Alex stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I met him. Talked to him. He didn’t wish me harm.’
‘He might.’
‘I’m safe, Sophie. Don’t worry. I’ll be in soon. Meet you there?’
As he hung up and turned the shower to scalding hot, he watched the water stream down the shower screen. He wondered if he should have been a little more honest with Sophie, because in truth he had no idea what Victor would do. He didn’t think any of the staff at Whitemoor were in danger – Victor had been given ample opportunity to wipe out half of them if he’d wanted to – but who could say for sure?
However, Alex needed to accept that Victor might not have a plan, that he might be taking the opportunities where he found them. It would be a bad outcome, because it would be increasingly difficult to predict his behaviour.
Alex knew what he needed to do next.
‘Bucharest?’ Sophie stood in the prison parking lot, leaning against her Golf, hands in pockets. Alex had asked to meet her there. He thought he should tell her before he disappeared for a few days and he didn’t want her to object to his idea in front of Robert and Hartley.
‘I need answers,’ he said. ‘More than I’m getting now. Back to the source, as one of my tutors used to say. Bucharest is a short hop. I’ll be back in no time.’
Sophie’s eyes narrowed. She looked away. ‘For how long?’
‘A day or two,’ he said.
Sophie nodded, appearing to consider it. She shuffled her feet, kicking her toes into the concrete.
‘Just there and back?’
‘That’s the plan. Look, I—’
‘To see Dr Petri? Just him, or anybody else?’ One of her shoes caught a discarded drink can and it clattered off under a car.
‘Just him,’ said Alex, watching the path of the silver metal can, puzzled at the questions. ‘Look—’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘When do we go?’
Alex shook his head. ‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I’m going. You need to stay here, provide Hartley with assistance while I’m gone. Robert doesn’t seem up to it. You know what I mean.’
He’d thought about it, of course he had, but in a rare moment of common sense he’d decided to go alone. Alex needed to be professional and, above all, focused. In his current state of mind he needed to remain undistracted by both Jane and Sophie. Grace would never leave his mind – but he didn’t want her to.
Sophie kept her face twisted to one side, her shoulders slowly rising and falling. When she turned back to face him he thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes.
‘It would be better for me to join you,’ she said. Her face relaxed. The fear disappeared and was replaced with a wry smile. She nudged herself away from her car and closed the distance between them.
‘I can help,’ she said. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm.
Alex paused. He watched Sophie, how her body language had morphed from anxious to seductive in three steps. He felt his certainty slipping.
‘I’m from that part of the world,’ she said. ‘I’ll fit in better than you. This would be a great experience for me. For both of us, perhaps.’ She finished the sentence in a whisper, her smile growing. Alex felt his throat close up. She was close enough to touch, but he remained motionless, caught in the moment.
A couple of days away with Sophie. That wouldn’t be so bad. And it was her idea, not his, so nobody could accuse him of being inappropriate. Not that he cared much if they did, but still, it had the potential to get awkward. He tried quickly to weigh up the pros and cons, but as Sophie cocked her head and kept her eyes fixed on his, the cons were fast disappearing. Her perfume wafted over him and he breathed it in. Her cheeks were flushed. She flicked her hair to one side, revealing the soft skin of her neck.
What would Jane say? It didn’t matter – he wouldn’t tell her. Besides, there was nothing innately wrong about going away with a work colleague. What would Grace say? Nothing. She wouldn’t care. She’d made it quite clear that what he did was his business. She couldn’t stop him when they were married; she wasn’t going to try after they divorced.
The thought of Grace jolted Alex back to reality.
‘I, er, do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘I do,’ said Sophie. Her face remained locked in a smile. Her eyes took on a strange quality, her pupils dilating. Alex wondered if she’d taken something, but she didn’t seem the type. And Alex didn’t care to think that women only liked him when they were high or drunk.
