by Nick Louth
I went to see Mr Peirce, the only ally I could rely on. I wagged off a trip to the Doge’s Palace, having made myself sick earlier, and instead took the vaporetto to Murano and found his studio. Fortunately he was there, all scruffy, and flecked with paint. I poured my heart out to him about everything that had happened to me and then: “They’re so horrible, I’d just like to shoot them all.” He laughed, and then said it wasn’t a great idea, “But you could scare them into giving your phone back.” He went to a drawer and pulled out a small gun.
“Is it real?” I asked. He nodded. “But why have you got it?” I asked.
“I have enemies. That’s why you must never tell anyone I’m here, or mention my name.” He waved away all my other questions. “Look, let’s concentrate on those annoying girls. They won’t believe you have a real weapon, so I’m going to load it with blanks.” He slid some bits on the pistol, emptied out the real bullets and stuffed them in his pocket, and then dug out a cardboard box from a locked drawer, picked out a handful of cartridges from it and loaded the gun. “These sound just like the real thing. They are very loud, and there is a flash and the smell of smoke. It’s convincing but quite harmless. Fire it in the air, only once otherwise you might attract attention.” He showed me how to hold and aim the weapon.’
‘So you pretended you would shoot the girls?’ asked Ellie. Virgil listened silently, realising that the young girl’s innocent questions were managing to tease out the detailed truth from Mira where he had failed.
‘That was the idea. Mr Peirce said I needed to lure them to a quiet place where no one would see or hear what I was doing. He came back with me on the boat, and showed me a series of derelict boatsheds on a rotting wharf at Calle de la Beccarrie near the railway bridge. It wasn’t far from our grotty hotel, but no tourist ever went there. He had given me a half-full bottle of some local liquor called Strega, which was the lure to get them there. When he’d finished showing me what to do, I knew that I’d never have any trouble from them again. I saw Keeley at dinner time, and told her to get them all to meet me at the boatshed at ten o’clock. I told her how to get there, and said I had three bottles of Bacardi.’
‘But you lied!’ Ellie said, seemingly shocked.
‘They came along early, and I waited inside in the darkness as Mr Peirce had suggested. I had a hurricane lamp he had lent me, and left it by the bottle of Strega. I stepped out of the shadows and closed the door behind them, as Amber lifted the bottle. “What’s this shit? Where’s the Bacardi?” Keeley opened the bottle, took a swig and spat it out. “It’s disgusting, just like you. You can forget getting your phone back.”
Destiny waved the phone tauntingly. Only then did I pull the gun out. For a second they just stared, until I fired. Even though I knew it would be loud, I was amazed by the noise and the recoil. Destiny dropped the phone, and they all screamed and ran from me further into the boat yard. There was a doorway into an outdoor inspection dock, and they ran through. It was a dead end, surrounded by a high fence with barbed wire on top, but that wasn’t obvious. They ran along a wooden inspection walkway which ran around the inner edge of the dock, but it was only a few greasy planks suspended by ropes and they overbalanced it. They all fell into the water. I laughed at first, but then realised the inspection dock was deep, and the water was covered with a thick layer of oil and rubbish. They begged for help, so I tried to get them out with a metal pole.’
‘Didn’t it work?’
‘No, they were coated with oil and grease they couldn’t get a grip, and I wasn’t strong enough to help them out without falling in myself. I could see that they were drowning, but didn’t know what to do, so I rang Mr Peirce at his studio. By the time he arrived they had stopped moving.’
‘Couldn’t he help?’ Ellie asked.
‘No. It was too late. He asked me who knew that I was coming here, and I said no one. Then he persuaded me of something that I regret to this day. He said I should just go back and pretend to know nothing about it. He gave me some tablets to keep me calm. Then he said he would retrieve the bodies, and get rid of all the phones including mine, to stop them being traced. He promised to do his damnedest to make sure the story never got out. He said he didn’t want me to ruin my life with this.’
‘That was nice of him,’ Ellie said.
Virgil grunted his disagreement and looked away.
