Angel of Death (24 page)

Mark had been so deeply immersed in Doctor Reeve’s words he was barely conscious of them. They carried him with almost hallucinatory vividness through the scenes they described. But at the word ‘basement’ a pulse like an electric shock went from his brain to the pit of his stomach. His breathing ratcheted up a notch as the doctor continued, ‘This is where the accounts are stored. There are two lines of filing-cabinets, one to either side of a room so long you can’t see its far end. On each of the cabinets a year is written, starting with the year we’re in now. You’re walking between the cabinets. 2012, 2011, 2010…’

As Doctor Reeve counted down the years, Mark’s stomach began to squeeze in time to the rhythm of his voice. And each squeeze pushed a churning ball of nausea further up inside him. It was the same feeling he’d had when DI Sheridan had played him the voice from the DVD – the same, only much, much stronger.

‘2005, 2004…’

The ball was in Mark’s chest, big and tight as a fist.

‘1999, 1998…’

Afraid he was going to be sick, Mark tried to speak, but a kind of drugged paralysis weighed down his tongue.

Doctor Reeve’s voice quickened, becoming insistent. ‘You stop at the cabinet dated 1997 and open the drawer. Inside there’s a row of files, each one dated with a month and day. You flick through the files until you come to one dated the first of September. Printed across it in capital letters are the words ‘TOP SECRET. DO NOT OPEN. EVER.’’

Nausea rose painfully up Mark’s throat. His head reeled with the effort of holding it back.

‘You take out the file. You don’t open it. I repeat, you don’t open it. You simply place it on top of the filing cabinet.’ Doctor Reeve spoke faster still. ‘Now you’re walking away from the cabinet, you’re leaving the basement and climbing back up the stairs. You’re climbing past the workers at their computers, past the advertising and marketing people. And as you climb, your body is growing lighter and you’re becoming aware again of all the other sounds besides my voice inside and outside the hospital. Now you’re at the top floor. I’m going to count slowly back from five, Mark, and when I reach one, you will open your eyes. And when you do, you will feel wide awake and relaxed. Five… four… three… two… one.’

Mark’s eyes flicked open. He drew in a deep breath, flexing his fingers as if to check they still worked properly. Doctor Reeve sat silent, letting Mark come fully out of the hypnotic state. Finally, he asked, ‘How did that feel to you, Mark?’

‘I thought I was going to be sick. Is that normal?’

‘There’s no normal reaction when you go within yourself and look into your subconscious. Just as there’s no normal reaction to abuse. The effects vary from person to person.’

‘So the basement was my subconscious?’

Doctor Reeve nodded. ‘It’s the part of the mind where old memories are stored. It also protects us from our emotions. So when a memory is so traumatic it endangers our survival, the subconscious often buries it in some secret file.’

‘Why didn’t we open the file?’

‘We will do, Mark. This is a gradual process. If we move too fast, it could do more harm than good. Over the next few sessions we’ll work on opening the file, and hopefully those buried memories will start to return. But even without opening it, what we’ve done today may well be enough to bring something new to the surface.’

‘Will the memories come back to me in my dreams again?’

‘Possibly. Or they may simply pop into your head when you least—’

Doctor Reeve broke off with an exclamation as Mark jerked forward suddenly and vomited down the front of his suit. He grabbed a bedpan for Mark to be sick into, then hurried from the room and returned with a nurse. As the nurse tended to Mark, the psychiatrist cleaned himself with paper towels at the sink.

‘I’m sorry, Doctor Reeve,’ Mark gasped between retches.

‘It’s fine, Mark.’ Doctor Reeve gave him a tight little smile. ‘We’ve made good progress today. I have to go now, but I’ll check in on you tomorrow.’

Once the nurse had mopped up the vomit, changed the sheets and helped Mark into a fresh gown, she left him alone with some anti-nausea pills. He lay there going over the events of the therapy session, full of excited, fearful anticipation. From moment to moment, he half expected some gut-twisting image to hit his consciousness like a lightning bolt illuminating a darkened landscape. But nothing happened. Half an hour, then an hour passed. And still nothing popped into his head.

Doctor Goodwin entered the room. ‘I hear you’ve been unwell, Mark. How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better.’

The doctor did a quick check of Mark’s vitals and had a look under his bandages. ‘Everything seems to be fine. There’s no sign of infection. It may be you had a bad reaction to your medication.’

‘I think it was something to do with Doctor Reeve hypnotising me.’

Doctor Goodwin tilted an eyebrow at Mark. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone reacting like that to hypnosis before. But then again, I’m no expert on such things. I’d imagine it’s extremely dangerous for someone to vomit while under hypnosis.’

‘It happened after Doctor Reeve brought me round.’

‘So then maybe it had nothing to do with being hypnotised.’

Mark hadn’t considered that possibility, but now it struck him with enough force to wrinkle his face.

‘I just want to check your shoulder’s range of motion.’ Doctor Goodwin gently raised Mark’s injured arm. ‘Tell me if there’s any pain.’

If the nausea had nothing to do with being hypnotised, then what did it have to do with?
wondered Mark. Simultaneous to the thought, an image rose up like a living dead thing from some dark hole in his mind. He flinched away from it with a whimper.

‘Does that hurt?’ asked Doctor Goodwin.

Mark didn’t hear him. At that instant, he wasn’t even in the room. He was back in the basement – not the basement of his subconscious, but the bricks-and-mortar basement where his innocence had been so cruelly invaded. He caught the ghostly white flash of a face – Doctor Reeve’s face. Then he found himself staring up into Doctor Godwin’s concerned eyes once more. The doctor repeated his question, and when Mark shook his head, he stared at him as if unsure whether to believe him. He took the notes from the end of the bed and wrote on them. ‘I’m going to try you on some different medication, and hopefully there’ll be no more vomiting.’

Doctor Goodwin told Mark he’d be round to look in on him again in the afternoon and turned to leave. Even before he was out the door, Mark was reaching for Jim Monahan’s card. Doctor Reeve had expressly told him not to have further contact with Detective Monahan. Right then that seemed like the best reason possible to put what little remaining trust he had in him.

With a trembling finger, Mark dialled Jim Monahan’s mobile number. His call went straight through to an answering service. He tried the detective’s home number. No one picked up. He waited a minute or two, then tried both numbers again, with the same results. ‘Shit, shit,’ he murmured through his teeth.

His eyes darted towards the door at the sound of movement in the corridor. Doctor Reeve had said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. But the doctor was a lying, twisted bastard. Mark glanced around for something he might use to defend himself. There was only a plastic spoon from breakfast. He snapped its head off to create a jagged point. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it could do some damage if driven into an eye. He concealed it in his sling and turned to the phone. Again the answering service came on the line.

That decided him. He dialled 999 and asked to be put through to the police. ‘I need to get a message to Detective Inspector Jim Monahan,’ he told the police operator. ‘I have some important information and urgently need to speak to him. My name’s Mark Baxley.’ His mouth twisted on the word
Baxley
. He made a mental note to look into changing his surname to his mother’s maiden name. The operator asked for a contact number. Mark gave the number on the phone, adding, ‘But make sure Detective Monahan knows I need to actually see him.’

The operator promised to call back and let Mark know when DI Monahan had been located. Eyes fixed on the door, Mark waited. His fingers slid inside the sling and curled around the spoon handle. The minutes passed like hours.

16

Jim lowered the passenger window, letting cool air wash over his tired eyes. It had been a long, long night. The search for Grace had continued at a frantic pace into the small hours and beyond into a grey day. The city had been, and was still being, scoured from the air and on the ground. Hundreds of city-centre revellers and motorists had been questioned. Grace’s parents had been knocked up out of bed and their house searched. Old school friends of hers had been tracked down. All to no avail. Wherever Grace was hiding, it was off the grid of her former life in the city.

She couldn’t remain hidden forever, though. A receptionist at a sleazy hotel on Furnival Gate had seen a resemblance between the CCTV still of Grace and a guest, the only difference being that the guest had short, bright red hair. The word was duly put out that Grace was believed to have cut and dyed her hair. More importantly, she was alone, isolated. Sooner or later, she would have to surface – maybe for food or maybe to feed her craving for another fix of revenge. And when she did, every police unit in the city would be waiting for her. She might elude them for a time, but in the end they’d catch her. The only question was, would she allow herself to be taken alive? Jim doubted she would. When he’d looked into her eyes, he’d seen sadness and pain. But above all he’d seen rage – an insatiable, all-consuming rage that demanded retribution at any cost.

As Amy drove him home in a replacement car from the motor pool, Jim went over and over in his head what he’d done. And the more he thought about it, the less certain he was as to the right or wrong of it. Had warning Grace been a moment of madness or a moment of sanity? Maybe only time would tell. He knew this much – if anyone found out about it, it would cost him a lot more than his job. He would more than likely end up sharing a prison wing with some of the scumbags he’d banged up. He gave a shake of his head, inwardly calling himself an idiot for not having listened to his instinct and walked out on the job. He’d known he wasn’t up to it any more. He could have been lying on a beach somewhere, mulling over what he was going to do with the rest of his life. It was too late for that now. The chance to get off the ride was gone. The only choice left was to sit back and see where it took him.

Jim glanced at Amy. Her features were drawn from lack of sleep and set in a stony mask. She’d barely said a word to him since recovering her mobile phone. Her trust in him had been severely shaken. That much was plain. But he was fairly certain she didn’t suspect him of anything more than sympathising with Grace’s mission. She was too direct a person not to confront him if she suspected such a serious breach of duty.

Amy pulled over outside Jim’s house. He hesitated to leave the car. A moment of uneasy silence passed, then he said, ‘Look, about last night. What I said.’

‘I think it would be best if we both forget what was said.’

‘I’m not sure I can. This case has really got under my skin.’ Jim’s forehead creased. ‘Or maybe it’s not this case, maybe it’s the cumulative effect of every case I’ve—’

‘I’m knackered, Jim,’ Amy broke in, her expression becoming even more remote. ‘All I want to do right now is go home and sleep.’

Jim gave a little wince. He deserved her cold shoulder, but it stung nonetheless. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He got out of the car and headed for his front door. In years gone by, Margaret would have been waiting to greet him with a mug of tea and an ear that was ready, if necessary, to listen to the story of his night’s work. But now the house looked as empty and uninviting as a tomb. Heaving a sigh, he fished his keys out of his pocket.

He turned at the sound of Amy calling his name. She was holding the two-way radio receiver. ‘It’s dispatch. Mark Baxley wants to see you. Apparently he has some more new information.’

‘Tell them I’m on my way.’

‘I’d better come along. After all, you’re under orders not to speak to him.’

A trickle of relief ran through Jim as he returned to the car. Exhausted as he was, he was in no mood to be alone with his thoughts. ‘Something else must have come back to him.’

‘Let’s hope it’s something that can save any more bloodshed.’

Jim bobbed his head, but silently wondered if he agreed. Even if Mark had a name for them, it was unlikely to do more than cast a toxic shadow over that person. The crime was too old. Any forensic evidence was long gone. Added to which, the only possible corroborating witness was a multiple murderer. He knew what Amy would say if he were to point this out to her – even if they couldn’t get a conviction on this case, what Mark and Grace knew might lead them to other victims whose cases they could get a conviction on. And she’d be right too. That’s what the job was all about, accumulating evidence, building cases. But that took time, and there were no guarantees. Sometimes all you had to go on was hope.
Time
and
hope
. Two things that were in acutely short supply for both him and Grace. Anger burnt his stomach like an ulcer at the thought that she faced the certainty of prison, while there was every chance her abusers would wriggle off the hook of the law.

Amy parked outside the Northern General’s main entrance. ‘You’d better wait here,’ she told Jim. ‘If Doctor Reeve catches sight of you, he’s going to kick up an almighty stink.’

‘I couldn’t give a toss about that psychiatrist.’

Amy’s voice sharpened. ‘You may not give a fuck about orders any more, Jim, but I do. So either you wait here or I’ll give the DCI a call and see what he has to say on the subject. Do I make myself clear?’

An acid retort as to exactly what he thought about anything Garrett had to say on any subject rose up Jim’s throat. He bit down on it. They were both tired and emotional. Now wasn’t the time to push Amy, not if he wanted to salvage what was left of their professional relationship. ‘Perfectly.’ As she got out of the car, he added, ‘But Mark may well not be willing to open up to you. I’m the only one he trusts to believe him. Why else would he have asked to speak to me and not Garrett?’