Fatal Harmony Read online

  Fatal Harmony

  Kate Rhodes

  Contents

  Also by Kate Rhodes

  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

  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

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 Kate Rhodes

  The right of Kate Rhodes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  * * *

  Kate Rhodes

  Visit my website at www.katerhodeswriter.com

  ‘Those who were seen dancing were considered insane by those who could not hear the music.’

  * * *

  Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

  Also by Kate Rhodes

  The Alice Quentin series

  Crossbones Yard

  A Killing of Angels

  The Winter Foundlings

  River of Souls

  Blood Symmetry

  * * *

  The Hell Bay series

  * * *

  Hell Bay

  Ruin Beach

  Burnt Island

  Chapter 1

  Monday 21 March

  Adrian Stone wakes early on the first day of spring. Somewhere in the distance music is playing, a solitary piano refrain that should be accompanied by weeping violins. It’s imaginary, of course. None of the murderers and rapists on his wing share his musical skill. When he rubs sleep from his eyes, the sound falls silent, but the melody has raised his anticipation for the day ahead. He keeps his mind calm as he dresses. There is no mirror in his cell, only a piece of pearlised metal bolted to the wall; it returns the blurred image of a young man with blond hair and pale blue eyes.

  ‘Time to start over,’ he whispers.

  The morning follows its usual pattern. Stone is escorted to the cafeteria, where more guards than patients populate the hall. He stares out at the grounds while eating his breakfast: daffodils raising their yellow crowns to the sky, pigeons scrapping for food, half a mile of tinted window. He knows from experience that the glass is unbreakable. When he was younger and more reckless, he hurled himself at it, hoping to shatter the barrier between life and death, but received only a mess of bruises.

  One of the guards greets him with a rapid nod. The officer is called Matthew Briar, a thin-faced young man with an intent stare. Stone finds his gauche manner irritating, but he’s in no position to criticise. It’s a relationship he’s cultivated for years.

  ‘Ready for your trip, Adrian?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Stone leans forward attentively, until their hands almost touch.

  ‘It’s your hospital visit today, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Briar’s voice lowers. ‘Come on then, let’s get you back to your cell.’

  Stone follows the officer down the corridor at a steady pace, two more guards flanking him, another walking behind. The same men escort him to the ambulance. He

  has feigned deafness for weeks, forcing the chief medic to book an appointment with a specialist in Nottingham.

  Years of good behaviour have won Stone an advantage. There are just three officers in the van when it leaves the compound: two guards in the front seats, then Matthew Briar locks him into the caged compartment, before sitting on the narrow bench by the doors. Behind the metal panel the driver and his colleague make conversation as villages tick past. It’s only when the van enters open countryside that Stone nods at his guard.

  Music plays in his mind once more, reaching a crescendo, cymbals flaring, as Briar unlocks the metal cage. Stone gives a high-pitched scream and the van brakes suddenly. There’s a stunned look on Briar’s face as Stone throws his first punch, years of frustration giving him unnatural strength. Once the other guards wrench the doors open, light floods the confined space; the rage he has carried since childhood spills over as he kicks, bites and scratches his way to freedom. He disables all three men before they can reach for their tasers. His thoughts spin out of control, mouth filling with the taste of blood.

  Stone’s mind finally clears as he scans the filthy ground. One of the guards is dead, the other two on the brink; his thoughts are blank as he kicks first one skull then the other, hearing the soft click of bones snapping. He leans down to press a small object into one of the men’s mouths. When he straightens up again an old woman in a black car is slowing down; a rubbernecker, hungry for corpses. He raises his hand in a bloodstained wave.

  ‘Leaving already, sweetheart?’

  The car roars away, engine trilling with panic.

  Stone removes the keys from the prison van’s ignition, noticing that the driver hit the panic button
before exiting the vehicle. Sirens will squeal in his direction before long, yet he’s smiling when he escapes the scene, a drum roll pounding in his skull as he sprints for the trees.

  Chapter 2

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ Lola asked, gazing across at me.

  I had taken a day off for her pre-wedding shopping trip. We stood in the changing room of an upmarket bridal boutique in Knightsbridge. She was dressed head to toe in ivory silk, auburn curls rippling down her back, tall and svelte as a mannequin, an assistant simpering approval in the background.

  ‘Great,’ I replied. ‘Breathtaking, actually.’

  ‘Be honest, Alice, please. This is my last chance for alterations.’

  ‘The dress is damn near perfect; I’ll feel like a leprechaun beside you.’

  ‘I’ve got wedding fever.’ Her hands fumbled as she unzipped the dress. ‘Get me to a pub, right now.’

  ‘Good plan, but put some clothes on first.’

  Under normal circumstances I enjoyed a good wedding, but not as maid of honour. Traipsing down the aisle dressed like a miniature Barbie, holding a bouquet of peace lilies wasn’t my idea of fun, but Lola had been my closest friend since school. It would have been churlish to refuse.

  The city was in slow motion as we crossed Sloane Street. Pedestrians were window shopping for designer handbags, cashmere and Italian shoes, enjoying the afternoon’s first warm breath of spring. We ended up in a watering hole called the Gloucester, which had retained its traditional pub atmosphere, despite the area going upmarket. The ceiling was nicotine-yellow even though smoking had been banned for a decade; tatty leather chairs grouped in clusters. I relaxed into one with a large glass of Chardonnay. It felt like the good old days, when Lola and I had spent our weekends trawling from bar to bar, before her baby arrived. Pale sunshine filtered through the windows as Lola fretted over wedding details, from the food at her reception to the honeymoon weekend in Venice in two weeks’ time.

  ‘My parents are looking after Neve,’ she said. ‘But I’d rather take her with us.’

  ‘You can’t, Lo. Honeymoons are for romance and mindless sex. How is my god-daughter anyway?’

