The Kindness of Psychopaths Read online

  The Kindness of Psychopaths

  Alan Gorevan

  Copyright © 2020 by Alan Gorevan

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any real locations are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Part 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

  Part Two

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Three

  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

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Part One

  June

  Chapter 1

  Valentina López Vázquez stepped into her back garden, startling the sparrows which had been hopping around on the grass. The birds shot into the air, chirping and regrouping on top of the hedge. They peered down at Valentina as if they were curious about the phone she held in one hand and the pregnancy test in the other.

  Good news? Bad news?

  Maybe it was all bad.

  Valentina’s phone buzzed. She didn’t want to check it, didn’t want to read any more of the filthy messages. But curiosity got the better of her.

  She felt sick reading the message, but he was the one who was sick, this creep, detailing what he wanted to do to her.

  Valentina glanced around, hoping the tranquil space would calm her. Though small, the square garden was lovely. Half of it was grass, the other half paved, filled with ceramic ornaments, hanging pots and flower boxes.

  The summer she moved here with Barry, Valentina had planted lavender. The plant was in full bloom now, and it reminded her of a happier time. She watched bees flit from one purple flower to another.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Another message from the unknown number.

  She looked back towards the house. It was one in a row of terraced two-beds. Unlike her neighbours’ houses – the one on the left with red brick and the one on the right with yellow – the walls of Valentina’s house were plastered smooth and painted white, like a Mediterranean villa. The house glowed in the morning sun, looking bright and modern compared to the other properties.

  She was going to miss this place. She’d been so happy here.

  Mostly.

  It would have been wonderful to raise a family in this lovely Dublin lane, but that was never going to happen.

  Soon she’d be gone.

  They’d get out of here, put the house on the market the minute the paint was dry. Then begin a new life in Barcelona. Her parents would be glad to have her home. They’d discover Barry was a good man, even if he looked rough.

  Valentina tied her long, dark hair in a ponytail. It was ten o’clock. Her shift at the charity shop started at ten thirty, but she was never going to get there in time unless the painter finished soon.

  Through her sunglasses, she looked up at her bedroom window where Aidan Donnelly had been working for half an hour.

  The stringy young man they had hired to paint the house was sitting on her bedroom windowsill, stroking his chin, and gazing at Valentina. His lips were parted and there was a dreamy expression on his face.

  Goosebumps broke out on Valentina’s arms. A feeling of dread spread across her chest, snaking up to her throat.

  Why was he staring at her?

  Aidan wore a sleeveless white vest, which showed off his tattoos. A Mayan pyramid was inked on one arm, a humanoid face with three eyes on the other. His black hair was short at the back and sides and longer on top, waxed into an Elvis-style quiff.

  There was something murky and unwholesome in his eyes. Valentina didn’t like the way he rubbed his upper lip constantly and how he left droplets of urine on the floor when he used their toilet.

  Though Aidan gave Valentina the creeps, she was damned if she was going to be intimidated in her own home.

  She kept looking at him as she removed her shades. When he realised she was watching him, he quickly disappeared from sight. Back into her bedroom.

  Valentina wondered why he was taking so long there. She imagined him going through her private things. Handling her possessions.

  She turned her attention back to the pregnancy test as the result appeared. Two pink strips told her she was pregnant. This was the second test she had taken, as she wanted to be sure before she told Barry.

  She looked at her phone. It was tempting to let him know the news now, but later would be better – over a nice dinner. Barbecued chicken and a few glasses of chilled white wine.

  She hated that Aidan was in the house, ruining this moment. Bringing up WhatsApp, she tapped out a message to Barry.

  I don’t like being alone with this guy.

  He might not see it for a while as he had clients all morning. In any case, Valentina hated relying on other people. She’d handle this
herself.

  She stood up and marched into the kitchen, pausing only to set the pregnancy test down on the kitchen table, before she made her way upstairs, walking loudly on the carpeted steps. Aidan should know that she was coming and that she meant business.

  As she approached her bedroom door, there was a loud crash.

  She hurried forward, pushing open the door to the bedroom. Aidan was standing over her bedside locker, which lay on its side. Valentina’s socks and panties lay scattered across the floor.

