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

by LJ Ross

  Madeleine thanked her, and Gregory waited patiently while they completed the necessary forms and paperwork.

  “Well done,” Caron said, when the worst was over. “That can’t have been easy, but I applaud you for your bravery. You can be assured I’ll handle this with the utmost care.”

  “It’s—Alex helped me to overcome the worst,” Madeleine said, trying to mitigate the force of the hammer that was about to fall in his direction. “He helped me to find the courage and the self-esteem to come forward.”

  Caron turned her attention to her other visitor.

  “I’m glad your relationship has had such a positive impact,” she said, quietly—and acknowledged that, in coming there, he too had taken a big risk.

  “You must have known that embarking upon a personal relationship with a witness in the case of Camille Duquette was ill-advised,” she said, severely.

  Gregory gave a short nod.

  “I did.”

  “And you chose to do it anyway,” she marvelled. “May I ask why—or is the answer very much obvious?”

  Gregory turned to look at Madeleine, and he shook his head slowly.

  “There’s nothing obvious about Madeleine,” he said softly, and watched tears prick the corners of her eyes. “She’s a talented, intelligent and interesting woman, and I was bowled over the first time I met her. I’ll never regret the time we spent together, not even if it costs me my professional reputation.”

  Caron heard the ‘goodbye’ that was implicit in the words he had spoken and, by the look of her, Madeleine had heard it, too.

  “It’s the same for me,” she managed, reining in her emotions with a fierceness she would later feel proud of.

  “Well,” Caron said, briskly. “The question is, what to do about it? On the one hand, you are fully aware of your actions, and I would be within my rights to contact your employer at Southmoor Hospital to inform them of the transgression.”

  Gregory lifted his chin, preparing himself for the worst. His work was everything to him, his life and soul—it represented years of training and clinical work, thousands of patients he had helped, to the best of his ability, and some he couldn’t. If it was taken away from him, he could hardly imagine what he would do instead.

  “On the other hand,” Caron continued. “Your services as a profiler and in a clinical capacity have been invaluable to us. Thanks to your insight and work with her, Camille Duquette—or Eva Bisset—is no longer a mystery to us. Her progress has been exponential and, with the assistance of a local psychiatric team, she can build on her newfound strength and carve out a new life for herself, if she wishes.”

  “What about Juliette’s murder?” Madeleine asked.

  “That’s another area for which I must thank you,” she admitted. “Following your telephone call yesterday morning, I took your advice and ordered an express service on the DNA samples taken from Juliette’s apartment.”

  Gregory leaned forward, anxious to hear the news.

  “And?”

  “It’s as you thought,” she said. “I’ve also ordered covert surveillance of Camille’s apartment, as you suggested.”

  “But—I thought that le cochon had killed Juliette?” Madeleine said, in confusion. “I thought they wanted to silence her, or something of that kind?”

  Gregory shook his head.

  “The coercion, blackmail and sexual assault you and Juliette suffered is separate,” he told her. “We believe Juliette’s killer had another motive. Following Camille’s attack, when the police thought that a third party was responsible, this perpetrator took the opportunity to kill Juliette and hoped that the crime would be attributed to the same person.”

  “But Camille attacked herself—or rather, Eva did,” Caron said. “That must have been a crushing moment for Juliette’s killer, because they could no longer rely upon some mystery assailant as a scapegoat. The only person left to try to pin it on is Camille.”

  “Eva,” Gregory corrected, with a smile. “They want the police to believe that, if she’s crazy enough to try to kill her alter-ego in a frenzied attack, she’d be crazy enough to kill her friend.”

  “You can’t let that happen,” Madeleine said.

  “I won’t,” Caron assured her. “This one may be a different breed, but it’s just another kind of pig.”

  * * *

  It was mid-morning by the time Commissaire Caron returned to her office, where her assistant informed her that a visitor and his lawyer had been waiting since the building first opened.

  “Well, naturally, send them through,” she said, and placed a bet with herself about who it would be.

  And won.

  “Good morning, Monsieur Leroux, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, and nodded to the wily-looking solicitor who skulked in afterwards. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Leroux had spent much of the morning sweating through his shirt, creating a meaty aroma which wafted into the office with him, and her nose wrinkled.

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  “No—nothing, thank you,” he stuttered. “I, um, I was hoping to have a word—”

  “My client, Armand Leroux, is in possession of valuable information that may benefit the Police Judiciaire. In particular, the corrupt activities of Felix Bernard—also known as le cochon—who over the course of many years…”

  Caron listened while terms and exchanges were laid out, and made the appropriate sounds of surprise and disapproval as the monologue went on. All the while, she thought of women younger than herself, and older, who were subjected to the kind of selfish acts committed by the balding, overweight man seated in front of her, and wondered how often their small acts of courage and defiance were defeated behind closed doors.

  Not this time.

  “I agree to provide you with immunity from prosecution as regards any complaints or charges yet to be filed. I assume you’re not aware of any that are presently underway?” she asked, with a bland expression.

  “None at all, ma’am,” the solicitor replied, confidently.

