One of the downstairs windows had been left invitingly open. That decided Angel – someone
was
in. She clambered over the fence and ran towards the house. She dropped to her knees and crawled alongside the conservatory, out of sight of the nearest security light’s motion detector. Keeping tight to the wall, she stood and peered through the open window. She found herself looking into a large kitchen. Immediately adjacent to the window was a sink and marble work-surface. At the opposite side of the room a door stood ajar, leading to a gloomy hallway.
Angel carefully moved aside a potted plant on the windowsill. Hardly daring to breathe, she climbed through the window.
You’re making it all too easy, Doctor
, she thought, lowering herself to the tiled floor. Clearly the doctor hadn’t heard about the Winstanleys’ deaths, or he might have been more concerned for his safety. She withdrew the Glock from her handbag. The gun no longer felt alien in her hands. It was a part of her, an extension of her arm.
Silent as a stalking panther, Angel moved into the hallway. To her right, a stairway led up into darkness. To her left, a chink of light came from under a door. She put her ear to the door. Not a sound. The house was almost eerily silent. A frown crossed her forehead. Maybe no one was in after all. Perhaps the kitchen window had been left open by accident. She rejected the possibility. Even if someone had neglected to close the window before leaving the house, surely they wouldn’t also have forgotten to set the alarm. A prickle of warning raised the hairs on her neck. Something wasn’t right here.
Angel’s straining ears caught a sound so faint as to be barely audible – the splash of something being poured into a glass. Her forehead relaxed. Nothing was wrong. The doctor, or at least someone, was simply enjoying a quiet drink. Whoever it was, they were about to get a nasty surprise.
You’re going to need a knife
, said the voice in Angel’s head. She crept back to the kitchen and pulled a knife about ten centimetres long from a block of knives. She slid it into the side pocket of her jeans, then returned to the hallway.
With one smooth motion, Angel opened the door and stepped into a softly lit room. Straight ahead of her was a coffee-table flanked by two unoccupied sofas. Beyond the table was a stone fireplace with bookshelves to either side. A framed photo of Doctor Reeve and a pretty middle-aged woman standing at the shoulders of two equally pretty teenage girls hung above the mantelpiece.
So he does have a family
, Angel thought with a little jolt of her nerves. The girls were smiling and bright-eyed, radiating the easy confidence that privilege brings. There was no trace of sadness or unease in their expressions. Of course, that didn’t mean they hadn’t been subjected to the same kind of abuse their father had inflicted upon her, Mark Baxley and God knows how many others. But still an uncomfortable feeling squeezed her abdomen at the knowledge that she was about to deprive two children of their father. It wasn’t guilt, but something else she couldn’t quite define – shame, perhaps. Whatever it was, she fiercely dismissed it. Doctor Reeve’s perversion was a cancer in the lives of his daughters. Whether or not they knew of its existence didn’t change the need for it to be cut out.
To Angel’s left was a piano, a couple of armchairs and a sideboard. A man was standing at the sideboard with his back to her. At the sound of the door opening, he turned, with a crystal decanter and brandy glass in his hands.
Doctor Reeve’s face was lined with strain, but no hint of surprise showed in his eyes. ‘Hello, Grace.’
Angel’s heart gave a thump.
He knows my name. My real name! And he looks as if he was expecting me. What the fuck is this – some kind of trap?
She looked anxiously around the room, as if expecting to be pounced on by someone lurking in a corner.
‘There’s no one in the house but us, Grace.’ The psychiatrist’s voice was controlled and reassuring.
‘My name’s not Grace,’ retorted Angel, a dark fire flaring in her eyes. ‘Grace died a long time ago. You should know that, you helped kill her.’
‘So what should I call you?’
‘Call me Death, because that’s what I am to you.’
A small spasm of something that might have been fear skittered across Doctor Reeve’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed in an attempt to shove it aside. He started to raise his glass towards his mouth.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Angel demanded to know, jerking the gun at him.
Doctor Reeve’s hand flinched to a stop. ‘I was going to have a drink. Do you want one?’
‘I don’t want a thing from you, except for you to do exactly as I say. You don’t move or speak unless I tell you to. Understand?’
‘I understand perfectly. But I’m afraid you don’t.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Simply that I’m not going to play your game. I know what you want. You want me to fall to my knees and beg for my life. You need my fear to make yourself feel powerful. Well I’m not going to give it to you.’
