Read an excerpt of Delirium

"Those who the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad."

Anonymous ancient proverb

"He punishes the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation."

Numbers 14:18

Prologue

"Here we see the mad as monstrosities and tainted creatures."

Dr Christian Monro advanced the slide to show a vintage black and white picture: a man huddled in a corner with haunted eyes, his dirty straitjacket mottled with blood. "We must, of course, treat such as these with humanity but we must also ensure their stain does not continue into the next generation." Christian paused, savoring the moment of complete attention. "The implementation of my proposals will safeguard the future of our great nation. Thank you."

Applause filled the small room, and Christian bowed his head a little, acknowledging their respect. He had been courting this group for years now, the politicians and the religious right, as well as those in big business who funded the enterprise. He breathed in deeply, a smile playing over his lips. Finally, they were taking his work seriously, which was surely worth the sacrifice of those he had referred to the research centers.

Christian pushed the faint glimmer of guilt down as the applause ended and one of the more senior figures in the room nodded slowly at him, a promise of future favor in his gaze. Dr Damian Crowther was bald, his head angular and smooth, with one eye blue and the other brown. Despite his distinctive appearance, Crowther wasn't a man anyone stared at for long. Christian had heard rumors of the doctor's investigations into the farthest reaches of the mind, where madness bled into what some would call the paranormal. Crowther's favor was known to be a double-edged sword, but perhaps it was time to embrace the risks for the potential of a higher reward.

As Crowther turned away, Christian looked at his watch, worry gnawing at the edges of his triumph. He didn't want to rush away, but he had to make the meeting and none of these men could know about it.

After extricating himself from the late-night whiskey drinking, Christian grabbed a taxi to South London, patting his top pocket where he had the money in a cream envelope. It was a small price to pay for breathing space, but once he had power behind him, Christian would deal with the blackmailer. Handing them over for research purposes would make for appropriate recompense.

The Imperial War Museum was lit from below, a spectacular edifice, a symbol of Britain's military might. Of course, Christian had visited before, but it had been more out of curiosity for the building's past. The Bethlem Hospital had once been based here, the original Bedlam of nightmare, where the groans of the suffering were muted by thick walls.

The note had told him to go around to the side gate, so Christian walked around the perimeter. It was open as promised and he walked through, into the trees at the side of the expansive park space. He strode towards the side door, gathering his confidence as a suit of armor, made stronger by his earlier triumph. Perhaps he would give this blackmailer a talking to instead. He flexed his fingers … maybe something more than that.

The inside of the building was dark, with just a few floor lights leading inward. Christian could hear faint sounds of music down the corridor, a mournful violin, the deep notes of a cello. A door was ajar further into the museum. He walked to it and stepped inside, apprehension overtaken by curiosity.

Candles burned in the corners of the room and shadows flickered on the walls. In the dim light, Christian saw a large wooden object and he stepped further into the room to see it more clearly.

A sudden movement of air and a shift of shadows made his eyes narrow. He turned, but it was too late. A needle jabbed his neck and Christian raised his hand to the wound, suddenly dizzy.

He sank to the floor, suddenly faint. There was someone else here with him, but the figure retreated quickly back to the gloom, out of his reach.

"What … have you done?" Christian murmured, as his throat tightened and weakness deadened his limbs. "I have your money."

"Money you received for betraying those who trusted you," the whisper came in the dark. "I don't want it. But I do want you to remember before you die, for what you have done is just a reflection of what your ancestors once did in this place."

Colors appeared in front of Christian's eyes, morphing into the shapes of creatures that landed on the walls around him. They had tiny needle-like teeth and he tried to move away from them, but their legs scuttled fast as they swarmed onto him and he had no strength to bat them away. His skin itched but Christian couldn't raise his arms to scratch. His heart thudded in his chest. It was a drug – some kind of hallucinogen. It had to be, but knowing didn't change how he felt. Biting, tearing, tiny knives slashing a thousand cuts across his flesh as the creatures began to feast.

"Please," Christian panted, heart racing, breath ragged. "What do you want?"

The figure came out of the shadows, like a nightmare from history, an echo of the photo Christian had shown earlier that night. The man wore a dirty straitjacket, stained with blood and pus. The arms hung loose, long sleeves dragging on the floor, the straps hanging down. A black mask covered his eyes and nose, and Christian could see that the man's dark eyes were bright with intent. There was no madness within.

"You call them monstrosities, tainted blood that must be bred out. But it is you who are defective, a blemish to be erased. And now you're in here, you must be crazy. Welcome to the lunatics' ball, Monro."

The man threw his hands in the air and spun in place, the ties from the straitjacket whirling about him, creating a vortex that Christian couldn't tear his eyes from. The string instruments soared, filling the room with a cacophony of jarring noise, grating against his brain.

Christian was transfixed by the whirling, as the colors shattered and the fuzzy feeling intensified. It seemed that other figures joined the man as the music played on, shadows turning into the phantoms of those who had been locked up here so long ago. A beautiful girl with bare feet whirled in place, spinning around, her thin arms held like a ballerina. She opened her mouth to smile and Christian saw that her teeth were all missing, her gums bloody emptiness – a victim of force-feeding. A hulking figure appeared next to her, his head bound with bandages around a broken jaw, moaning in a grotesque parody of joy as he lumbered to the center of the room to turn with them. Another man dragged himself across the floor towards Christian, his head shaved, electrodes still attached, drool dripping down his chin. His eyes locked on the doctor, but his stare was fixed, as if no soul dwelled behind that facade of humanity.

Christian tried to push himself up and away from the wall, but the man in the straitjacket bore down upon him. The figures in the room dissipated and floated away as his image alone sharpened into focus once again. Had there even been any others? Christian knew the drug had a deep hold now, his mind tilted by chemical intrusion. He had no strength to fight as the man dragged him across the floor.

