Mania: An Alexander Gregory Thriller (The Alexander Gregory Thrillers Book 4) Read online

  MANIA

  – AN ALEXANDER GREGORY THRILLER

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2022

  The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design copyright © LJ Ross

  OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS

  The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:

  1. Impostor

  2. Hysteria

  3. Bedlam

  The DCI Ryan Mysteries in order:

  1. Holy Island

  2. Sycamore Gap

  3. Heavenfield

  4. Angel

  5. High Force

  6. Cragside

  7. Dark Skies

  8. Seven Bridges

  9. The Hermitage

  10. Longstone

  11. The Infirmary (prequel)

  12. The Moor

  13. Penshaw

  14. Borderlands

  15. Ryan’s Christmas

  16. The Shrine

  17. Cuthbert’s Way

  18. The Rock

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.”

  —Cassio, in Shakespeare’s Othello

  THE OLD PALACE THEATRE

  St Martin’s Lane

  Saturday, 8th January, at 7.30 p.m. prompt

  Matinées Wednesdays and Saturdays at 2.30 p.m.

  JASPER PUGH & SIR NIGEL VILLIERS

  Present

  KING LEAR

  by

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  THE PLAYERS:

  King Lear Sir Nigel Villiers

  Goneril, his daughter Jasmine Kohli

  Regan, his daughter Olivia Routledge-Brown

  Cordelia, his daughter Frances Urwin

  Albany, Goneril’s Husband James Slater

  Cornwall, Regan’s Husband Kit Lawson

  Kent Samuel Elba

  Gloucester Will Cheyne

  Edgar, his son Dominic Reeve

  Edmund, his son Robin Ballantyne

  Oswald, Goneril’s Man Christopher McCormack

  Fool Peter Gray

  PRODUCTION BY JASPER PUGH & SIR NIGEL VILLIERS

  DIRECTED BY MARGOT WINTERS

  CHAPTER 1

  The Old Palace Theatre, London

  Opening Night

  The storm raged all around him, echoing the turmoil that raged within.

  Hard rain pattered down upon the ground in time with the drumming beat of his heart, while the wind howled shrill and fierce, forcing the hair back from his face to reveal a noble brow, lined and careworn by age and hard living. Through it all, thick smoke billowed like fog across a heath, clinging to his throat and clouding his vision.

  Here, I stand…

  Your slave.

  He dragged in a laborious breath, wishing he could expel the foul-smelling air from his lungs, diaphragm heaving with the effort of restraint.

  He lifted his arms upward, beseeching the elements, and tried to remember who he was.

  A poor, weak, infirm, despised old man.

  Thunder rumbled, a deafening sound that sliced through the darkness, and he was disoriented for a moment.

  A despised old man.

  Yes…yes, that was it.

  He turned this way and that, while shards of white light broke through the murky fog to capture his face, upturned and confused, marred by madness. His feet began to stumble, as if dragging themselves across uneven grass, while his hands clutched the sides of his head.

  And yet, I call you servile ministers…

  “Bloody marvellous, isn’t he?”

  Doctor Alexander Gregory looked briefly at his friend, Professor Bill Douglas, who had whispered the words from his position in the neighbouring stalls seat.

  “Very convincing,” he agreed, softly.

  He turned back to continue watching one of the world’s leading actors perform his rendition of King Lear and was forced to admit that the delivery had been masterly, so far. The man’s depiction of escalating mania, mirrored by the wild storm into which he’d been cast—created by an array of clever sound and lighting effects—was almost too realistic. In his line of work, Gregory was rarely fazed by the sight of a human being in crisis; in fact, it generally gave him a sense of purpose to be in the position to help them, if he could. Years spent working at Southmoor Hospital, which was one of a handful of ‘special’ hospitals in the UK dedicated to caring for the most dangerous kinds of patients had desensitised him to the usual behavioural tics one might associate with ‘madness’—if one were to simplify a whole field of scholarly enquiry into a single, catch-all phrase.

  And yet, as he sat in the shadows of the theatre, immersed in The Bard after an enjoyable evening with his friend, Gregory found himself unnerved by the role play. He couldn’t say why, exactly; perhaps the mannerisms of a soul in torment were a little too accurate, or the rasp to his voice just a shade too convincing.

  But then, he supposed that was the mark of a fine actor.

  He tried to relax in the stiff, velvet-upholstered seat and ordered himself to lighten up. They were watching a work of great fiction, and he ought to enjoy the opportunity to switch off, for once, not seek out problems where there were none to be found.

