by Mistry, Liz
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Unquiet Souls
Liz Mistry
Copyright © 2016 Liz Mistry
The right of Liz Mistry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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ALSO NOW AVALIABLE:
Uncoiled Lies- Part two of Liz Mistry’s DI Gus McGuire series
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To Nilesh, my light through the darkest times and to Ravi, Kasi and Jimi, who each shine with their own unique sparkle, brightening my life every day.
Prologue
1998
When he flexed his fingers they cracked and a spiral of rusty flecks floated onto the cream duvet. For a second he stared at them, each piece testament to his actions the previous night. His blood was unwired now, his heart anguished and guilt-filled. The crushing, numb awareness of the way he’d snapped was all too clear. He knew what he’d done and he felt sick.
His hands were still covered in her blood – a hard patina over a sticky smear. His wife lay amid the carnage, a motionless, amorphous bundle. Her hair, sweat-matted and bloody, hid the worst of the damage. She moaned. Crossing himself, he sent up a quick prayer of thanks. Cautiously, he left the bed to run a bath, then returned to lift her broken body through to the rose-scented bathroom. Impervious to the tears flooding his cheeks, he lowered her listless body into the warm suds. He flinched when the sting of the water against her raw body made her whimper.
Despite everything, she lifted a trembling hand, reached out and squeezed his arm lightly. Their eyes met and his heart shattered when her swollen, cracked lips broke into the sweetest smile. Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead and, blubbering like a post-tantrum toddler, swore that this was the last time. Never again would his uncontrollable demons force him to hurt her, punish her, for not being what his unquiet soul craved. No, he’d find his release elsewhere. He’d never hurt her again, no matter if the devils called or how dark his soul became.
He fussed over her with chicken soup and Lemsip as if she had flu, then much later, left her sleeping and took his first decisive steps forward. The phone calls he made would change his life forever. They heralded the hell that was to descend on so many… Strange that each lasted only minutes.
The first call, to the builder, was easy and, at the time, he didn’t realise just how profitable it would be in the long run.
‘I want it done as soon as possible.’
He could hear the sound of paper being flipped over then, ‘Mmm, yes, ok I can juggle a bit. I’ll come this afternoon.’
As quickly as that, the fate of both men was decided. Of course, it didn’t happen immediately. As the progress on his Decompression Room continued, they became aware of a common interest. Initially, they skirted tentatively around the subject, each conversation leading ever closer to the revelation that would ultimately unite them.
The second phone call proved even more profitable. Individual anger management sessions created a familiarity with the counsellor that highlighted their similar interests. They were like-minded people – fellow travellers indeed. Their patient–client relationship soared to a whole new level.
Within the year he’d pulled together a small group and created his own private sanctuary. His wife was safe, and, for now, his unquiet soul was sated.
Chapter 1
2015
Friday 10am
Detective Inspector Angus McGuire looked around the waiting room. He hated it, from its cloying vanilla-scented candles to the china clutter on the mantelpiece to the seaside paintings on the chimney breast. The only thing remotely bearable was the oversized aquarium that stood dead centre, providing a 360-degree view of tank life. He didn’t particularly like fish, but, in this tank, he’d found one he could relate to. He’d named him Nemo out of sheer bloody-mindedness because his Nemo was neither a clown fish, nor orange and white. His Nemo was, by aquarium standards, a monster, lurking in solitude near the bottom of the tank. Its lazy eye blinked rarely. Cold and dead, it reminded him of Becky’s eye. The one without the knife protruding from it. The one
that blinked reproachfully at him in his nightmares.
He tapped the glass and Nemo moved, the frondy things springing from the back of its head floating in the water. They reminded him of his own short dreads which he kept at the regulatory ‘above-the-collar’ length to avoid hassle from DCI Hussain. Gus’ finger trailed across the tank. He’d happily spend the whole hour painting abstract patterns for Nemo to follow. However, such carefree indulgence with a friend – a bottom feeder, but no less of a friend for that – was not to be.
The door opened and Dr Sabrina Mahmood beckoned him into her lair. Gus walked past her, quads clenching painfully, forcing himself not to limp. Ever conscious of her role in his future and resentful of it, he’d trained himself to exhibit no weakness. For Gus, these bi-weekly sessions were the equivalent of a siege. She was the negotiator trying to worm her way under his defences and he would not comply. Not when so much depended on her assessment of his mental stability.
