At Comăneşti he was treated with cautious disregard. He couldn’t do what they wanted, which meant he was low value. Ferried back and forth between examination rooms and testing scenarios, the other children largely ignored him. He wasn’t considered a threat, but if anything had saved Freak back then, it was his kindly nature. He wasn’t aggressive, even after weeks of invasive testing. He was scared of the staff and friendly towards the other children.
Time moved on and the pressures at Comăneşti refocused the experiments. Freak was cast aside for later investigation. He and a few others were put in a dorm of their own and locked down for twenty-three hours a day. The numbers in that dorm fell swiftly as children disappeared. Taken away for ‘relocation’. Natalia and the other children knew what that meant. Freak was one of the lucky ones.
Natalia was pleased he had survived. It was only later, after their escape, that Natalia encouraged Freak to explore his mental talent, considered useless by his peers at the time. They practised together, perfecting his interference of her own suggestions and influences, careful to avoid the damage that Freak had inflicted on subjects in the past. It was the only way he’d survive. To be valuable to their masters was paramount. Low-value assets tended to disappear.
Freak’s curious ability interested the Russians enough to keep him alive and assigned to her. Together, with her ability and practice, they had a not insubstantial capability. Was it enough?
‘You think we could do it soon? Together?’
‘Maybe,’ said Freak. ‘Do you want to wait?’
‘Not much longer,’ said Natalia. ‘He’s raising his profile, which could raise ours. He’s going to do something stupid soon.’
‘Like killing more of those people?’
Natalia looked at Freak in dismay. He cowered away. Thirteen was making a complete mess of things – of course it was stupid. If the killings continued it wouldn’t take much to tip the balance and her masters might well decide to get rid of them too. Freak should know better.
‘Of course,’ Freak added, seeing her face. ‘Of course.’
‘I do wonder about you sometimes, Freak.’
A bus turned the corner and slowed as it approached them.
‘You’re not making much progress elsewhere,’ said Freak, cringing, anticipating her response. ‘When are you going to give that up?’
‘When I decide to,’ she said, sounding more in control than she felt. ‘Come on. I’m hungry. Once we’ve eaten we’ll head back to where he’s staying.’
Freak frowned.
‘I don’t like it either,’ she said, recalling her reaction when she’d first seen where Thirteen was hiding out. She’d read the faded sign over the building’s entrance with interest.
Freak narrowed his eyes.
‘Look,’ said Natalia, smiling at the bus driver as he opened the door. ‘When the time is right, we’ll take him. And our job is done. OK?’
If only it were that simple, she thought. Rumours were growing and the Russians were gathering momentum, bolstering their medical staff back at base. If anybody wondered what happened to the children of Comăneşti, the Russians had the answer. Her masters’ true intentions were unknown, but Natalia began to worry again about her future and that of Freak. Once she had dealt with Thirteen, she had no idea what awaited them. She’d made several mistakes so far, but one of them bugged her more than most. Using people to achieve their ends was natural. Getting too close to them wasn’t. She’d gone too far, let her guard down. She couldn’t let it happen again.
She turned to Freak, who simply shrugged again, turning away.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, checking her watch, before dismissing the bus driver, who gave her an annoyed look before driving off into the traffic.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sophie stood behind Alex, her hand resting softly on his shoulder. He felt her withdraw it as Jane strode into the room. She’d called Alex to say she was rushing straight over. That was an hour ago, and Alex noticed the fresh change of clothes – there was no end to her designer suits – and waft of perfume. Her make-up was immaculate, and he noticed not a single teardrop had blemished it.
‘Alex,’ she said, her heels clacking on the floor as she brushed Sophie aside with a smile and embraced him. ‘I’m here.’
Alex stiffened at her touch, but didn’t have the energy to do anything. Not in front of the crowd who were gathered in the living room of his parent’s house. Hartley stood to one side, talking to a couple of uniformed officers. Sophie eyed them both cautiously. His mum was still in her bedroom. They were waiting for the doctor to finish up.
Jane swivelled around to face him.
‘It’s terrible,’ she said, shaking her head. She glanced over to the officers. Neither of them looked back, which seemed to irk her. ‘Have they caught him?’ said Jane, raising her voice. ‘The person who did this?’
‘Jane,’ said Alex, wishing she’d leave and let him deal with this, ‘it’s nice you came, but I’ve got a lot to do. I need to talk to the police, the doctors. I need to sort out where Mum will stay—’
‘I can do that,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll put her up at Rivers. The manager knows me. I—’
‘She needs care, Jane,’ said Alex. ‘Constant care. She can’t stay in a hotel.’
‘Oh,’ said Jane. She looked genuinely concerned. ‘Well, I guess I can—’
‘Please,’ said Alex. ‘Your support is sweet, but we’ve got it taken care of. Perhaps we can talk later?’
Jane stood, her face twisted. She glanced around the room, as if unsure what to do. Alex saw the distress in her face and wanted to say something. She controlled most aspects of her own life. Alex figured it must be hard for her when she couldn’t control his. All he managed was a weak smile. He offered to meet her back at the house later.
