Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (28 page)

Chapter 85

Rainham, east of London

An hour later, a request for food came from upstairs. The tall man insisted on giving him more sweet junk. ‘Apart from little rushes of energy,’ he said, ‘it helps keep him sluggish. The way we want him.’

   ‘You’re a nosey bastard, aren’t you?’ said Aidan to Sam, after devouring another cookie. There was a hint of combativeness about him. As if he were more present, and trying to gain the upper hand.

   ‘Aren’t all shrinks?’ replied Sam.

   ‘I guess. You don’t seem as wimpy as the others. They were always tiptoeing around me. Like I was some delicate flower that might snap at the wrong intervention. I knew what they wanted to ask. They just didn’t have the guts.’

   ‘They’re not really meant to ask questions. It’s too leading.’

   ‘What’s that about?’

   ‘In person-centred therapy, the therapist works in response to the content presented, without trying to manipulate the progress of the session, however strong his instinct may be.’

   ‘Do you have an instinct about me?’

   ‘Seeing as you’re the client, then I feel obliged to answer,’ said Sam. ‘Yes, I do.’

   ‘Enlighten me.’

   Sam inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘I think you’re angry with your mother because she stopped sleeping with you.’

  The effect was electrifying. Aidan froze, his eyes locked on to Sam.

   ‘How,’ he snarled, ‘how, did you know that?’

   Sam felt a charge in the room, some definitive threat of violence from the man opposite. He wanted to get out, but knew he had to press on. ‘You implied it.’

   The eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck you, shrink.’

   And with that, the violence subsided. Aidan slumped down again, retreating under the blanket.  

Chapter 86

Rainham, east of London

Time was running out. Sam knew it. During the last session, Aidan seemed more animated, his reactions a degree more physical. He was now more aware of his captivity, and of the interrogation session masquerading as therapy. Which meant the danger had increased. It was time to take a leaf out of Eleanor’s book.

   ‘Go away,’ said Aidan, when Sam entered the room, closing the door behind him and sitting down on the floor.

   ‘No.’

   There was silence. Sam had read of a therapist who’d been counselling a traumatised war veteran. The man was so disturbed – and so mistrustful – the therapist had endured weeks of silence before his client finally opened up. Sam did not have that luxury.

   It had started raining gently, the window flecked with tiny droplets of water.

   ‘You don’t like me because I saw through you.’

   ‘I don’t like any shrinks,’ hissed Aidan. ‘I thought you were different but you’re just the same. And why am I here?’

   ‘So I can speak to you. The alternative is that hospital – and lots more of your medication.’

   Aidan’s eyes welled again.

   ‘Your father has you locked away. Why is that?’

   ‘My father hates me,’ said Aidan, the tears now dropping from his eyes.

   ‘You’re the “awkward little shit”.’

   Aidan nodded.

   Sam took another deep breath, trying to slow his heart, which had begun to hammer against his ribs.

   ‘Did you kill that girl in Marrakesh?’

    It was as if Aidan’s mattress was crawling with insects. He suddenly shot up, and began pacing up and down.

   Sam pressed back against the wall. He looked Aidan up and down. Although he was in poor shape physically, the man before him was agitated – scratching his head furiously, as if his scalp were riddled with lice – and that agitation would count for a lot if he got violent.

    ‘The warehouse had mosaics on the walls and pillars,’ said Aidan, the words spilling out. ‘Geometric designs repeated everywhere.’

   He let out a short cry. ‘She lied to me,’ he said, his voice now full of anguish. ‘Just like Mum lied to me. She said we’d be together forever. But then she changed her mind. Told me what had happened was dirty, wrong. That girl was just the same. She promised everything with her eyes, then denied me.’

   He stopped, his head falling forwards. He then looked up at Sam. His eyes blazed and he suddenly lunged, sinking to the floor on his knees as he grabbed Sam’s throat with both hands.
   Sam could feel the air supply abruptly cut off as his windpipe constricted. He grabbed Aidan’s wrists, but his assailant’s elevated position – and the strength of a man possessed – made removing them an impossibility.

   Sam’s eyes bulged. His chest tightened with an intense pain. Surely the men downstairs would come running?

   ‘I was so mad with her,’ Aidan was muttering.

   Sam looked into Aidan’s eyes, which were wet with tears. The last words Sam heard were clouded by the sensation of a dark wave about to engulf him, but they still resonated in his head.

   ‘And so I killed her.’

Chapter 87

Rainham, east of London

The rain had stopped. Sam and the tall man stood in the back garden of the house, below the window where Aidan was now sleeping.

   He’d been given another tranquiliser. Sam gently rubbed his neck. His fingers were trembling. He’d passed out just after Aidan had admitted killing the girl. According to the tall man, he’d come to shortly afterwards.