Despite his pain, he strode towards his usual chair, opposite her desk. In here, vanilla was replaced by occasional wafts of Chanel No 5. No amount of careful lighting and magnolia paint could disguise the age of the building but, Gus had to admit, she’d tried really hard. Little touches, like the fluffy turquoise rug thrown over a threadbare blue carpet, and the coffee table with fresh flowers in the corner were an obvious attempt to humanise the process. Dr Mahmood took her place behind the desk and waited for him to sit. Gus stretched his legs, feeling the pull of scar tissue in his upper thigh. Immediately, he found the damp spot on the wall above her right shoulder. With a practised half-smile, he focussed on the spot and waited for the usual ducking and diving to begin. These sessions were like a strategic ballroom dance and Gus wasn’t a great dancer. All he wanted was to immerse himself in his sole salvation – work. Dr Mahmood, he felt, was hell-bent on making him dance to her tune. A dance Gus was determined not to share.
Elbows on the desk, fingers steepled against her lips, Dr Mahmood studied him. Efforts to disguise his limp probably hadn’t deceived her but, it was less pronounced and his physiotherapist had given him the all-clear to return to work. Shoulder, still cushioned in a sling, was healing as expected. His thigh was improving daily but his physical improvements weren’t her remit. Her concern was his mental health. Gus felt sure that, despite the well-meaning concern in her brown eyes, she’d have him carted off to Linfield Mount psychiatric hospital if she realised just how fragile he sometimes felt.
She tapped her pen on the desk, her varnished nails flashing in Gus’ peripheral vision. She looked tired today, less effervescent. Thank God; no woman in her sixties, no matter how well preserved, should display quite so much vitality. It drained him.
‘How have you been this week, Angus?’
Gus shrugged. ‘Fine. And you?’
He heard the smile in her voice. ‘This is your session Angus, not mine.’
‘Thought you looked a bit tired today, that’s all.’
‘Thanks for your concern, but let’s crack on with the session.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Have you had any night sweats since our last session?’
Eyes on the damp spot, Gus shook his head. Well, none he was telling her about!
‘Panic attacks or palpitations?’
‘No.’ Only at night, when he had the nightmares.
‘Insomnia?’
‘No.’ But his heavy eye s belied this.
Her skirt rustled as she got up and moved to the front of the desk. With a small grunt she hefted her ample bottom onto it. This was different. He risked a glance at her. She’d hoiked her skirt up slightly and her chubby legs dangled a few inches from the floor. Her smile was motherly but Gus thought her tone sounded distinctly sarcastic. ‘Since we’ve made such good progress over the months, I thought we’d try something different today.’
Gus’ eye twitched. He hated this shit but he’d no choice.
‘This is about you getting fit for work, Angus. I’m on your side.’
When he didn’t reply she continued, ‘Right, this is how it works. Close your eyes.’
Stifling a groan, he did as she asked.
‘I want you to respond to what I say, ok?’
Automatically recreating the wall with the damp spot in his mind’s eye, he strained to hear her quiet words.
‘Tell me about when Greg plunged the knife into his wife’s eye.’
His eyes sprung open making the wall with its damp spot disintegrate. Not believing he’d heard her correctly, he glared at her but she nodded. Closing his eyes again, fingers clenched over the arms of the chair, he deliberately slowed his breathing.
‘How do you think I felt, doctor?’
‘These sessions are about you Angus. You’ve got to give me something to work with. Please answer the question.’
He wanted to shout ‘fuck off!’ but instead, he complied, his tone robotic. ‘I felt angry and frustrated, but I’m sure you probably guessed that already.’
‘Good start. Now, tell me how it happened?’
Feeling the colour drain from his face, he hesitated. He could feel the tell-tale sweat under his armpits and, concentrating even more firmly on his breathing, remained silent. The last thing he wanted was to have a panic attack in front of her. That would really screw up his chances of returning to work.
Eventually, voice low, he opened his eyes and stared right at her. ‘I don’t remember.’
Licking her lips, she held his gaze. ‘Sometimes, talking about our traumatic experiences helps us to heal.’
He responded through tightened lips. ‘Yes, so you’ve said, doctor. But, the operative word is ‘sometimes’ isn’t it? Not everyone responds to baring their soul. Not everyone needs it.’
