Lost Souls

by Neil White

  ‘So what did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I told him to leave, said that I thought he had been stealing drugs.’ He looked down.

  ‘Did he deny it?’

  Doctor Newby shook his head. ‘He just went. Hardly said a word.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  The doctor stroked his beard. ‘Earlier this year. Before the summer.’

  Around the time that children started to disappear, I thought. Was this the catalyst, the event that had sent him on a more extreme mission?

  ‘Do you have his address?’ I asked.

  The doctor nodded, and then scribbled an address on his pad, with some directions. ‘I don’t know if he still lives there,’ he said.

  We stood up to go, but then something occurred to me. King was abducting children to bring them closer to their parents. If he had killed elderly patients, what would be the reason?

  ‘The patients who died,’ I asked. ‘What were their family lives like?’

  Doctor Newby looked at me, puzzled. Then he thought back to the men and women who had just been appointment cards a few months earlier. ‘They lived in care homes. This isn’t an affluent town, and so if anyone gets a good education, they leave. Once their parents end up in a care home, the children don’t visit any more, because then someone else is there to spare them the long drive from wherever.’

  ‘So they weren’t people who received many visitors?’

  Doctor Newby held out his hands and looked confused. ‘I don’t know, but many of our elderly patients are lonely.’

  ‘Because their children lived lives that were too busy to fit them into the schedule?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘Something like that, I suppose, but not neglected. Just sort of forgotten.’

  I glanced at Sam, and I saw that he knew why I had asked the questions. Healing hands. Sometimes you have to lose something to realise how much you needed it. But was it unsatisfying with the elderly, because you can only cause hurt, not heal? All he could do was watch the families squabble about inheritance and blame each other for allowing their parent to die forgotten. Is that why he turned to children, because he could make things better?

  We turned to leave, but Doctor Newby stopped us. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, his eyes filled with worry. ‘If I had, I would have stopped it.’

  ‘He was a doctor, right?’ I said. ‘He helped, not harmed.’

  The doctor looked down and nodded.

  When we left, the old woman was still sitting there patiently. She smiled as we went.

  ‘I hope you find Doctor King,’ she said. ‘He is a nice man, a very good doctor.’

  I smiled back. ‘We’ll find him.’

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Sam was animated as we drove away from the surgery, an address and directions tucked into my pocket.

  ‘It is classic psychopathic behaviour,’ he said, his voice loud and tense. ‘Medicine and psychopaths. They get drawn to each other all the time, like opposite poles, one made for help, the other for harm.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a criminal solicitor,’ he said, his tone weary. ‘I’ve had to deal with psychopaths, get reports on them, to help out in trials or sentencing’

  ‘To try and keep them out of jail,’ I said, before I had a chance to stop myself. I cursed when I saw Sam’s face fall, a sudden acceptance of what he’d always known, that if Thomas King had kidnapped his son, someone just like him would try to make sure that he was free to do it again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said in apology. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’

  Sam raised his hand and looked away. ‘I know what people think. Don’t think I haven’t thought it myself.’

  ‘Why is it classic psychopathic behaviour?’ I asked, trying to retrieve the situation.

  ‘It’s the power. Psychopaths are arrogant, probably the most arrogant people alive. They assume that they are better than everyone else, that they have been empowered with some special gift. And what better gift is there than the power to save people, to prolong their lives?’

  ‘Or to end them?’ I added.

  Sam nodded grimly. ‘Being a doctor brings status, admiration, but above all else, it brings power. You heard what Doctor Newby said. He was killing pensioners, with his beautiful bedside manner, maybe even watching them die. He could end their pain, or maybe he just got off on watching old people slip away.’

  ‘And that’s why he abducts children.’

  Sam didn’t answer, so I continued, ‘He likes the return.’ When Sam looked at me, confused, I said, ‘It’s the healing hands thing. All the kids taken were neglected.’ When I saw Sam jolt, I added quickly, ‘Not in any bad way, like abused or anything, but just left to wander the streets late at night, no supervision or care. We are talking about his perception, not what might be true. He takes them, keeps them, looks after them, and all the time the parents are worried, guilty, feeling that they have let their children down. The parents remember how much they love them and so what happens when the child is returned?’

  Sam nodded, his mouth set firm. ‘Loved all over again.’

  ‘As far as the child is concerned,’ I said, ‘it might feel like it’s for the first time. He’s now treasured, loved.’

  ‘That’s a bold assessment,’ said Sam, swallowing.

  ‘I interviewed one of the parents,’ I said, ‘and do you know what she said? She told me that it had come as a blessing, that she only realised how much she had when he had been taken away from her.’