No, he decided. Not high. She was coherent and stable. She wanted to come with him, and whether that was professional or personal, it didn’t matter. Part of Alex hoped it was the latter, but he’d settle for whatever he could get. Going away with Sophie would be interesting and worth it. His mind was made up.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Sophie beamed, spinning around and heading for the entrance.
‘I’ll check flights,’ she said, whipping out her phone and disappearing through the door.
Alex watched her leave, his body relaxing. He paused for a few moments, pleased with himself. What the hell. He’d made the right decision. Now it was time to tell DCI Hartley.
He doubted she’d be quite so supportive.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘You want to go where?’ Hartley looked quizzical but not altogether angry. They were back in the office with several colleagues. The police were working their way through interviews with the remaining prison staff.
‘You heard what I said last time?’ said Hartley. ‘We’re considering all prison staff at risk.’
‘They’re not at risk,’ said Alex, still not sure if he believed it.
‘You don’t know that,’ said Hartley. ‘If you leave the country, we can’t protect you. We don’t have many friends in Bucharest.’
‘But Victor can’t leave the country, can he?’ said Robert. His usual grey-white shirt had been replaced with a faded black one today. The top button was missing.
Alex raised his eyebrows and gave Robert a few moments to consider this.
‘Of course . . .’ said Robert. ‘How foolish of me.’
‘But why would he?’ said Alex. ‘I think he came to the UK to exact his revenge. Professor Dumitru, Professor Florin, maybe others. You don’t know any more than that, do you?’
‘But his behaviour here has been—’
‘Violent, erratic and unpredictable. Yes, I know. But you’re no closer to catching him if I stay.’
Hartley frowned, tapping her pencil. ‘I can’t have you running around conducting formal interviews. The CPS has already screwed up the relationship with the Romanian officials.’
‘I won’t be. Patient background is a fundamental part of my assessment process. This is what I do, Detective.’
What I did, he thought. I haven’t done this for years.
‘This is strictly research,’ he said. ‘Background on the subject. I can’t get what I need from a rushed phone call over a crackly international line. It needs to be personal, face-to-face, doctor-to-doctor. That’s how my profession works. I’ll pass on anything relevant to you and your team.’
Hartley looked thoughtful. She knew Alex’s background, and hopefully she’d be intelligent enough not to treat him like a tabloid quack, as some of the others seemed to.
‘And you think this . . .’ – Hartley referred to her notepad – ‘Dr Petri will help you? If we let you do this?’
‘I think he knows more than he told me on the phone,’ said Alex. ‘Something catastrophic was inflicted on Victor back in his childhood. His appearance here in the UK is not random, we know that. But there is more to this than just the two professors. Victor is an aberration, a violent force, but you can’t treat him like a normal fugitive. He’s not going to pick a fight in a bar for the sake of it and get caught. He’s looking for something or someone, and he may not even know what it is yet. This whole situation in the UK is one big mess for him. He’s probab
ly withdrawing now, looking to apply order. I need to get one step ahead. If I can find out what happened to him, we may stand a better chance of figuring out his next move.’
Alex paused. He realised his excitement had caused him to start lecturing his colleagues. He checked his elevated heart rate, a familiar sensation. It was getting more frequent. It was years since a patient had made him feel like this. He forced himself to relax.
Hartley glanced at Robert, who shrugged – unhappy, but devoid of any better suggestions. He looked under pressure and troubled, the bags under his eyes straining on his pale skin.
‘What other leads do you have?’ Alex insisted. ‘If I do nothing, this man will disappear and you’ll either be following him from crime scene to crime scene, or he’ll be gone for good.’
‘OK,’ said Hartley, hands open in submission. She glanced around the room at her other officers and checked the screen on her phone. ‘If you must, make your trip. Keep it clinical, please, and keep it short. If I get any complaints across from the Met that you’re pissing off the Romanians you’re off this case for good. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Alex with relief, although he wished he felt happier. He was chasing a dangerous man. Was the reward worth it?
