on a magnet. The twenty-first. Two weeks’ time.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve got Katie coming to stay. I forgot to tell you. Sorry.’

  Jane’s face dropped. ‘Coming to stay here?’

  Alex bristled. ‘Coming to stay with me, her father, in my house. Yes.’

  Jane’s expression didn’t change. ‘And when were you going to run this by me?’

  Alex clenched his jaw. ‘I didn’t think that necessary. She’s my daughter, Jane. She is part of me. I thought you understood that?’

  He ignored the little voice in his head that said Jane had a point. He’d forgotten to keep her in the loop. It was disrespectful and he knew it, but he still struggled with her reaction. She’d led a privileged upbringing – Daddy’s little girl, surrounded by money. Her looks attracted both male and female admirers and she rarely came second to anything. Perhaps she couldn’t grasp the concept of anyone else being more important than her. In a way he didn’t blame her, but it was an unattractive trait. But it was his weakness. He was to blame. Why not end it?

  Jane put her palms down on the worktop.

  ‘I’m not asking you to give up your daughter,’ she said. ‘But you don’t include me in any of your plans. You just turn around and inform me—’

  ‘I don’t need your permission to spend time with my own child!’

  ‘That’s not what I said and you know it.’

  ‘Then what’s with the reaction?’

  ‘The reaction?’ said Jane, pouting. ‘Don’t start analysing me now, Doctor. My reaction is normal. You and your ex-family are the weird ones.’ She paused, probably realising she’d gone too far. Insulting his family was a no-go area. She knew that.

  He turned away from her as she approached him.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I don’t care if you meant it,’ he said.

  She huffed again and managed to force a couple of tears. She sniffed loudly to make her point. ‘Put yourself in my shoes,’ she said, ‘just for a second. You spend all your time working or thinking about working. I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours. Days can go by without us even talking. Of course Katie is lovely. I didn’t mean . . .’

  Alex didn’t care whether she meant it or not. He didn’t have the time or inclination to continue this conversation at the moment. He wanted time to think about Victor Lazar and whether he could rescue his career from the apparent precipice it teetered on.

  ‘Go and see your friends, OK?’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  With another small sniff, Jane turned and left, the door slamming behind her. Her Maserati roared into life, spitting gravel as she drove off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There were three police cars in the prison parking lot when Alex arrived, one of them unmarked, but obvious by the police jacket slung over the passenger seat. All were empty, the officers presumably inside.

  He entered the office to see a group of uniformed police occupying the empty desks on the far side. They were with Simon – the guard he’d met a few days earlier. Robert was over to the left, talking to a tall, thin woman in a grey trouser suit and black coat. She had mousy hair tied back tightly from her face and her arms were crossed. She looked distinctly unimpressed with whatever Robert was telling her.

  Alex found Sophie hunched over her desk, reading her way through a stack of typed papers. She shuffled and pushed them away as he approached.

  ‘I take it the police want to talk to us today,’ he said, glancing at Sophie’s small frame. Her face was paler today and her hair was tucked casually behind her ears.

  ‘I think so,’ said Sophie. She was fidgeting, fingernails scraping against palms.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he said. ‘Anything good?’

  Sophie’s face reddened. ‘Just a case study.’

  Alex moved closer and peered over. As he did so, Sophie grabbed the papers.

  ‘One of yours, OK?’ she said. ‘It’s one of your published papers from 2007 – Controversies and Issues in Forensic Psychology. I wanted to . . . you know . . . explore a little more about your subject.’

  Alex was flattered, his own face flushing. Finding out about the subject or about me? he wondered.

  ‘Well, I don’t know how useful that paper is,’ he said with genuine modesty – a rare thing for him to offer. ‘I think my most recent work has been with patients who would never give me permission to publish as a case study.’

  ‘No, of course,’ said Sophie. ‘All those celebs. There’d be scandal.’ She graced him with one of her beautiful smiles.

  The moment was broken with a noise from further along the corridor. Sophie’s eyes darted away as more uniformed prison officers and police entered.

  Robert glanced over and gestured for Alex to join him. ‘Detective,’ said Robert, as Alex approached, ‘this is Dr Alex Madison.’

  The detective extended her hand and gave a thin smile. ‘DCI Hartley,’ she said.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Alex, trying to portray calm and control.

  Hartley released Alex’s hand and suggested they find somewhere to talk.

  ‘I thought you’d want to talk to me yesterday,’ said Alex.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hartley, though not looking it. ‘Something came up. I had a few minutes with Dr Bradley. He brought me up to speed.’

  Hartley wove her way between the partitions towards a group of empty desks. She pulled out a chair, indicating Alex and Robert should do the same. Alex noted the impatience in the detective’s body language. He wondered what exactly Robert had brought her up to speed on.

  Hartley pulled out her notepad and flicked through a couple of pages, before closing it again and resting it on the desk.