Jane’s heels made even more noise on the way out, and Alex slumped in his chair. She’d only tried to be supportive and he’d thrown it back at her. He’d fix it later, but for now his mind whirred, second-guessing his every move and conversation for the last two weeks. What could he have done to change this?
Everything, he suspected. He could have been better at his initial visit. Better at assessing the background Robert had shown him. He could have admitted what Victor did to him in his cell – his heart raced and his cheeks flushed at the thought. But why hadn’t his dad been honest from the beginning? One conversation was all it would have taken. His dad could have admitted his past and what he’d done. He could have told Alex the man in the cell was in fact a monster and needed special treatment. Victor should not have been allowed contact with anyone. They could have taken precautions.
Instead, his father had strangled himself with his own belt, noosing it over the corner finial of a heavy antique bookshelf. He was dead when Alex’s mother found him and started screaming. The neighbours called the police, but nobody saw what happened. Nobody saw Victor Lazar enter Alex’s parents’ house and kill his father.
‘Dr Madison?’
Alex turned to see the family GP, a young woman who offered her sincerest condolences. She looked genuinely shocked. A social worker trailed behind her, scribbling on a notepad. The social worker’s phone rang and she withdrew from the room, offering an apologetic look.
‘Your mother is resting,’ said the GP, ‘but she’s OK. Confused, but she understands what’s happened. She’s asking for you.’
Alex nodded. ‘I’ll be right with her.’
He turned to Sophie. ‘My father’s study. We need to search it.’
Hartley’s ears pricked up and she stepped over. ‘Again, I’m so sorry,’ she said. She looked troubled.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Alex. ‘I should have pieced it together, his involvement . . . He pushed me towards this case and I didn’t see it. I was too slow.’
‘It’s not your fault either,’ said Hartley. ‘Even if you’d managed to get hold of me, I couldn’t have guaranteed we’d be able to protect him. You said he
refused to leave – we couldn’t have forced him.’
‘But the rest of them.’ Alex’s eyes found Sophie again. ‘The rest of the doctors, the psychologists and psychiatrists. My father was the only one, apart from Victor, who knew who they all were.’
‘We know more than we did,’ said Hartley. ‘We’ve connected another couple with the photo. They are already under protection.’
‘But the rest will never admit it. Even if we put it out on the evening news, they may well remain silent. Until . . .’
‘The reason I’ve been distracted,’ said Hartley, ‘is that we found another. Confirmed identity.’
‘Who?’
‘Professor Alice Branson. Eighty-one years old. She was found in a playground in Greenwich Park, on the swing set. Two morning runners spotted her and called us. When the first responders got there the runners had cut her free.’
‘Same scene?’
‘Suicide. Brutal and cruel. Hung from the frame by a rope.’
Alex winced, but couldn’t find any energy to mourn her. He was still figuring out his feelings towards his father. He had a professional suspicion he was bottling it all up, and once the Xanax wore off he’d come down pretty hard.
‘Is my father? I mean, has his body . . .’
‘Your father’s body’s been taken away. You can see him at the morgue. I’ll take you.’
Alex nodded. ‘Not yet. I need to speak to Mum, and we need to search his things. I need to get you a list of his colleagues.’
‘I’ll start searching the study,’ said Sophie.
Alex headed upstairs, pausing near the top to assess his nerves. He was worried to find his packet of Xanax almost empty. He added a reminder on his phone to pick up some more – and he needed to have a conversation with Mikey about the other items too.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Alex entered the front bedroom, glancing around at the walls. It smelled stuffy, of lavender soap, and it evoked strange memories of his childhood. Not an event, but a time. He wondered at what age he’d stopped going into his parents’ room. He wondered at what age his father had moved out into the back bedroom.
‘Mum,’ said Alex, pulling up a chair. He gave her a peck on the cheek. Her skin was wet from tears and she reached out to him. He embraced her, but still couldn’t find his own tears. He was in pain, no doubt, but he wasn’t distressed. Not like he should be. He wondered at what point in his life his love for his father had departed.
‘I’m here, Mum,’ he said, thinking that she was smaller and thinner than he remembered. Seeing her so distraught, weak and confused stirred anger in Alex and he clenched his jaw. Whatever his father’s deeds, this had got personal. His father didn’t deserve to die for what he did and his mum didn’t deserve to be left a widow.
Alex struggled with the fact that he’d been face-to-face with his father’s killer and let him get away. He’d failed at every step in this case so far and couldn’t see the light at the end of it. Even if they caught Victor, he’d failed his family. His dysfunctional, distant and broken parents. Family all the same.
‘Did the man leave?’ said his mum. Her eyes were searching. They closed again as tears welled up.
‘Did you speak to him?’ said Alex. ‘The man who was here.’
His mum sniffed. ‘Yes. I asked him why he was in the kitchen.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me to go into the living room and stay there. I did. I wasn’t worried. He seemed nice enough.’
‘Did he say anything else to you? Did he tell you to do anything else?’
‘I went into the living room. I sat. I think I might have dozed off.’