"Perhaps you're feeling a little stressed?" the man spat, his words bitter as he hoisted Christian onto the wooden chair, buckling straps at his ankles and wrists. Christian struggled, but it was as if he was in a thick soup and his limbs wouldn't obey his brain's command. The man bent down and picked up a padded wooden box with straps to hold the two sides together. "This should help."

Christian tried to shout, to scream, but the drugs had deadened his tongue and made it thick like a lump of liver. He could only moan as the man placed the box over his head and tightened the straps. It was heavy and dense, the darkness absolute. Christian's heart thumped in his chest as he tried to breathe through his nose, but the box was tight against his skull with only a small hole for air. He was on the edge of consciousness, panic rising as his heart rate spiraled out of control. He felt a knock against the box on top of his head and the noise of a flap being opened. A chink of light enabled Christian to see the padding inside, a dull off-white, the color of old sheets, right in front of his eyes. Then, he felt a drip of cold water on the top of his skull.

He shook his head violently, rattling the restraints that held his arms and legs. But he couldn't move far enough away and the water kept dripping, faster now. It became a thin stream that pooled under his chin, rising in cold inches against his skin. Christian closed his mouth as the level rose to his lips. He tipped his head, angling it to allow him breathing space, but he only succeeded in trickling water up his nose. Christian spluttered, trying to breathe and cough, but the water kept coming.

He heard laughter against the backdrop of music, and he imagined the spinning figures watching his torture, their eyes shining in anticipation of his end. Christian jerked and writhed, fighting to escape the stream. He moaned as panic overwhelmed him. The water level was almost at his nose now, covering his mouth. He threw himself to one side, felt himself connect with a body there, but the level kept rising.

Christian took a final breath as the water reached his nose, holding it in as he tried desperately to escape the crushing pain in his lungs. As the cool liquid touched his eyelids, he could hold his breath no longer.

He choked, spasming in agony as he screamed for air, mouth opening instinctively. Water rushed down his throat, sucked into his lungs.

In the moment before he died, Dr Christian Monro felt the fingers of the ghosts clawing at him, echoes of Bedlam with twisted faces, dragging him down to the depths of their Hell.

 

Chapter 1

Detective Sergeant Jamie Brooke took a deep breath, steeling herself to face the crime scene. It was her first major case since her compassionate leave had come to an end, and although she craved the intellectual stimulation, part of her just wanted to huddle under the covers at her flat and shut out the world. Thoughts of her daughter, gone only three months now, intruded at every second. Jamie welcomed them, but if she let them intensify too much, she knew she would just break down. Not quite the look she favored in front of her work colleagues.

Detective Constable Alan Missinghall stood outside the squad car, finishing his morning coffee and sticky bun, waiting for her to join him on the pavement. All Jamie had to do was step out and accompany him to the scene.

Missinghall had been tremendous support during the events a few months ago that culminated in the flames of the Hellfire Caves, and she was grateful for his friendship. Despite her seniority in the force, he was one of the only allies she had after years of insistent independence that protected her from gossip but left her mostly alone.

Jamie pulled down the mirror and checked her dark hair, tucking a few strands into the tight bun she habitually wore for work. Her face was gaunt, cheekbones angular, and her pale skin was dull from too long inside during the British winter. Time to get back out there again, she thought. Jamie exhaled slowly and opened the door, pulling her coat tightly around her against the chill of the early morning.

"The body was found in one of the offices in the oldest part of the building," Missinghall said, walking slowly, as his six-foot-five frame meant his stride was double Jamie's. "This place has changed substantially since the days of Bedlam. That's for sure."

The Imperial War Museum had been built in the early nineteenth century to house the Bethlem Royal Hospital, known to history as Bedlam. Although the hospital for the mentally ill was relocated in 1930 to the outer suburbs of Kent, this place remained the hospital of the imagination, a virtual horror movie set. Jamie shivered as she glanced up at the cupola rising above a classical facade, but it was the massive First World War guns that drew her attention, dwarfing the uniformed officers already onsite. Each huge naval gun weighed one hundred tons and could fire shells over sixteen miles. Its yellow bullet-shaped ammunition stood around the gardens, each waist height. Jamie couldn't help but touch the spiked top of one of them, a testament to man's ingenuity at designing killing machines. While this place was once a supposed restorer of minds, it was now a home for weapons of mass destruction. A building in homage to war, perhaps the ultimate form of collective madness.

"The museum is currently undergoing massive restoration," Missinghall said. "They're sprucing it up in time for the centennial of the First World War, so the main galleries aren't open to the public right now."

"How was the body found?" Jamie asked.

"One of the workmen was looking for a quiet place to smoke as it was pouring with rain outside." Missinghall chuckled. "He would have needed a few more ciggies after that."

They walked towards the steps leading up to the museum entrance, passing a slab of concrete with a graffitied face and the slogan 'Change Your Life' tattooed on its tongue. Its eyes were manic, the open maw a frozen scream. Jamie bent to read the plaque, and saw it was from the Berlin Wall, a remnant of that divide between East and West Germany. This was a strange place indeed, aimed at commemoration without intentionally glorifying violence.

The sound of a little girl giggling whispered on the wind. Jamie looked up sharply, her eyes drawn to the trees beyond the memorial. Polly ran there, her blue dress caught by the breeze as she twirled amongst the early spring flowers. For a moment, hope filled Jamie's heart, but then the girl's face changed. It was another girl, alive and vibrant, where her daughter was gone. Polly was ashes now, her physical remains in a terracotta urn that sat on the shelf in her flat.

Jamie choked back her emotion and turned to follow Missinghall, who was nearing the main entrance. These moments still threatened to overwhelm her, even months after Polly's death. Is it self-harm or self-care to want to hurt myself? Jamie wondered. Pain is a reminder of continued life, and every day she had to make a decision about carrying on.

The craving for a cigarette was intense, her hands shaking a little at the thought. Jamie thrust one hand in her coat pocket, clutching the tin where she put the menthol butt ends, measuring her addiction. She could hardly fit the lid on by the end of the day, but right now she resisted the yearning to smoke, clenching her fist around the tin instead. She wanted to get back to the capable woman she was known as in the force. She just needed to gather her strength.

