Praise for Peter James
‘A well-paced thriller that delivers maximum emotional torture’
Chicago Tribune
‘Grippingly intriguing from start to finish’
James Herbert
‘Too many horror stories go over the top into fantasy land, but Dreamer is set in the recognisable world . . . I guarantee you more than a frisson of fear’
Daily Express
‘A thought-provoking menacer that’s completely technological and genuinely frightening about the power of future communications’
Time Out
‘This compulsive story is a tale of the search for immortality . . . I cannot remember when I last read a novel I enjoyed so much’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Gripping . . . plotting is ingenious . . . in its evocation of how a glossy cocoon of worldly success can be unravelled by one bad decision it reminds me of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities’
The Times
‘Peter James, Britain’s closest equivalent to Stephen King’
Sunday Times
‘The suspense holds on every page, right to the end’
She
By Peter James
Dead Letter Drop
Atom Bomb Angel
Billionaire
Possession
Dreamer
Sweet Heart
Twilight
Prophecy
Alchemist
Host
The Truth
Denial
Faith
Dead Simple
Looking Good Dead
Not Dead Enough
Dead Man’s Footsteps
Dead Tomorrow
CHILDREN’S NOVEL
Getting Wired!
Peter James was educated at Charterhouse then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the number one bestseller Possession, have been translated into thirty languages and three have been filmed. All his novels reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as science, medicine and the paranormal. He has produced numerous films, including The Merchant of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He also co-created the hit Channel 4 series Bedsitcom, which was nominated for a Rose d’Or. He is currently, as co-producer, developing his Roy Grace novels for television with ITV Productions. Peter James won the Krimi-Blitz 2005 Crime Writer of the Year award in Germany, and Dead Simple won both the 2006 Prix Polar International award and the 2007 Prix Coeur Noir award in France. Looking Good Dead was shortlisted for the 2007 Richard & Judy Crime Thriller of the Year award, France’s SNCF and Le Grand Prix de Littérature award. Not Dead Enough was shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Thriller of the Year award and the ITV3 Crime Thriller of the Year award. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London and near Brighton in Sussex. Visit his website at www.peterjames.com.
DENIAL
Peter James
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Praise
About the Author
By Peter James
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Epilogue
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by Orion
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books
Copyright © Peter James/Really Scary Books Ltd 1998
The moral right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue rec
ord for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781409133018
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
www.orionbooks.co.uk
‘A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them.’
Carl Jung
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve been incredibly lucky to have had the support and enthusiasm of some truly wonderful people in my research for this novel. The input of Dr David Veale, Dr Celia Taylor, Detective Chief Inspector David Gaylor and Detective Constable Mick Harris in particular, who were so much more generous with their time and their thoughts and their creative ideas than I had any right to expect, helped to shape and underpin the whole novel.
The friendliness and enthusiasm with which the Sussex Police helped me was quite overwhelming. Without being able to name every single one of the many officers I spent time with in Brighton, Hove, Haywards Heath, Crawley and Hampstead police stations and out on patrol, I owe a huge debt of thanks to the Chief Constable, Paul White-house, QPM, who made it possible for me. I also owe very special thanks to Chief Superintendent Mike Lewis, Detective Chief Inspector George A Smith, WPC Ren Harris, PC Nick Dimmer, PC Glen Douglas, PC Nick Bokor-Ingram of Brighton Police. Chief Superintendent David K Ashley, Sergeant Phil Herring, DS Bill Warner and Tony Howard, of Hove Police. Acting Inspector Ian Jeffrey, PC Brian Seamons and PC Gary Pearson of the Haywards Heath Traffic Division. Ross Parsons of the Sussex Ambulance Service. And to the staff of the National Missing Persons Helpline.
Very deep thanks also to Dr Dennis Friedman, Roy Shuttleworth, Julie Carlstrom MFCC, Dr M Anton, Richard Blacklock, Elizabeth Veale, Dr Nigel Kirkham, Veronica Hamilton Deeley – Coroner for Brighton and Hove – Nigel McMillan, Indra Sinha, Spink & Son Ltd, Chris Wellings of Graves, Son & Pilcher, Lyall Watson, from whose marvellous book Lifetide I gleaned the information on the bower-bird, and Dr Roderick Main for his knowledge of Carl Jung and his excellent book Jung on Synchronicity and the Paranormal.
As ever, deep thanks also to my indispensable unofficial editor Sue Ansell, to Patricia Preece and to my UK agent Jon Thurley for his immense contribution and patience. And, of course, thanks to my wife Georgina, and to my hairy friend Bertie who after five years has at last learned not to chew floppy disks that fall on the floor . . .
Peter James, Sussex, England, 1998
[email protected] Prologue
In the aloof, detached house in Holland Park, which, like its equally smart neighbours, rose four storeys high and was fronted by a gravel drive and iron railings, Thomas Lamark brought breakfast up to his mother, as he did every morning, on the absolute dot – the nanosecond – of ten thirty.
Standing six foot six inches tall, with sleek good looks and a charmer’s smile, Thomas was an alluring man of thirty-seven. Attired in a Liberty silk dressing gown, leather slippers from Gucci, a gold Rolex wristwatch, and Givenchy cologne, he wore nothing under the dressing gown; his mother liked to know that he was naked beneath that fine silk.
On the silver tray was an exquisite Herend teapot containing Fortnum and Mason Breakfast Tea, and a matching bone china cup and saucer. Alongside them lay a copy of The Times, and a single white rose he had just picked from the garden and which was still moist from the dew – she always loved his little surprises and this morning Thomas was in the mood for a reward. He hoped she would be too.
