Evil Games

‘Where does it lead?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘Sutherland Road. If he goes left he’s going through a trading estate. Right is a row of terraced houses and opposite is a field and a park.’

  She took another look. He had exited the top of the gulley.

  ‘Run,’ Stacey said. They had to catch his direction of travel.

  They sprinted to the top of the alley. Stacey looked around. If he’d turned left or right he’d still be in view.

  She started to cross the road. ‘He’s gone across the field. If we stay too far behind we’ll lose sight of ’im and there’s three exits off the park.’

  ‘Shit,’ Dawson said.

  Stacey understood what he meant. They couldn’t maintain such a safe distance. Without the aid of any street lamps their target would soon disappear from view.

  They hurried across the field until he was in view. They were no more than twenty feet behind when they slowed their pace to match Charlie Cook.

  Dawson reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘Kev … what the?’

  ‘Stacey, hold my hand?’

  Must she? she thought. Truthfully, she didn’t know where he’d been.

  She took it and squeezed, hard, feeling the bones of his fingers grind together. To his credit he made no sound.

  ‘Where does that lead?’ he asked, as Cook headed towards the first exit from the field.

  ‘Houses and a school. Library is at the bottom of the road and a few shops on the other side.’

  His figure walked into the glow of the street lamps. They immediately altered their speed. The view ahead was clear. There was only one right turn in the road.

  They paused in the darkness of the field as he walked to the end of the road and turned right.

  Again they ran the distance he’d covered.

  This time Dawson looked around the corner.

  ‘He’s crossed over,’ he said, looking for guidance.

  Stacey searched her memory. ‘There’s a pub, The Waggon and Horses, I think, an electrical shop and … oh, hang on …’

  ‘What?’ Dawson hissed.

  ‘The old school, Reddal Hill, it’s now a community centre.’

  ‘He’s moving out of sight,’ Dawson said.

  They walked along the pavement but on the opposite side of the road.

  Another fifty feet and Stacey could see the entrance to the old school. Cook was no more than ten feet away and he turned.

  Stacey stopped moving. ‘Well at least now we know.’

  Dawson continued forward. ‘What you stopping for?’

  ‘’Cos we know where he’s gone.’

  He gave her his knowing smile. ‘Yeah, but we don’t know what for.’

  Stacey got moving and caught up.

  A minute later they turned into the grounds of the old school.

  A noticeboard was mounted just inside.

  There were A4 sheets of varying colour with an assortment of fonts and sizes.

  ‘Bloody hell, it reads like a holiday camp itinerary,’ Dawson observed.

  Stacey read some of the adverts aloud. ‘Boxing, Karate, Model Railway, Video Club, Gentle Exercise. Oh and for you, Kev, they have some bingo …’

  ‘Look at the activity for tonight, Stace.’

  Her eyes found his finger on the board.

  The sign said, Youth Club.

  FIFTY

  Kim parked outside the friends and family centre at Eastwood Park Prison, an hour after she had called. A six-car pile-up near Bristol had forced her off the motorway and onto the scenic route through the Malvern Hills.

  Before Kim switched off the engine she lowered the window in the driver’s door a couple of inches to make sure Barney had enough air while she was inside. He seemed to know he wasn’t exiting the car and turned two full circles before settling on the back seat.

  The facility had previously been a male juvenile detention centre and a young offender institution before settling as a closed female prison with around 360 inmates. Yet no matter how much effort had been put into blending the facility into its surroundings, the presence of barbed wire signalled that there was something to be afraid of.

  To Kim’s mind, prison wasn’t supposed to look pretty. There was no place for flowers and shrubs to soften the edges. Build them high and build them solid, was her opinion. Prisons were meant to house people who had committed crimes and deter others from doing the same. Efforts to make it look like a community housing project were misguided and a serious case of false advertising.

  She recalled a Ross Kemp programme she’d seen about a prison in South America stuffed full of the worst criminals imaginable. The government sent in food and provisions weekly and then guarded it from the outside, ensuring no one escaped. Far less expensive to run than the English process, yet Kim somehow felt that system wouldn’t fly in a more ‘civilised’ country.

  Luckily, visiting orders were not required for remand prisons and her phone call to the governor ensured the twenty-four-hour notice period had been waived. Kim showed her ID at the gate and once she confirmed that she had nothing more than small change in her pocket was given a cursory pat-down. She dutifully stood still while the passive dogs did a quick ‘walk by’ and, declared contraband-free, she was led into the visiting room.

  The first thing that hit her was the ‘chatter’. Although some pockets of people seemed to speak in hushed tones, a general throng of false animation assaulted her. It was a prison and yet still managed to exude the vibe of a market town coffee shop on a Saturday morning.

  It seemed everyone was being cheerful for the sake of someone else. The inmates spoke with exaggerated cheer because they didn’t want friends and relatives to worry about their well-being, and visitors acted as though they were meeting for a picnic on the riverbank, like there was nowhere else they’d rather be at the weekend. Kim wondered how many Kleenex would be needed on both sides of the wall later.

  She located Ruth sitting at a table halfway down on the left. Kim almost didn’t recognise the woman as she nodded at a passing officer.