‘How do you know you don’t if you’ve never tried?’
Chapter 2
2003
Sunday 12pm, Cambridge
The Matchmaker inhaled deeply each time he pulled himself up: chin to the bar, toes pointed, naked sweaty torso rigidly straight, the smell of his own perspiration giving him an almost sexual pleasure, spurring him on to complete each agonising repetition. Finally, he was done. Dropping gracefully to the floor, he towelled his soaking body and, frowning at the silent phones on his desk, walked through to the en suite. A cursory two-minute shower, change of clothes and he was back at his desk.
Leaning back in the soft leather chair he waited, his impatience betrayed only by the jig of his right knee and his fingertip’s measured tap on the polished mahogany desk. It had taken years, combined with the creation of his Decompression Room, to achieve this level of self-control.
He pumped the number into a safe phone and waited. The idiot still wasn’t answering. Deliberately, he replaced the phone on the desk. His fingers and knee continued their languid dance, but his breathing was strained. Leaning over, he pressed a button. Immediately, relaxing music filled the room. Eyes closed, hands resting on his abdomen he allowed the calm to embrace him until his anger receded.
At last, pulling his chair closer to the desk, he looked at his computer. The order form was on the screen. Granted the client had made a particularly difficult request but, he’d also paid handsomely for their delivery agreement. Now, three days before the due date the acquisition form remained invalidated. The client was becoming nervous. So was he and, to make matters worse, The Provider was uncontactable. Not acceptable… not acceptable at all. It was beginning to look like the delivery would fail or, at the very least, be delayed. The resultant financial loss would be catastrophic, to say nothing of the damage to their reputation.
The phone dedicated to his extra- curricular business rang three times before he answered. ‘Speak.’
It wasn’t the voice he’d expected but, nonetheless, the call was important.
‘Client 21 has returned damaged goods again.’
The Matchmaker frowned and pulled the relevant file up on his computer. ‘That’s becoming an issue.’ He listened. ‘You’re right. Client 2
1 is becoming careless and arrogant, putting us all at risk. We’ll make him pay.’
The Facilitator laughed. ‘Yeah, hit him where it hurts most… in his pocket.’
The Matchmaker considered the client’s file before responding. ‘I think a £100,000 damage fee should teach him. No more supplies till he’s settled, ok?’ Hanging up, he typed a note on the file and glared at the silent phone.
‘Fuck!’ He spat the word into the empty room, grabbed the phone and hit redial. This time it was engaged.
He stood, filled his lungs with air and held it for ten seconds before slowly releasing it. Before he’d finished exhaling, the phone rang. Allowing the remaining air to spew out, he paused before lifting the receiver. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been awaiting confirmation.’
The Provider laughed. ‘You are so easy to wind up, my friend. Relax, chill out. Everything’s under control.’
‘You have the delivery?’
‘Well, not exactly–’
‘You knew how difficult this would be. The rest of us deferred to your decision. You assured us you could meet the demand. You told us to accept the order and now you tell me you don’t have the delivery.’
Another laugh. ‘Let me finish will you? It’s all in hand. It’ll be en route to our client as scheduled.’
‘Then why the silence? Why haven’t you filled in the acquisition form?’
‘God, give me a chance. Everything’s ok’
‘Fine, so long as it is ok. There’s a lot of money at stake, not to mention our reputation.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah… So you keep–’
The Matchmaker hung up. He breathed deeply until he was calm. Then, he smiled.
Monday 1pm, Gorce, Poland
This was the third time he’d observed the boy and his big sister traipsing down to the village, but today was different. Today was D-day. His abdomen tightened and a surge of adrenalin flooded his huge body. He trained his binoculars on the girl and felt a responding tingle in his scrotum.
‘Mmm, Mr Happy, you are one lucky boy.’ His oil-stained hand drifted to his crotch and briefly rubbed his erection through his jeans.
With her dark hair and soft tanned skin, she was perfect. How lucky was he to have found her? It had taken him a fair amount of time. The client was a fussy bastard. Bloody pervert wanted a boy, younger than eight, with blue eyes and brown skin. The Provider couldn’t understand some of the clients they supplied to. ‘Dirty poofter bastards! It wasn’t normal, not right.’ Never mind, as long as he got paid for his efforts and had a few little bonuses in the process, he was happy.