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by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘And how did he react?’

  ‘Well, at first he didn’t believe me. Thought I was trying to goad him, to trick him. Then, when it finally sunk in, he went crazy. Called me every name under the sun, said some awful, awful things, even hit me on one occasion. To me it seemed like he was having some kind of breakdown, so I just grabbed my things and made to leave. Then suddenly he was crying, saying that he could change, but I knew he wouldn’t. Alex loves one person and one person alone. So I left.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that—’ she said, taking a deep, pained breath, ‘it got even worse. Phone calls, messages, calling me a whore, accusing me of leading him on, of deliberately humiliating him. I tried to reason with him, but that only seemed to make it worse. My car got smashed up, my office was vandalized—’

  She seemed to be struggling to breathe, as if she was about to suffer a panic attack. Helen was tempted to tell her to stop, but Gina seemed determined to continue, to finish her story.

  ‘On and on it went, day after day, then suddenly it stopped. At first, I thought that maybe he’d met someone else, or finally seen reason. But looking back, I know now that it was what I’d done that caused the change.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I – I’d posted on Facebook about my engagement. Mark had asked me to marry him and, of course, I’d said yes.’

  ‘And so Alex saw that it was pointless? That your relationship was at an end?’

  ‘In a way. But it was also the start of something else …’

  ‘Revenge?’

  Gina exhaled, long and hard, before nodding.

  ‘He deliberately severed contact, tried to distance himself from me, from the situation, but he was just biding his time.’

  She looked up at Helen, tearful defiance writ large. Gina looked good, there was no question about that, she had made a new life, a new image, for herself, but the pain, the damage of the past, was still etched into her features.

  ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she fired back, gesturing to her face. ‘This happened the night before I was due to be married.’

  Helen stared at her, sickened by the twisted timing of the attack. ‘There were never any other suspects, any other explanations?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Who else would do something like this?’

  ‘Was he questioned?’

  ‘Sure, once he got back to the UK.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Well, Alex is many things, but he’s not stupid. He was at a conference in Copenhagen on the night of the attack.’

  ‘So he had a rock-solid alibi.’

  ‘He’d never leave anything to chance.’

  ‘And the individual who did attack you?’

  ‘We never found out who it was,’ she said bitterly. ‘Some guy in a hoodie and cap. He came up behind me, I barely saw him.’

  ‘And the police couldn’t link the attack back to Blythe?’

  ‘Course not. Alex had no friends, no family, no mates, no one who’d do something like that for him. So how could they?’

  Helen’s mind was suddenly whirring with possibilities, even as Gina concluded:

  ‘But he was behind it, I know he was. It was him.’

  Chapter 114

  Helen hurried back to her bike, deep in thought. What had once seemed a hopeless situation, a catalogue of unconnected murders, now seemed anything but. Even now the various pieces of the jigsaw were coming together, dancing in front of Helen’s eyes. What mattered now was that she grasp them, sliding them firmly into place.

  It seemed highly probable that Blythe’s twisted scheme had its genesis in the attack on Brown. A jilted lover wreaks a terrible revenge on his ex-fiancée, marring her face, her fortunes, even as she stood on the brink of happiness. Helen could picture the scene now – a younger, greener Alex Blythe persuading a desperate, vulnerable patient to commit a drastic act, convincing them to throw sulphuric acid in the face of a total stranger. Had that client been persuaded, bribed, threatened even? No, that seemed implausible and unnecessary. Presumably blackmail would have been much simpler, the unwitting patient having already confessed his darkest secrets, his deepest shame, to his trusted addiction counsellor. It was at once horribly sinister and oddly brilliant, Blythe’s victims willingly giving up this information, telling their psychiatrist things that they wouldn’t dream of confessing to their family, friends or colleagues. They trusted him – then Blythe used that trust against them in the worst way possible.

