by LJ Ross
HYSTERIA
– AN ALEXANDER GREGORY THRILLER
LJ Ross
Copyright © LJ Ross 2019
The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Stuart Bache
Cover design copyright © LJ Ross
OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS
The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:
1. Impostor
2. Hysteria
3. Bedlam
The DCI Ryan Mysteries in order:
1. Holy Island
2. Sycamore Gap
3. Heavenfield
4. Angel
5. High Force
6. Cragside
7. Dark Skies
8. Seven Bridges
9. The Hermitage
10. Longstone
11. The Infirmary (prequel)
12. The Moor
13. Penshaw
14. Borderlands
15. Ryan’s Christmas
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
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.”
—Sigmund Freud, Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria
PROLOGUE
Jardin des Tuileries, Paris
September 2019
There were worse places to be than Paris in the autumn.
The city was resplendent in the early morning sunshine, which touched the rooftop of the Palais Garnier with trailing fingers and burnished the River Seine a rippling, molten gold. There, the Old World reigned supreme; its gentle arches and Lutetian limestone the stuff of lovers, artists, writers and—of course—the very rich.
But wherever you went, the gutters still stank of piss.
Eva Bisset hardly noticed its stench as she guided her rickety scooter through the back streets of the 1st Arrondissement with the kind of blithe disregard for life, limb and traffic codes that came from knowing every corner and cobbled stone in that great city. Regal buildings passed by in a blur as she joined the bustling melee of drivers delivering food and flowers to the upper echelons of Parisian society, whose number had swelled in the weeks leading up to Fashion Week—a bi-annual event that attracted celebrities, designers and models from around the globe, all of whom came to see and be seen.
Eva saw them.
She saw tall, glossy men and women posing outside the Pyramide of the Louvre or draping themselves over one of the picturesque wooden benches lining the banks of the river, dressed in scraps of geometric material that probably cost more than her apartment. She watched them from the shadows—invisible, unseen—and delivered gluten-free sushi to the waifs who dared to nibble on it, all the time wondering how wealthy you needed to be, or how unhappy, to refuse the offer of food even when you were hungry.
“Eh! Salope! Regarde óu tu vas, idiote!”
She swerved suddenly to dodge the bonnet of a taxi, ignoring a stream of abuse from its driver before hurrying onward, crossing an invisible boundary between the real world and one inhabited by a chosen few, whose whims and wants she catered to. She tried to imagine what it would be like, never having to worry about money or the lack thereof; to dine at the finest restaurants and sleep soundly every night, without fear.
But there were many kinds of fear, and Eva found herself wondering whether it was she who was the lucky one, for there were some who could stay in that glittering paradise but could never leave.
* * *
Orange and pink would be in fashion, next season.
A cursory glance towards the collection of people gathered around a fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries was enough to confirm it, and Eva raised an eyebrow at the garish display of silks billowing on the morning breeze. Painting a smile on her face, she hitched a large bag of insulated food over her shoulder and crossed the ground to meet them, panting slightly beneath its weight.
The garden was located in the centre of town, between the Louvre to the east and the Place de la Concorde to the west. Originally, it had been created by Catherine de Medici for the Tuileries Palace, and became a public garden following the Revolution. Nowadays, it was a place where tourists, students and Parisian yuppies could cycle, stroll and mingle or—in this case—gather to photograph the world’s most beautiful men and women, wearing clothes that were more like works of art than apparel.
As she drew nearer, Eva paused to check the name on the delivery note.
Gabrielle Leroux.
Anybody who’d ever read a magazine in the hairdressers or at the beauty salon would recognise the name, and the woman it belonged to, but Eva had little time to read. Consequently, the name ‘Leroux’ meant very little to her, and she cast her eyes over the assembled crowd hoping for divine inspiration, which came in the form of a tall, burly man dressed entirely in black.
“Excusez-moi? Gabrielle Leroux?”
The security guard made a leisurely survey of her face, lingered for a moment on her chest, then jutted his chin towards a small white tent.
“Elle est dans la tente,” he muttered. “Tu n’as pas un petit quelque chose pour moi?”
She ignored the last part and brushed past him, perspiring heavily as steam rose up from the bag.
“Puis-je vous aider?”
A reed-thin woman with cold blue eyes scanned her body and then folded her arms.
“J’ai une livraison pour Mme. Leroux?”