Mira continued. ‘It was, Ellie, but he really thought that if the bodies disappeared completely no one would ever know. He was wrong, but it seemed he never said a word about my involvement in all the years in prison and then Broadmoor. In fact he said nothing at all, through all the interrogations. When I asked him, just a few days ago, he said that it was obvious that blaming me wouldn’t help him. He supplied the gun. He would be seen as responsible for the panic which led to their deaths, even though only blanks were fired.’
‘He must have really loved you,’ Ellie said.
‘In his own way, yes. But he wanted a possession, not a relationship. I was the prize in the contract we made that night, and sealed in blood. In exactly ten years time, I was to go back to him. We were destined to be together, he said: “and by then you will be beautiful.” I was happy to agree. I would have married him there and then if I could, I was so smitten.’
‘But you’re not now, are you,’ Ellie asked. ‘So why go through with it?’
‘When he got tired of waiting to hear from me, he began with persuasion, then blackmail. He wrote to the fan mail address at Stardust. I didn’t get most of the messages, but in one I did he said he had incriminating videos of me on my old phone, which he had hidden but never thrown out. They included them taunting me on my own phone, and the video of the shot fired in the warehouse. He gave me a website address with a countdown on it, which he said would release the videos to the press and police, proving I was involved in their deaths and had lied about not being there. I had no idea how bad they might be, but didn’t see that I had a choice.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’ Virgil asked. ‘I could have helped.’
Mira shrugged. ‘I’d mentally buried the whole episode. I couldn’t bear to dig it up.’
Mira and Virgil checked into a local hotel to warm up, and the police took statements. Ellie was taken in hand by a child support officer and a social worker, but Virgil made sure the police knew how helpful she had been. It was nine o’clock when Virgil asked what it was that Mordant had whispered to Mira as he was being put in the helicopter.
‘He told me that he’d already stopped the website, and deleted the videos. He’d done it as soon as he saw me arrive at Toddington Services, once he’d seen that I was ready to fulfil my side of the bargain.’
* * *
The near death of Mira Roskova at the hands of a notorious psychopath was the story of the year for Britain’s tabloid press. It had everything from espionage to murder, a sporting hero and a femme fatale. The Crown Prosecution Service after a long delay declined to reopen the cases of the deaths of Amber Tompkins, Keeley Corcoran and Destiny Simpson. Whether Mira had been there at the time or not, she was only a child. Mordant’s overall culpability didn’t seem in doubt in view of his subsequent murders of Kelly Hopkins and Baroness Earl. For the authorities it tied everything up neatly, and left no questions over the justice of having incarcerated Mordant to begin with. The only charge against Mira was taking a motor vehicle, for which she was given a caution.
The full story of Mordant, one of Britain’s most successful post-Cold War spies, was finally told in the broadsheets. Even up until six months ago, he had been visited regularly by Godfrey Allen, who was a senior MI6 official, rather than the psychiatrist he claimed to be. Allen was always keen to run new information received from agents in Russia and Ukraine against the facts Mordant had long ago memorised about their aged nuclear missile systems. They were never sure he had disclosed quite everything. After the exposure, Allen quickly took retirement. He is expected to resurface in the House of Lords within a yea
r or two.
For Virgil Bliss, personal protection work came to an end. He now works for a bank security company, and finds the anonymity reassuring after his public role with Mira. He visits Kelly Hopkins’ grave in North London on the anniversary of her death each year, and has become good friends with her parents and brother. He always wondered about what might have been. For him, the idea of beauty is forever tarnished.
Leonard Lucifer Smith has recently been moved to a low secure unit, and may well be released within a year. He no longer hears voices, and always takes his medication. He walks with a stick, and has expressed interest in opening a dog rescue centre.