Angel bared her brown-stained teeth in a savage grin. ‘We’ll see about that when I cut off your little prick and feed it to you.’
Doctor Reeve shook his head with a kind of regret. ‘You know, I really wish we had a chance to talk properly. How I’d love to get inside your head and see what’s going on.’
Angel stabbed a finger at her temple. ‘You already know what’s in there, Doctor. You made me what I am.’
‘I didn’t turn you into a monster, you did that all by yourself.’
‘Bollocks! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you and your sick-fuck friends.’
‘No, you’d most probably be off somewhere else, finding some other justification to hurt someone.’
‘That’s a fucking load of shit.’ Angel’s voice quickened, taking on a shrill edge. ‘I’d be living a normal life. Do you hear me? A normal life with a normal man and kids of my own. You took that from me. You stole my fucking life! You’re the monster, not me.’
‘Unlike you, I know exactly what I am.’ Doctor Reeve’s voice was as calm as Angel’s was frenzied. ‘I accept that my urges were written into my biological makeup at birth. I don’t try to pass responsibility for my actions on to anyone else. Do you know how many victims of so-called abuse I’ve seen professionally over the years? Hundreds. And do you know how many of those victims have gone on to murder their abusers? None. That’s not because of anything I’ve said to them. It’s because they’re not killers. You’re a killer. A sociopath. It’s in your DNA. You think you’re on a mission to right the wrongs done to you. Maybe you even tell yourself you’re sending a message to society. But you’re not. All you’re trying to do is justify your own pathetic existence.’
Angel felt herself grow dizzy at Doctor Reeve’s words. Was she really a sociopath, a monster without any feelings for anybody but herself? ‘My dad beat the shit out of me for years. If I’m some kind of born killer, why didn’t I ever fight back?’
‘Simple. You knew you weren’t strong enough. Tell me, if your father hit you now, what would you do to him?’
‘I’d kill the bastard!’ The words were out before Angel could stop them.
Doctor Reeve nodded as if to say,
I rest my case.
What little colour Angel had drained from her cheeks.
You’re a killer. A sociopath.
For a second she almost believed the diagnosis. Then she gave a sharp shake of her head.
He’s a psychiatrist
, she reminded herself.
He knows exactly what to say to fuck with you.
‘I’m not a psycho. After what happened to Mark Baxley, I hated myself so much I wanted to die.’
‘Ah yes, Stephen told me how you tried to kill yourself. And yet here you stand,’ Doctor Reeve observed in a wry tone.
Angel jerked her sleeve up, revealing the mottled scars of old needle tracks. ‘That’s the only way I got through, the only thing that stopped the nightmares. So don’t tell me I can’t feel anything real.’
Doctor Reeve opened his mouth, but before he could speak Angel cut him off. ‘No more. I’m fucked if I’m going to let a man who gets his kicks out of raping children psychoanalyse me.’
‘OK, no more small-talk. Let’s get down to business.’
Doctor Reeve spoke with a confidence that shook Angel’s. Once again she found herself wondering,
What’s his game? What tricks, other than his clever gob, has he got up that slimy sleeve of his?
She pointed the gun at his groin. ‘You’re going to tell me the name of the other man from the Winstanleys’ basement.’
‘That’s not going to happen. But I will tell you something. Actually, maybe it would be better if I simply showed you.’ The psychiatrist put down the decanter and reached for an object on the sideboard.
Angel saw that it was a mobile phone. ‘Touch that and you’ll find yourself missing your bollocks.’
Doctor Reeve drew back his hand. ‘There’s something you really need to see on that phone.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a chance. A chance to prove beyond doubt that you’re not what I think you are. A chance for redemption.’
Redemption.
The word echoed like thunder in Angel’s head. Was it possible? She’d never hoped for redemption. The best she’d hoped for was revenge. The vile degradation Mark had suffered that night in the basement was as irreversible as time. She’d done what she had to do to make it out alive. With hindsight, she would rather have let the bastards kill her – at least, that’s what she told herself. There’d been many times, though, when she’d wondered whether that was really true. The question had always seemed arbitrary. As far as she could see, other than the blankness of heroin, death was the only way her conscience would ever find peace. But even death wouldn’t bring redemption, not unless…
Unless you give your life for someone else! But who? Who might you be willing to die for?