  Helen had no idea how Gina’s attacker had transgressed to allow Blythe to manipulate him in this manner. But what she was certain of was that this whole thing was born of that episode. How Blythe must have revelled in the power, knowing that he had forced one of his clients to disfigure another human being, without any possible comeback to him. It was a foolproof scheme. To rat on Blythe would, in effect, be to confess to the attack itself and what incentive was there to do that, when the police had no leads? Better to keep quiet, then, let sleeping dogs lie.

  This, then, was the spark that lit the fire. The attack on Gina Brown must have been personally satisfying, but why stop there? Why not force those poor, vulnerable wretches who abased themselves in front of him to go further? To commit the ultimate act of violence? It would be intoxicating, empowering, irresistible. It would be like playing God.

  It would have required careful planning, as none of the needy professionals who sought out his discreet services were natural-born killers. The stick, the threat of exposure, would only motivate them so far. Perhaps some could be persuaded to kill, but others would surely resist; resist until all hope was lost? Why then not add a carrot too, by first disposing of the person that threatened their happiness, their livelihood, even their liberty? That way they would be doubly tied in, in debt to Blythe for their sudden liberation, but now utterly in thrall to the knowledge he alone had of their vices, their peccadilloes, their crimes?

  And now it hit Helen like a thunderbolt, Blythe’s own words suddenly coming back to her. When they’d first met, he’d talked about his clients’ unrealistic expectations. What was it he’d said? ‘When my clients first present, they want me to wave a magic wand, to make it all go away.’ Was this what he’d done for them? Ensuring one client’s problems disappeared by ordering another client to murder their tormentor? Once more, Helen shivered. This was beyond criminal, a scheme the like of which she’d never encountered before. It was a way of torturing his poor clients, of drenching Southampton in blood whilst never lifting a finger himself. It really was God-like, awe-inspiring, yet simultaneously utterly chilling.

  Climbing on her bike, Helen pulled her phone from her pocket. Finally, the picture was becoming clear and the imperative now was to mobilize the team. For weeks now, they had been chasing their own tails, blundering down blind alleys, chasing up false leads, persecuting innocent parties, when in reality the situation was incredibly simple. This whole thing was the product of one man, and one man alone.

  Dr Alex Blythe.

  Chapter 115

  He stood perfectly still, staring out into the inky darkness. The grey Vauxhall Astra had been stationed in the street opposite his office since just before midnight, but, oddly, the occupants had not exited the vehicle, instead sitting in the shadows, watching and waiting. From there, they wouldn’t be able to make him out – the blinds were down, the internal lights off – but Alex Blythe could see them by peeking through the tiny gap between fabric and frame. It was a strange stand-off, an odd kind of communion between hunter and prey, as the world carried on its business unawares. Drunk office workers stumbling home, gaggles of teens running down the street, lovers hurrying past arm in arm – all manner of people passed between them, little realizing the life-and-death drama they were caught up in.

  The police officers had arrived two hours ago and since then they’d done nothing, lingering with intent, but lacking the confidence, the imagination, perhaps, t
o act. Satisfied that they weren’t about to storm the building, Alex Blythe moved away from the window, returning to his desk. A quick glance at his laptop revealed that the auto-cleanse programme was almost complete, all files destroyed, the computer’s hard drive wiped clean, so he moved on to the shredder. Grasping the last set of paper files, he began feeding them into the mouth of the beast, watching with grim satisfaction as its rear end spewed out the finely cut strands of paper. The sight of this destruction was strangely enjoyable, but tinged with sadness too. He had spent years amassing this treasure trove of secrets, confessions and crimes. What a waste it seemed to just toss it all away. All that anguish, all that shame, all that leverage.

  Still, there could be no question of taking any chances now – all concrete links to Raeburn, Hill, Downing and the countless other wretches he’d treated had to be destroyed. It was a pity, sacrilege really, but there was no other way. The only saving grace was the power of his memory, which was prodigious, almost photographic in its recall. This might yet prove useful and, if nothing else, would provide entertainment and distraction for him as he replayed their tearful confessions and naked pleas for help.