  “In that case, let me call in my colleague to begin the paperwork, and you can make your statement.”

  A few minutes later, she watched Armand Leroux head off to give his statement with a spring in his step, no doubt congratulating himself on having averted a very near miss. She waited until his lumbering figure was out of sight, then smiled to herself.

  She happened to know that Madeleine Paquet’s criminal complaint had been filed an hour earlier, and the papers were due to be served at Armand’s home address that afternoon, unless they had already been delivered.

  With any luck, it would hit the news in time for the press conference she’d arranged with Madeleine Paquet for later that day.

  CHAPTER 34

  “You still look like ass, my friend.”

  Durand looked across at Gregory from the driver’s seat of his Citröen, then back at the road ahead.

  “I heard about Bernard and Leroux,” he continued. “I wish it came as a surprise.”

  Gregory nodded.

  “Sometimes, the simplest answer is the right one,” he said, reiterating Bill Douglas’s advice to him a couple of days before.

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” Durand said. “You’re sure you can’t stay on a few more days? Come and have dinner with Sandrine and me, one more time.”

  Gregory smiled his thanks.

  “Please thank her for the invitation, but it’s time I returned to my own work, and my own life.”

  “I thought, maybe for a while, that there might be another reason for you to stay,” Durand offered, with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows. “Madeleine is a lovely woman.”

  “She is,” Gregory acknowledged. And she deserves a lovely man. “I can’t give her what she wants, at the moment. It would be unfair to stay any longer.”

  Durand let out a small sigh, and shook his head. Gregory thought he heard him mutter something about the folly of youth.

  “Which train are you getting
?” he asked, as the Gare du Nord came into view up ahead.

  “Whichever one comes first,” Gregory replied.

  The car swung onto a side street and the inspector parked on the kerb, narrowly missing a street vendor, before turning to face Gregory with a serious, fatherly expression.

  “I want to say, what you did for Camille—for Eva,” Durand corrected. “It was like magic.”

  Gregory shook his head.

  “They did it themselves,” he replied. “I’ve left the names of several reputable psychiatrists in the area, any of whom would be equipped to take her case forward and oversee her recovery in the long term.”

  “That’s good of you,” Durand nodded. “And I understand Gabrielle Leroux has agreed to finance her apartment for the remainder of the year.”

  “Trying to mitigate the PR damage?” Gregory wondered, and Durand tapped his bulbous nose.

  “You said it.”

  “Well, this is me,” Gregory said, and held out a hand, but found himself engulfed in a bear hug instead.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Durand said, giving him one of his special manly slaps on the back.

  “Au revoir,” Gregory said, and raised a hand in farewell as he made his way to the entrance, chuckling as he heard the toot of horns as Durand pulled away behind him.

  * * *

  Jean-Pierre Bisset checked the address he had been given and brought his delivery van to a standstill near to the building where Eva was staying.

  He looked around the smart mansion blocks and sneered.

  Bitch. Living like this, while I slave over a stove all day.

  He made his way along the pavement and stood for a moment watching the entrance, which had an intercom system.

  Shit.

  He looked up and down the pavement on either side, and spotted a woman making her way towards him with two large shopping bags. He didn’t know where she was headed but, as it happened, his luck was in, and she paused beside the front door to hunt for her key.

  He moved like lightning.

  “Let me help you with those,” he said, and gave her one of his best smiles. “I’m just heading inside, myself.”

  “Oh, who are you here to see?”

  “The lady on the first floor,” he replied, holding the bags solicitously while she found her key. “I can’t tell you her name, because she doesn’t want anybody to know she’s here.”

  “Ah, I think I know the one,” she said, conspiratorially. “I’ve seen people going in and out, police too. Well, you tell her from me, I hope she gets better very soon.”

  “Oh, I will,” he promised, and followed her inside.

  * * *

  Durand was whistling by the time he arrived at Eva and Camille’s apartment, but he stopped and slowed his car as he caught sight of a man running across the street to her building, where he seemed to exchange a word with an elderly woman, before gaining entry.

  Jean-Pierre Bisset?

  He’d seen the man’s criminal record, and it didn’t make for light reading.

  Quickly, he reached for his radio to call it in, but then let it fall away again as he spotted three covert surveillance officers closing in from unmarked police cars dotted around the street. He frowned, wondering why he hadn’t been informed, and then the truth hit him like a thunderbolt.

  They knew.

  They knew, and they’d been waiting for him to arrive.

  He thought of the kit he’d stashed in the boot of his car—everything he’d planned to use after dark to gain access to the apartment and stage Eva’s suicide—and realised he’d need to dispose of it as soon as possible. After that, everything he had, everything that mattered, was at home with Sandrine.

  With a grind of gears, he swung out in a U-turn and sped off in the direction of La Chapelle, leaving the stench of burning tyres in his wake.

  * * *

  Eva was reading about the process of instigating divorce proceedings in Paris, relying upon Camille to offer helpful explanations or advice, when there came a knock at the door.

  “J’arrive!” Agnés called out, and hurried to the door, expecting to find Gregory on the doorstep.