  There came another crackle of thunder and, somewhere in the rafters, a lighting technician flashed the powerful beam of a spotlight on the stage and then, briefly, around the room. Gregory blinked, and, as his eyes refocused on the solitary figure weaving drunkenly through the mists of white smoke, he noticed that the actor was not only stumbling but seemed to be on the verge of falling.

  That was taking it too far, he thought. Perhaps even the finest actors were not immune to a spot of self-indulgence, when it came to their interp
retation of Shakespeare…

  No sooner had the uncharitable thought entered his head than it was replaced by a far more compassionate one. Perhaps the man was drunk, or under the influence of some other narcotic? Sir Nigel Villiers would hardly be the first person of means and opportunity to develop a toxic habit that might, from time to time, interfere with his work.

  Gregory leaned forward again, studying the man’s deportment for clues.

  Sweating heavily, he noticed, but that could easily be a result of the hot stage lighting trained upon him. Wide, unfocused eyes…unsteady on his feet… but that could be affected for the sake of his art. Villiers was playing Lear, after all.

  Sensing his discord, Douglas put a hand on his friend’s back, urging him to relax. “Leave it back at the office,” he murmured.

  Gregory’s lips twisted into a smile. There was very little he could conceal from his old friend and mentor, and even less he would ever wish to.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Occupational habit.”

  “Ssh!” A woman seated nearby threw what could only be described as a filthy look in their direction, and Gregory held up his hand in apology, settling back into his seat once more.

  By now, Villiers faced the crowd, swaying on his feet in time to the thrumming of invisible rain. He could not see their faces, and could barely see the edge of the stage. His throat felt tight, his chest even tighter.

  I will be the pattern of all patience…

  I will say nothing.

  From the wings, the eponymous ‘Fool’ in the story—an actor by the name of Peter Gray—prepared to make his stage entrance, taking a step forward, only to falter again in surprise.

  A poor, weak, infirm, despised old man…

  Beside him, the director looked up sharply.

  “He’s repeating his lines,” Gray hissed. “What do I do?”

  Margot Winters was an experienced hand, but she could have done without the old coot messing up one of the seminal scenes on opening night, with a packed audience there to see it. She could already see the critics’ snide response in tomorrow’s papers.

  “Let him play it out,” she muttered. “It’s all you can do.”

  On stage, Villiers was oblivious to his error. He was no longer an actor, no longer repeating lines he’d rehearsed and knew like the back of his own hand. He was Lear; cold, alone, abandoned to the heath, and the vagaries of his own mind. He sucked in short, gasping breaths as he tried to get the words out once more, uncaring of the twitters in the audience or the irritation of his colleagues behind the scenes.

  And…yet…

  He began to cough, wheezing violently as his knees buckled.

  And yet…

  He raised one arm towards the audience, reaching out, fingers grasping at empty air before his body collapsed to the floor.

  * * *

  “That’s not in the script,” Douglas said, as a couple of taut seconds passed by.

  Gregory was only half listening, his bright green eyes trained through the semi-darkness on the figure lying motionless on the stage.

  Definitely not in the script.

  A moment later, ‘The Fool’ hurried on and began to improvise a few bastardised lines from his own short monologue.

  “Where are you?” he said, in a voice that was not quite so confident as it had been in the dress rehearsal.

  He made his way through the mist and came to kneel beside Villiers’ body.

  “Fie, my Lord,” he said, tremulously, and gave his shoulder a none-too-gentle shove. “Er…what malady has forsaken thee?”

  It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it was the best he could do.

  When a couple more seconds passed and Villiers appeared not to have heard him, nor even flinched, Gray began to feel concerned.

  He looked back over his shoulder, to where his director stood.

  She made a shooing motion, and he tried again.

  “M—my Lord?”

  He gave Villiers another shove and, in doing so, realised the man was unconscious, his face fixed in the same mad grimace he’d worn as Lear.

  Oh, shit.

  “Sir Nigel isn’t well!” he shouted out, shedding his character in a burst of panic. “I—is there a doctor in the house?”

  Gregory was already up and out of his chair before the sentence was complete, clambering over legs and bags to make his way to the aisle from the centre stalls.

  “Here!”

  He held up his hand, and some unseen force raised the lights so that he could see the narrow stairs leading from the aisle to the stage, past the orchestra pit. One or two other voices called out to offer their services, but he was faster, long legs covering the ground, dodging the ushers and members of the audience who had risen from their seats and spilled into the gangway to get a better view. Gregory took the steps two at a time and hurried across the stage to where Peter Gray remained kneeling beside Villiers’ body, with three other people at his shoulder.