‘Our flights leave tonight,’ said Sophie, hunched over her keyboard. While Alex talked, she’d been busy on her phone then on her laptop. She glanced up and nodded.
‘You too?’ Robert looked perturbed, and his eyes flicked between Alex and Hartley.
‘I need an assistant,’ said Alex, ‘and it’ll be good experience for Sophie.’ He ignored the looks on both Robert’s and Hartley’s faces. They didn’t appear altogether happy, but they had no good reason to stop her.
Alex’s and Sophie’s eyes met. Whatever had been worrying her in the parking lot was gone. All he could see now was her familiar warmth. It would do her good to get out of the prison, Alex thought. He tried to push aside the other thoughts.
Those would only get in the way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The young girl slept surrounded by cushions and soft toys under a colourful patchwork duvet. A white bunny lay on her chest, rising and falling, pinned there by her arm. Her face was illuminated by a faint pink nightlight, showing her petite features and ash-blonde hair, which had fallen over her cheek.
Victor studied her from the bedroom doorway. He glanced across the landing before flicking on his torch, scanning the bedroom walls. It was a pretty room. Pastel colours. Decorated for a younger girl than the one in the bed. Covered in posters of princesses and ponies. He’d never seen a room like this before. The girls he knew as a child slept ten to a room, the only thing on the walls was mould, and princesses didn’t exist at all, not even in dreams.
He paused as she stirred and rolled over. She stretched and the bunny fell to the floor. A deep breath. He could smell lavender, soft and gentle.
The girl caused an unease deep in his gut. It upset him. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling persisted, like he’d swallowed a rock. It lay on his stomach and wrenched back and forth as he moved.
He’d seen so many young girls die. She didn’t need to be one of them.
He pulled away, leaving the girl asleep, and crept back out of the room to avoid making a sound.
Further along the landing towards the master bedroom, Victor paused. He’d observed the occupants from across the street, watching them intently through the open curtains. She was middle-aged, a brunette with short, bobbed hair. Her husband was much older, but muscular and tall. Victor had watched, and left them to it. That was yesterday. Today it was time.
He’d entered the house through the French doors and tiptoed across the thick living room rugs and parquet hallway, stepping in time to the ticking of the grandfather clock under the staircase.
He paused as a woman’s voice called out from behind the master bedroom door. Sweet nothings to a husband, wondering when he’d be finished in the shower. A reply, deep but muffled, confirming the husband’s presence.
There was no need to delay. Pulling the thin knife out of his backpack he grabbed the bedroom door handle, turning and pushing hard. It was unlocked and offered no resistance, flinging open to reveal a brightly lit room. He squinted as the light hit his eyes, panning around to the bed on the far wall. The bed was occupied and the woman’s eyes widened. She was dressed in a silk slip, her hands resting on the floral duvet.
Before she could find her voice, Victor whispered across the room. He repeated himself several times as the words seeped into her psyche, relaxing her, controlling her.
Her arms fell limp to her sides, and she slumped, seated, staring forwards with a vacant gaze.
Quickly now. Speed was of the essence. Do it and leave.
The door to the en suite swung open. The husband walked through, wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing moisture out of his eyes. He didn’t register Victor, who was stooped in the shadows by the door. He addressed his wife, looking puzzled at the sight of her dressed seductively in thin lingerie, but gazing, mouth open, and dribbling out of the left corner of her mouth.
He moved towards her, his brow creasing with worry.
Victor also moved, and whispered again, this time at the man he’d come to kill.
The man turned and opened his eyes wide in surprise. They flickered before coming under control, relaxing as Victor spoke, insistent and calm, relaying his instructions.
It took a while, but Victor waited for the glimmer of recognition from the man who had tormented him as a child all those years ago.
Victor held his knife by the blade, outstretched towards the man. He pushed and whispered. And it took.
‘Do you remember?’ said Victor.
