A Gift for Dying Read online

  M. J. Arlidge

  * * *

  A GIFT FOR DYING

  Contents

  Book One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Book Two Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Book Three Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Epilogue Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Chapter 151

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  M. J. Arlidge has worked in television for the last fifteen years, specializing in high-end drama production, including the prime-time crime serials Torn, The Little House and Silent Witness. Arlidge also pilots original crime series for both UK and US networks. In 2015 his audio exclusive Six Degrees of Assassination was a Number One bestseller.

  His first thriller, Eeny Meeny, was the UK’s bestselling crime debut of 2014. It was followed by the bestselling Pop Goes the Weasel, The Doll’s House, Liar Liar, Little Boy Blue, Hide and Seek, Love Me Not, and Down to the Woods.

  For Jennie,

  whose gifts are real

  Nothing in life is to be feared;

  it is only to be understood.

  Marie Curie

  Book One

  * * *

  1

  The shock of the impact, then an act of kindness.

  It was rush hour and North Michigan Avenue was teeming with souls. The sidewalk was clogged with office workers, shoppers and tourists keen to experience the magic of Chicago’s ‘Magnificent Mile’. Progress was faltering and Kassie kept her head down as she barged her way through the crowds. She seldom braved central Chicago – venturing north only to shoplift clothes and cosmetics from the upmarket stores – and she was keen to get back to the familiar sprawl of the southern suburbs.

  Her eyes were glued to the floor – seeing feet approaching, then dodging them at the last minute – but her concentration must have wavered for a moment, because suddenly she hit something hard and unyielding. Such was the force of the collision that she was thrown backwards. Her satchel slid off her shoulder, the stolen clothes tumbling out on to the sidewalk, even as she crumpled on to the bubblegum-smeared concrete. She landed on her backside, her tailbone connecting sharply with the ground, the shock robbing her of breath and making her feel light-headed.

  She sat there for a moment, aware of how ridiculous she must look, yet seemingly unable to move. To her shame, she felt tears prick her eyes.

  ‘Are you ok?’

  The voice sounded far away, but still cut through the noise of the taxi horns on the busy avenue.

  ‘Totally my fault. I didn’t see you …’

  Kassie became aware of a man crouching down over her.

  ‘Sometimes I’m so in the zone, I don’t notice what’s right in front of me …’

  His voice was warm, calm. Kassie felt more foolish still – if the collision was anyone’s fault, it was hers. Her mother always said she was clumsy.

  ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you,’ the voice continued. ‘If you need to get checked ou—’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Kassie replied quickly. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

  She hadn’t looked up at him, but she could tell by his immaculate brogues and expensive suit that he didn’t belong in her world. He clearly had status, money and presumably little time to be assisting high-school truants.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  A hand was offered to her. Strong, confident, open. Gratefully, she grasped it and was soon back on her feet. The pain had gone now and she was keen to be away, fearful that one of the many police officers who patrolled North Michigan Avenue would take an interest in the items scattered on the ground.

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.

  ‘Now, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? How about a cab …?’

  His voice was so nice, so reassuring, that now she could
n’t resist. She looked up, taking in the strong, clean-shaven chin, the thick, brown curls, his deep, hazel eyes. The man was smiling, his eyes sparkling with good humour, but suddenly Kassie froze.

  She’d been hoping to find kindness, even serenity in his expression. Instead, she was looking death in the face.

  2

  He was descending into the underworld.

  Cook County Jail was imposing from the outside, with its towering walls and concertina wire, but even more unnerving on the inside. The subterranean tunnels that led to the cells were deliberately labyrinthine, the signs and directions having been removed to hinder escape attempts, and even regular visitors lost their way. Furthermore, the din that accompanied your progress – the catcalling, screaming and hollering – was incessant, only serving to amplify your anxiety about what might be waiting for you at the end of your journey. It wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t right, but this was the daily reality inside America’s largest unofficial mental health facility.