Jamie and Missinghall went through the main entrance, showing their warrant cards to the officer on the door. The crime-scene perimeter was much further inside the museum, and they walked through a warren of building works, preparation for a grand opening at the centenary of the First World War. It was organized chaos, the kind of place that would be a nightmare to process for evidence, especially with the tight deadlines for the centennial. After winding through corridors, they reached a doorway where they logged into the crime scene and put on the protective coveralls necessary to stop contamination.

The body was still in situ and a number of Scene of Crime Officers (SOCOs) worked efficiently in the room, processing the scene. Jamie tilted her head to one side, her curiosity piqued by the strange tableau. A familiar prick of interest penetrated the haze of grief and she knew that this case was just what she needed to take her mind off her own pain.

The room smelled of candle smoke overlaid with a damp, fungal aroma. A man sat in an oversize wooden chair, his feet bound to the struts and his arms strapped to the sides. His head was entirely covered by a box made of dark wood, so the victim looked more like a dummy from the London Dungeon than a real dead body. He wore a white shirt under a dark tailored suit, and it looked like his clothes were damp. The straps that held his wrists made his suit wrinkle, and his fingertips were bloody, nails cracked, as if he had tried to claw his way out of the chair. Jamie shivered at the thought of being trapped there, unable to move, unable to escape.

Forensic pathologist Mike Skinner stood against the wall, looking at his watch every minute, as if that would hurry the SOCOs. Finally the photos were complete, the device swabbed, and the body could be moved.

Missinghall helped Mike unfasten the straps that held the box in place and together they lifted it off. The victim's head fell forward, unsupported now, onto his chest. A rush of water cascaded down and a SOCO darted forward to capture a sample. Jamie glimpsed ivory padding inside as Missinghall laid the box on the floor for SOCOs to process further. Mike unstrapped the man's arms and legs, fastening forensic bags over the exposed flesh to protect any evidence. Missinghall helped him to lift the body into a plastic body-bag on top of a waiting gurney. The man looked professorial, authority still held in his bearing even in death. He wasn't a large man, his frame short and compact, not fat but clearly more used to a lecture theatre than a gym. His hair was grey, still wet, and his lips were grey.

"First impressions?" Jamie asked.

"Drowned, I'd say," Mike replied, his curt response purely professional. "But I'll know more after I check his lungs back at the morgue."

Missinghall moved to the gurney and with gloves on, opened the man's jacket. From the top pocket, he pulled out a thick envelope and placed it in a clear plastic evidence bag, a wad of cash visible inside.

"This wasn't theft, that's for sure," Missinghall said, delving back into the man's pockets. He pulled out a thin leather wallet containing a couple of bank cards and a driver's license.

"Doctor Christian Monro," he read. "That makes things easier." He looked over at Jamie, one eyebrow raised. "Guess I'll get on with the preliminary statements then. I'll start with the security team."

A bustling came from the door, and one of the uniformed officers beckoned Jamie over to the edge of the crime-scene markers. A man stood there, shuffling from one foot to another, wringing his hands, eyes darting to the gurney inside the room.

"I'm Michael Hasbrough, the curator of the museum," he blustered. "This is terrible, terrible. You have to keep the press away. The centennial is only in a few weeks, and there's a Fun Run today, as well. It's going to get busy outside soon. You have to hurry up. Please."

Jamie put out a hand to calm the man.

"We need to process the scene properly, Mr Hasbrough. It will take some time, but of course, we'll try to be discreet."

He shook his head violently. "How can you be discreet with a damn body and all those uniforms outside?" Hasbrough seemed to realize what he had said. "With respect to the dead, of course." He glanced into the room again, his eyes taking in the scene more fully. "Perhaps I can help." He pointed towards the box on the floor next to the unusual chair. "I can tell you what that is."

"Go on," Jamie said.

"It's called a Tranquilizer. The device was used on mentally ill patients to calm them down back when this place was the old Bedlam Hospital. They were strapped in and the box placed on their head. The padding stopped any light or sound, like a primitive sensory deprivation tank. Water was sometimes poured over the head of the patient while they were in the box. Apparently it was meant to relax them." He grimaced. "Can't see why though." 

"Sounds more like a kind of waterboarding," Jamie said, wondering what the victim might have done to deserve such treatment.

The curator nodded. "There are reports of people dying in the device, of course, but then much of the early treatment for mental illness was inhumane by today's standards. It was designed for control and restraint rather than rehabilitation of any kind."

"Do you have those reports here?" Jamie asked.

Hasbrough shook his head. "No, everything to do with Bedlam is at the hospital. It has moved a number of times over its dark history. Now it's at Beckenham in Kent, a lovely campus, nothing like the cold Gothic place this would have been."

"And this room?" Jamie asked. "Was it part of the old hospital?"

The curator nodded, relaxing as he shared his field of expertise. "Yes, the museum has been substantially altered since it was a hospital but this is one of the old wings. It could have been a treatment room, but we'd have to check the old plans to make certain."

Jamie turned to look back into the room. "So where did the chair come from?"

"We still have some old artifacts in the basement storerooms, and many of them have been cleared out recently for the renovations. This chair could have been easily moved within the museum. It's not a heavy device, as you can see."

Jamie glanced around at the corners of the surrounding corridor.

"Are there any cameras in this part of the building?"

Hasbrough shook his head. "Unfortunately not. We're redoing all the security but because this is under renovation, the cameras were all taken down."

"Someone must have seen this man come in," Jamie said.

The curator nodded. "Perhaps, but we've never had any problems here before. You can't just walk off with a tank or a plane, after all."

Mike Skinner finished the initial processing of the body, covered it and fastened the straps on the gurney. As he rolled it towards the door, the wheels squeaked on the tiled floor. Hasbrough moved back, his nostrils flaring like a skittish horse, as if the mere presence of the body could contaminate him somehow.