The man reached out and took the knife. He hesitated, his eyes searching Victor’s face.
His terror was absolute.
‘Do you remember handing me a knife like this one?’ Victor tilted his head, whispered and stood back.
The man opened his mouth but could only manage a croak.
‘Marcu died on that day. Do you remember him? Twenty-nine?’
The man tried to shake his head but his eyes betrayed him once again.
‘Do you remember Catina, Clara and Beniamin?’ said Victor. He paused. ‘You know their numbers. They were children. I can see that you do. And that’s enough. I’m here to forgive you.’ Victor whispered until the man was completely under, stooped, head hanging, eyes glazed. Open to instruction. Open to anything.
Victor whispered his final instruction.
Without hesitating, the man lifted his arm high and stabbed hard with the knife, downwards into his own chest from the side. The knife made a wet sound and struck a rib. Wrenching it out, the man adjusted his grip, then stabbed again, higher this time. The knife entered more cleanly into his neck, sinking deep, missing bones and cutting through muscle and ligaments.
The man’s body reacted, even if his mind couldn’t. Too late, but basic motor instincts took hold. A scream. A deep groan which ended with a gurgling sound as the blood gushed into the man’s throat.
He staggered back into a dark oak wardrobe. The knife was stuck in the man’s neck up to the handle, his severed artery spraying the mirrored doors in blood.
Victor glanced at the woman in the bed. She remained staring straight ahead, her eyes witnessing the carnage but her body unable to act.
The man slumped back against the wardrobe doors, blood pumping out of his throat and mouth. Knees folded and arms limp, his face like a goldfish out of water, gasping and gulping, unable to draw breath, unable to understand what was happening.
He died so rapidly that his eyes remained open, staring waist-height across the room towards the far wall, unfocused, flickering and empty.
Victor was still, watching as the mist descended, signalling his exhaustion. He didn’t move for several minutes, motionless, just watching, before he was roused by a young girl’s voice, calling for her mum.
He turned and left, pas
sing the young girl on the landing. He didn’t stop. Seeing the girl made the rock in his stomach heavier, and the nausea gripped him. He rushed past and down the stairs, before exiting the house by the front door.
The young girl’s screams followed him out into the night, across the city and into his sleep.
Pain. Victor woke in pain every day. The stampede in his head began before his eyes opened. It continued for hours before seeping away, lurking beneath the surface, ready to return at a moment’s notice.
Victor dreamed. Vivid and lucid, he dreamed of his parents, of what they might have been. He dreamed of a childhood by the lakes, the mountains casting their shadows. The shadows never reached him because his parents kept it at bay.
It was a dream, of course. It never happened. Not like the other dreams, the visions where he relived his real childhood, relentlessly, repeatedly, until the stampede woke him and reminded him the pain would never go. Not while he lived. Not while others lived.
It had taken him this long, and he was angry at himself. He had confused things, delayed and spent his efforts in the wrong place. But they deserved it, didn’t they? Didn’t everyone share some responsibility? How dare they live without the pain, if he must live with it?
He sat up, the bed creaking in protest. He sniffed and scrunched up his nose. Another house, and the bed smelled of its owner, a frail lady who’d opened her door and stared at him with innocence as he’d barged his way in.
She’d looked poor, her clothes tatty and worn. Scared, she had pleaded with him to leave. Victor held her by the shoulders and peered into her eyes. He saw honesty and fear, but no anger.
She reminded him of one of the cooks at Comăneşti. Local women, farmers’ wives, visiting only for an hour or so a day, seemingly oblivious to the treatment of the children, or at least they pretended to be. Memories bubbled to the surface and Victor forced them back down. He couldn’t find it in himself to hurt this woman; her eyes were innocent and so was her soul.
He’d sent her away, out of the house and into the street. She’d wander and roam until somebody found her. A son or daughter, perhaps? No husband, not by the look of the house.
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