Lawrence Wall recovered, but never quite made up his fitness. No one was ever brought to book for the attempted hit on him, but the police assumed Mordant had arranged it. This was reinforced when a former patient at Broadmoor, too terrified of Mordant to speak out until after his death, anonymously told the Guardian that it was he who had been bribed by Mordant to spike Lucifer Smith’s drink with Rohypnol. He had then led the stupefied patient back to the room where Mordant was waiting. Mordant injected Lucy with the potent sedative Dipravan, stolen for him by Dawn Evans, but not before Lucy had blurted out that his son was an England footballer, and would one day get him out of Broadmoor. Lucy had claimed Lawrence as his son before, and was never believed because no one ever visited him. So when Mordant laughed, Lucy retrieved a letter from under his mattress that proved it, and even gave Wall’s home address.
Wall ended up as a manager running a so-so League Two side in the north. The world now knows that he is the son of a notorious psychiatric patient. After all the years in which he hadn’t dare visit his own father in Broadmoor, the media reaction to the news has been surprisingly sympathetic. Even after everything he heard about Mira, he still regrets his quick temper and lack of finesse, letting the world’s most beautiful woman slip through his fingers.
Ram Dipani has fewer regrets. At the insistence of his mother, he married the woman from Hyderabad. He never spoke to Mira again.
Ulan Kulchuk quickly bought up most of Mordant’s artwork, knowing that it would increase rapidly in value now the supply had dried up. But something even scarcer eluded him. His marriage proposal to Mira was quickly but politely rejected.
Dr Richard Lamb retired from his job at Broadmoor Hospital in the wake of a critical report by the Care Quality Commission. He bitterly regrets his own failings, particularly in the training and supervision of Dawn Evans. He feels partially responsible for her suicide.
Bishop Harry Fielding too is full of regrets. For being taken in by Mordant, for believing that Ulan Kulchuk was interested in the cause of mental health reform when in fact he just wanted Mordant’s paintings, and most of all for making the Broadmoor connection that would lead to the death of his friend and confidante Baroness Suzannah Earl.
Ellie McAllister has signed up as a catalogue model for an online retailer. But she hopes to eventually work for Diane Glassman at Pinnacle.
Stardust Brands managed to finesse Mira’s new notoriety. The Suressence contract fell through, but thanks to Jonesy Tolling’s hard work she secured an equally lucrative one producing her own range of cosmetics and fashions for a luxury brand in Milan under the name Mira Mira. She has moved to New York, and now sports a much more vampish image, with raven hair and dark clothes. She has released a few songs to absolutely no critical acclaim, and is talked about as a future Bond girl. Producers have now been forced to reconsider the opinion they once had that she couldn’t act.
Epilogue
It was almost a year later when Virgil got a call from Mira’s old friend Natasha. Once he heard what she’d discovered, he drove straight over to see her. There in the flat of her late mother, Natasha showed Virgil a mobile phone that had finally been returned to her by the police. It had been found amongst Mordant’s luggage at Hooksworth Hall, and the accompanying police letter said it was her mother’s. Natasha knew it wasn’t. Someone had screwed up. It was an old Nokia, and had ‘Lydia’ scratched faintly into the plastic. Because there had been no prosecution in the end, and no reason to examine the phones, Virgil wasn’t surprised the police had mixed up the ownership.
‘Look at this,’ said Natasha. She tapped the screen and showed it to Virgil.
There was a five-second video selfie of three giggling teenage girls, with their faces pressed together. ‘Hello hideous Lydia, everyone hates you,’ said the middle one, blonde and pretty. They all stuck their tongues out.
The next video briefly showed Lydia turning the camera on herself against a dark echoing warehouse-type background. Here was the thirteen-year-old that Virgil had never quite been able to picture. The roots of Mira’s beauty were already there: the high cheekbones, that slender neck, those huge eyes. The braces on her teeth, the cheap spectacles, even the pimples, which were only partially covered by makeup, were just a temporary mask.
‘I just have to record this, my moment of triumph,’ she said, waving a black pistol in front of the lens. She turned the phone at two girls, bound and gagged with silvery duct tape and lying face down on the floor. A third, gagged and with tied ankles, was kneeling behind them. ‘Right Amber, more tape around Destiny’s ankles, and then put a loop or two around her eyes,’ Lydia commanded. ‘Quickly now, or you’ll get a bullet from this.’ She pressed the gun to the back of the girl’s trembling head as she shrieked out another length of tape, and leant over Destiny’s immobile form. The video ended with Lydia saying: ‘Back soon!’
