Page 1 of (1998) Denial




  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.