Hysteria: An Alexander Gregory Thriller (The Alexander Gregory Thrillers Book 2)

by LJ Ross

  She raised both hands to gesture at the opulence around them.

  “Camille was blessed with a rare kind of beauty,” she continued, speaking firmly in the past tense. “That alone is not unusual. I’ve met countless young men and women whose faces are perfectly symmetrical, their skin flawless, their bodies smooth and slim. But there’s no…”

  “Je ne sais quoi?” Gregory drawled.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Camille is an intelligent young woman, and it shows in her pictures. She was like a chameleon, able to adapt herself. That isn’t something that can be taught, Doctor Gregory. I recognised it, the first time I saw her, and asked if she was interested in a new career. I sent her to Leon, who told me she was a natural.”

  She crossed her legs at the ankle, very demurely.

  “Deportment, the art of how to walk…that can all be taught,” she said. “We gave her a crash course, and by the end of the day she was walking like a duchess. I mean it when I tell you, she’s a great loss to Maison Leroux.”

  It was a pretty little speech, Gregory thought, but she gave away very little.

  Apparently, Durand thought the same thing.

  “You say you discovered Camille on the street—can you tell me exactly where and what she was doing at the time?”

  Gabrielle let out a tinkling laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but you must understand I’m a very busy woman. I can’t remember exactly where I was when I first saw Camille. Outside our building on the Rue Saint-Honoré? After dining at Le Pré Catelan? Really, who can say? As for her previous work, why on Earth should I care?”

  The logic of it was breathtakingly simple, Gregory acknowledged.

  “You cannot possibly be expected to remember something so trifling, my love,” Armand said, pressing another kiss to her palm. “Can she, Inspector?”

  “Actually, it would be extremely helpful if you would try, Madame,” Durand said tightly.

  Gabrielle’s eyes turned flat.

  “Well, I’ve told you, I can’t remember,” she said. “Perhaps, messieurs, you should not be wasting any further time here, when a would-be killer remains at large.”

  Gregory raised an eyebrow, fascinated by her transformation from the insipid woman they’d first met.

  “Very well,” he said. “Perhaps you could give us some general observations about Camille’s character prior to the attack. What was she like? Did the other models like her?”

  Armand lifted his shoulders.

  “In a business such as ours, one has to expect a certain degree of competition,” he said, and Gabrielle gave a haughty nod of assent. “Men and women scrap to win the best jobs, and most have been on the circuit a little while, whereas Camille had not. Perhaps some felt she hadn’t earned her place at the table, as it were.”

  “Anyone specifically?” Gregory shot back.

  They looked uncomfortable, but then Gabrielle whispered something in her husband’s ear.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean that, my love,” he murmured, and then turned back to them. “My wife has just reminded me of an occasion when one of our other models, Juliette, got into…let’s say a little fight with Camille. She accused her of having taken some jewellery belonging to her, which, of course, Camille strongly denied.”

  “Who did you believe?” Gregory asked.

  “Well, since nothing was found on Camille’s person, or in her bag, we assumed Juliette was stirring up trouble and had simply lost the necklace,” Armand said. “We don’t concern ourselves with day to day squabbles, but Leon told us this was the second time such an accusation had been made.”

  “Oh? When was the first?” Durand asked.

  “I understand another of the models accused Camille of having taken some perfume and a small brooch, which was of sentimental value,” Armand said. “But none of this has been proven at all, Inspector, and no report was ever made to the police. It could very well be an example of the kind of bullying that, sadly, can happen in a small world such as ours.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “Do you think anybody at Maison Leroux disliked Camille enough to wish her harm?” Gregory asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Gabrielle said, firmly. “I am convinced it was a stranger, perhaps some poor unfortunate who was fixated on Camille. Jealousy is an ugly trait, Doctor, but the people in my company are like family. Besides, do you imagine any of the models on our books have any need to feel jealous of one another?”

  Gregory looked at her for a long moment, thinking that the world of high fashion was a veritable breeding ground for insecurity and, if it was true that her husband was known to have a predilection for beautiful younger women—such as herself—then Gabrielle Leroux would be just as susceptible as anyone. After all, what better way to extinguish her husband’s ardour than to destroy the thing that had ignited it?

  “Jealousy is, indeed, an ugly trait,” he said quietly. “Sadly, in my experience, it’s one that crosses the boundaries of society and transcends physical beauty, Madame Leroux. It comes from a much darker place—inside the human heart.”

  * * *

  When Gregory and Durand stepped into the night air a short time later, the cold hit them like an icy wall, and came as a welcome relief from the overheated interior of the marquee. They were ushered out of the perimeter gate and, as it clicked shut behind them, each man was left with the strong impression of having returned from a surreal, fantastical place where nothing was quite as it seemed.

  They turned back to see torches blazing along the red-carpeted entranceway, which was lined on either side with rows of journalists and photographers who awaited the arrival of the first celebrity guests. Overhead, thousands of individual spotlights cloaked the Eiffel Tower in a cascade of shimmering white light, probably organised by Maison Leroux to coincide with their show.