"Can you at least take it out the back way?" he asked as the body was rolled past. Skinner ignored the man, heading towards the main entrance. "There are children out there," Hasbrough called. "Bloody half term. Always a crazy time."

"What's going on today?" Jamie asked.

"It's a charity Fun Run for Psyche – you know, that politician Matthew Osborne's thing. Advocates for equality and justice for the mentally ill, or something like that. They got permission for the event months ago. Thought it might be an appropriate place given the history here, and the new hospital is too far out for the press to bother going. But here, there will be some attention and Osborne knows the strings to pull, for sure. I think he's even running today, along with a load of yummy mummies and their brats, no doubt. There are hundreds of people due to turn up, raising money for charity. Be hell to shut it down now."

Jamie glanced down at the plans of the museum she had on her smartphone.

"It looks like the field is far enough away from the crime scene that we don't need to stop it, but we'll need statements from all the people who were here early, including your staff." 

Hasbrough nodded. "Of course."

Jamie turned back to the room, watching the SOCOs go about their work, seeing Missinghall on the phone. He waved his hand at her as he began to read the registration details from the driver's license, clearly not needing her right now.

"Can you show me the outside of the building?" she asked Hasbrough.

"Sure, follow me."

Walking out into the fresh air, Jamie breathed in deeply. The sun peeked through the clouds and it looked like the day might brighten up. Volunteers hung bunting around the bushes, putting up Psyche signs and big arrows pointing to the field beyond the museum where the Fun Run would be.

A blast of rock music came from the speakers, swiftly muted. Heads turned briefly and then returned to staring at the police vehicles in the forecourt. Jamie had no doubt that gossip about the murder would be round the group in no time.

"There's a back way into the museum," Hasbrough said, walking left from the main building.

"What time would this lot have started setting up?" Jamie asked, counting more than twenty volunteers across the field.

"Some of them were already here when I arrived at six," he said. "That Petra Bennett is some kind of superwoman, I swear it. She was ordering the lads around, getting the stage set up." He pointed across the field towards a figure in shades of moss green and gold, the colors of the charity. Her mousy hair caught a ray of sun, and she brushed an almost-blonde strand from her face, the gesture impatient, as she bent to lift another box.

"The Fun Run starts at ten a.m., so they'll be packing up again by two. Will you have to disturb them?"

Jamie watched Petra speaking to a young volunteer, her hand gestures fast as she pointed down the field. Here was a woman who knew what was going on, and a potential suspect.

"We'll need a list of everyone who was onsite this morning, and then the team will be taking some statements." Jamie saw his disturbed glance. "But we'll try to keep it low key."

They walked on a little way.

"This is the back entrance and the one I use." Hasbrough pointed at a cream safety door. "It was unlocked this morning, but to be honest, it usually is. George, the main night watchman, comes out for a smoke now and then. You can keep time by his addiction."

Jamie clenched her fists as the wave of longing for her own cigarettes swept over her.

"What time does he usually come out here?"

"Every hour on the hour. You can check that with him, but I reckon it gets him through the nights when nothing happens. And nothing ever happens, Detective." Hasbrough paused. "At least, it didn't use to."

As they walked back to the main entrance, Jamie saw a man arrive on the other side of the field, his arms laden with bags and balancing a box in one hand. Petra ran to help him, and a smile lit his face.

Jamie had seen Matthew Osborne before on TV, that slightly crooked smile flashed for the press, the gaunt jaw highlighted by an artful line of stubble. He was Secretary of State for Health, but the papers were more interested in his love life. Jamie didn't pay too much attention to politics, but she could see how this man fit right in, as he leaned into Petra and kissed her cheek. She was like a dull little bird, eager to help him, fluttering around his bright plumage. She wondered if he had that effect on all women.

For a moment, Jamie envied Matthew's easy way with people, thinking of her own inability to get close to anyone. It used to be her and Polly against the world, mother and daughter bound together, but now Polly was gone. Fighting the world alone was like standing under a freezing shower all day every day, and sometimes she was beaten to her knees by its force.

Jamie's phone buzzed and she turned from the field to check the text. Today's picture was a clear milk bottle on a red brick step, a daffodil sticking out at a jaunty angle. As usual, Blake had signed it with a smiley. Jamie grinned. For a moment, she felt the darkness in her mind lift a little. Since Polly's death, Blake had kept his physical distance, but every day he let her know he was thinking of her. That alone meant a lot, but she still couldn't see him, for he had a gift. Blake's ability to read emotions in objects meant he would feel the depth of her loss, and she was afraid she would break if he knew.

"Jamie, I've got an address. It's in Harley Street," Missinghall called as he left the museum entrance, walking towards them. "The guy was a psychiatrist. His housekeeper can let us in."

"OK," Jamie said. "Let's go check it out."

 

Chapter 2

Blake Daniel smiled as he walked across Great Russell Street into the courtyard of the British Museum. He put his phone in his pocket and pulled his thin gloves back on, covering the scars on his hands. It pleased him to send Jamie jolly pictures each day and, although she only ever responded with a smiley in return, he knew that at some point she would emerge from her grief. He wanted to be there when she did. Jamie had become a talisman against his own oblivion, and the nights when he craved the tequila bottle were becoming ever more rare. She was worth waiting for. 

Blake looked up at the facade of the British Museum, the tall Ionic columns stretching to the Greek-style pediment, a fitting entrance to the myriad wonders within. The glass roof to the Great Court was now fully repaired from the Neo-Viking attack last month, and the public were streaming in again. The day he stopped loving this place was the day he ought to retire, Blake thought.

He bounded up the steps into the tourist throng, eyes wide and clutching maps as they wondered where to start their day's adventure. Blake loved to try and guess where people came from. Those who journeyed here to stay in multicultural London had intermingled into one great family that managed to rub along together most of the time. Sporadic fights broke out, of course, for a family must hate as well as love, as in all the best Shakespeare plays. But that made life more interesting. Blake's own features were mixed, just as his cultural heritage was. He had the tight curly hair of his Nigerian mother, which he kept at a military number-one cut, and blue eyes of the northern ocean from his Swedish father. With his darker skin tone and boy-band features, he could walk with confidence in any part of London.

