She offered Whiley a shake of the head. ‘You know something, Constable; I really couldn’t care less.’

SIX

Satisfied after her session with Ruth, Alex stood before the framed certificates that her patients found so reassuring. The MBBS from the UCL Medical School, the MRCPsych, ST-4 and Certificate of Completion of Specialist Training represented the most arduous years of her education, not because of the hard work – her IQ of 131 had breezed her through that – it had been the tedium of the study and the sheer effort of not exposing the stupidity of her peers and professors.

By far the easiest qualification she’d achieved was the PhD in Psychiatry. The only certificate on her wall that her clients really understood.

Alex felt no pride in her paper achievements. There had been no doubt in her mind that she would reach her goals. Her qualifications were displayed for one reason only: trust.

Following her education, Alex had embarked on the second part of her master plan. She had spent two years building a history; writing papers and case studies within the stymied boundaries of the mental health profession that would earn respect. The opinion of her peers couldn’t have been less important to her – the only motivation had been to construct a reputation that would be unquestionable in later years. For when she was ready to begin her real work. For now.

During those years she’d been forced to whore out her expertise to the court system, providing psychological assessments on the great unwashed embroiled within the judicial process.

A distasteful necessity, but one that had brought her into contact with Tim; a teenage victim of a broken home. He’d been an angry, mean-spirited individual, but a skilful pyromaniac. Her assessment had held the power to commit him to a lengthy sentence in an adult prison or a short-term stay in a psychiatric unit.

Always resourceful in using the skills available to her, Alex had forged a partnership with Tim that had benefitted them both. He spent four months in Forrest Hills Psychiatric Unit, after which he started a fire that had produced two fatalities and an inheritance to set up the private practice she still enjoyed now. Where she could pick and choose the subjects she wished to see. Thanks, Mummy and Daddy.

Tim’s eventual suicide ensured that he had tied up his own loose ends quite fortuitously on her part.

Nothing in those years had been wasted. Every patient had served a purpose in building a better perspective of people driven by emotions; their strengths, their motivations and most importantly, their weaknesses.

At times she had been tormented by her desire to commence the research, but the timeliness had been governed by two crucial factors.

The first was the construction of safety nets. The impeccable reputation she’d built would throw doubt on any later accusation of misconduct levelled at her.

Additionally, she’d waited patiently for suitable candidates to present themselves. Her experiment required individuals easily guided and with a subconscious desire to commit unforgivable acts. The sanity of the subject needed to be intact but with the potential to be unhinged if she so chose that extra layer of insurance.

Alex had known that Ruth Willis would be perfect for the study from their very first meeting. Alex had felt the desperation within the woman to take back control of her life. Poor little Ruth wasn’t even aware herself just how much she needed that closure. But Alex knew – and that was all that mattered. Months of patience had led to this moment. The finale.

She had chosen a subject whose allegations would, should anything go wrong, be dismissed. She had taken the time to ensure that she would not fail. There had been other prospects along the way, individuals courted for the privilege of being chosen, but ultimately Ruth had been the one.

Her other patients were irrelevant, a means to an end. They had the pleasure of underwriting her enviable lifestyle whilst she conducted her real work.

Alex had spent many hours nodding, soothing and reassuring her patients whilst mentally preparing her shopping list or developing the next part of her plan; all at a cost of £300 per hour.

The payment for the BMW Z4 was funded by the wife of a Chief Constable suffering from stress-induced kleptomania. Alex enjoyed the car, therefore it was unlikely that that particular patient would be recovering any time soon.

The £2,000 per month rent for the three-storey Victorian property in Hagley was paid for by the owner of a chain of estate agents whose son was experiencing paranoid persecution complex and came to see her three times per week. A few well-chosen words, dropped casually into conversation and yet subconsciously reinforcing his beliefs, dictated that his recovery would also be slow.

She stood before the portrait that took pride of place above the fireplace. She liked to look into the depths of his cold, unfeeling eyes and wonder if he would have understood her.

It was a rich oil painting that she had commissioned from a grainy black and white photograph of the only ancestor Alex could trace in whom she had any pride.

Uncle Jack, as she liked to call him, had been a ‘Higgler’, better known as a hangman in the 1870s. Unlike the town of Bolton, which had the Billingtons, and Huddersfield, which had the Pierrepoints, the Black Country had no family dynasty that performed the gruesome task and Uncle Jack had stumbled upon the trade by accident.

Jailed for not supporting his family, Uncle Jack had been incarcerated in Stafford Prison during a visit from William Calcraft, the longest-serving executioner, with a record of around 450 hangings of men and women to his name.

On this particular day, Calcraft arrived to perform a double hanging and so needed a volunteer. Uncle Jack was the only inmate to offer. Calcraft favoured a short drop which produced a slow, agonising death, requiring the assistant to swing on the legs of the convicted to speed up death.

Uncle Jack had found his forte and thereafter travelled the country as an executioner.

Standing before his portrait always gave Alex a sense of belonging, an affinity with a member of her distant family.

She smiled up into his harsh, emotionless face. ‘Oh, if only things were as simple as in your day, Uncle Jack.’

Alex seated herself at the desk in the corner. Finally, her magnum opus was underway. Her journey to find the answers to questions that had puzzled her for years had begun.

She let out a long, satisfied breath and reached into the top drawer for the Clairefontaine paper and the Mont Blanc pen.

It was time for her own form of recreation.

Dearest Sarah, she began.

SEVEN

Ruth Willis stood in the shadows of the shop doorway, her eyes trained on the park. The cold seeped from the ground up through her feet and into her legs like a metal stake. The odour of urine surrounded her. The plastic bin to her right overflowed with rubbish. Crisp packets and fag ends had spilled onto the tarmac.

The visualisation exercise was crystal clear in her mind. Alex was beside her.

‘You are not skulking in the shadows and you are not frightened.’

She had no fear; only nervous anticipation last experienced right before her A-level results. Back when she was a real person.

‘You are not dreading him leaving the pub, you are anticipating it.’

Had he felt this way on the night he’d taken her light? Had he shivered with excitement as he’d watched her walk out of the supermarket? Had he felt the sense of righteousness that coursed through her body right now?