  “We could stay and watch,” Durand offered, half-heartedly.

  But Gregory shook his head.

  “I’ve had my fill of fashion for one day,” he said, and then hesitated. “Do you—ah, I was thinking of having some dinner?”

  Durand gave him a manly slap on the back.

  “Of course, mon ami. I know a good place.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The ‘good place’ turned out to be Durand’s little garden apartment.

  It was part of a modern block of flats bordering La Chapelle and Saint-Denis, a residential area to the north of Paris which possessed the kind of purpose-built feel that reminded Gregory of garden cities like Welwyn or Milton Keynes in the UK—except with fewer roundabouts. There was little in the way of memorable architecture but, as they passed along the main road, he saw an enormous secondary school, new road surfaces and a hospital.

  “It’s getting better around here,” Durand said, as they passed by a children’s playground. “Not as bad as the old days.”

  “Seems to be a nice family area,” Gregory agreed, then looked across at the police inspector. “Do you have any yourself? Family, I mean?”

  It was by no means a given; of all the murder detectives he’d met in his time, only a few had been able to maintain a long-term committed relationship and it wasn’t hard to understand why. The job was thankless and unforgiving, the kind only a small percentage of the population would be able to perform and still stay sane. Even then, most self-medicated with alcohol and that, together with long periods away from home, led to a toxic cycle that didn’t usually lend itself to happy marriages.

  And, to be brutally honest, he supposed the same could be said of his own situation.

  But Durand surprised him.

  “I have two children,” he said. “A boy and a girl—both grown up now—and a wife, Sandrine, who looks after me, for her sins.”

  He led Gregory up to a modest front door.

  “Sandrine! I’ve brought a visitor with me!”

  Inside, the flat was warm and inviting, and smelled of roasting meat.

  “Through here!”

  They fou
nd Sandrine in the living room with a glass of wine and a book, which she put aside as they came in. She was a petite woman of around fifty, who sported an elegant silver-blonde bob and a pair of laughing brown eyes.

  “You’re earlier than I thought,” she said, rising from her chair to bestow a kiss before turning to their guest.

  “This is Doctor Alexander Gregory, a psychologist from England.”

  She gave him a peck on either cheek.

  “You bring a psychologist home for dinner, Mathis? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Both men laughed.

  “It’s far too late for either of us, my love,” Durand chuckled. “Alex is helping me with a case I’m working on at the moment, and he’s in need of a good meal.”

  “Well, he’s come to the right place.”

  * * *

  Later, while Durand helped his wife clear away the dinner things, Gregory took a turn around the living room. A person’s private domain was often revealing and, even at Southmoor, where patients were limited as to the personal possessions they could keep in their rooms, it was amazing how one space varied to the next. In the case of Mathis and Sandrine Durand, their living room reflected a life shared; an enormous, overstuffed bookcase occupied one wall, while another was covered in framed prints of their children, taken on birthdays and Christmases over the years.

  There wasn’t a police file or a criminology textbook in sight, which told him that Durand preferred to keep his work and home lives separate.

  Wise man.

  “That’s my boy, Paul,” Durand said, coming to stand beside him as they looked at the open, smiling face of a young man of nineteen or twenty. “He’s training at the Academy to become a police officer, like his old man.”

  “You’ll be able to show him the ropes,” Gregory said.

  Durand made a non-committal sound.

  “There are better things to do with his life,” he muttered.

  “You wouldn’t want him to join the Police Judiciaire or the Gendarmerie?”

  Durand reached for a half-drunk bottle of wine and topped up their glasses.

  “Paul thinks he’ll be a hero,” he said, and took a swig of wine. “I know better.”

  “You’re old and crusty,” his wife pointed out, coming to sit beside them. “Paul knows his own mind.”

  “Like his mother,” Durand said, with a smile.

  Talk turned to everything from politics to cuisine and back again, before Gregory realised that he’d spent a pleasant evening in the company of others without once feeling an urge to check the time.

  Nevertheless, the hour was drawing late.

  “Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Madame Durand,” he said.

  “Sandrine,” she corrected him. “Come and visit us again, Alex.”

  Despite Gregory’s protests, Durand insisted upon driving him back to his hotel—having stayed just below the legally acceptable amount of alcohol to operate a vehicle in those parts—and there ensued a kamikaze journey back into the centre of town.

  “You have a lovely home,” Gregory said, once his stomach had levelled itself out again.

  “Thanks to Sandrine,” Durand admitted. “Without her to come home to, without my kids, the job would be a lot harder. It was difficult when Paul and Eloise moved out.”

  “You miss them?”

  “Of course,” he said. “But they must find their own way in the world.”

  He didn’t bat an eyelid as a cyclist veered into the road ahead, nor did he slow down, but simply jerked the wheel to avoid a collision.

  “What about you, Alex? Is there anyone special to go home to?”

  Gregory thought about making some flippant remark, but found himself telling the absolute truth.

  “No,” he said. “My work is all-consuming.”