  A quick appraisal confirmed that Ruth had gained a little weight, removing the gaunt appearance from the last time Kim had seen her. Her hair was washed and, though not particularly well styled, hung loose and healthy just past her shoulders. Incarceration seemed to suit Ruth. She looked as though she’d returned from a weekend at a spa.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ Ruth said, offering her hand.

  Kim fixed a smile on her face, an expression that never felt comfortable, but she wanted to put the prisoner at ease.

  ‘No other visitors today?’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘Mum and Dad came yesterday,’ she said, as though there was no one else.

  ‘How are they?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘Having a harder time of all this than I am.’ She looked around. ‘I can understand why some people ask their families to stay away. The look on my mum’s face says it all. Prison is for other people’s children. Visits are the hardest part of the week.’

  ‘Most people seem to be enjoying it.’

  ‘So you’d think. It’s for the visitors’ benefit but later it hurts like hell that you’ve done something to force the people you love to come here and spend their weekends doing this.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  Ruth nodded. ‘Milk and two sugars, please.’

  Kim headed away from the table, feeling that the situation was slightly surreal. Conversation was polite and sociable despite the fact that Kim had been the arresting officer in Ruth’s case. A smidge of animosity might have been appropriate, but Kim sensed none. In fact, her senses picked up nothing but acceptance.

  As she waited for the drinks to brew inside the machine, Kim felt eyes upon her. She turned and saw an overweight woman currently being climbed over by three young children giving her the hard stare. She didn’t recognise the female but some seasoned criminals could pick out a copper from fifty metres.

  Kim returned to the table and place
d the drinks down.

  ‘So, how are you coping?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘Okay. It doesn’t take long to adapt to prison life. Everything is controlled: getting up, taking exercise, when to shower, when to eat, when to go to bed. Very little changes each day. You get used to the staff, the other inmates and the corner of the room that belongs to you. There’s very little to worry about, no decisions to make.’

  Kim detected a note of relief in that last sentence.

  Ruth looked around. ‘It could be worse. I’ve joined the early morning walking club, I’ve signed up for a couple of courses and there’s an occasional social evening.’

  ‘You seem to have adapted very well,’ Kim said, thinking that she was getting the ‘tourist’ version of the facility. Despite the things Ruth had mentioned as well as a decent mother and baby unit, the prison had the fourth highest suicide rate in the country.

  Ruth smiled. ‘I’m going to be here for a very long time. My choices are limited. And if that’s why you’re here, I can confirm that I’ll be pleading guilty. To what charge is for the lawyers to sort out, but I won’t be fighting the punishment.’

  The words were delivered as though she was discussing losing a game of chess, not years of her life.

  Ruth laughed softly. ‘I’m sorry but I appear to have rendered you speechless.’

  This was not the woman she had arrested. The person sat before her now appeared stable, resigned, almost content.

  ‘But you’re entitled to a trial.’ It was a justice system Kim trusted.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘There won’t be a trial. I will not put my family and his mother through that. Don’t look so shocked. I’m not psychologically impaired. I did it and I’m prepared for the consequences of my actions. Taking a life is not something that can go unpunished. I have to pay the debt that society dictates and then start again.’

  Kim had waited a long time to meet someone who echoed her own sentiments but she hadn’t expected it to be someone she’d arrested, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated the vague measure of discomfort it gave her. This woman was accepting her punishment a little too easily and Kim couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t the only person to blame.

  ‘I hope I’ve answered your question,’ Ruth said, moving her legs to stand.

  Kim shook her head. ‘Please sit, that’s not why I’m here.’

  The measured calmness appeared to falter for just a second as a frown cut across her forehead.

  ‘Can we talk about Doctor Thorne?’

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  Kim knew she had to tread carefully. ‘It would be helpful if you could tell me a little about your sessions together.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  Kim noted the sudden curtness in her tone.

  ‘It would help the CPS understand better.’

  Ruth didn’t appear convinced and her arms crossed in front of her. ‘Well, we just talked, as you might expect. We discussed many things during our time together.’

  ‘Can you tell me about your last session? It would be really helpful.’

  ‘We talked for a while and she took me through a symbolic visualisation exercise.’

  Ruth looked uncomfortable and Kim could feel her retreating. Not now, she silently begged. She needed to know what the hell a symbolic visualisation exercise was. Her gut told her in this case it was not anything good. Subtlety aside, Kim knew she had to just go for it if she was to learn anything.

  ‘Ruth, was there anything in that last session that could have inspired you to do what you did?’

  ‘It was all my own doing. I took the knife, I waited for him, I followed him and I stabbed him.’

  Kim could see the emotion building in the woman opposite. A flush was spreading across her chest and the muscles in her face were tight.

  ‘But don’t you think it’s possible that you were being manipulated, used by Doctor Thorne? I mean, by getting you to imagine killing Allan Harris, by using a knife in the symbolic exercise, is it possible that the doctor was intentionally …?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could she have known that I would use her efforts to help me as …?’

  Ruth’s words trailed away as she realised she’d just confirmed what had been a lucky guess on Kim’s part. The crime mirrored the session.