  Adam Brandt had been coming here for years. An experienced forensic psychologist, he had always worked closely with the Sheriff’s Office. Harvard-educated, double-boarded for adult and paediatric psychology, he could have made a small fortune attending the clients who visited his private practice in Lincoln Park. But he’d never forgotten his humble origins; nor could he ignore his conscience, which is why he regularly found himself in the bowels of the earth under Cook County Jail.

  The faces in the holding cells were depressingly familiar and Adam had been concerned to find himself opposite Lemar Johnson once more this morning.

  ‘I can’t be here, man. I can’t be here …’

  ‘I understand that, Lemar, and I’m going to try to get you out. But I need you to look at me. I can’t communicate with you, if you don’t look at me …’

  The 21-year-old was rocking back and forth in his chair, his face concealed by his massive, scarred hands. His life had already been blighted by violence – his father murdered, a cousin gunned down in a drive-by – and his mental health had always hung in the balance. He was bipolar, suffered from PTSD and regularly used heroin to help him sleep. The last time their paths had crossed, Adam had managed to get Lemar referred to a mental health outreach unit and he’d been doing well following his release – with a little help from Prozac and hydroxyzine. Adam didn’t exactly approve of the drugs, but they seemed to be working – until last night at least, when Lemar had threatened a man with a knife in a chicken shop in South Shore.

  ‘Have you been taking your meds?’

  ‘Sure, sure …’

  ‘Look at me, Lemar.’

  ‘Shit, I ran out,’ the young man replied, not looking up.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They said I had to wait four months for an appointment, a follow-up.’

  Adam’s heart sank. This kind of complaint was common, given the recent cutbacks to mental health provision and the Capitol’s scandalous inability to agree a State Budget. The intransigence on both sides made his blood boil – it was never the politicians who suffered when they played politics.

  ‘I tried to make them last. One day on, one day off, but it was making me crazy.’

  ‘When did you run out?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘You should have contacted me. Contacted the Center.’

  ‘I tried, man.’

  Adam let the lie go. Lemar had clearly been in a manic phase – socializing wildly, spending what little money he had, so he hadn’t a hope of posting bail – but was now beginning the steep decline into depression.

  ‘Ok, we’re going to get you some meds, then I want you to tell me exactly what happened. You’ve got your arraignment tomorrow and I want your attorney to have everything she needs to argue that a short stay in a residential mental health unit is what’s needed. I take it you’d prefer that to staying here?’

  Lemar stopped fidgeting long enough to nod his head briefly.

  ‘Good, then let’s talk.’

  An hour later, Adam found himself back in the prison’s parking lot. He strode over to his Lexus SUV – an extravagance he’d convinced himself was acceptable, given the imminent arrival of his first child – checking his watch as he went. Lemar had been reluctant to talk and it had taken a while to get a coherent summary of events from him. It was pushing 6 p.m. now – he would have to pray that the traffic wasn’t too bad, if he were to call in at the office and make it home at a reasonable time. Upping his pace, he zapped the car, opened the driver’s door and flung his bag and jacket inside. As he did so, however, his cell phone began to vibrate.

  Calls at this hour were never good news and Adam was not surprised to recognize the number. The caller was Freddie Highsmith, Superintendent at Chicago’s Juvenile Detention Center.

  ‘I’m just on my way home, Freddie,’ Adam said cautiously.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Freddie responded brightly. ‘But when you need the best in the business …’

  ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere –’

  ‘… plus there’s no one else available. I’ve rung all the usual suspects, but everyone’s under siege. Look, I know you’re running on empty … but I can’t give this one to a college grad.’

  Freddie paused now, his jovial manner evaporating as his anxiety punched through. Adam said nothing, suddenly concerned, listening intently as Freddie concluded:

  ‘We’ve got a live one here.’

  3

  Jacob Jones drained his Goose Island, then banged the empty glass on the wooden counter, signalling to the bartender that he needed another. The condensation was still thick on the glass and the harassed server snatched it up, arching an eyebrow at the speed of Jacob’s consumption. Jacob didn’t react. His mind was elsewhere and, besides, neither the bar nor the bartender was familiar to him. Greene’s Tavern was one of several old-fashioned drinking holes in the area that harked back to the Prohibition era. Tourists liked to come here to wallow in nostalgia, to take photos of themselves supping beer under the watchful eye of Al Capone, but to Jacob this place was a short-term sanctuary – a port in a storm.

