Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  ‘And why did he tell the paramedics he had no next of kin? Even in the hospital, before surgery, no mention of kids, or grandkids, no spouse, nothing. Just a bleedin dog. That’s all he kept on about according to the uniforms on the scene. His mutt… Probably already in Battersea Dogs Home by now.’ Carver swerved into a parking spot, his tyres squealing in protest as he scraped the kerb, cursed under his breath and said, ‘We’re here. Don’t look so downhearted Fi!’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a house key attached to a white rabbit’s foot. His toothy grin shone at her as he added, ‘Lucky for us, we found these at the scene. Must’ve fallen out of Butler’s pocket.’ Another canine grin with a wink. ‘Let’s see what secrets the old boy may have been hiding, eh?’

  ***

  ‘We don’t get too many incidents like that these days, Doc. The violence in here is usually aimed at the staff. Most weeks it seems, one or more of our two hundred plus inmates has a pop at a staff member. We’ve got seven employees on long term sick from serious assaults, with three more due back this month.’ Winston’s stride had Doc struggling to keep up as they progressed through the maze of corridors on their way to Harding’s seclusion suite. The security chief went on, ‘We have physical security, including the cameras, walls and these doors of course,’ his keys rattling as he unlocked the last of several they had to pass through, ‘as well as the procedural. Everyone’s movements are tracked, no inmates can move between blocks without an escort, but neither of those things would work half as well without the relational security. The trust we build with the inmates. They usually tell us when things aren’t right — both with themselves and with others.’

  ‘And Harding?’ Doc was certain his father’s murderer was not the sort to confide in anyone. He was also unconvinced that the criminal should be in a hospital, and had raised his concerns with the Broadmoor staff on previous occasions. ‘Celene still convinced he’s mentally disordered? Not just a very cunning psychopath, manipulating the system? Still adamant he can be rehabilitated here?’

  ‘Not just Celene, Doc. He’s had several therapeutic assessments over the years, all with the same result. A varying degree of psychosis with underlying Dangerous Antisocial Personality Disorder. Mind you, an old colleague of yours, Professor Richard Maddox, took over his case earlier this year. He’s just submitted a report on Harding — since the knife attack, he’s been seeing the inmate daily…’

  ‘Maddox? I had no idea he was back doing psychiatric consulting.’

  ‘Yes, and enjoying it by all accounts. Popular with the inmates too, though not Harding.’

  Doc had thought the man, an egotistical high achiever with a narcissistic personality — largely justified by his genius — had been diverted by more lucrative medical fields many years before. He would have to square things with Maddox at some stage, aware that Celene acquiescing to his request to see Harding could put the consultant’s nose out of joint.

  Too bad.

  Doc had more important things on his mind than the febrile ego of a self-important colleague.

  They finally arrived, with Doc checking his watch for the third time since leaving the security control room, wondering if he would be too late to fulfil his arrangement to meet Jack at the hospital. Thinking of the detective prompted him to raise his suspicions with Winston.

  ‘How did Harding know? About the other inmate being at the Visitor Centre immediately before him?’

  ‘You’re thinking one of the staff must’ve told him? Leaked the information to him? No, Doc. Possible, but highly unlikely. The inmate himself may have been mouthing off about it, and this place has an effective grapevine, despite all the security measures. If anything, given his history of attacks on paedophiles since he’s been here, we should’ve made sure there was zero possibility of the encounter, but we slipped up. The medical staff thought Harding was doing well, ready to graduate on to Occupational Therapy. Though that’s about the tenth time he’s almost reached OT… This is his room. I’m coming in with you.’

  Doc’s immediate reaction was to object, as he wanted to see the man alone, but knew that was out of the question after what had happened the last time he had been allowed to visit the inmate. The big man’s presence would be a comfort too.

  ‘Okay, Winston. But do me a favour. Don’t engage him in any conversation, no matter what he says.’