  The last strands of paper fell into the bin. Switching the shredder off, Blythe did likewise with his laptop, before picking it up and hurling it to the floor. It hit the tiles, cracking them instantly as the machine came apart, the keyboard springing clean off to reveal a mass of circuitry underneath. Now he didn’t hesitate, striding forward and stamping on it, repeatedly, aggressively, his foot pounding the unfortunate device until it was just a mass of smashed glass and broken microchips.

  Exhausted, sweating, Alex Blythe leaned back on his desk, taking a moment to catch his breath. In the corner of the room, Bella whimpered plaintively, suddenly scared of her master, but he ignored her whines, his mind on higher things. He stood on the threshold of the endgame and took a moment now to drink in his surroundings. This place had been his sanctuary, his playground, for so long. He’d enjoyed his time in this cloistered, confessional space and he revelled in the memories, breathing in the pain, the distress these four walls had witnessed over the years. Here he had blossomed, thrived, even as the mindless world thrashed around him, ignorant and blind, little realizing the extent of his ambition. He had beaten them all, abused, tortured, controlled the poor excuses for human beings who willingly raced into his embrace and he had enjoyed doing so, but every show had its climax, a point after which the curtain must come down. That moment had now arrived and he would bow out with no regrets. It had been fun whilst it lasted, but as the old saying went, all good things must come to an end.

  Day Seven

  Chapter 116

  Helen paced her flat, the floorboards creaking as she marched back and forth. Following her interview with Gina Brown, she had retreated home to process, plot and strategize, yet she remained restless and dissatisfied. They were so close to ending this thing, but still they were not ready to deliver the killer blow.

  Crossing to the balcony, Helen looked out over the city, trying to calm her thoughts, the anxiety that was steadily growing inside her. Dawn was just breaking, the first slivers of light glistening on the rooftops, heralding the new day. Standing there, Helen wondered what the next twenty-four hours would bring. Triumph and salvation? Or more death and destruction?

  Helen felt sure she knew why these crimes had happened, who had engineered them, but calling Blythe to account for his actions would be far from simple. She had never come across an adversary like him, someone so adept at keeping themselves in the shadows. In Helen’s eyes he was responsible for at least seven murders, probably more, but the fact remained that as things stood, not a single witness, not a single perpetrator, had pointed the finger at him, identifying Blythe as the architect of the bloodshed and misery. Amanda Davis was AWOL in Australia, Amar Goj and Belinda Raeburn were dead, and Robert Downing and Lilah Hill still refused to talk, for reasons that remained unclear.

  Without a witness or victim directly accusing the psychiatrist of blackmail, coercion and incitement to murder, the CPS would never bring charges. Even if Helen pulled Blythe in now, as she was sorely tempted to do, they would be left empty-handed. They might be able to link Blythe to the perpetrators of the murders via his files, presuming he hadn’t destroyed them, or by appointment reminders and location services on his victim’s phones, but the threshold of evidence would need to be higher, much higher, if they wanted to bring him to book. They needed a smoking gun – a voice, or series of voices directly accusing Blythe, insisting that it was the twisted psychiatrist who’d set this terrible chain of events in motion.

  Returning to the kitchen table, Helen looked down at her files. Lilah Hill’s mug shot stared back at her – she had been sifting through what they knew of her life for the past few hours. Helen hadn’t changed, hadn’t even showered on her return, diving straight into the information DCs Malik and McAndrew had gathered about the woman who now languished in the custody cells. She had refused to cooperate, issuing blanket ‘no comments’ to all the questions put to her, yet in Helen’s mind, she remained their best hope of a breakthrough.