Swiping his pass by the door, Blake walked downstairs to the offices of the museum, where researchers worked on artifacts for the exhibits above. There was a sense of excitement here, overlaid with the calm of academia, as the minutiae of past civilizations were dissected. Blake was one of a number of researchers, but his work was supplemented by his peculiar sensitivities. It was called clairvoyance by some, or psychometry, although Blake preferred extrasensory perception, and for him, it manifested as a series of visions gleaned from an object. Their intensity was dictated by the emotions that had attached themselves to the artifact over time, so the more personal the item, the more clearly he could read it. He habitually wore thin gloves to cover his skin so as not to be overwhelmed by the visions from daily life, those gloves serving the dual purpose of hiding disfiguring scars from a childhood of abuse.

Walking through the office towards his own workspace, Blake's eyes fixed on the object that lay upon a white cloth on his desk. He had been assigned the fourteenth-century Nubian cross of Timotheus, and he couldn't get a reading on it at all. Perhaps it was a good thing – perhaps he had been relying on the visions too much, before trying to back up his claims with proper research. But his vivid writing certainly brought in the grants, as it captured the imagination of donors with his description of characters who might have been involved in the object's history. They weren't to know how much of it was truth discovered through emotional perception.

Blake sat down in front of the cross, studying the clover-leaf ends, triple hoops of iron in a simple, functional design. Maybe the passage of time had somehow cleansed the cross of its resonance, or perhaps the priests had worn gloves as part of devotional garments. Nubia had been converted to Christianity in the sixth century and had a rich cultural heritage, although the area was now split between Egypt and Sudan, both Muslim countries. This cross could give an insight into an area of Africa that had once been dominated by Christianity, with powerful empires that many would not believe of the fractious continent these days.

"How's your paper going?"

The voice startled Blake and he turned to see Margaret, his boss, standing behind him. She held a small package in a white padded bag.

"I'd like a draft by the end of next week."

Her face was pinched, but that wasn't unusual. Blake knew he skated near the edge with her, and his frequent absences due to hangover recovery had been noted. Tequila and a string of empty one-night stands had made him almost a part-time employee, but in the last few months he had been a lot more reliable. Perhaps Margaret was softening towards him.

"Of course," he said. "I'm still working on researching Timotheus from the Coptic scrolls. I found a new translation yesterday so I'll use that as part of the paper."

Margaret nodded, and held out the package.

"This came for you. But you really shouldn't have personal items delivered to the museum." She frowned. "You know what a nightmare security is with all the random objects we're sent."

Blake took the parcel. "Sorry, I didn't order anything, so I don't know why …"

His voice trailed off as he recognized his mother's sloping handwriting on the front.

"I'll leave you to it then," Margaret said after waiting a beat too long, clearly interested in what was inside.

Blake laid the package down on his desk. Why would his mother post anything? They hadn't spoken in years, and although he sent cards now and then, telling her he was OK, he hadn't mentioned his address or where he worked. Of course, Google meant that everyone was discoverable online these days: his academic papers had been in some journals and his photo was on the museum website. Blake wanted to rip off the paper to find out what was inside, but some part of him held back. Whatever this was, it drew him to a part of his life he had left behind long ago.

One of the meeting rooms was empty, so Blake took the package and walked inside, shutting the blinds and closing the door. He took his gloves off and looked at his hands, the ivory scars on his caramel skin like an abstract painting. Scars his father had inflicted in an attempt to beat the Devil from his son, believing the visions to be diabolical possession and Blake's hands a portal to Hell. But the bloody whippings had only curbed the visions until the scars began to heal, and then they returned, a curse that no amount of pain could stop.

It had been fifteen years since he had walked out on the abuse, turning away from his father and the religious community that he ruled with an iron rod, like the Old Testament prophets he had preached of in his sermons. But his mother … Blake blinked away the tears that threatened as guilt rose inside. He had to leave her, for there had been no other way. His father would rather have killed him than let the Devil take his son, or at least cut off his hands to stop the visions. And, as much as his mother loved him, she had been a devoted wife and servant, believing that it was God's will Blake be delivered from the curse by His prophet. Perhaps there was a trace of her here.

Laying his hands on the parcel, Blake closed his eyes to let the visions come. He was clean, no tequila for days, so his sensitivity was acute. He felt a rising anxiety, like a high-pitched note that hurt his ears, but under that lay a deep acceptance, a sense of peace in a faith he had no connection to. He saw a front door, the same one he had walked out years ago, and a woman's hand, older now, clutching the envelope. He wanted to see her face, wanted more than this brief glimpse into her world. Then he saw a drip, a series of medical machines, and heard a rasping gasp. He knew that voice. Blake pulled his hand away, heart pounding in his chest.

He ripped open the package and looked inside. A white cloth was wrapped around an object and there was a note, just one page. He pulled it out.

My son. There's too much to say and no time left anymore. I'm sorry. Your father has had a series of strokes. Please come. We love you.

Blake read the note again, unsure what he was supposed to feel. He wanted more from her, more than just these few lines after so long. Why do children read so much into the words of parents? Why expect so much, when they are just people, damaged and desperate, just as we are? Blake shook his head – the years apart should have given him more perspective.

The old man was dying, that much was certain. Maybe he was dead already, but the thought didn't leave Blake feeling any lighter.

On the day he had walked out, Blake had sworn to dance on the old man's grave, wanting to stamp his boots onto the earth as if it had been the prophet's face. But over time, those feelings had hardened into a tight ball of anger that he kept locked up and buried within. The tequila helped soften it, helped him to breathe, but it was a bitch of a mistress that brought as much pain as it did relief.