  Winston’s head bobbed in acknowledgement before he indicated to the nurse, sitting outside the room, observing her charge through a panel in the door, to step aside and unlock it for them. As she did so he asked her, ‘Has he had his meds?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s a little overdue already but Celene’s office called and asked us to delay them. Professor Maddox has been gradually reducing his medication too and has just approved his transfer back to a room in the secure wing. He’s due to be moved tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay… Ready Doc?’

  Doc, his knees wobbling, his belly swirling with acid, and with the irritating flutter of butterfly wings brushing his stomach lining, let his eyelids fall closed, counted to four while taking an inward breath to fill his lungs, held it for a count of seven and then slowly exhaled.

  He was as ready as he would ever be.

  ***

  Gerald Butler’s home in Wakehurst Road was less than a hundred metres from the eastern edge of Clapham Common in a high density residential area of bay-fronted terraced houses, most with pebble-dashed walls alongside red tiled bow windows. Many of the larger properties were now luxury homes or converted apartments, despite the houses being barely two paces from the pavement.

  The faded red paint was flaking off Butler’s front door, and Jack’s thumb brushed some to the ground as he rang the bell. He murmured to Fiona, ‘Just in case he didn’t live alone.’

  No sounds came from within so he slotted the key in the lock and, with his sergeant in tow, stepped into the gloom of the old man’s home.

  ‘Jesus! Stinks of wet dog in here. And the place is filthy. I think we’ll be wiping our feet on the way out, Sarge.’

  He pulled at his nose and then wiped it with his wrist as they stood in the narrow corridor. Fiona pushed the door to behind them.

  ‘Well this won’t take long, it’s not very big. We’ve got a two-up two-down. You want me to check the bedrooms, Boss?’

  ‘Yeah, you pop upstairs and see what you can find. Anything that might give us a clue as to why he thought he was the target of this maniac, and anything that might help us identify any family links. I’ll do the lounge. Not sure we’ll find much in the kitchen or bathroom.’

  Jack had already stepped into the cramped front room and could hear the thump of Fifi’s footsteps on the stairs as he flipped on the light switch.

  What a state! he thought, as he took stock of the place.

  A sofa that looked like it doubled as the dog’s bed was littered with the animal’s toys, some half eaten bones and doggie-chews, plus a blanket that needed fumigating. A person’s sense of smell deteriorates with age, but Jack decided Butler must have had nothing left of his olfactory equipment. The detective also concluded that the armchair must have been where the sad old man spent most of his life. It was almost threadbare except where the dirty brown material of the arms had been patched, and the seat cushion was sagging on springs that had left the factory many decades before.

  Bay windows that had not seen a wash rag or chamois for many years filtered much of the light through a coating of grease and grime, while grey netting, speckled with mould, blocked most of the rays that did struggle through. The curtains, probably purchased at the same time as the lounge furniture, were a similar colour to the carpet. Brown was big, back in the nineteen seventies, so Carver did his own version of carbon dating, based on personal observation rather than an element from the periodic table. The sofa faced a TV in the corner of the room, and he decided the device would not look out of place in the technology wing of the Science Museum.

  An ancient mirror, with an ornate gilt frame s
panned the width of the open fireplace below. Jack noted that the mantelpiece, an original with intricate coloured tiles and a slab of dark wood that would probably fetch a fortune, had three framed pictures propped there, so he homed in on them.

  The first was of a youthful soldier wearing corporal’s stripes, dressed in full kit, standing at ease with his rifle held at his waist. The uniform was khaki battledress, with shorts, boots and puttees. Although Jack could not make out where the image was taken just by looking at the background, he decided the photo was probably from the tropics or somewhere equally hot. Gerald Butler’s stare, straight to camera, was slightly unnerving, even though the black and white image was faded and yellowed with age. Jack felt uneasy, an unusual reaction that startled him.

  ‘Must be getting old.’ He said it aloud, to himself, but glanced over his shoulder to check whether Fifi had heard.

  No chance.

  She was still upstairs, he realised, her footfall creaking above his head as she searched the front bedroom.