He stopped outside her bedroom. All the interior doors of the house were stately, with panelling and beading, satin white paintwork and crystal handles; but this door on the second floor, standing plumb centre across the landing from the carved staircase, with a bronze bust of his mother’s head on a pedestal outside, seemed somehow more imperious than the rest. Even after all these years it continued both to awe him and attract him.
There were days when he felt like throwing the tray over her and screaming, Let me be free! – but this was not one of them.
He checked his watch, waited for the second hand to complete the sweep on its circuit. At precisely ten thirty, he entered his mother’s bedroom.
Thomas had been awake throughout the night in front of his computer; a cybertraveller of the world, he rested but seldom slept. Nights passed in games of chess with a man called Jurgen Jurgens in Clearwater Springs, Florida, or in speculation on extra-terrestrial life with a chat-line group in San Francisco, or in discussing recent gruesome deaths with a contributor to the Fortean Times. He checked e-mail from several medical newsgroups to which he subscribed, traded recipes with a woman in Chesapeake bay, and monitored the movements of stock markets around the world, charting the progress of the shares in his mother’s portfolio and studying the websites of the companies behind them. Each morning he fed her stockbroker with fresh information.
He had an IQ of 178.
Walking in silent footfalls across the carpet, unable to take his eyes from his mother’s face, his heart filled with adoration – and another, conflicting emotion with which he had struggled all his life, he placed the tray on the table at the foot of the two-poster canopied bed, opened the white lace and damask curtains by pulling their cords, then secured them with tasselled ropes. The room smelt of Chanel perfume and his mother’s clothes. The smells of his childhood. The smells of his life.
Aroused, he stared at her.
Her blonde hair, which had tumbled across the pillow, glowed as if the rays of sunshine were a theatrical spotlight. He knew that she was not going to open her eyes or move until he had kissed her, although she was awake now, for sure. This was her tease.
And these precious seconds each morning, when she lay looking so gentle, so sweet, so pretty, as he stood adoring her in silence, these moments were the pearls of his life.
He was rapt. She was beautiful, sixty-nine years old, an angelic vision. Her face was white, it was always white in the morning, but today it seemed even whiter, her beauty even purer. She was beyond perfection; she was the state of grace to which his existence was rooted.
‘Good morning, Mummy,’ he said, and walked over to kiss her. She never opened her eyes until that kiss. This morning her eyes stayed shut.
He noticed now, for the first time, the popped blister packs of capsules littering the floor beside the bed. The empty tumbler.
There was a tightening inside him. Even as he bent, he knew something had changed in this room. She had come home in distress yesterday. She’d had a headache and gone to bed early.
Her cheek was cold against his lips. It felt inert. Like soft putty, it yielded but did not spring back.
‘Mummy?’ His voice came out sounding all wrong.
A bottle sat on the floor beside the bed: the cap was off, the contents had gone.
‘Mummy?’
Panic blurred his vision; the floor rose, the room shifted as if it was being rocked by an ocean swell. He threw his arms around her, tried to move her, to lift her up, but she was rigid, like a slab of meat from the freezer.
He screamed out to her, grabbed an empty blister pack from the floor, tried to read the label but he couldn’t focus. He seized the bottle but could not read its label either. Then he lunged for the phone, stumbled, grabbed the receiver and dialled 999.
‘Ambulance,’ he blurted, then the address and phone number, and then in deep, sobbing gulps the words, ‘Please, my mother, Gloria Lamark, the actress! Gloria Lamark! Gloria Lamark! Please, please come. She’s taken an overdose.’
He dropped the receiver. It bounced on the carpet then dangled.
The operator talked back to him calmly. ‘The ambulance is on its way. Please stay on the line, sir. Can you feel a pulse? Is she breathing normally? Do you know what she has taken? How long ago she took them? Is she on her back? If so, please lay her on her side. Do you know if the tablets were taken with alcohol?
All the time I’m speaking to you an ambulance is on the way. Could you please get together the tablets that you think she’s taken to show the paramedics, sir? Please ensure her airways are clear.’
He had his arms around his mother’s neck and was hugging her to him, choking on his sobs, haemorrhaging tears. She had no pulse, she wasn’t breathing, she was hours past that. He heard the ambulance-service operator’s voice, a distant tinny echo, and in fury he snatched up the phone. ‘I went to fucking medical school, you stupid bitch!’
He threw the phone down and clutched his mother to him again. ‘Mummy, don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me! You promised you’d never leave me. Come back, please come back, you must come back!’
He pressed his lips to her mouth, tried to open it, but it stayed shut, tight shut. Locked.
She had thrown away the key.
Chapter One
She was smiling at Michael through the wide rectangle of soundproofed glass that separated the cramped radio studio from the cramped control room.
Her name was Amanda Capstick. She worked as a producer for an independent television company that was making a documentary on psychiatrists. Twenty-nine, blonde hair that touched her shoulders and a smile that touched his heart; a smile as cheeky as her face was pretty.
She was the first woman Michael Tennent had looked at twice in the three years since his wife, Katy, had died.
And he knew why: it was because in some way she reminded him of Katy, although she was really quite different. At five foot nine, Katy had been a slender, classical beauty. Amanda was a good six inches shorter and had more of a tomboy figure. And yet when she had called and asked for half an hour of his time, and the following day had walked into his office, just three weeks ago, she had reignited a spark in him that he had thought was dead.