  ‘Ruth, please talk to me.’

  Ruth shook her head vehemently. ‘Detective Inspector, I will not say one word against Doctor Thorne. She is a skilled, intuitive psychiatrist who has helped me through the worst time in my life. I don’t know what you think she’s done, but I can tell you that she has been my saviour. I think you should leave and take your disgusting accusations with you.’

  ‘Ruth …’

  ‘Please leave and don’t come back.’

  Ruth glared at her before leaving the table.

  Kim cursed under her breath. The bloody woman was so wrapped up in her own flagellation she wasn’t even open to the suggestion that perhaps there were more people to blame for the crime. She had committed herself to attrition and there would be no budging her.

  Kim returned to the car, now knowing what she had previously only suspected: that Alex had been instrumental in manipulating Ruth. What she didn’t know, was why.

  Kim wondered if the doctor was playing some kind of sick game of power, seeing how far she could push people, but she didn’t think that was it. She remembered the first time she’d met Alex after Allan’s death and she’d asked if she could visit Ruth. Had that been to cover her tracks or something more? If the aim had simply been to manipulate Ruth, then knowing what Ruth had done would have been triumph enough, but it wasn’t. She had wanted to gauge Ruth after the fact.

  No, it wasn’t as straightforward as mind-fucking. Alex wanted to learn something and Kim had to try and figure out exactly what that was. It was going to take a trip into her past to find out.

  Kim could not ignore the power that Alex now held in her hands. Having access to the horrors of her past definitely made it an unfair fight. Alex could examine these events openly and not lose her mind. Kim didn’t have that luxury

  Alex could use every fact to drag her closer to the darkness and Kim wasn’t even sure how to fight back. What she needed was a better understanding of exactly what she was up against.

  She suspected there was only one man who could help her now.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Bardsley House, four miles east of Chester town centre, was used to house the criminally insane. Open since the late 1800s, it had never offered day trips to the wealthy, a guided tour through the stages of insanity like Bedlam in London. Bardsley House kept its patients private, behind closed doors and away from curious eyes. Externally, it bore no sign of the madness within.

  The half-mile gravel drive wound its way through rich, undulating lawns and a 700-acre deer park before ending at an imposing structure that had retained its 17th-century appearance.

  As she approached the entrance, Alex decided there were far worse places to be crazy.

  The reception area was unlike a normal hospital foyer. Comfortable wing-backed chairs littered the area, with occasional tables scattered throughout. Watercolours of local landscapes dotted the walls and pan pipes sounded gently from a speaker that rested above a CCTV camera.

  Alex’s finger was poised above a bell when the door opened and she was met by an overweight woman in her late fifties. A quick assessment told her that the woman had been at the facility for some time. She was dressed in black trousers formed of a cheap polyester mix, with a white T-shirt covered by a plain blue pinafore. Her nails were multicoloured, and bright yellow costume jewellery adorned her wrist and throat. Her short hair was dyed a vivid purple. A simple name badge stated ‘Helen’. No title or position, just Helen.

  Alex held out her hand. ‘Hello, my name is …’

  ‘Doctor Thorne,’ Helen completed with a wide, open smile. The woman was clearly accessible and trusting. Just the kind of
person Alex loved.

  ‘Doctor Price told us you were coming. He asked that we assist you in any way we can.’

  Of course he did, Alex thought. Doctor Nathaniel Price was the registrar of the hospital and their ‘friendship’ went back to medical school when Alex had sussed out he was having a homosexual relationship with one of the tutors. His secret had been of little use to her at the time and she wasn’t prone to frivolous malice. There had to be a benefit to her; at the very least, her own entertainment. Back then his secret would have been low impact; news for a week or two, quickly swallowed into the whirlpool of university shallowness. But now it meant more, especially to his wife and three daughters.

  Fortunately, Alex hadn’t needed to use the threat. It had been there, travelling along the phone lines. It was enough for him that she knew, and if he was as intuitive as she suspected, he also knew that she’d use it. He was probably still at it secretly. She made a quick mental note to find out. A little extra insurance never hurt.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Helen,’ she said, smiling and shaking her hand warmly. Fat, ugly folks always liked attention from the beautiful people.

  Helen led her from the foyer along a short corridor and took a left turn into a small orderly office.

  ‘Please, sit.’

  Alex did so. The space was functional and small, with a window overlooking an ornate fountain on the east side of the grounds. The mouth of the dolphin looked as though it hadn’t spouted water in fifty years.

  ‘I’ve been Care Manager here for twenty-two years, so if there’s anything I can help you with, feel free to ask.’

  Alex sat back. ‘I don’t know how much Doctor Price told you.’

  ‘Just that you had a similar case at the moment and that any insight would be helpful.’

  Alex nodded regretfully. ‘Obviously I can’t go into detail, but if you could discuss Patricia Stone with me and if I could meet her briefly, I think it would help me treat my patient more effectively.’

  Helen seemed happy to share. ‘Okay, I’ll just talk and if you have any questions feel free to jump in.’

  Alex took out a notebook. Helen swigged from a can of Diet Coke; amusing considering the woman’s girth.