  The second picture, similarly faded and discoloured, was of the same young man looking a little older, now in a suit, with a woman of about the same age, probably early twenties. They were on the steps of Lambeth Register Office, according to the brass plaque on the wall beside them. Hairstyles and dress gave Carver the impression he was looking back to the early sixties.

  So, Gerald did have a wife. At least back then. Dead? Divorced?

  He made a mental note to have her traced.

  The third photograph was similar to the first, though this one was in colour, with a fresh faced soldier in a relaxed pose, again casually holding a weapon, but in this picture the lad was hefting a shoulder-held rocket-launcher. His back was pressed against the bull-grille at the front of a sand coloured armoured car and his cheeks and forehead were ruddy from wind and sun. He too was looking directly at the camera, but his face was cheerful, less full of pride, more adventurous. Not threatening, or unsettling, like the other.

  Jack immediately compared the youthful faces of both soldiers, and estimated the photos were taken a good few decades apart. A definite family resemblance, he decided, then took stock of the background in the more recent image.

  Probably Afghanistan. Or Iraq. Definitely the Middle East.

  He made a quick calculation. If soldier boy Gerald was in uniform around 1960 and the other lad in the early noughties, then this could well be the grandson that Fifi had been so excited about… Just as the thought entered his mind his mobile started chirping, then he heard a thump and a squeal from the room above.

  ‘Boss! I think you’ll want to take a look at this!’

  ***

  DS Fielding could hear Carver muttering in the room below as she started searching old man Butler’s bedroom. She had already taken a quick peek in the bathroom, decided not to step foot in there given the state of the toilet pan, and then checked the other bedroom. It took her just seconds.

  A box room, not much wider than she was tall — and she was a short-arse, by her own admission. There was a single metal framed bed, made up military style, with blankets that felt to her like they were made out of horsehair, smoothed and tucked as if ironed and measured for maximum precision. No headboard, just one pillow that had seen better days. Although the room was relatively clean, it smelt earthy and damp from the dark patch of fungus growing in the corner adjacent to the bathroom.

  She got the impression that the room had been unused for years. It contained no photos, no mementoes, no hint of personality. Just the bed with a unit to the side containing three empty drawers, and some equally barren shelves on the wall at the head and foot. Even so, it felt cramped to Fiona, and the bare walls, magnolia paint on plaster, seemed to exude sadness. She crouched to the wooden floorboards and checked the underside of the bed.

  Nothing. Just a thick layer of dust.

  So now, she was creeping around in the musty dimness of Gerald’s bedroom. Like Carver, she had turned on the light despite the open curtains, but the low wattage bulb barely managed to overcome the filth of the cloth lampshade. She sighed and pulled out her iPhone, and used the torchlight to illuminate the contents of Gerald’s bedside drawers.

  The room was just big enough for his double bed, a wardrobe that looked pre-war and a dressing table with a grimy mirror tucked into the window bay. A tatty oriental rug in faded red and gold covered a patch of bare wooden flooring, but otherwise the room was cold, unwelcoming. A crucifix hung from a nail in the wall above the bedhead — no photographs, no pictures, no decoration, and although lived in, the old man’s bedroom had a similar atmosphere to the other.

  Decaying and devoid of personality.

  The bed had also been made by someone with a military mind, but the odour in this room was of urine, not mould, and her nose twitched as she sat perched on the edge of the mattress, delving into Gerald’s life.

  Poor, lonely old man…

  The drawers yielded very little of interest to her, just some pill bottles, a thumbed paperback, an empty hot-water bottle, a Swiss Army knife and a silver hip flask with what smelt like brandy inside. She was beginning to think she was wasting her time, hoping that the DI might have found more, but she pushed herself off the bed, dropped to her knees and took a quick look underneath.

  Nothing. Again.

  She was about to get up, her right hand pressing on the floorboard between the bed and the drawers, when she felt the wood move. It was a short section, and she wondered why it had been sawn as it looked as though it had been cut long after the floor was laid.