He needed to know – which meant he had to look more closely. Blake pulled on one of his gloves, not quite ready to experience visions from whatever was in the package. He reached in and took out an object wrapped in a white handkerchief. Blake remembered how his father had always worn one, ironed perfectly into a pocket square for his suits. A man should dress for his station, he would say, the Lord demands us to be our best. An English affectation, Blake thought with a short smile. Perhaps it said more about his father's immigrant sensibilities than anything the Lord demanded.

The handkerchief was wrapped like a parcel. Blake slowly pulled the edges away to reveal his father's watch, a vintage Patek Philippe, the gold of its face tarnished and the leather strap worn, but still a beautiful piece. Blake's chest tightened and he concentrated on breathing, as a flash of memory took him back. He knelt at the altar while the Elders prayed aloud in tongues, his father's right hand slamming down the cane. Blake's eyes fixed on this watch on his father's left wrist, knowing the time it took to reach the bloody end of his penance and weeping while the seconds ticked away. He felt an echo of pain in his hands and he rubbed them, clenching his fists together as if holding hands with his past self might steel him to the memory.

The watch had been his grandfather's, and his father only took it off at night. For this to leave his wrist for any longer meant that he was seriously ill. Had he asked for it to be sent? Did his father want to see him? Or would it just be a final agony to know that Blake was still an outcast from his family, still considered to be of the Devil. Old age would not lessen the man's fundamental beliefs, but only make them more extreme. The strokes themselves would be seen as an attack from Satan, the tribulations of Job perhaps, and Blake imagined the church praying for their leader, interceding with God for His divine intervention. The reality was that his father was an old man.

Blake exhaled slowly, trying to calm his heart rate. The anxiety that gripped him even at the thought of his father seemed ridiculous now, yet still it held him fast. He wanted to touch the watch and feel something of what his father experienced, but he was also afraid of what he might see. When he was young, he had seen visions from his parents' things – he couldn't help it living in their house. But the glimmers of lust and violence from his father and the shuttered, rigid calm from his mother had frightened him. That's when Blake had first taken to wearing gloves, when his hands weren't bandaged from the beatings.

He took his glove off again and set a five-minute alarm on his smartphone. Sometimes the visions were too much, and he could be lost in overwhelming sights and sounds that left him on the brink of collapse. Sometimes Blake wondered if he should see a psychiatrist about his experiences, but he pushed away the fleeting doubts about his own sanity. These days, his reading helped to solve crimes. He remembered reading the ivory Anatomical Venus figurine with Jamie present and how she had pulled his hand away from the object, helping him out of the trance. But she wasn't here right now, and Blake wanted to see into his father's life. He needed to know whether he should go home and face his childhood fears.

Placing his hands over the watch, Blake gently laid them down, his fingertips connecting with the cool metal on the edges of the face and the smooth glass that covered it. Despite the scars, his sensitivity had only increased with age and experience. Blake let the visions come in a rush, breathing slowly as they swirled about him, glimpses of life flashing by. He sifted through the stream of impressions that assaulted his mind.

He went into the most recent remembrance, the raw emotion of a man crippled by multiple strokes, an awareness of mortality and fear of dying overlaid with too much pride to acknowledge the truth of the end. Blake looked out at the bedroom in his old house, but it was no longer the room he remembered.

The walls sprouted with black growths like nodes of cancer in a smoker's lung, spotted with dull green mold. In places, trickles of liquid ran down, pooling on the bare floorboards in patches of tainted burgundy, like diseased blood. Above the fireplace, one of the lumps moved and Blake realized it was a living creature. The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he perceived a bony spine and tail with skin like tar, the thing's face jagged and its eyes bright with lust for death. It shifted, its gaze lighting on the bed. Blake felt its stare invade his body, examining every cell for a sign of the inevitable end. He heard a moan and knew his father had made the sound: it was all he could utter. But there was no exorcism, no prayers he could invoke to cleanse the room of this filth. Hooded lids closed again as the dark creature waited. Blake sensed that it wouldn't be long now before it would feed.

He tried to see past the creatures and the corruption of the room. Was this some kind of hallucination, a manifestation of his father's worst fears, brought on by the stroke? Or could it be that he was seeing past the physical world into the spiritual realm? If that was true, then the God his father had served for a lifetime had forsaken him, for the room was filled with terror and the promise of Hell.

Blake pulled back, filtering the memories that were attached to the watch. He perceived an overwhelming sense of fear that overlaid everything, a panic barely held back by the violence of his father's fervent prayer and brimstone preaching. It was something he had never expected, for Magnus Olofsson had been the definition of strength, a watchtower the needy had run to for leadership and shelter. That fortitude had been the basis of respect in their community, where perspectives and lifestyles were held over from days long past. When Blake had walked out, he had changed his name as a final separation. Daniel Blake Olofsson had become Blake Daniel, and disappeared to a new life.

In the vision, he saw his mother's face, her eyes closed in prayer, and he felt his father's guilt as he looked at her. The emotion was so strong that Blake pulled away from the sensation quickly. He couldn't stand to know what his father was guilty of, not right now. But he held back from leaving the trance completely.

He had to go there, he realized. He had to return to the place he had run from years ago, and so Blake parted the veils of memory. He saw his own face as a young boy, kneeling by the altar in the church, tears running down as men surrounded him. He felt the righteous rage inside his father, but that anger wasn't directed at Blake, his son, it was at the Devil for taking him. Blake felt an echo of his father's thoughts as blood dripped onto the altar, He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.

The alarm pierced Blake's thoughts and he anchored his mind on it, pulling his hands away as he returned to the room under the British Museum again. Why was the verse from the book of Numbers in his father's mind as he labored with the cane? What sin had his father committed that God would punish his child for atonement?

 

Chapter 3

Harley Street had long been noted for its private medical practices, and the very name resonated with old money and privilege. Number 37 was on the corner of Queen Anne Street, a Victorian five-story house with ornate windows. Jamie glanced up to the sculptures on the facade, displaying a laurel-crowned figure with volumes of Homer and Milton, and a reclining young man with a telescope and a star. Poetry and astronomy seemed curiously out of place on this street of medical history.