The woman held out a hand. “Je vais le prendre.”
Eva held onto the bag and shuffled her feet. “Ah, c’est cent soixante-dix euros…”
The woman rolled her eyes and muttered something about not carrying cash, before dipping back inside the tent. Eva waited, staring hard at the ground as their conversation trickled through the gaps in the tarpaulin and turned her skin red wit
h anger and shame.
Presently, the woman returned.
“Voila,” she said, and slapped a small wad of notes into Eva’s hand—enough to cover the bill but nothing more.
Eva studied the woman’s face for a long, uncomfortable moment, then murmured her thanks and beat a hasty retreat across the park.
* * *
Eva’s own corner of the universe was vastly less glamorous than the one she left behind at the Jardin des Tuileries. The Barbès district was located in the north of the city, to the east of the more popular areas of Montmartre and Pigalle, where tourists flocked to see the mighty Sacré-Coeur and its panoramic views of the city, or the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge. Consequently, it was not yet gentrified and had few chain stores or homogenous coffee houses. Instead, it remained a vibrant, multi-cultural place where the air was infused with a mix of spices wafting up from the many restaurants and delis lining the Boulevard Barbès. Café Michel was one such place; a tiny bolthole tucked away from the main road, specialising in fancy world cuisine that catered to even the most delicate of palates. Eva’s father had been the eponymous ‘Michel’, whose canny eye for business had enabled his restaurant to survive in an already overcrowded marketplace, before his untimely death robbed him of the opportunity to reap any of the rewards.
Her husband had taken over the running of the place.
At the thought of Jean-Pierre, a tiny shiver of fear ran up her spine, and she paused before turning off the scooter’s engine, her fingers still gripping the ignition key.
What mood would she find him in today?
Usually, a bad day was followed by one or two good ones, whilst he was racked with guilt for whichever bruise or cut he happened to have bestowed the day before. Jean-Pierre could be charming then; solicitous and tender, like the first time they’d met. He would tell her how much he loved her, taking care to remind her that only she had the power to make him lose his temper. If he didn’t care so much, if she didn’t arouse such feelings of passion, he wouldn’t be forced to lash out with a slap or a kick.
Or a fist to the face.
Eva’s fingers strayed up to her right temple, where a tiny scar was all that remained from that particular episode.
It had been her fault, really.
She shouldn’t have suggested that he was responsible for their apparent infertility. She should never have questioned his manhood, or suggested he go to the clinic to have a check-up.
A man had his pride, as he’d forcibly reminded her.
Her stomach gave a lurch as she thought of the baby now growing inside her. She should tell him—Jean-Pierre would be ecstatic, especially if it was a boy, and maybe it would bring out a softer side to his nature.
Maybe it would give her some respite.
She rested a hand on her womb and tried to imagine the tiny life growing inside her. It had only been a few weeks and she worried that, if she told her husband now, he’d blame her if she miscarried again. Jean-Pierre was a man of business, he liked to tell her, not a midwife. He didn’t concern himself with women’s troubles.
She closed her eyes and imagined downy hair and chubby cheeks; tiny fingers and toes.
A beautiful smile spread across her face, and she knew she could withstand whatever awaited her inside the Café Michel, because she was no longer alone.
CHAPTER 1
Hôtel Violette, Paris
Monday 23rd September
Paris Fashion Week
“Are you awake?”
Tom Fiddeman trailed a finger along his wife’s spine, admiring its creamy texture, then edged a little closer across the bed.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I said, are you—?”
Diane rolled over, swatting his hand away in the process.
“Yes!” she snapped. “I’m awake!”
Yawning widely, she focused on his face, which wore a smug, ‘come hither’ expression she recognised only too well after twenty years of marriage.
“Where’s all this energy coming from, anyway?” she hissed. “Earlier on, you said you were too tired to walk around the Louvre, but you seem to have made a miraculous recovery.”
“It’s all thanks to you, ma cherie,” he crooned. “We’re in the City of Lovers…”
Diane snorted eloquently.
“Lord knows why I’ve put up with you all these years,” she said, but her fingers reached up to brush his stubbled chin. “Waking me up at all hours of the night.”
“It’s only”—he craned his neck around to check the time on the bedside table—“ten past three.”
She groaned. “I’ll be fit for nothing, tomorrow.”
“I like a challenge,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows to make her laugh.