  With excitement mounting, she scrabbled at the wood, but could not get purchase. She was not one for fancy manicures or acrylic extensions, but she did look after her fingernails, kept them neither short nor long, lacquered a near natural colour. Even so, in her enthusiasm she managed to tear one.

  Bugger!

  She sucked at her index finger, tasting the blood, then remembered the knife in the drawer.

  Idiot!

  She grabbed it, fumbled with the blade, determined not to rip another precious nail as she eased it open. The knife was old, well worn, sharpened so often that the blade was thin and slightly bent. As she eased it into the crack between the floorboards to prise open the hidey-hole, she wondered how often Gerald had done the very same thing.

  The wooden slat flipped up with a clatter and she grabbed her phone light to inspect what lay beneath. Between the joists holding up the floor, with the ceiling fixed to their undersides, was a gap of maybe twenty centimetres, and within that cavity she found nine metal tobacco tins, each of them green, silver and gold with an Old Holborn logo on the lid.

  Okay, Gerald. What have we here?

  She lifted out the first stack of three tins, sat with her back to the bed, and popped them on the floor between her outstretched legs, eager to see inside.

  Fiona used the knife blade to flip off the first lid and almost dropped the tin as she realised what she had discovered.

  ‘Boss! I think you’ll want to take a look at this!’

  ***

  ‘Well, well, well! If it ain’t the Prodigal Son. Doctor Colin Powers. Or is it Professor these days? Oxford University offered you a job telling lies to their students, have they, now you’ve made your name by appearing on telly?’

  Doc was certain that Harding would not have been allowed to watch his unsolved crime series last winter, regardless of how well the inmate had manipulated and wriggled his way through the hospital categories, from most dangerous, unstable patient to one ready for Occupational Therapy and potential rehabilitation. Harding could have heard about the show from any number of sources. Although it had been a long time since he’d had dealings with the killer, Doc knew this would end up as a cat and mouse game.

  Who was the cat?

  Well, only time would tell.

  He gave himself a mental shrug, counted his breath in and out again and said just two words.

  ‘Hello Antony.’

  The inmate, dressed in c
asual clothes, was sitting at the small table adjacent to the side wall in the rather grandly named Seclusion Suite. His hair was greasy, with lank dark strands intertwined with steel coloured streaks, giving the effect of barbed wire highlights. Although Harding had aged since their last meeting, Doc would have recognised those lopsided eyes, one a lifeless grey the other glacier blue, and that pinched ferret’s face as surely as if they had last met just hours before. Despite the passage of years, there was still no softness emanating from the man, just an air of superiority, all-knowingness, and a sense that violence was never far from his thoughts.

  Doc always felt a similar aura from Winston, but it was a benevolent power, with violence held in check except where necessary. Harding was at the other end of the scale, and Doc wondered how he could still fool Celene, but hopefully, not Maddox.

  Maybe I’m just totally biased, considering what he did to me.

  Harding, sensing Doc’s discomfort, tilted his head, as if trying to bring his eyes into alignment. The asymmetrical features were the unfortunate result of a childhood incident when Harding’s junkie mother had dropped her infant boy on his head at the top of some concrete steps leading to her front door. A neighbour found the boy on the pavement and took him to hospital, but it was too late to save the sight in his left eye, or the hearing in his adjacent ear. His fractured skull had healed but he would be labelled FLK by health and social workers soon after — Funny Looking Kid — thanks to his misshapen head and mismatched irises.

  Recent research had confirmed that the amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for processing emotions, was underdeveloped or damaged in most psychopaths — often the result of head trauma in childhood — and Doc wondered whether this unfortunate start to Harding’s life had led him down the vicious path he had trodden. Not that it mattered. The man had been dangerously violent for most of his life, and was rightly kept under lock and key.

  It was as much as Doc could do to stop himself from turning to check that Winston had followed him in as he sat, but he knew the inmate would pounce on it, would see it for the weakness it was. He stared back into the unmatched eyes and took a seat opposite the man who had butchered his father.