  ‘So we’re clear, I’m the SRO on Victor Lazar’s escape. I’m not leading the Southampton murder case.’

  ‘OK.’ Alex nodded, glancing at Robert. SRO stood for senior responsible officer, which meant Hartley had the freedom to do whatever she wanted on this case. She’d also made it clear what she wasn’t interested in.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Victor Lazar,’ said Hartley. A statement, not a question. Alex glanced at Robert.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Alex, conscious he was being assessed. ‘I’ve spoken to him on three occasions. Once through the door, twice in his cell. I was in the preliminary stages of my assessment.’

  ‘Do you know Damian Reed?’ continue
d Hartley. Police officers at Hartley’s level undertook a little forensic psychology training themselves. Hartley was studying Alex’s body language as he responded. What did she want?

  ‘No,’ said Alex.

  ‘What about Simon Thomson?’

  ‘The guard? I met him this week. In the corridor. He showed me the segregation wing.’

  ‘So Mr Thomson took you to see Victor Lazar this week?’

  ‘No,’ said Alex. ‘He showed me the seg wing. Look, can we start from the beginning? I only arrived this week, as requested by the CPS. There are some things you should know.’

  He raised his eyebrows at Robert, hoping he would jump in.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Robert, sounding anxious.

  DCI Hartley huffed and scratched the back of her neck. ‘What?’ she said, looking distracted.

  ‘Dr Bradley’s told you about Victor Lazar?’ said Alex. He could tell the inspector was agitated about something. ‘I contacted one of your colleagues about him.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Hartley. ‘DCI Laird at Hampshire. He told me.’

  ‘And you don’t think it’s worth doing what I asked? Re-interviewing those people from his case, given the circumstances?’

  ‘No, I don’t, because it’s got nothing to do with his escape. We don’t know how Victor Lazar managed to walk out of here, but we’ll find out. It may be simpler than you think.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Damian Reed.’

  Robert frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead. He loosened his collar.

  ‘And he is?’ said Alex.

  ‘Damian Reed is a guard employed by this prison,’ said Hartley. ‘He has been here for the last seven years. An unexceptional employee, he’s been behaving erratically for the last week or so, according to Simon Thomson, his friend and line manager. He hasn’t been heard from since Victor Lazar escaped.’

  ‘OK. So?’ said Alex. Hartley appeared to be missing the point.

  ‘Damian was assigned to both D Wing and segregation. He spoke to Victor every day since his arrival. And now he’s gone. We dispatched a squad car yesterday to Damian Reed’s house. It was empty. I managed to persuade the magistrate to give us a warrant and we conducted a room-by-room search. Mr Reed wasn’t on his sick bed. He wasn’t there at all. All his stuff – clothes and food – remains. But he’s gone. The officers searched for any clues as to his whereabouts before waking the neighbours. Nobody had seen Damian, but apparently he was a quiet, withdrawn person, so that wasn’t out of the ordinary.’

  Hartley scratched her chin, fixing a questioning stare at Alex. Alex felt uncomfortable, a deep worry settling again in his gut.

  ‘In short, Dr Madison, we’re connecting Mr Reed with this escape. He left the prison at the same time as Victor and his whereabouts are unknown. He’s divorced, lives alone and his friends are mostly prison employees – some we’ve questioned and some are being traced. Nobody knows where he is.’

  Alex glanced at Robert. ‘You think Damian is an accomplice?’ he said. ‘But you’ve seen the CCTV footage of Victor from within the prison?’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘And Robert has discussed Victor’s time here with you? In detail?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘And you accept the tentative diagnosis that Victor is a probable psychopath with motive and means? Yet the governor moved him into the general wing.’

  Alex narrowed his eyes. He considered his own scepticism of Victor’s ability only a few days before and accepted her scepticism was warranted. Neither he nor Robert had been able to offer any reasonable explanation based upon established psychological theories. His assessment had barely started and there seemed little chance of progress now. But still, he hated it when the police played catch-up. They were wasting time.

  ‘With all due respect, it doesn’t explain anything,’ said Hartley. ‘Suicides aren’t uncommon in places like this. It’s not my place to judge the governor’s running of her prison.’ She lifted her head for effect, looking with mild disgust at her surroundings.

  ‘But these weren’t normal suicides, Detective. And our theories are quite rational. Victor wields an unnatural ability to influence people. It could explain how he managed to walk right out of this prison. Just look at his history, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Or, he had an accomplice who arranged it.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps the accomplice was unwilling. The CCTV from the escape—’

  ‘Mr Reed was out of camera shot for most of it,’ said Hartley. ‘He was on shift, then he disappeared. It doesn’t take much to connect his disappearance with Victor.’

  ‘No. This was Victor’s doing, Detective,’ said Alex, neglecting to mention that what Victor could do had never been observed in the history of psychological research. ‘His ability is rare, but not supernatural.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Hartley. She raised her eyebrows. ‘So what is it?’