Her mind raced over the possibilities. There were only two. One moulded out of love, the other out of guilt. Her mother and Mark Baxley.
Angel’s heart was suddenly pounding. She gestured with the gun for Doctor Reeve to move away from the sideboard. He retreated towards the French doors. As though fearing it might explode in her hand, she picked up the phone. There was a photo on its screen of a young man with dirty-blonde hair pasted to his forehead with sweat. Blue-grey eyes – eyes wide with fear – stared pleadingly out of the screen, almost as if appealing directly to Angel. A spray of cuts covered the man’s cheeks. A thick bandage on his right shoulder bulged from beneath a dressing-gown.
‘Do you know who that is?’ asked Doctor Reeve.
Angel nodded.
Mark Baxley.
There was no doubt it was him. His features were thinner, his hair shorter and darker, but it was essentially the same face that had been branded onto her consciousness fifteen years ago. In an instant, the sense of control that had coursed through her dissolved like the mirage it always had been. The gun began to tremble in her hand.
‘That photo was taken by a man who doesn’t kill for pleasure like you,’ continued Doctor Reeve. ‘He’s a man who kills coldly for profit.’
‘Is he the other man?’
‘Who he is, is of no concern to you. All you need know is that if you don’t do exactly as I say, Mark dies. Do I make myself clear?’
Angel gave a weak nod.
‘I want to hear you fucking say it, you cock-sucking piece-of-shit whore!’ There was a malicious glee in the psychiatrist’s voice.
Angel almost visibly shrank under the torrent of obscenity. ‘Yes, you make yourself clear.’
‘Good girl. Now, first things first, I want the book.’
‘What book?’
‘Don’t lie to me. You know full well what book. Where is it?’
Angel’s eyes flicked towards her handbag.
The psychiatrist’s lips broadened into a superior smile. ‘Ah good, you brought it. Not too bright, are you?’ He gestured at the sideboard. ‘Put it on there, along with the gun and phone, then step away.’
Angel put down the phone. ‘If I do what you say, how do I know you won’t kill Mark anyway?’
‘Mark has no memory of what happened at the Winstanleys’ house. He’s no threat to anyone. You have my word that we’ll let him go if you hand yourself over to us.’
A hiss of incredulity came from Angel. ‘You expect me to take your word?’
‘You don’t have any choice but to.’
Angel stared at Doctor Reeve, her face twitching with tortured indecision.
The psychiatrist huffed out a breath. ‘I can see you need more convincing.’
Angel took several steps backwards as Doctor Reeve strode over to the sideboard and retrieved the mobile phone. He punched in a number and put the phone to his ear. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Put him on.’ He switched the phone to loud speaker. There was a moment of silence that was suddenly shredded by a scream. The scream subsided into choking sobs – sobs that flashed Angel’s mind back to that long ago but never forgotten night in the basement. Stephen Baxley’s words rang out in her mind, as they’d done countless times before.
Give him some more medicine, Angel. Do it.
The screaming came again. Angel’s head jerked to one side as though she’d been slapped.
Give him some more medicine, Angel. Do it.
‘OK!’ she cried in a voice as ragged as broken glass. ‘I’ll do what you want. Just stop hurting him.’
Angel lowered the Glock. Tears spilling silently from her eyes, she approached the sideboard. As she set the gun down, her thumb flicked on the safety-catch with an almost imperceptible motion. She unhooked her handbag from her shoulder and put it down too, then stepped back.
‘That’ll do, for now,’ Doctor Reeve said into the phone. The line went dead. He looked at Angel with a curl of triumph on his lips. ‘Congratulations, Grace, you’ve proved me wrong.’ He emptied the detritus of her life out of her handbag – rape-alarm, condoms, a blister-strip of morning-after pills, assorted bits of makeup, purse, the little black book. He flicked through the book before putting it in his trouser pocket. Very carefully, almost fearfully, he picked up the gun and aimed it at Angel. She tensed automatically, though she guessed Doctor Reeve had no intention of killing her in his house. She would have been surprised if the psychiatrist had any intention at all of doing the deed. He was the kind who preferred to watch others get their hands dirty. A voyeur. He’d proved that in the Winstanleys’ basement.