  Durand gave him a strange look.

  “The work we do…it’s important, yes, but it should not consume us, mon ami.”

  But it’s the only thing that has any meaning in my life. The only thing I can trust will always be there, to fall back on. Not people. Not mothers, not fathers, wives or anything else in between. Not anything so fallible, and unreliable, as another human being.

  Purpose.

  A reason for being.

  Those were the things he could count on, and by helping those in need, by finding compassion for them, he could begin to forgive all the others who had let him down.

  But he said none of that.

  “You’re probably right,” he murmured, and turned away to watch the passing lights of the city.

  CHAPTER 11

  Friday 27th September

  The room was blindingly white and smelled of lemons.

  Alex threw up a hand to shield his eyes, unable to see any shapes or hear any sounds.

  Where was he?

  The ground crunched beneath his feet, and he stumbled forward without any sense of direction, arms outstretched to cushion the blow if he should fall.

  “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  The words disappeared as soon as they left his lips, swallowed by the white space, which seemed to shift and change all around him, contracting in time to his own beating heart.

  Alex turned around, and around again, but could see nothing except the same blinding white light.

  I’m over here.

  He stumbled over his own feet, seeking out his mother’s voice.

  You know me, don’t you?

  Yes, he knew her voice. It was the first sound he’d ever heard, but it would not be the last.

  You know what you did, don’t you?

  “I tried to understand you…so I could forgive you,” he whispered.

  But there could be no forgiveness; the crime was too great, and the grief too painful.

  What if you were wrong?

  Her voice crawled into his mind, coaxing and insidious.

  Look in the mirror. What do you see?

  Suddenly, he found himself inside a long, gilded hallway, lined with mirrors. He swung around, hoping to find an exit door behind him, but there was only a perfect mirror image of the hallway.

  Panicked, not knowing which way to turn, he ran forward, legs pumping faster, harder, until they burned. But the corridor lengthened with every passing step, and he cried out in frustration, his footsteps slowing to a shuddering stop.

  He bent over, breathless, stifled by the walls which seemed to close in around him.

  When he stood up again, Alex saw a man reflected in the mirror, a few years older, a little shorter than himself.

  He moved closer, drawn to the man’s face, recognising himself in the line of cheek and jaw.

  As he drew near, the mirror became a screen, and he saw the man standing in an open doorway with a bag in one hand. He wore a navy suit and a resigned expression, while a small, dark-haired boy held on to his arm and begged him to stay.

  Boys don’t cry.

  Boys don’t snivel.

  He heard his father’s voice as if it were yesterday; the long-forgotten memory of a man he’d barely known and looked so much alike.

  Please, Daddy. Don’t leave. Mummy will be sad.

  He watched the man shrug the boy off—so hard he fell to the floor—and then step away. Alex closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of the boy’s cries.

  His fault. It was all his fault.

  His eyes snapped open again and he saw his mother’s face behind his own, reflected in the mirror a hundred times.

  “You’re dead,” he said. “You’re dead and gone.”

  I’ll never be gone.

  He lashed out, welcoming the shattered glass and the cuts to his hand. But the sound of shattering glass never came; the mirror was nothing more than dust which fell to the floor like snow as soon as he touched it.

  Ashes of the dead, his mother whispered.

  Alex jerked back, his feet kicking through piles of dust and ash, desperate to escape the purgatory of his own mind.

  But no matter which way he turn
ed, there was another mirror, another memory.

  On the bed in his hotel room, his body rose up from the mattress, arms and legs thrashing against the bedclothes as he fought to be free of the nightmare which held him in a stranglehold and wouldn’t let go.

  As he ran, Alex trailed his fingers along the edge of the wall, feeling it fall away beneath his fingers and crumble to nothing. He ran faster, heels sliding off the edge of the disappearing floor, until his body screamed and his mind shattered.

  Then, he was falling, down and down into the abyss where not even he could save himself.

  * * *

  The sound of the lamp crashing onto the floor woke him up.

  Alex reared up from the bed, his skin coated with sweat and pale with shock as his body adjusted to the sudden drop in adrenaline. The hotel room was in darkness, the smashed lamp having been the single source of light he’d left burning for a moment such as this.

  Sitting there in the semi-darkness with his back to the headboard and the blood pounding in his ears, he felt the old fear rising up again.

  Darkness.

  He gritted his teeth and whispered the mantra he’d been taught when he was a child.

  Stars, moon, movies and meteorites.

  None of these things can exist without darkness.

  He whispered the words again and again, while he focused on slowing his breathing.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  Gradually, the trembling in his hands began to subside, and he was left feeling intensely cold. He wanted to leave the bed and turn on all the lights, but his body remained frozen, transfixed by a fear that was decades old.

  Terrible things wait in the dark, his mother used to tell him. “Little boys should go to sleep, not get up and walk around. Monsters could catch you.

  He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring wide-eyed into the shadows of the room, and felt for his mobile phone which, mercifully, was still within reach on the bedside table.

  Almost three o’clock.