The final video panned slowly along a standing row of three bound, gagged and blindfolded girls. Amber was in the centre a head taller than the others. The barrel of the gun was just visible at the bottom of the image. ‘Now come with me,’ Lydia said, as if to an imaginary viewer, taking the phone forward beyond the girls and pointing it towards the floor. There, in the phone’s harsh light was the edge of the concrete flooring and beyond the lip a two metre drop to oily, rubbish-strewn water. ‘Nice down there, isn’t it?’ she giggled.
Lydia walked back, behind the girls, and made her way to the skinny figure on the far left. ‘Goodbye Keeley!’ she said, and shoved the girl over the edge. Even as she hit the water with a splash, Lydia yelled ‘Goodbye Destiny, you bitch,’ and threw the second girl over. Amber dropped to the floor, and attempted to roll away from the edge. At this point Lydia dropped the phone, and the only view was of a broken skylight. But there were sounds of struggle, and finally a loud splash, followed by the rhythmic slap of water on wood.
‘Oh come on Amber, you can do better than that! I thought you were the best swimmer in the school.’ A few moments later a breathless Lydia picked up the phone and continued her monologue. ‘Thank you all for watching today this episode in the justified punishment of bullies.’ Lydia giggled. ‘I’d like to thank this Venice boatyard for leaving behind plenty of gaffer tape, and my favourite man for the loan of a gun. That’s all for tonight!’
The video ended, and Natasha looked up at Virgil. There were no more on the phone. ‘I can’t believe it. I thought I knew her, but I hadn’t a clue.’
‘So much for it being an accident,’ Virgil said. ‘She lied to me, she lied to you, to everyone. Even to little Ellie. No wonder she couldn’t risk letting these videos get out.’
‘What should we do?’ Natasha asked.
Virgil took the phone, and once again absorbed the graphic images of a young murderess, now a famous woman whom millions adored. He mulled over the efforts of Jonesy, Thad and Portia to build a pristine and innocent brand on such foundations. ‘Mirror, Mirror on the wall,’ he murmured. ‘Who is the fairest of them all?’
He offered the phone to Natasha, and said: ‘She’s your friend.’
Natasha recoiled, shaking her head, as if the phone was poisoned.
Virgil shrugged, scrutinised the screen, and the video list on it. He weighed up justice and loyalty, both important to who he was.
Then he hit delete.
Delete.
De
lete.
Crocodile Tears
I hope you have enjoyed Mirror Mirror. If you would like to visit my website www.nicklouth.com you can also download a free, previously unpublished short story called Crocodile Tears:
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help of a number of experts. Gail Dymoke gave me invaluable insight into the workings of the secure psychiatric hospital system, and was very generous in her time correcting my many misunderstandings in this complex area. I’d like to thank Leon Hamilton of branding group SMC Europe for his help navigating the world of celebrity and endorsements. Simon Chambers, Paula Karaiskos and their colleagues at Storm Model Agency were kind enough to give me an insight into their world. Kim Booth ably helped with police procedural aspects. Any mistakes remaining are mine alone. I’d particularly like to thank the team at Harriman House whose unflappable professionalism is unmatched. My reader’s panel, particularly Sara Wescott and Kate Mitchell, were very helpful in giving me an early reaction to the broad scope of the book. Above all, my wife Louise, always my first reader, provided invaluable insight, and to her this book is once again dedicated.
I would also like to thank readers of my previous books who have made detailed comments on Amazon, Goodreads and elsewhere. Please keep doing it! Feedback is enormously important to authors – we need to know if we have too many characters, if plotlines are confusing or there are too many flashbacks, just as much as we enjoy the praise. I read every single review of my work, and I do take notice of every detail you mention. So please, please, now you have finished this book take just a few moments to leave a review.