  Alex paused. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded, ‘but what I’ve seen so far suggests Victor wields a manipulative ability to render people under his control within a matter of seconds using high suggestibility. Whatever it is, it would explain the horrific events surrounding Victor’s time here, including his escape.’

  Hartley pulled a face. ‘Hypnosis?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘Not like I’ve ever seen. The mechanism and action here are unique. The subject’s response is different. Psychologically, this is far more complex.’

  ‘OK.’ Hartley frowned, her brow creased in thought. She examined Alex. ‘A manipulator. Suppose I believe you. The victim is still conscious?’

  ‘I . . .’ Alex considered his own experience in Victor’s cell. ‘Yes. Conscious and resisting – or trying to. That’s what sets it apart. This is new.’

  ‘New?’

  ‘Undocumented.’

  ‘Then I suggest—’

  ‘Research is what I’m doing,’ said Alex. ‘I need more time and a fuller background on the man. I can’t yet be certain that this is what he does to his alleged victims. I can’t say whether this Damian Reed could have been susceptible.’

  ‘No?’ said Hartley, taking a styrofoam coffee cup off the table. She took a sip and screwed up her face. Producing a pack of sweetener from her pocket, she popped three tablets in before swirling the drink around with her index finger.

  ‘We’re talking about psychological control,’ said Alex. ‘Deep trance. This is uncharted territory.’

  Alex let that hang. He spoke in a confident tone but was aware his own uncertainties were breaking through. He’d been as truthful as he could – he didn’t understand the mechanism of Victor’s ability, and he hadn’t been able to break his own trance at Victor’s hands. Admitting that was not the right thing to do, but Hartley needed to know she was dealing with an extraordinary individual, even if Alex couldn’t prove it.

  Hartley leaned back in her chair. She raised her hands in a conciliatory fashion. ‘OK. Look, I didn’t mean to be quite so blunt. But what you’re describing is fanciful. You can appreciate why I can’t work with it.’ Hartley paused and cleared her throat, flicking through her notepad. ‘As I understand it, the CPS is still struggling with motive for the Southampton case. That isn’t the way you see it?’

  ‘No,’ said Alex, aware of Robert’s surprised look.

  Alex explained his conversation with the prosecutor and subsequent call to Dr Petri. He gave the name of Professor Dumitru, spelling it out as Hartley took notes. Robert remained quiet as Hartley scribbled in her pad. She paused.

  ‘You’ve had this information for over twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘I had planned to use it over the course of my sessions with Victor.’

  Hartley narrowed her eyes as she scribbled further. ‘You didn’t think motive was rather urgent to my colleagues in Southampton?’

  ‘I did, I just . . .’ Alex struggled to formulate an excuse for having kept it to himself. ‘I didn’t think.’

 
Hartley raised her eyebrows and put her pen on top of the pad, lining it up with the edge. She tapped it a few times with her finger. ‘Anything else?’

  Alex paused. He saw the frustration in Hartley’s face. She was no doubt under pressure and his omission wouldn’t have helped things.

  ‘Be careful, Detective,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but Victor Lazar is a very dangerous man. Approach with caution and with numbers. You don’t want to find yourself alone with this man.’

  Hartley gave him the long stare before standing and grabbing her notebook in one swift movement. ‘OK. Thank you, Doctor. Please don’t stray too far. I might want to talk to you both again. Thank you for your time.’

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief as Hartley and Robert left, but worried they were no closer to understanding Victor or what he’d do next. If Victor was out there seeking revenge, the police were a long way from catching him, and Alex was powerless to do anything about it.

  He decided to head home, checking his phone on the way out. Another missed call from Jane and one from Grace.

  Grace’s name triggered the usual wave of guilt, and he promised himself he’d call her later. Jane was another matter. He couldn’t think of Jane without Sophie popping into his head. Sophie was attractive in all the right places, body and mind. She was new and interesting in a way Jane should be but wasn’t. Sophie had a flawed beauty . . . He thought back to what Victor had said to him in the cell and shivered. Was he that obvious?

  How did Victor know that? Alex was a relationship car crash, he knew that much. Grace knew it when they were together. If Jane didn’t know it yet, she would soon. Was Sophie his next bit of fancy? Is that all Alex could do? Lure the next one with his professional arrogance, then toss them aside and move on? No wonder Grace was done with him. She was far too bright to put up with such a man. Why did he have to be that person? His fingers reached for his pills and he swallowed one dry, cursing the necessity.

  Alex forced his thoughts back to Victor. He was worried, and there was a sense of urgency, a nagging doubt he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He thought back to the last few days. He could picture Robert and Sophie, both at their desks. He remembered Robert’s tired, haggard face, his creased shirt and scuffed shoes. He saw Sophie’s fidgeting, the way she sometimes shook her head as if warding off unwelcome thoughts. He remembered two of the guards on the way to the office. One was picking dirt off his trouser leg. The other was rubbing his eyes.