  ‘Healing hands,’ said Sam slowly, as the truth of what I said dawned on him. ‘So he took the kids so he could keep them, relish the parents’ pain, and then enjoy the pleasure of the return?’

  I nodded. ‘Then it went wrong with the last one—Kyle. The child overdosed on sedative.’

  ‘But why kill Eric, and blame it on him?’

  ‘His dreams. You remember what Eric told you, that he had dreams and they came true. He’d contacted the police, but they didn’t want to know.’ I shrugged. ‘You can hardly blame them for that, but it made Eric get in touch with the families he had been dreaming about. Maybe it worried Thomas, he was scared that Eric would discover something, would stop his good work, so perhaps he watched him to find out where he went. Once he discovered the group, all he had to do was go along, pretend to be precognitive, and he could pick people off whenever he thought they were getting too close.’

  Sam thought about that, and then his mind went back to Jimmy King. ‘The family knew about him,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked. I felt a tremor in my stomach. I knew how much it was tearing up Sam, but I also knew how big a story it would be if I could get it into print.

  Sam took a deep breath. ‘When Luke told me that he had killed that girl, Jess Goldie, he was brought to see me by his father, and Harry Parsons was there. Maybe they knew the car would have been seen, so Luke confessed to the killing, and, worse than that, he told me that he had enjoyed it, that he would do it all over again.

  ‘They all knew what I would do,’ Sam continued. ‘I would do my job, advise him to stay quiet. Harry probably guessed that Luke would become suspect number one.’

  ‘But then Eric kept interfering,’ I said.

  Sam nodded. He paused to examine his nails, looked like he was thinking what to say next. ‘I suppose Eric made it even easier for them, except that he had met Thomas, and Thomas wanted to control the situation. He made it messy.’ Sam looked confused. ‘But why would Harry get involved?’

  ‘Do you remember that you told me about the murder of Luke King’s fiancée, when Terry McKay lied to the police?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Maybe once Harry got involved, he couldn’t get out,’ I continued. ‘Perhaps he didn’t know at first; Luke King would have been a natural suspect, as he was the dead girl’s jilted fiancé. Did Jimmy persuade Harry that he was keeping Luke from being a suspect, when in fact it was much worse than that
?’ I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter how you arrive in the plot, once you’re in, there’s no out.’

  ‘They go right back to their childhoods,’ said Sam. ‘They grew up in a children’s home together, and they have this special bond from then. Perhaps Harry saw it as a one-off favour, but of course Jimmy King isn’t a one-off sort of person.’

  ‘And now Jimmy has Harry whenever he needs him?’ I queried.

  Sam nodded. ‘But Harry is retiring soon, and so he passed Luke on to me. Harry was making sure that Jimmy still had someone there for him after he’d gone.’ Sam swallowed and then exhaled heavily. ‘I acted in accordance with my client’s instructions. I did my legal duty.’ And when I didn’t respond, he added, ‘And look at where it’s taken me, looking for my lost son.’

  I tried to offer some comfort. ‘You didn’t know Luke was covering for his brother.’

  Sam covered his face, and I saw his nails dig into his skin. ‘Thomas is in meltdown,’ he said through his hands. ‘He’s losing control, and psychopaths are driven by control.’

  I looked at Sam, and I saw that he had his jaw clenched tightly, panic in his eyes.

  ‘We need to get there quickly,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘He’s taken Henry as an act of revenge, not pleasure.’

  I gritted my teeth and increased the pressure on the pedal. I knew what Sam meant: that if it was revenge, Thomas would not return Henry. Not unless we got there first.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Thomas King’s home wasn’t what I expected.

  ‘He doesn’t bring the children here,’ I said immediately.

  As Sam looked up, he agreed.

  There were stone steps that led up to latticed glass doors. As I climbed and looked through the glass, I could see that the building was made up of flats. There was a column of doorbells with names next to them. Thomas was at the top. Flat 10. He obviously lived on the top floor. I looked through the doors, my hands cupped around my eyes to give me a better view. No sign of a lift.

  I stepped back and shielded my eyes against the streetlight; the day was moving into dusk and the sky was turning deep pink on its western fringes. As I looked up, I saw that the top floor was an attic apartment, with two narrow windows looking out over bowling greens. The location was good, tall buildings in a long line with views over the hills, but I had expected more grandeur for the home of a young doctor.

  ‘He couldn’t bring a child into here and go unnoticed,’ I said. ‘Too many stairs, an uncarpeted hallway, too much risk of the child waking up and making a noise.’

  ‘So where should we look?’ asked Sam.

  I pointed through the door. ‘We start in there and see where it takes us.’