  ‘Wrapping Neal round her little finger, a total daddy’s girl.’

  ‘Is the Greek god ready for the big day?’

  ‘The boy’s unflappable.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s filming, so I’ve done all the work.’

  Neal’s acting career was going from strength to strength. He’d graduated from bit parts in soap operas to major roles in BBC costume dramas, his classic good looks making him an ideal leading man. When I looked at Lola again she was leaning forwards in her chair, cat-like green eyes scrutinising me.

  ‘How’s Burns these days?’

  I shrugged. ‘Pretty good. We meet between shifts, take the odd weekend away.’

  ‘Is the sex still incredible?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘That sounds like a yes,’ she replied, sniggering. ‘How are you getting on with his kids?’

  ‘Moray’s coming round to the idea his dad’s got a girlfriend, but Liam’s in denial. He hardly ever meets my eye.’

  ‘Is Liam the oldest?’

  ‘Thirteen. It’s a bad age for your family to fall apart.’

  ‘At least his stepmother’s not evil.’

  ‘They might not agree.’

  Lola looked amused. ‘They’re probably expecting you to get married.’

  I couldn’t summon a reply. My relationship with Burns survived because we took it one day at a time, the future rarely mentioned, which suited me fine. Given my track record, the whole enterprise might yet collapse like a house of cards. My attention wandered to the TV above the bar, to evade my friend’s probing. A man’s face filled the screen as the one o’clock news began, and suddenly the easy-going jazz that had been playing in the background fell silent. Adrian Stone appeared unchanged since our last meeting six months before; he looked younger than his twenty-five years, as he gave the camera a winning smile. Words flashed across the screen, announcing that he had escaped, yet calmness flooded my system, not panic. My survival instinct had kicked in already; I would need a clear mind and rapid reactions to keep myself safe.

  My phone had been on silent all morning, but now it vibrated wildly in my pocket. Six calls had arrived and a flurry of emails with angry red flags. The first was from my boss, Christine Jenkins, ordering me to report to the Forensic Psychology Unit immediately.

  I stumbled to my feet, almost knocking over my wine glass. ‘I have to go Lola, sorry.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll call you tonight.’

  I gave her a distracted kiss before hurrying outside. The rational part of me knew Stone could never track me down in one of London’s busiest shopping districts, unless he was clairvoyant, but the back of my neck still prickled with anxiety.

  The fifteen-minute cab ride to Dacre Street passed in a blur of expensive restaurants and shops. How could anyone escape from Rampton’s secure psychiatric unit? The centre had rigid safety protocols, but for Stone, ordinary rules didn’t apply. I looked out of the window as the cab drove east towards St James’s Park, passing elegant Georgian hotels. Stone must have spent years planning. It would have been impossible to escape without an accomplice, but right now the details were immaterial. His hatred of me was a matter of public record; he blamed me for denying him his liberty.

  Squad cars were already parked outside the FPU when I arrived, the gravity of the situation hitting home. My role as Deputy Director had been announced on the internet. If Stone came looking for me, my workplace would be his first port of call. One of the young PCs on guard duty checked my ID card then waved me inside. My workplace carried its usual air of shabby gentility, photos of eminent psychoanalysts lining the walls as I jogged upstairs. I paused outside my own office, where the words ‘Dr Alice Quentin, Deputy Director’ were inscribed on the door in simple black letters. I may have found my ideal job, but it provided no guarantee of safety.

  Christine Jenkins’ expression was sombre. She was standing in her office, wearing a pale blue suit, which emphasised her slimness, no jewellery except small gold studs in her ears. I had known my boss several years but still found her enigmatic. Mike Donnelly was already seated at her meeting table. He was a long-time member of the FPU team and a world-renowned expert on juvenile psychopathology; a portly, avuncular figure with snow white hair and an unkempt beard. Donnelly had been my biggest ally since I started at the FPU and at that moment I felt like hugging him.

  ‘Interesting times, Alice.’ He looked up from an evidence file, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ I replied.

  Christine sat down at the head of the table. ‘Burns is on his way. His team’s leading the hunt for Stone.’

  I almost spat out a curse but managed to suppress it. Working with Burns always caused tension, our private and professional lives competing, even though we lived apart. Christine must have clocked my reaction because she turned to me again, her voice placatory.

  ‘He’s got the best conviction rate in the UK. We can’t take chances.’

  ‘Maybe we’re overreacting,’ I replied.

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’ Her expression hardened as she slid some photos across the desk. ‘This is how Stone left his guards. Two of them are dead, one’s in hospital, fighting for his life.’

  The crime scene photographer had done a thorough job of capturing the fatalities from every angle, but the pictures took a while to compute. Two men’s bodies lay piled on top of one another, as though they were locked in a lethal wrestling match. One face was a mass of torn flesh, the other bruised and swollen beyond recognition, blood pooling on the tarmac.

  ‘Will the third man survive?’

  ‘It’s touch and go. They resuscitated him at the scene.’

  Burns burst through the door as I closed the file. His dark hair was dishevelled, tie loose at his throat, his expression
intense. He wore a charcoal grey suit, but his height and build made him look like a heavyweight boxer, masquerading as a detective. I felt my usual conflict of interests ̶ in an ideal world our jobs would never connect, but I was in no position to argue. His body language signalled that he felt the same; he dropped into the seat beside me with a scowl on his face.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Christine said. ‘Tell us how Stone escaped, Don.’

  Burns stared back at her, eyes one shade lighter than black. ‘It’s Rampton’s first break-out in twenty years. He was being taken to a hospital appointment in a secure van. One of the officers, Matthew Briar, unlocked the cage just after ten this morning. Once he’d served his purpose, Stone attacked him, then killed the other two.’