  But she had barely reached for the handle when it splintered and swung open beneath the forceful boot of the man who stood outside.

  “I’m here for my wife,” he said.

  “No! No, monsieur!”

  Agnés tried to block him with her body but, with an angry growl, he sent her sprawling with a hard, back-handed hit.

  Eva heard his voice and began to tremble violently, her body otherwise frozen and immobile.

  “Move! Come on!” Camille shouted, and began to get up, only to fall to the floor again and huddle shivering beside the window.

  “I can’t—can’t—he’ll kill us both.”

  “He’ll kill us both anyway,” Camille whispered. “He’s out of control, Eva. He won’t stop. He’s hurt Agnés.”

  Eva heard the crash of the nurse falling to the floor trying to defend her, and something began to rise up. Her fingers curled around the edge of the sofa and she found the strength to drag herself into a crouching position, her eyes darting around the room to seek out a weapon.

  “The vase,” Camille whispered. “The vase, on the coffee table.”

  It held the flowers Madeleine had brought her the previous day, and she grasped the edge of it as Jean-Pierre entered the room, his eyes black with anger.

  “Time to go home,” he said, very softly. “You’ve been a very, very bad wife, Eva.”

  Her body shaking, Eva managed to stand, drawing herself up to her full height to face him across the width of the coffee table.

  “What have you got there, my love? Are you planning to hit me with that, eh?”

  He laughed at her, prowling around the edge of the table like a panther stalking its prey.

  “Come on, then, if you think you can. Hit me, Eva. Hit me with that vase.”

  He was within striking distance now, and her pupils were dilated with terror.

  “Dear God, you look even worse than I imagined,” he said.

  Her hand shook, but she gripped the vase tighter.

  “You’re coming home, where you belong,” he said again. “This is the last time you humiliate me, like this—”

  He grasped her free arm and twisted it painfully, so hard she feared it might break.

  “Do it,” Camille whispered. “Do it now.”

  With a sharp cry, Eva brought the vase crashing down upon his head at precisely the same moment the police burst through the front door.

  Jean-Pierre staggered, then fell to his knees, a small cut bleeding from the top of his head. She knew from the look in his eyes that, if they’d been alone, he wouldn’t have stopped. She’d disabled him, but not stopped him, because a beast like him would never stop until the final act.

  “I’ll be seeing you again,” he promised her, as he was dragged away by officers in plain clothes. “You’re nothing without me. Nothing!”

  Eva and Camille watched him leave, and then hurried to help the nurse who lay semi-concussed on the hallway floor. A police officer was already tending to her, and tried to help them too.

  “No, no, don’t worry about me. Take care of Agnés.”

  “It’ll be alright, petite,” the nurse said, and grasped the hand that was offered.

  CHAPTER 35

  The sun was high in the sky by the time Inspector Durand pulled up outside the apartment he had shared with his wife and two children for almost thirty years. He didn’t know what he could do; whether he could appeal to Sandrine that he’d been falsely accused—perhaps she’d accept it was a case of mistaken identity. His brain worked like lightning to formulate a believable lie to tell his wife, but not once did the question of Juliette, or Anais, cross his mind.

  He dropped his key at the front door and swore, finally managing to get the offensive bit of metal into the slot before hurrying inside.

  But he was not alone.

  Sa
ndrine was seated in her usual spot on the sofa, staring at the door with eyes that burned a hole straight into his very soul.

  “Sandie,” he said, and then watched in horror as Gregory stepped out of the kitchen, with Caron in tow.

  He turned, to retreat back the way he had come, but saw the flashing lights of a squad car through the single pane of glass in the front door and knew that he’d come to the end of the road.

  “How did you find out?” he whispered.

  Gregory looked at him with an unreadable expression.

  “It was your reaction to the little girl that first made me wonder,” Gregory replied, and then walked across to the wall, where, amongst the multitude of framed photographs cataloguing a lifetime, there was a photograph taken from his daughter’s school showing all the children graduating that year.

  Amongst them was Juliette Deschamps.

  Gregory plucked it from the wall and held it out, for all to see.

  “Elodie and Juliette used to spend time together,” Sandrine said, raggedly. “The girls would stay here, or go out together. You used to give her a lift home.”

  She looked up at her husband, the father of her children, and felt sick with grief.

  “That’s coincidence,” he said, tremulously. “So my daughter went to school with Juliette? Does that make me a killer?”

  “No,” Caron said. “But the DNA evidence we have against you is irrefutable.”

  “There’s no DNA evidence,” Durand said, confidently. He’d made sure of it.

  “Not on Juliette, perhaps,” Caron agreed. “But you should know, Mathis, given all your years of experience, that during the process of their investigation the Technical and Scientific Team take samples from the victim’s family in order to eliminate their DNA from the list of alien or suspect DNA.”

  His stomach performed a slow flip, and he closed his eyes, because he knew what they had done and what they had found.

  “Anais’s DNA was part of that process,” Caron said. “And do you know what we found, Mathis? Fifty per cent of her DNA matches yours, and there’s only one possible explanation for that.”