  “I’m really sorry,” Aidan said. “It was a complete accident. I’m so clumsy – always knocking things over.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks – fury at the thought of Aidan going through her underwear. He must have been looking through her things, then panicked when he heard her coming. He took a step towards her.

  “I’ve got it,” Valentina said, holding up her hand to stop him coming closer. She scooped up her clothes.

  Three of the walls were peach colour now. Only one remained to be painted. The smell of paint turned her stomach. “I can finish the painting myself,” she said.

  Aidan frowned. “But I’m nearly done.”

  “I’ll pay you the full amount anyway.”

  “I won't be long.”

  “No,” Valentina said. “Thank you, but no. I will finish. I have to go out soon.”

  “Okay,” he said. His face was wrinkled with confusion. “I'm sorry. If it was about your clothes—”

  “Leave it. I said I will finish.”

  Aidan set about getting his things together, while Valentina carried her socks and underwear to the spare bedroom. She dropped them on the bed and waited there. She listened as Aidan brought his stepladder downstairs, the steel clanging with every step. The front door creaked open. Aidan lugged the ladder outside.

  Valentina could be firm when she wanted to be. The confrontation hadn’t been any fun, but at least he was leaving now.

  Valentina checked through the drawers of the desk that sat in a corner of the spare room. This was where she kept all her stationery. She found an envelope and put the money she owed Aidan inside.

  Suddenly she heard a groan from outside. What was Aidan doing?

  Valentina walked onto the landing. She paused to listen but heard nothing more. At the top of the stairs, she looked down.

  The front door was ajar.

  “Aidan? Are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  No answer.

  She jumped when her phone buzzed with a text message. It was the anonymous number again.

  Let’s play.

  She swallowed, trying to stave off panic as her pulse began to race.

  “Aidan?” she called.

  She waited but when she heard nothing further, she began to descend the stairs, gripping the banister with one hand and clutching the cross around her neck with the other. The cross was made of smooth mahogany. Her father had given it to her for her tenth birthday and it always reminded her of him. She released it and let it hang next to her other necklace – the one Barry had given her, with a bright yellow sunflower pendant.

  “Aidan?” Valentina called when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Her mouth was dry.

  Silence pressed in on her, throbbing in her ears as she waited for him to answer.

  If she wanted to see outside, she’d have to go closer to the door. She didn’t want to do that, but she didn’t want to turn her back on the door, either.

  She lifted her phone and dialled Barry’s number. It went straight to voicemail. She ended the call without leaving a message. Speaking would have meant breaking the silence.

  Someone might hear her.

  She tapped out a text instead.

  Call me ASAP. I’m scared.

  Valentina had to force herself to walk over to the door, to pull it open. By then, she could hardly breathe.

  Something was very wrong.

  She peered outside.

  The back doors of Aidan’s van were wide open.

  What she saw inside it made her mouth fall open in horror.

  “My god,” she whispered, gripping her cross.

  She turned to run, but it was too late.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Sergeant Joe Byrne stepped out of the shop, holding a paper cup in one hand and a grease-stained bag in the other. Rush hour traffic was gone, but Morehampton Road remained busy. Jaguars, BMWs, a couple of Teslas. A lot of buses too. Joe had forgotten how much traffic passed through Donnybrook, heading south to University College Dublin and north to the city centre.

  His bag contained two breakfast rolls. Egg, sausage and bacon, on soft round baps. The paper cup was extra-large, full of dark, bitter coffee and only a hint of milk. A chocolate bar was stuffed in his suit pocket.

  Joe needed all of it.

  He’d been driving through the night, leaving his Kilkenny apartment at 6:45 am, after working the late shift. Too angry to sleep, he had stayed up all night, aimlessly flicking through dozens of TV channels.

  He’d driven 130 kilometres, arriving in Dublin after three hours. A crash on the N7 had made the journey a nightmare. A Nissan had careened off the road and veered into a line of trees, grazing every one of them for half a mile before smashing head-on into a brick wall.

  Back when he’d been on motorcycle patrol, Joe had worked scenes like that.

  Once he had arrived in Donnybrook, Joe had zeroed in on the nearest place he could grab some food, which was the deli counter in this shop.

  A few steel tables and chairs were set up outside the door, separated from the footpath by a canvas barrier. No one sat there, no one but Joe. He slumped in the nearest chair and began to demolish his food.