  I jabbed a doorbell, one of the ones lower down. A frail voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good evening, madam. I’m from Blackley Police. We need to speak to you about something you might have seen this morning from your window.’

  I knew that I was moving into dangerous territory, impersonating the police, but Sam said nothing. We heard a buzz and went inside.

  The hallway smelled of stewed cabbage, none of the exotic spices you might find in a trendier apartment block. The hall floor was dark wood, laid in herringbone style, with a dark brown carpet running down the middle of the stairs. It was warm, as if everyone had the heating on full. I could hear a television blaring loudly, it sounded like the news.

  As we made our way up the stairs, a door opened in front of us. A frail old lady appeared, supported by a stick, hunched over and bow-legged.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ I said, my voice reassuring, ‘but we got the number wrong. It’s the next one up we need.’

  The old lady smiled and turned to go back into her flat, and we kept on going up, until after three flights of stairs we came to the top landing. There were more flats on that floor, but at the end we could see a door with a frosted glass panel and a number 10 on the wall next to it. The attic flat. I looked round at Sam. He was expressionless, and so I knocked on the door, three quick raps.

  We said nothing as we waited, but when there was still silence a few seconds later, I knocked again. Still nothing.

  ‘Let’s break in,’ offered Sam.

  ‘Won’t it make anything we find inadmissible?’ I asked, unsure. ‘He’ll get away with it.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘This isn’t America. We still allow the occasional abuse of power if it throws up something useful. And anyway, you’re missing the obvious point.’

  ‘Which is?’ I queried.

  Sam raised his elbow. ‘You’re talking about police powers. We’re civilians.’ And before I could stop him, he smashed his elbow into the top pane, by the Yale lock, the crash of glass loud along the landing.

  I saw blood creep along the cloth of his suit, a piece of glass stuck into his arm, but still he reached through and turned the lock.

  The door swung open.

  ‘We’ll be trespassing if you go in there,’ I said, a final note of caution.

  ‘And my son will still be missing,’ he replied, and stepped into the flat.

  Thomas King paced as he looked at Henry, saw that he still had his face buried in his arms, but now he was turned into the corner.

  ‘Are you listening?’ whispered Thomas, the hiss loud in the cold room. ‘They should love you more than this. You understand that, don’t you?’

  The little boy didn’t look up.

  ‘Why aren’t you listening?’ Thomas shouted, and he stepped forward quickly. Henry curled into a ball and squealed in terror.

  Thomas held out his hand, which shook slightly in the shadow from the small lamp, and knelt down. Henry tried to move away but he was pressed up against the wall.

  ‘They know now what it feels like to be without you,’ he said. ‘How they miss your laughs, your tears.’ He stroked the boy’s hair gently. He felt a tear trickle down his own cheek. There wasn’t long left.

  I shielded my nose with my arm as we entered the hallway of Thomas King’s flat. One side was lined with shopping bags, piled high on top of each other. Flies buzzed the air over them and I grimaced at the stench. I looked inside one of them. It contained food, bread, now mouldy, and when I looked in another I saw meat. It was crawling, small white maggots writhing in the bag.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I muttered. ‘You hear about old men who get like this, when they finally lose grip on reality, but Thomas King is young.’

  ‘He knows his life is on a timer,’ said Sam. ‘He’s known it for some time,’ and then he went into the living room. I took some photographs of the hallway, and then followed him.

  When I went into the room, I was taken aback. The carpet was virtually invisible. It was covered in papers. Newspapers, old calendars, medical journals, magazines. And among those, scribbled notes, drawings. I picked up a piece of paper. It was a ramble, just words written randomly, like a list of grievances, no punctuation, the paper scored heavily where he had obviously dug in hard with the pen. I put it into my pocket and then took more photographs of the room.

  Sam scurried through the papers, looking for something, a sign, a clue. He turned towards some drawers and began to root through those. Then I whirled round as he shouted out, ‘What are these?’

  Sam was holding up a small shoebox. He had taken off the lid and was looking into it.

  ‘What have you got?’ I asked, and stepped closer.

  Sam reached into the box and pulled something out, small and white. It was a business card, showing large hands over a small head. As Sam held out the box, I saw that there were more in there, a whole batch.

  ‘Shit!’ he said.

  I whistled. ‘The final confirmation.’ I took a picture on my phone and sent it to Laura.

  Sam paled. ‘We can’t wait for the police to arrive,’ he said, the box on the floor now, his fingers moving frantically, skimming over paperwork, brochures, old magazines. He was scattering them on the ground.

  ‘Do you know what yo
u are looking for?’ I asked.

  Sam shook his head. ‘If he hasn’t brought Henry here, then he has access to somewhere else. There might be something here somewhere. Keep looking.’