Alex examined his mother’s face. Could he be sure Victor hadn’t tried to harm her? Place some suggestion, no matter how small, into her already fragile mind?
‘OK, Mum,’ he said. ‘Perhaps get some rest.’
‘Did he hurt your father?’ she said. Her jaw trembled. ‘Did he hurt Rupert? Did your father die at his hands?’
Alex held his mother’s hand tight. He closed his own eyes. ‘Dad died of a heart attack. There’s nothing anybody could do, including you.’
‘Oh.’ His mum’s hand relaxed a touch. ‘I thought the man had hurt him. A heart attack? His brother went the same way. He was older, mind you . . .’
Alex squeezed his mum’s shoulder, promising she wouldn’t be left alone in the house. He’d speak to the social worker before he left and arrange everything. She had her own money, but Alex could pay for the best care he could find. She deserved nothing less.
‘I need to look through the study,’ said Alex. ‘Is that OK?’
His mum pulled a faint smile. ‘Of course. There’s nothing in there for me. You might make sense of it.’
Alex paused. He found himself short of words. He had nothing to describe his sense of frustration and loss. They were a messed-up family unit, but he loved them – in his own way, which he supposed was the same excuse his father had used.
‘Zero eight, zero six, two zero zero zero,’ said his mother.
Alex frowned. ‘What?’
‘The safe combination. You’ll need it. If you’re going through his study.’
‘How on earth—’
‘The date of your graduation. Your father was so proud. He uses it for all his passwords. I saw him once. He never knew.’
Alex didn’t know which amazed him more, his mother’s sudden clarity of memory, or his father’s use of his graduation date. The date he’d embarked on his career, following in his father’s footsteps. His father had never once told Alex he was proud. Why couldn’t a man who studied emotion for half his life exhibit even an ounce of it when he was alive?
Alex left the room and headed back down the stairs, pausing at his childhood bedroom. The colour was gone and it was now used for storage. He saw suitcases and three chests of drawers.
‘Alex,’ Sophie whispered up from the hall.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sophie. ‘Your dad has some fascinating journals on his shelves. I haven’t seen some of them before.’
‘Is the safe locked?’
Sophie nodded.
‘OK. Let’s take a look.’
Alex felt awkward in his father’s study. He’d never been allowed in here alone, and even now he was reminded of his childhood, searching for interesting things to poke or steal. Sophie had been neat and tidy, putting things back where she’d found them. It looked exactly as it had on his last visit, all evidence of his father’s suicide already removed by the police and coroner.
Alex skipped over most of it and headed straight to the old Yale safe in the corner. The combination was correct, and the door clicked open.
It was a small safe with two shelves. Four folders and an envelope rested on the top shelf. Several passports were scattered on the shelf below, most of them expired. Out of interest he flicked through one of his father’s oldest ones, going back to the eighties. Sure enough, the stamps of several eastern European countries were in there. There were too many Romanian stamps to count.
One of the envelopes contained his father’s will. Alex put it to one side – he’d need it for probate, although he didn’t care much what was in it. The other three envelopes contained a selection of academic papers. Alex didn’t recognise the titles – he was familiar with all his father’s publications – and sat at the desk for a closer look, stacking the papers next to him.
They were all yellowed with age, and Alex’s eyes were drawn to the dates first. All of them were written in the eighties; not a single one was current. Nor were they in the correct format for a proper peer-reviewed research paper. They were formal but clearly not intended for academic review.
He frowned, handing Sophie the first one.
‘Neural and psychological control interventions for physical pain and distress in children and adolescents,’ she read. ‘Nineteen eighty-three. No author.’
‘I think we know who the author was,’ sa
id Alex, reading the second in the stack. ‘Suggestive control as a core construct and clinical utility.’
He scanned the others. They all concerned treatment for behavioural conditions using drugs and therapies – many of which he’d never heard of. All of them summarised their test group as children of less than sixteen years of age. Alex wasn’t surprised to see the locations of the experiments listed as several cities across Romania.
‘He must have known these would be read on his death,’ said Sophie, flicking through hers. She was fidgeting again, her eyes narrowed. Alex thought she looked angry.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Alex, putting the second down and taking the third, not bothering to read the front sheet. He skipped to the end and saw what they were looking for.
‘Here it is,’ he said, pointing at a list of names, all prefixed with Dr or Prof. ‘Are yours the same?’
Sophie flicked through her paper and several others on the desk. ‘Yes.’
She looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘This could be your list of doctors. Victor must have it too. What do you want to do?’
‘Give it to Hartley,’ said Alex. ‘What else can we do? They may have heard what’s happened so far, or they may not. Whether they agree to be protected, well, that’s up to them.’
‘You don’t sound too concerned.’
Alex paused. Should he be concerned? His father had died only hours ago, and he was in shock. But Sophie was right. He had little sympathy.
‘Look what they created,’ said Alex. ‘What do you expect?’
Sophie nodded but narrowed her eyes again. She took the list and offered to talk to Hartley.
‘You should . . . you know.’
Trance Page 23