Missinghall unfolded himself from the police car, beginning his second morning pastry and offering Jamie a bite. His large frame meant he was always eating, and he chipped away at trying to get Jamie to eat more, tempting her with little morsels. Her clothes were loose around her hips now, and she often forgot to eat until she was nauseous with hunger by the end of the day. The physical reminder of her body's insistence for life was something she danced on the edge of resisting. Jamie had read that the Jain religion had a ritual death by fasting, and the vow of sallekhana could be taken when an individual felt their life had served enough of a purpose: when there were no ambitions or wishes left and no responsibilities remained. Some days, Jamie wanted to embrace such an end, but Polly had told her to live, to dance, and her responsibility was still to bring justice to the dead. But was that enough of a purpose to keep her going?

It would have to be for today, Jamie thought, and accepted the offer of pastry with a smile. Missinghall broke off a generous piece and Jamie forced it down her throat, the act of swallowing almost against her will. 

"There should be a housekeeper here," Missinghall said, brushing crumbs from his suit. Jamie noticed that he had red socks on today, peeking out from under his slightly too-short trousers, his way of bringing color to their dark work. "She manages the place for the practitioners."

Jamie pressed the buzzer and after a moment, the door opened. A slim woman in jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt stood at the entrance, her cropped ash-blonde hair belying her middle age. Jamie showed her warrant card and introduced herself and Missinghall.

"Of course, I was expecting you," the woman said. "What a business. Dr Monro dead. Well, I never." She shook her head. "Come in, come in. I haven't touched anything in his rooms, just like the officer told me on the phone."

She led them into the hallway.

"How many practices are there here?" Jamie asked.

"Four," the housekeeper said. "They keep themselves to themselves, and I look after all their rooms. Not that any of them are much trouble, you know."

"Any tension between the businesses at all?"

The woman turned on the first step of the stairs. "Not that I would know about, Detective. But then I'm just the housekeeper now, aren't I?"

Despite her words, Jamie could see a cloud in her blue eyes. There was more here, but perhaps the rooms themselves would help set the scene before she pushed any harder.

On the second floor, the housekeeper unlocked a wooden door, inset with two half panes of stained glass featuring red and blue art deco roses.

"You can look around, and please take all the time you need, Detectives. I'll come back in a bit. Would you like tea?"

"Yes, please," Missinghall jumped at the chance. "We're both black, one sugar."

Jamie stepped into the room, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves as Missinghall did the same behind her.

She had expected a cozy nook with a couch and blankets, somewhere welcoming for private therapy. Instead, the rooms were fashioned in a Japanese minimalist style, with just two chairs and a small table in one main space and a study beyond. The walls were a light cream, with nothing to decorate the space. It was entirely blank, offering the patient no respite from their own mind.

Walking into the study area beyond, Jamie noted the filing cabinets of patient records and a general neatness and organization. There were thick medical textbooks on a bookshelf as well as a framed degree certificate, and a couple of files and a fountain pen lay on a desk of Brazilian walnut. In the corner was a small fridge, topped with a kettle and coffee plunger.

On the wall, a single large canvas showed a blue ocean with white-capped waves. On first glance, the waters seemed calm, but as Jamie looked at it more closely, she noticed the darkening skies towards the edge of the painting as a storm approached. Under the waves there were shadows, darker patches of blue that could have been creatures of the depths. It was a strange painting, perhaps one of Monro's analysis tools, the shadows interpreted according to the viewer's perspective. Jamie imagined sharks there, with razor teeth to shred her flesh, but she still felt an urge to sink under the blue.

Missinghall walked to the back of the study, where another door led onwards. He turned the handle. It was locked.

"That's his private apartment," the housekeeper said, walking in with the tea and a plate of biscuits. "I was never allowed in there. He was particular about that."

"Did he live as well as work here, then?" Jamie asked.

"Let's just say he didn't have a routine that meant he left his rooms too much." She hesitated. "I think that was a problem with some of the other partners in the building. He needed heating, electricity and other amenities at night, and never paid more than his allotted percentage. But of course, the other practices have wonderful people in them. None of them could possibly be involved in his murder."

Jamie smiled, helping her with the tea things. "Of course."

"I'll come back in a bit then, see if you need anything else."

"Thank you."

As she left, Missinghall pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, a bunch of keys visible inside. "I thought we might be needing these. They were in Monro's jacket pocket."

Using the bag as a second glove, he maneuvered the keys, trying them against the lock for size until one fitted. He turned the key and pushed open the door.

"Ladies first," he smiled at Jamie, and she nodded her head, walking through ahead of him. It was dark inside, the windows shaded, so it was hard to see at first. As Missinghall flicked on the light, Jamie gasped at what they saw.

The room was dominated by a gynecological bed in the center, with green padded cushions and the addition of leather straps at each end, as well as stirrups and supports. Under the table was a wooden box. Missinghall lifted the lid to reveal a number of different crops, whips, eye masks and a ball gag.

"Bloody hell, I wasn't expecting that," Missinghall said, eyebrows raised. "I thought this guy was a psychiatrist, not some kind of sexual services provider."

"He was only supposed to be interested in their minds," Jamie said, walking around the bed. "But clearly, he liked to take things a little further."

She walked to a desk near the shaded window and turned on the lamp. A large leather notebook lay in pride of place, with a serpent-green fountain pen beside it.

Jamie opened the book, examining Monro's handwriting within. The last page was an account of a session with a client he called 'M,' noting her response to the discipline and how many strokes she had endured. There were some musings about the efficacy of physical restraint on the mad, how they were more comfortable being punished than being left alone to get well, and how perhaps the original Bedlam had been correct in chaining the inmates. There were quotes from a Dr George Henry Savage: I would rather tie a patient down constantly than keep him always under the influence of a powerful drug … The scourging of the lunatic in times past might have occasionally been a help to recovery.

Jamie frowned as she flicked through the pages, seeing multiple entries over the last month, the same initials appearing several times. Were these willing participants in Monro's extra services, or did he use his position of power to coerce his clients? Was one of them responsible for his death?

