He reversed out of the road and parked in the main street. It was busier here and his car wouldn’t draw attention. He slumped in the seat, took another couple of painkillers, and downed the last remains of a bottle of water, cursing himself for not bringing more.
Should he wait for nightfall? He watched the entrance to the quiet road. A thought came to him. Perhaps there was no need to take them anywhere. It would certainly be easier for him. But no, he dismissed the idea as quickly as it came to him. His other location was far more appropriate, and the significance surely wouldn’t be lost on Alex Madison.
Victor made his decision and got out of the car, smoothing his grubby shirt and adjusting his glasses. He zoned in, channelling his anger as he’d done so many times before. He used it to counter the sharp throb in his temples, the dull ache in his skull, and the shards of pain stabbing through his neck.
For the last few years he’d recited his list in his head every morning – his tormentors and abusers. Now he’d added one more to the list. An opportunity missed, but he wasn’t going to get away twice. This time Victor’s vengeance would see the final conspirator put in the ground where he belonged.
The cul-de-sac was quiet. A dog barked and the birds sang back in return. No sign of neighbours or cars. Victor shuffled along the road and up the driveway, scanning his surroundings and settling on the path along the right-hand side of the house. He didn’t need to break in, but his entrance would be better out of sight, just in case.
The back door was solid oak with frosted glass. Fortunate. Victor thumped three times and waited.
He heard calls inside from mother to daughter, footsteps across the kitchen floor. The locks were unfastened and the door creaked open a foot or so.
‘Yes?’ The mother, Grace, answered, peering at Victor. They were a similar height, and he probably looked unthreatening, if a little sloppy and dirty.
‘Grace Madison?’ As much as Victor’s hate carried him, he mustn’t get the wrong people. Laura would never have approved – and besides, it would slow his plans.
‘Yes, I—’
‘Is that your daughter Katie I heard?’
Grace stiffened and closed the door a fraction.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘Let me in, please.’ Victor whispered his suggestions. It didn’t take much; she was standing in front of him and didn’t know she ought to resist.
‘I, er . . .’ Grace let the door swing open. She backed away, her brow furrowed. She made to speak but looked as if she’d forgotten what to say.
‘I’ll come in,’ said Victor, stepping into the kitchen. He eased the door shut behind him, locking it.
The kitchen was grand, with a stone floor and marble worktops. An Aga stood proud along one wall, a faded pine table in the centre. Grace backed against the table and waited. Her eyes darted but she was confused.
‘Call Katie down here,’ said Victor, watching her eyes, crafting his words, whispering and coaching. Grace was completely under. She called, once, loud and mechanical, for Katie to come to the kitchen. There was a protest from upstairs, a shout followed by a reluctant stomping of feet.
‘What now?’ called Katie. ‘I’m busy.’
Victor waited until Katie walked in. She stopped and stared at her mum, then at Victor. Her eyebrows went up, hands on hips.
‘What?’ she said again. ‘Hi,’ she said in an offhand manner in Victor’s direction.
Victor paused. Up close, Katie was younger than he’d thought, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. He stared at her hair, at her skin – unblemished, so young and innocent – and memories flooded over him.
Laura was younger than this girl when she died, but not much. Laura had blonde hair too. All the girls were young. So many of them disappeared. Victor had tried not to make friends with too many of the new ones because they didn’t last long.
But the biggest difference was the spark in this girl’s eyes. The girls at the orphanage had looked dead inside. Only Laura had a spark, despite the terror and the abuse. Despite the midnight beatings and the drugs. Laura had looked at Victor with a spark in her eyes, as if one day things would be different. She could imagine a future beyond the orphanage and the experiments, beyond the cruelty and barbarism. She was naive but at least she had dreams.
Victor was shaken back into the moment by Katie’s voice.
‘I said who are you? What’s wrong, Mum?’
Victor pushed aside his memories and the guilt tugging at his gut. Why should this girl live when Laura had to die? If it was true about bad apples this one would be rotten anyway, the product of her father and his father before him.
His anger grew. He tempered it before turning to her.
‘Katie,’ he said, whispering a mild set of instructions. It wouldn’t take much for a young mind such as hers.
Katie’s face blanked and her eyes glazed over. Her shoulders slumped. She was under.
‘Grace,’ said Victor, raising his voice. ‘Where is Katie’s coat?’
‘By the door,’ said Grace, her voice calm but mechanical. She glanced at Katie, at Victor, then at the clock on the wall. ‘What time is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Victor. ‘Get the coat. Bring it back to the kitchen. Katie will stay here. Do you understand?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes.’ She reached out for Katie’s hand.
‘No,’ said Victor. ‘Do as I say. Katie stays here.’
Grace nodded, her face anxious, but walked out of the kitchen into the hallway. Victor waited until she returned. She was in a simple trance but showing signs of resisting. It would get much harder once she did.
She stood with two coats. A small one for Katie and her own. Her eyes were troubled.
‘Where are we going?’ she said. Her eyes were panicky now, and Victor sighed. She wasn’t going to be as easy as he wanted. She was shifting into what they called a waking trance. Over half of people hit this point within seconds with the methods they taught them at Comăneşti. It was the most terrifying state to be in, from the target’s perspective. Conscious you’d lost control, but confused and anxious. Your body was no longer your own, and the panic it caused was immense.