   ‘Nasty piece of work, that boy,’ said the tall man.

   Sam closed his eyes then rapidly re-opened them as an image of Aidan descending on him invaded his head.

   ‘You’ll need to get checked out. You’re probably fine, but just in case.’

   Sam shook his head in slight disbelief. The man who’d been trying to kill him for days was now offering him health advice.

   ‘And sorry we cut it so fine,’ continued the tall man. ‘But we needed a definitive confession.’

   Sam asked if he could have a cigarette and the tall man went inside. He returned with one lit.

   Sam drew hard then inhaled deeply. He felt sick, light-headed. This was probably the worst thing for a man who’d just been strangled.

   Despite the rage and hatred Sam now felt for Aidan, he couldn’t help but think of the damaged individual upstairs, and how those loathsome elements in him were a direct result of an existing condition made a hundred times worse by his ghastly parents.

   Minutes after the tranquiliser had been administered, Aidan was curled up asleep on his mattress, his knees drawn into the foetal position, some natural echo of his earliest days in the womb. Sam thought of the woman who’d carried Aidan there, who’d brought him into the world – only to destroy his life.

   Charlotte Stirling had drawn him close to her – no doubt seducing Aidan with a muddled, poisonous blend of mother’s love and her own confused, damaged needs – only to push him away when she finally came face to face with the magnitude of her crime.

   ‘You need to get Aidan back to that clinic as soon as possible,’ said Sam, casting the cigarette to the ground. The smoke had done nothing to improve the bitter, acidic taste in his mouth and he felt too light-headed to inhale any more.

   Sam sensed it was the first time Aidan had ever admitted to anyone, perhaps even to himself, what had happened in Marrakesh. It would ripple through him, like tremors after an earthquake. Part of Sam relished the thought of Aidan suffering with the knowledge. Another part worried.

   ‘We’ve replayed the recording,’ said the tall man. ‘It’s everything we need to force Stirling’s resignation.’

   The tall man would have his revenge – and the money owed him and his men.

   For Sam, Stirling’s resignation was not enough. Aidan would never be tried in Morocco. That case was now closed as far as the Moroccans were concerned. But Sam felt strongly that what he’d done couldn’t be left untried. He wanted Philip and Charlotte Stirling to be exposed as the unspeakable parents they were, and for Lalla’s family to have their day in court. 

   Sam briefly considered asking if a copy of the recording could be sent to the police, but quickly dismissed it. The tall man would never agree to that. Bound up in Aidan’s crime was the cover-up, in which his unlikely ally had played a major role. No, there had to be another way. 

Chapter 88

Sussex 

They were walking Baker along the edge of a wood. To their left a view of the Downs stretched out in the distance, soft hills like gently undulating waves. A sharp wind whipped across the landscape, and Sam pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. It was still bruised and tender, but Sam had ignored the tall man’s advice. He felt fine and dreaded a doctor’s inevitable questioning of why he had fingerprints on his throat.

   Lynch, the policeman who’d interviewed Eleanor in Downing Street, had just left, having sat round the kitchen table, his eyes slowly widening as Sam and Eleanor told their story, revealing the real reason for the struggle in the apartment. The police officer promised to pursue every potential lead including, in the first instance, interviewing Aidan and his parents.

   ‘It may not be enough,’ said Eleanor.

   ‘I know,’ said Sam. ‘You can be sure Stirling will have the best barrister in London. But at least we tried.’

   Baker was sniffing the base of a tree. He then began waddling off again, a plump torso over narrow legs.

   ‘If it does go to court, what will happen to Aidan?’ asked Eleanor.

   ‘I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty certain he’ll end up in a psychiatric unit.’

   Sam thought back to the small room in that house – to the cold core within him that had pressed Aidan so relentlessly, and the violence that had erupted.

    ‘Sam?’

    Eleanor’s voice brought him back into the moment. He shook the room’s image from his head.

   ‘You don’t have to talk about him now.’

   Sam smiled. ‘You sound like a shrink.’ He paused. ‘No, I think I want to. The thing is, Aidan’s screwed unless he gets the right treatment. A psychiatrist would probably label him with an antisocial personality disorder – he’d certainly tick most of the boxes on the checklist – and pump him full of more drugs.’

   ‘But you disagree.’

   Sam’s eyes were looking over the hedgerow to the left, on to a vast ploughed field. Some distance below them a small group of deer were standing so still, they looked like statues. Baker’s nose twitched but it was clear his body wouldn’t tolerate a chase.