“Well, since I’m wide awake…” she murmured.
Tom needed no further bidding and reached out to take her in his arms.
“Wait!” she said, a moment or two later. “Did you hear that?”
Tom could hear nothing but the rush of blood as it drained from the part of his brain that usually dealt with things like speech.
“I didn’t hear anything…”
His voice was muffled against the side of her neck.
“I mean it!”
With a stifled groan, he raised his head and was about to repeat his previous denial when there came several loud crashes, followed by a blood-curdling scream.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, scrambling off the bed. “Put—put a call through to the reception desk, love, while I go and see what’s happening.”
“Be careful!” Diane said, clutching a hand to her throat.
Another crash followed by a heavy thud.
Tom grabbed the first thing to hand, which happened to be a marble paperweight from the small bureau desk, and reached for the door handle.
Before opening it, he turned back to his wife and met her eyes across the room.
“Lock the door behind me.”
* * *
When Tom stepped out into the long, dimly-lit corridor, he found two women huddled outside a doorway opposite his own, banging on the painted wood. If he hadn’t been wildly in love with his wife, he might have remarked that they were two of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen—one blonde, one redhead, and wearing little more than wispy scraps of silk which he decided must pass for pyjamas in Paris.
“Dieu merci!” one of them cried, when she spotted him. “Aidez-nous, notre amie est dans la pièce—”
An expression of panic flitted across his face, and he set the paperweight back down on the carpeted floor.
“Er, je ne…speak French,” he finished, lamely.
“English?” she replied. “I should have guessed.”
She cast a meaningful eye over his cotton boxers, and the pasty legs beneath them, then gestured towards the door.
“Our friend is trapped inside,” she explained, in worried tones. “We heard noises…please, help us—she might be hurt.”
“My wife’s calling reception now,” he said. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Camille,” the other woman answered.
Tom stepped forward and raised a fist to bang on the door again, then tried the handle—but it wouldn’t budge.
“Camille!” he bellowed. “Camille, open the door!”
He decided to try brute force, and threw his body against the wood, which didn’t move an inch. Behind him, Diane stuck her head outside their bedroom door.
“Tom? What’s going on? Are you—?”
Her eyes widened at the sight of her husband standing between two real-life French goddesses, and she pursed her lips.
“I was going to ask if you’re alright, but it looks like you’re doing just fine.”
Before he could respond, there came the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Que s’est il passé? What’s happened?”
The night manager arrived at a run, his smart emerald brocade uniform rumpled from the nap he’d recently been taking in his office downstairs.<
br />
There followed a stream of fast-flowing French from the two young women, before the manager—whose name turned out to be Alain Nehmé—shouldered them aside, called out a brief warning to the occupant of Number 30, and produced a universal key card.
The door opened with a quiet electronic buzz.
* * *
They spotted Camille Duquette immediately, lying face down on the Persian carpet at the foot of an enormous bed, her body slumped like a ragdoll. Thin trails of blood were spattered over the white bedspread, and gauzy curtains billowed on the cold breeze which blew through doors that had been left open to a small balcony outside.
“Mon Dieu,” Alain whispered.
“Well?” Diane Fiddeman demanded, from somewhere over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to check her? Call an ambulance, for God’s sake!”
Spurred into action, the manager raised a hand in acknowledgement and forced himself to enter the room. He moved slowly, giving the body a wide berth—all the while dreading the prospect of finding a pair of glazed, dead eyes staring up at him.
“Mademoiselle?” he managed. “Mademoiselle Duquette?”
Alain reached for his mobile phone and used one hand to key in the number for the emergency services, eyes widening as he spotted more blood on the rug where Camille lay motionless. He trembled as he drew closer, and almost lost control of his stomach when he finally saw what had been done to a woman who had once been beautiful.
Camille’s face was covered in blood, which seeped from a long, slashing cut running from her right temple all the way to her mouth. She wore a set of patterned silk pyjamas, which were in tatters from a series of wounds to her arms and torso, and her hand was outstretched, as if reaching out for help.
“Quel genre d’animal ferait ça?” he whispered.
In the corridor, the two young women stumbled away from the doorway and began to sob.
“There.” Tom patted their shoulders awkwardly. “There, there.”
When each girl clung to him, he sent his wife a very Gallic shrug, and hoped there wouldn’t be repercussions later.