Once in a waking trance, it was all or nothing. Victor couldn’t afford to be gentle. He whispered a harsh set of commands focused at a more primal level. It would confuse and probably damage her, but it was necessary.
‘Please,’ she said, as her body jerked.
‘You’re staying here, Grace,’ said Victor. ‘Over there, in the corner. Sit on the floor. Katie, you’re coming with me.’
Grace sat obediently, but started crying, a low moan. Her small shoulders shook as she sobbed, unaware of why she felt such anguish. She asked again where Katie was going, but Victor bound her to the spot before exiting out of the back door. Katie followed him, oblivious to the turmoil in her mother’s voice.
Victor saw Katie to the end of the driveway, where he walked next to her. They reached the main road without any prying neighbours approaching them. Victor unlocked his stolen car and opened the back door, swinging it wide.
‘Get in,’ he hissed. Katie shot into the car and sat upright, staring forwards at the back of the driver’s seat, still deep in her trance.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked. Her voice was distant and relaxed, as if she didn’t really care.
‘Shh,’ said Victor. ‘Sit and be quiet. We’re going for a little drive.’
He turned, slammed the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and pulled into the traffic. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get back to Battersea, although he was already suffering after-effects. He fought the pain and the nausea for several minutes, opening the window wide for fresh air. He swallowed two more painkillers dry, and tried to ignore his symptoms. It wouldn’t be long now.
Victor only relaxed when he pulled up outside the building he’d been hiding in for the last few days. Before exiting the car, he reached for his mob
ile phone.
He had an important call to make.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Alex paced and festered. He finished the wine then drank strong coffee heaped with sugar, stopping every couple of hours to take more Xanax. He felt exposed and anxious, and Sophie’s visit had pulled any confidence he had left from under his feet.
Jane called. They fought. He knew he was being awful but it was best in the long run. Best for Jane, anyway. They were done. He felt guilty. He’d been unfaithful, even to her. But he knew Jane would move on. People like her had no difficulty finding admirers, lovers and partners. He stood firm and the shouting stopped. Jane ended the call with a string of cutting insults. She had the reserve not to mention his family, and for that Alex was grateful.
Hartley had told him to sit tight, and he intended to do just that, but his chest ached and he realised his heart rate was elevated. He took an extra Xanax to counter it and sat, not knowing what to do. He thought of Hartley frantically locating the remaining doctors, trying to place them out of harm’s reach, not knowing for sure when or where Victor would strike next.
Alex was struggling and he knew it. Catapulted out of his stable private practice, Alex’s life was in chaos and he saw no easy resolution. He had failed. All these people were dying at Victor’s hand, and his own father had borne the brunt of this, even if he’d had it coming.
Alex had always been one step behind Victor, distracted by his own screwed-up personal life and catching everything too late. Eleven people already slain. Had he saved the rest? Perhaps. Perhaps they would have been saved without him. He’d never know.
The news repeated on the BBC, but it was already relegated to the fifth and then sixth story. By the afternoon it was out of the top ten. Their source in the police had probably been silenced, and without fresh details it got sidelined in favour of party politics and interest rate rises.
Alex poured himself another coffee, but the smell was making him feel sick and his gut couldn’t take any more. He went back to the wine, uncorking a cheap bottle, rinsing out his coffee mug and pouring it into that.
He rested on the breakfast bar and watched his phone buzzing on the counter. He didn’t bother checking the caller. Would it be Jane? He gulped back the wine and headed back to the lounge.
The home phone rang. Alex cursed but picked up the handset from the coffee table. Jane would never call the landline. It must be somebody else.
‘Hi.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Sophie.’ Alex pulled himself up. He thought Sophie was done with him.
‘Are you . . .’ Sophie trailed off. She was breathing heavily.
‘What’s the matter, Sophie?’
‘You haven’t . . . I mean . . . dammit.’
Alex’s mind was clouded by the wine and he couldn’t make out what Sophie was trying to say. ‘Did you call my mobile a few minutes ago?’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘No.’
Another pause.
‘I’ve got to go. Alex?’
‘What is it, Sophie?’
‘Just . . . take care. We’ll get through this.’
‘I don’t understand. Sophie?’ But she’d hung up.
Alex cursed and paced back into the kitchen. The last thing he needed was Sophie screwing with his head. If she was through with him, fine. If she wasn’t, she could at least talk sense. He’d had enough.
He poured another cup of wine and his mobile vibrated again. This time, he answered it.
Thirty seconds later, Alex’s mind was a mess of swirling panic. He reached to his pocket and pulled out two Xanax, running to the sink for a glass of water. He gulped it back, repeating Victor’s call to himself word for word.
He had Katie. The bastard had his daughter.
There was no negotiation, no small talk. Victor sounded sick, desperate and deluded. Alex had no way in, and was forced to listen to the simple demand.
Drive to an address in Battersea – a derelict building, the site of St Joseph’s orphanage. Alex had scribbled it down. Drive there and call Victor back from the courtyard on this number. Victor was waiting for him. He’d called him the devil, and the devil’s child. He was ranting, insulting Alex over and over, furious at him. Alex had listened, rigid with fear and sick at what he’d heard.
If he failed to show, his daughter would die – as an example, in the way so many children had died at Comăneşti. The words chilled Alex to his bones. He stuttered and begged but Victor wasn’t listening.
Call the police, and she dies. If Victor heard a siren or saw a uniform, all Alex would find was her mangled body.
Those were Victor’s instructions and Alex had no doubt he would obey them.
He had an hour, no more. He poured his wine into the sink and watched it swirl into the plug, mixing with the water until it looked like blood. He shivered and ran the tap. He drank. One cup, then another. He needed a clear head. He cried, struggling to keep down the waves of terror. He slumped against the kitchen counter and begged the air for an answer. There was none.
In his right hand he still clasped his mobile phone. He checked it, but there was just a cryptic text from Sophie saying she’d be in touch. Alex didn’t have the time to figure it out.
Twenty minutes passed. He stood and paced the hallway, on the verge of a panic attack. His breathing was uncontrolled, his hands were shaking and he was in no fit state to negotiate for the life of his daughter. He had made a mistake, he was sure of it. Why hadn’t he called Hartley yet? Surely he must? They could go round there and . . . And what? What would Victor do? He couldn’t overpower all of the police, but it didn’t matter. All he needed to do was hurt Katie and . . . the thought caused a fresh wave of panic.
He’d taken four Xanax now, and even with his high tolerance threshold, built up over many years, he was beginning to feel lethargic and unfocused. He forced himself to drink more coffee. The filter jug was cold so he heated it in the microwave. The liquid scalded his throat, but he needed the caffeine. He rummaged around in the kitchen cupboard and found some Pro Plus tablets. He popped one of them, aware he was causing a ridiculous play-off between Xanax and caffeine. Neither would win; he would lose.
He fingered the packet and tried not to descend into despair. He was aware of the psychological cycle and knew what to say to other people in this situation. Dire circumstances required careful dissection of the component parts and a coping strategy for each. But Alex had no time and few options. His patient of interest had turned on him in the most merciless fashion possible.
Victor had no clear plan. It made him completely unpredictable, even if Alex was able to talk or negotiate. He had no guarantee Victor would let either him or Katie go. He might kill them both. He’d feel no remorse – not yet, anyway. Remorse for somebody like Victor would come much later, when his task was over. Until then, he’d be indiscriminate and callous.
As always at these times, Alex couldn’t help but think about his last criminal case. Mother and daughter. He couldn’t help it, the similarities were striking. His bungling of the case then had killed them both. His misunderstanding of the evil lurking within otherwise normal people had caused their deaths. Whatever the official outcome, he still blamed himself. Now he risked knowing the pain at first hand.
His phone buzzed with a message. It was from Hartley and he read it with confusion: Dr Petri found dead. The day after you left Romania. We need to talk. I’ll call later.
Alex’s mind whirled but he didn’t have the time to think about Dr Petri now. He could barely cope with what Victor had dealt him. He gulped back the bile and breathed, shoving the phone into his pocket and grabbing his wallet and coat. His deadline was approaching. He had to go.
Pausing at the front door, he checked through the side window. The police protection was still there, the dark BMW resting in place, two figures inside. It meant he couldn’t take the Porsche. They’d either follow or stop him, and he couldn’t risk either. Instead, he slipped the ke
ys back on to the stand and pulled out the garage keys. He could take the Alfa. The garage was at the back of the house, leading to a private alley and joining the main road at the end of the row.
He slipped out of the back door, heart thudding in his throat, praying this day wouldn’t end the way he feared.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The derelict building of St Joseph’s orphanage loomed on the right as Victor hung up the phone. It was old, a nineteenth-century brick mansion, crumbling at every corner.
Half the tiled roof had caved in, leaving much of the front of the building open to the elements. Victor had chosen a couple of rooms at the back – old dormitories near the bathrooms, which still had running water. It was a sick attraction, coming to one of these places again, but he felt it necessary, given his current task. St Joseph’s wasn’t Comăneşti – far from it – but the echoes were the same. He could walk the corridors and feel the pain of the children who’d walked them many years ago. He didn’t suspect for one moment that the children here shared the same torment he had, but he had no doubt they’d experienced pain. After all, they were at the mercy of their orderlies, their doctors, their nurses. Victor knew there was a universal evil in the treatment of unwanted children. He felt it in his toes as he trod the shower room and pulled at the metal-framed beds.
It was to this place he’d invited his enemy. The man who should have let Victor be. The doctor who insisted on treading in his father’s footsteps. The devil’s child. He would pay for his interference. It was only by this route that Victor could forgive him.
There was no noise from the back seat. He had given clear instructions to sit and be quiet. The girl had started off easy – she wasn’t old enough to resist or suspect anything was wrong, but she was sweating now, her face pale and her eyes watering. She wasn’t aware of the trance, but she knew something was wrong, and her conscious mind was fighting itself, tying itself in knots trying to understand the physical binding preventing her from controlling her own body.
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