  “Give him some space,” Gregory said, in clipped tones. “Call an ambulance.”

  He knelt beside the man’s body and checked his airways for any sign of a blockage, then for any sign that the man was still breathing while he put two firm fingers to Villiers’ carotid artery.

  No pulse.

  Thinking fast, Gregory calculated that it couldn’t have been more than two minutes since Villiers fell, which meant there was still time to save him, if he tried.

  With quick, assured movements, he flipped Villiers onto his back, tipped his chin up slightly, and went to work.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard a woman’s voice calling to her husband, and the vibrating hum of the audience speaking in low, urgent tones while they watched this new drama unfold. As the seconds ticked by and his arms continued to pump the man’s chest while he blew long breaths into his lungs, the chatter died down and the theatre grew silent, the storm having been extinguished so there was no longer an artificial wind to relieve the brutal, exhausting sound of Gregory’s laboured breathing as he battled to save a man’s life.

  Until, after much ado, the curtain fell.

  CHAPTER 2

  One week later

  Shad Thames, London

  Gregory awakened to a persistent banging.

  His first thought was that it was another migraine, which was becoming a more frequent occurrence alongside his old friend, Chronic Sleep Deprivation. His second thought was that it could be a ruthless hangover, considering he’d put away the best part of a bottle of red wine the night before. With a groan, he rubbed a hand against his brow and swung his legs off the bed, realising that the banging was now accompanied by an intermittent ringing of his doorbell.

  “All right—I’m coming!”

  What time was it, anyway?

  He checked his watch, which he’d forgotten to remove before collapsing into bed.

  Nine-thirty.

  It was a novelty to be able to sleep so late on a weekday, but he shouldn’t allow it to become a habit. Indeed, it was probably Bill who was banging at the door, having decided to come and dish out a few home truths about his shoddy timekeeping and slovenly attitude.

  You’re on sabbatical, Alex, but that doesn’t give you carte blanche to become a slob, he’d say. Come on, boy, pick yourself up and get back to work.

  Bowing to the inevitable, Gregory padded the short distance from his bedroom to the front door and, not bothering to check the peep hole, swung it open.

  It was not Bill Douglas waiting for him on the threshold.

  It was a man and woman he’d never seen before. Both were somewhere in their early thirties, dressed in what he’d have described as ‘smart casual’ city gear, consisting of jeans, worn-in leather boots, jumpers and jackets, in deference to the wintry weather. The man was tall, around the same height as himself, while the woman was of average height—though that was the only thing he could say was in the least bit average about her, from first impressions alone. He was, after all, a red-blooded man, and knew a good-looking
woman when he saw one.

  He also knew a police officer when he saw one, and, by his count, here were two of them.

  In the seconds it had taken him to conduct a brief assessment, the woman’s eyes trailed over his dishevelled state and made a thorough assessment of her own.

  “Doctor Alexander Gregory?” she asked, with an air of disbelief.

  He smiled. It was true that, at that precise moment, he bore no resemblance to his usual self; certainly, not anybody’s stereotypical notion of a starchy clinician.

  “The very same,” he murmured. “You must be here to discuss Nigel Villiers.”

  She reached inside the pocket of her jacket to produce a warrant card, and her partner followed suit.

  “I’m DCI Ava Hope and this is DS Ben Carter,” she said, and Gregory flicked a glance at the little plastic-coated wallets to verify. “We’re from the Met’s Homicide and Major Crime Command.”

  Gregory nodded. “You’d better come in,” he said. “Please, take a seat, and I’ll just run and put a shirt on.”

  It was one thing to answer the door bare-chested to his old friend; it was quite another to remain so during police questioning.

  He returned a couple of minutes later to find Carter seated comfortably on his leather sofa, one burly leg slung over the other, while Hope stood by the window looking out at the panoramic view of the River Thames.

  “Quite a place you’ve got here,” she said, sticking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

  Gregory took her compliment at face value, although it carried a question. How did a healthcare professional like himself, even a successful one, manage to bag himself a place overlooking the river?

  That was a long story.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Can I offer either of you a drink—coffee, tea..?”

  “Ye—” Carter began.

  “No, thank you.” Hope cut across him with another of her blandly eloquent stares, which seemed to have the desired effect, since her sergeant’s lips promptly clamped shut.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I make one for myself,” Gregory said, heading to the galley kitchen which was open plan to the living room. “I haven’t had my morning shot of caffeine, yet. Please, feel free to start.”