  The bartender marked up his tab and slid the glass towards him. Froth spilled over the sides, but Jacob swept it up, raising it greedily to his lips. As the lager slid over his tongue, hitting the back of his throat, he realized that his hand was shaking and he quickly replaced the glass on the counter. Suddenly he felt emotion ambush him – his heart pounding once more – and he had to lower his face towards the floor to hide his tortured expression.

  ‘Get a grip,’ he muttered to himself, hoping that the noisy cabal of British tourists nearby wouldn’t hear him.

  He knew he was over-reacting. In the course of his work, he had encountered many shocking events, though he had seldom been the one at the centre of the storm. Even now, an hour or more after the confrontation, he was trying to process exactly what had happened.

  He had been so intent on getting home that he hadn’t seen the girl until he’d dumped her on her ass. He had played college football back in the day and often put this to good use on the busy Chicago streets, leading with his shoulder as he parted the crowds. This time, however, he had misjudged his line of attack and taken out the startled teenager.

  Determined as he was to get back to West Town, he’d been raised to put his hand up when he was at fault. So he’d checked that the girl was ok and helped her to her feet. He’d then tried to engage her in conversation and she’d seemed all right at first, muttering her thanks through her embarrassment. Then the whole thing kind of went off. What had he been expecting? Gratitude? Apologies? A girlish blush? He knew he was an attractive guy – tall, well-built, with a kind face – and on other occasions women had become pleasingly flustered on finding themselves talking to him. But there was no engaging bashfulness in this teenager’s expression – she looked horrified.

  He’d carried on talking to her, but she had just stared at him, shaking and speechless, so in the end he had cut and run. Disconcerted, angry
at her lack of gratitude, he had hurried on his way. Nancy wasn’t home – she was at a conference in San Francisco – but still he’d wanted to get back to the house, to put the whole strange incident behind him.

  But as he’d charged down North Michigan Avenue, dodging the ponderous tourists, he became aware of something. Someone shouting, then footsteps coming up fast behind him. He’d turned suddenly – expecting what exactly? – just in time to see the girl throw herself at him.

  Jacob raised the glass to his lips once more, draining another half-pint. What had happened after that still seemed like a blur. The girl had clasped his right arm, then his lapels, trying desperately to grab hold of him. He had attempted to extricate himself, even as the words – manic and confused – tumbled from her lips. Still she’d clung on, so he’d pushed her forcefully away, but this only seemed to anger her further. She started screaming – threatening him, if you could believe it – and instinctively he’d freed his right arm to strike her. Thankfully, this had proved unnecessary as a couple of police officers now intervened, hauling the girl off. Still she didn’t relent, screeching at Jacob, even as she was dragged to the waiting patrol car.

  Tugging his suit jacket back into shape, Jacob had turned away, unable to watch the sorry spectacle any longer. The young girl hadn’t looked angry or aggrieved any more.

  She’d looked deranged.

  4

  ‘How long’s she been doing that?’

  Adam peered through the window of the supervision cell. A teenage girl was pacing back and forth, shouting and gesturing at the door.

  ‘Since she came in,’ the custody officer drawled. ‘First, she was demanding to be let out. Then she was trying to rip the door off. Now she’s happy just handing out abuse.’

  Adam digested this information, his eyes never leaving the pacing figure. Half an hour ago, he’d been looking forward to finishing up his paperwork and heading home to see Faith, but already the clinician in him was taking over. This teenager – she was fourteen, fifteen at the most – was clearly in the middle of some kind of mental health breakdown.

  ‘She was brought in an hour ago. Tried to rob some guy on North Michigan. Right in front of the cops. She had an ounce of skunk on her apparently, so I don’t know what sense you’re going to get out of her.’