  The June air was warm, the sky a brilliant blue.

  Donnybrook Cemetery stood on the other side of the road, its metal gates set into a stone archway. The gate was chained up tight, but leafy tree branches reached over the stonework.

  Joe’s destination was Donnybrook Garda Station, next to the cemetery. Three storeys tall, the station was a boxy grey building that looked about as much fun as a colonoscopy.

  Joe finished the first roll and wiped the ketchup and melted butter off his hands with a napkin. Then he started in on the second roll. At thirty-five, he was aware that it would soon start to take a little more work to keep in shape. Especially if he kept eating like this. So often though, he had to grab food whenever a case allowed. And at those moments, he reached for the nearest thing, whatever it was.

  Being a detective was like being a reporter. You went where you were told. Four weeks ago, Joe had learned he was being transferred to Donnybrook. He’d declined. His boss in Kilkenny wasn’t interested in talking about it. As far as he was concerned, Joe worked in Dublin now.

  So here he was. Day one.

  Starting on the late shift.

  Detectives worked six days on, four days off. Ten-hour shifts. Of the six days on, there were two early starts, two late starts, and two nights. Joe had never got used to the pattern. Today’s late start meant reporting at 10:00 am, finishing at 8:00 pm.

  But Joe figured he'd be done with Donnybrook by 10:05 am.

  He’d rather quit than work in his old neighbourhood.

  Not that he minded leaving Kilkenny. There was nothing for him there but an overpriced apartment and a dying aloe vera plant.

  He was willing to go anywhere – except Donnybrook. It was weird that he was being transferred here. The first thing the force did when you left training academy was move you far from home so you wouldn’t be policing your own community. And then you tended to be transferred to a variety of places, none of them very close to home. But Joe had grown up near here, had gone to college down the road. So why had he been sent here?

  After the second roll, he polished off the chocolate bar, and drained the dregs of his coffee. He wiped his hands one more time and got to his feet.

  His ten-year old Honda Civic was parked around the corner from the shop. Slipping behind the wheel, Joe st
arted the car and eased up the road, past the front of the station, then turned down the narrow road where the entrance to the car park was buried.

  It was a sprawling car park with dozens of spaces. He drove right up to the building, parking next to the big steel door, in the only free space at this end of the lot.

  He checked himself in the mirror and realised that he’d forgotten to shave. Nothing he could do about that now, which was a shame, because his dark brown stubble was pretty obvious. He combed his blond-brown fringe back with his fingers and wiped a dab of butter from the corner of his mouth.

  As soon as he stepped out of his car, a Ford Escort screeched to a stop behind him. Old and grey, the car wheezed like it smoked sixty cigarettes a day. Ignoring it, Joe turned and walked towards the building.

  “Hey!”

  A man’s voice. Harsh. Indignant. Arrogant, too.

  Joe didn’t even look around. He hit his key fob to lock the Honda and kept walking. Behind him a car door opened and closed, the engine still running.

  “Are you deaf? That’s my space.”

  Joe kept walking as uneven footsteps came up behind him. His muscles tensed.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  A macho attitude was thankfully rare on the force, but Joe had a feeling that the man behind him was one of those uncommon cases. And Joe was in no mood to play nice. He was tired after the drive and annoyed at getting pushed around.

  Being ordered to Donnybrook had brought emotions bubbling to the surface. Memories, too, of the worst period of his life.

  When someone grabbed his shoulder, Joe spun around, his hand already balled into a fist.

  Joe froze once he caught sight of the man. Like him, the guy was in his thirties. But he stood a foot shorter than Joe’s six one. He had a round face, thin dark brown hair, and an expression of smug indifference. He wore an ill-fitting suit. But, most noticeably, he was clearly unwell.

  He leaned on a crutch and his skin had a disgusting greyish hue. The man’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he read Joe’s intention.

  “You want to take a swing at me? Go ahead.”

  Joe took a slow breath. Let it out.

  “Forget it,” he said, turning his back.

  “You’re still in my spot.”

  “And I still don’t care,” Joe said.

  As he walked away, he felt a twinge of guilt – the guy really didn’t look well. But Joe hated bullies, even sick ones.