  Downing was an accomplished lawyer and a tough adversary. He would attempt to wriggle out of any involvement, despite the weight of forensic evidence that was growing against him. He was adept at defending himself, plus he had a lot to lose, not least access to his kids. Lilah Hill was by contrast an amateur, a law-abiding advertising executive who’d never been in trouble with the police before. Moreover, she was all alone in the world, vulnerable and shaken, with no one to support her in her hour of greatest need.

  If they could crack her, if they could get her to talk, then they might still be able to put Alex Blythe behind bars. What they lacked currently was leverage, something to bring her to the table. Helen had been wracking her brain for hours, poring over her files, searching for something, anything, to open her up, yet still it eluded her. Lilah’s trajectory through life seemed fairly standard, prioritizing romance, hedonism and career in her twenties, before segueing into building a home and looking after body and spirit in her thirties. So far so ordinary, with the twist that alcohol had been ever-present in her life, even in her later, healthier years, when she cycled, meditated and gym-classed for all she was worth. The apologetic messages to friends after she’d caused a scene, the numerous off-licence transactions on her credit card statements and the frequent googling of organizations such as Alcoholics Anonymous was all evidence of the power of her addiction. She had clearly struggled with it for years, before eventually contacting Alex Blythe as the last throw of the dice.

  In some ways, it made perfect sense. Advertising was a tough business. Executives were forever precariously hanging between success and failure, between landing an account and losing one, which meant the party culture – for which read drinking culture – was well established. Drink, drugs, sex, it was all part of the adrenalized, masculine, work hard, play hard ethos. And Lilah Hill seemed to have gone for it, playing her full part in the bacchanalia. The team had printed off and scanned numerous photos from Hill’s Facebook page and the pictures from her twenties were certainly illuminating. There was a panoply of photos of Hill as a young woman, drinking shots in a crowded bar, sitting proprietorially on a brand-new Mercedes, kissing a colleague lasciviously on the cheek whilst winking at the camera. It was a period of unbridled hedonism, a picture of careless youth, all a far cry from the misery Hill now found herself wallowing in. How had her life gone so wrong?

  It seemed impossible, looking at the pictures of her early years, that she should now be imprisoned in a cell, facing a murder charge. For Hill had clearly tried to clean up her act, prioritizing exercise and clean living, whilst she continued to fight her addiction to booze. This made her involvement with Blythe, or rather her subjugation by him, even more bemusing. There were numerous struggling alcoholics out there, so how had he been able to manipulate her, force her, to do something so out of character? Every other aspect of h
er life – her charity cycle rides, her love of community projects, her involvement with local church groups – seemed to suggest she was a model citizen. What on earth did he have on her?

  Lilah had always been a binge drinker, that was clear. But, oddly, it was after she made certain changes to her life – cycling rather than driving, buying organic, local food rather than expensive, carbon-heavy imports, committing to sustained weight loss – that her drinking really ramped up. In her twenties, it had been a few days’ excess, then a few days off, judging by her spending patterns. But in later life, drinking was a daily occurrence, Hill seemingly favouring spirits, given the levels of cash she was burning through day by day. Why was this? Why had her condition suddenly worsened, even as she tried to get a grip of other aspects of her life? And what had Blythe spotted there to take advantage of?

  Tiring of her investigation, Helen’s eyes strayed back to the photos from the morning’s tragedy. Raeburn’s crumpled body on the road, her possessions scattered about her, the black skid marks left by the Fiat that had skidded to a halt just in front of Helen’s bike. Immediately, she was rocketed back there, to the moment when the two women had locked eyes. It had struck her at the time, and it impressed itself upon her again now, that it had not been triumph or anger in Hill’s expression. No, it had been horror.

  And now a thought landed, an idea that suddenly seemed obvious, but which she had overlooked until now. Picking up her phone, she dialled the incident room and was pleased to hear McAndrew on the other end.

  ‘Can you access the PNC for me?’ she said without introduction.

  ‘Sure thing. What are we looking for?’

  Casting a look at the photo of Hill, posing on her brand-new Mercedes, she replied: