MINDHUNT

PROLOGUE

Case file # CBA-7489-X

Just stay right where you are, Christina! Don’t move! Don’t move a muscle, and everything will be okay. I promise someone will be right there to…”

She threw the phone as far as possible off the Millennium Bridge.

“…get you!” were the last words she heard as the black iPhone disappeared into the Thames.

And then she ran.

Christina Beauchamp-Alard knew all about hallucinations. She knew all about paranoia. She certainly knew all about delusional fears. But she also knew that what she was running from was real this time.

Very real.

The twenty-four-year-old daughter of Swiss banking billionaire Henri Beauchamp-Alard was on the run – and for once, she was not running from the voices or shadows that accompanied the devastating psychotic illness that had ravaged her mind for the better part of a decade.

Right now, her mind had never been clearer.

She was frightened.

Terrified.

But she was well.

And she knew that she would never, ever be going back.

Once she had made it across the bridge, she allowed herself to stop momentarily and look behind her. She could see a heavy-set man dressed in black making his way through the sea of pedestrians filing over the bridge. He pushed past them, then stopped briefly, making eye contact with Christina. She shuddered with icy fear, then turned and fled toward St Paul’s Cathedral.

An image appeared in her mind.

A painting.

Canaletto.

1754.

The image slid from view as she turned left, then left again, then right. Nausea began to set in, but still, she ran.

Another left turn. She glanced behind her. The cars, buses, cabs and people had become indistinguishable blurs of colour and movement, reduced to nothing more than shifting reds, blues, yellows and blacks.

Black.

She looked hard for the man dressed in black, but there seemed to be thousands of them.

Everywhere.

And so she ran again. It seemed as though she was doomed to keep endlessly running through a timeless world – one that was no longer neatly and accurately measured by the diamond-encrusted Cartier wristwatch her father had presented to her on her last birthday: a gift she had hastily hocked for a measly fraction of its value just an hour ago.

Or maybe it was two hours ago. Or three.

There was no longer any way of knowing how much time had passed, and the minutes and seconds of her life had lost all meaning, anyway. The only thing giving her life meaning now was the rhythm of her breathing and the pounding of her feet on the hard London pavements.

Now that the watch had been sold, one piece of jewellery remained on her body: the stylish platinum bracelet on her right wrist. As she ran, she glanced at the small, red light that was flashing on the bracelet, and for the hundredth time that day, she tried in vain to pull the shiny circle of metal from her wrist, but with no success. Every time she grabbed it, it only seemed to tighten more painfully.

She looked up and saw London Bridge.

Another image came to mind.

An etching this time.

Claes Visscher.

1616.

Christina made another right turn. The lanes seemed to be getting narrower. Her mouth was dry, and her legs were shaking. She stumbled forward blindly before doubling over in agony. Clutching at her abdomen, she vomited violently. Her stomach was virtually empty, but she convulsed and gagged for what felt like several minutes. When she finished, she stared at the rainbow of half-digested tablets splattered around her feet.

She straightened up and tried to steady her breathing.

In, out, hold. In, out, hold. Nice and calm. A psychologist she had seen some years ago had taught her these helpful breathing exercises to reduce her anxiety.

In.

Out.

Hold.

She would try to get to Mansion House tube station and then reassess her options from…

The thought dissolved, unfinished, as a huge hand gripped her shoulder.

Without thinking, she summoned whatever remaining strength she had and kicked up and back.

Hard.

She was unsure how accurate she had been, but she heard a deep cry of pain, and the grip on her shoulder loosened just slightly.

It was enough.

She ran.

Her arms and legs pumped like pistons, and the sights, sounds and colours of London were gone.

All she was aware of was her breathing.

In, out.

She knew she couldn’t go much further. With one last effort, she increased her speed. Tears welled in her eyes as a feeling of futility consumed her.

I can’t go back. I won’t go back. I can’t go back.

Before reality kicked in.

The moment you stop running, they will take you back.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She closed her eyes but kept on running.

In the distance, she heard Big Ben strike three times.

Big Ben.

Andre Derain.

1906.

Then, everything was blocked out.

Every sight and every sound.

Christina never saw or heard the truck that finally stopped her tears forever.