   ‘There are certain traits in him that entirely conform to that type. He’s arrogant and, at least in part, struggles to take responsibility for his actions. He doesn’t appear to have formed any significant friendships, and relationships with the opposite sex are, understandably, out of the question. But psychiatrists also argue that antisocial personality disorder types tend to be heartless and lacking remorse.’

   ‘That’s not how I would describe him,’ said Eleanor. ‘I mean, when he went for the soldier in the apartment, he was actually defending me.’

   ‘And although he attacked me, there was, underneath the rage, a huge sadness,’ added Sam.

   ‘Of course they’ll probably make as little of that in court as possible – go for diminished responsibility.’

   They walked on in silence for a few minutes until Baker made it clear he didn’t want to go any further and they turned back.

   Sam thought of Aidan’s parents, the effect they’d had on their child. Stirling, largely absent, then hyper-critical and dismissive of his son when he was around. And then there was the mother. Sam remembered that brief glimpse of Charlotte’s arm at the funeral, the tell-tale scars of a self-harmer, something Aidan had later confirmed. A deeply unhappy woman, drunk and without boundaries, getting the attention she craved from her husband from her vulnerable child instead.

  
Sam remembered something else, a fleeting glimpse of an image. ‘Do you remember that photo of Stirling with the Moroccan Prime Minister – the one we saw in the restaurant in Marrakesh that evening? The figure Stirling had an arm around who seemed slightly distant?’

   ‘We weren’t sure if it was my father or someone else,’ said Eleanor. ‘It was Aidan, wasn’t it, dragged into a chummy, artificial shot of the two families.’

   They walked on in silence for a moment, Sam dwelling on the photo, that gap between the two men that was, in reality, a chasm.

   Eleanor drifted to his side, slipping her arm into his, drawing herself into him.

   ‘So,’ she said, her voice brighter, ‘when do you think we’ll see Stirling exit the building?’

   ‘A matter of days,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe even earlier.’

   ‘Do I sound incredibly bitter and twisted when I say I can’t wait?’

   ‘Absolutely,’ smiled Sam.

   Eleanor stopped and turned Sam gently so that they faced each other.

   ‘There’s something else I need to talk about,’ she said, her eyes flickering as she studied his face. ‘Something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. It’s just that, what with everything that’s been happening, there hasn’t really been the right moment.’

   Sam was suddenly aware that his heart was pounding in his chest.

  
‘The thing is, Sam,’ said Eleanor, ‘I want us to be together.’

   ‘Right,’ he said, his throat dry.

   ‘But there’s one condition.’

   ‘OK…’

   A fresh gust of wind whipped across the path, but they both stood still, staring at each other. ‘I want us to do normal stuff as a couple,’ said Eleanor. ‘Watch tv, go shopping, hang out.’

   Sam smiled. ‘You mean no car crashes? No chases through alleyways?’

   Eleanor returned the smile.

   ‘Deal,’ he said.

*

Later that afternoon, Eleanor put on a CD in the sitting room and curled up next to Sam on the sofa. The fire was on, casting a warm glow into the darkening room.

   Wendy Scott was sitting close to them in her leather seat with its large padded arms and headrest. She seemed still, her body taking a rare rest from its involuntary spasms. Sam could see that her condition was not only debilitating, but utterly exhausting. He couldn’t even begin to guess how she absorbed her loss in the midst of battling her illness – she could no longer speak – but he sensed an incredibly tough woman within the now contorted shell of her body.

   The song began with a noise like a scratched record, a breathy fuzz in the background, which was then interrupted by the sound of someone playing the piano, almost hesitantly. A man’s voice, both soulful and sorrowful, then broke in.

   ‘It’s by Chet Baker,’ said Eleanor. ‘Dad loved him. So much in fact, that he named the dog after him. Isn’t that right, Mum?’

   Sam watched Wendy Scott. Her head was cocked at a sharp angle but he saw a smile play across her lips. A moment later, she began to cry. Eleanor leapt off the sofa and went to her mother, kneeling by her and holding her hand as the two of them cried and the song continued to its soft, melancholic conclusion.

   Sam looked at them mourning together, acutely aware of the man they both ached for. Their grief would continue for some time to come. He wondered whether Eleanor would ever reach any sense of closure, whether she’d ever truly accept what had happened. Not that her father was dead, but that he wasn’t the man she’d always believed him to be.

   She hadn’t mentioned it since that night in the shed when the man had come out of the shadows and told them what happened in Marrakesh. But for Sam, it had turned into a niggle – one that he constantly felt worming its way around his head.

   Something had persuaded Charles Scott to cover up a murder. Would Eleanor – like Sam – continue to wonder what had motivated him to do this? Or was she the type who could accept a certain level of uncertainty, and let go? Only time would tell.