Above the desk was a bookshelf with four more of the large journals. Jamie pulled another one down, finding the same type of information but with other initials. Monro had clearly been doing this for years, so it was conceivable that patients had come to him specifically for this kind of treatment. Complaints about his professionalism would have shut him down a long time ago otherwise. 

"You'll want to see this, Jamie."

She turned to see Missinghall looking into a large walk-in closet. He moved aside to let her enter. A wall-size cabinet dominated the space, filled with all kinds of pharmaceuticals, some regulated substances, others common antidepressants and antipsychotics. None of them should have been kept on the premises in such large doses.

"He was dealing, as well? What wasn't this guy into?" Missinghall shook his head, moving over to check one of the filing cabinets, his gloved fingers flicking through the tabbed index.

Jamie sighed. "We're going to have to go through his list of clients, past and present. Clearly the murder was related to madness somehow, but it could have also been about sex or drugs."

"I don't think it was money, though," Missinghall said, holding up a bank statement. "His balance is unhealthier than mine."

Jamie frowned. "Which doesn't fit with the implication of selling drugs directly. So where's the money?"

There was a ring on the doorbell, and they heard the steps of the housekeeper and then her voice, faint from downstairs. The tread of two sets of footsteps ascended to the second floor.

Jamie went back into the main room, pulling the door of the inner sanctum closed, leaving Missinghall to continue to go through paperwork. The housekeeper knocked and then pushed open the door to the practice rooms.

"Detective, there's a Mr Harkan here. He says it's important."

Harkan was thin and fair, with the rosy cheeks of a choirboy who had never quite grown up. He put out a graceful hand to introduce himself to Jamie as the housekeeper headed off downstairs again.

"I'm sorry, Detective, but this couldn't wait. I just heard about the murder – the news is already out, I'm afraid, and Harley Street is a tight-knit community. I'm a solicitor. Our firm is just down the street, and we worked with Monro. He was a forensic psychiatrist as well as a clinical practitioner."

"A man of many talents," Jamie said, thinking of the room out back.

"Indeed," said Harkan, and Jamie noticed his eyes flick towards the door. Did the solicitor know what lay beyond?

"What exactly did he work with you on?" she asked.

"Forensic psychiatry is the intersection of law and the psychiatric profession, and Monro helped assess competency to stand trial. He was an expert witness around aspects of mental illness, both for the prosecution and the defense. He also assessed the risk of repeat offending."

"So why the hurry to talk to us?" Jamie asked. "You could have come down to the station with a statement."

"It's the timing," Harkan said, wringing his hands. "Monro was an expert witness for the prosecution in the case of Timothy MacArnold a few years back. A violent, repeat offender who claimed mental illness drove his actions, and Monro supported that in his testimony. MacArnold is in Broadmoor, the maximum-security mental health hospital for violent offenders."

"And why are you so worried?"

"MacArnold's case is coming up for review and Monro was trying to get him transferred to some exclusive research hospital. I don't know the exact details of that, but I do know that MacArnold has a good position at Broadmoor and if he wanted to stay there … well, he's a violent man used to getting what he wants, even inside." Harkan's eyes flicked all over the room, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His speech was hurried, tripping over his words in the haste to get them out. Jamie noted his concerns on her pad, but they would have to look at Mr Harkan more closely.

"Then of course there's the families of MacArnold's victims," Harkan continued. "They're livid at the thought of him getting even better treatment than he does now, all art therapy and counseling when he butchered their loved ones. There's a lot of anger at Monro for his support of the insanity plea."

Jamie nodded.

"We're certainly going to investigate all these angles, Mr Harkan. This is useful information, so I'd like you to give an official statement. My colleague, DC Missinghall will take you through the process and get some more details. If you'd just wait here a minute."

Jamie walked to the back room and ducked inside, careful to shield the inside space from view and closing the door briefly behind her. There was already enough gossip on this street.

"Al, can you take a proper statement from this guy? Apparently Monro was involved in the justice system, as well." She lowered her voice. "And I think we need to investigate his background, too. Seems a little too quick in assigning motive for the murder. Of course, he might just be the neighborhood busybody."

Missinghall groaned. "There's always one. Righto, but seriously, how many motives can there be for murdering this guy?" He handed a thick box file to Jamie. "You'll want to have a look through this. It's his clients, past and present."

Missinghall went out to take Harkan's statement as Jamie perched on the bed, thumbing through the cards in the box. Judging by the dates of the first appointments, they covered the last five years. There were a lot of patients, both male and female, and there were symbols on each card, perhaps a visual reference system enabling Monro to easily follow the development of treatment. But what did those symbols mean?

There were red squares, yellow triangles and a blue shape, like a raindrop, interspersed between the cards. Some had just one and others had multiple symbols. Jamie noticed that a black circle in the upper right coincided with the end of the appointments for an individual. There were also larger pieces of paper folded in between some of the cards. Jamie pulled one out to find an extensive family tree drawn in dark pen, each person labeled with a name and their mental health status. This particular patient had black circles dotted all over the page and Monro had commented in spidery handwriting on the need for intervention to stop the continuation of this family stain.

As she continued to flick through the pack of records, Jamie noticed a name she vaguely recognized. Melyssa Osborne. The card had the red square, blue raindrop and the black circle on it. Why did that name ring a bell?

Jamie got out her smartphone, removed a glove, and searched for the name. Melyssa was the younger sister of MP Matthew Osborne; she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had committed suicide three months earlier.

The black circle must mean deceased.

Jamie flicked through the pack again and noted how many black circles there were, many of which also had the blue raindrop. Her own work was a dark business, but there was a cemetery's worth in these records. They would need to check on all the patients Monro had treated. Jamie opened Monro's diary and compared the initials to the patients in the last week.

Another name leapt out at her.

Petra Bennett had attended appointments every week – the same woman who had been at the Imperial War Museum for the Psyche Fun Run and who had greeted Matthew Osborne so warmly.