Henley pulled off her vest and got out of bed. She thought it had stopped. The nightmares and the panic attacks that had consumed her for months. Her eyes burned with tears as fear gripped her in the bathroom. She pulled off her shorts and turned on the shower.
‘No…’ Henley said as she felt the warm stream of urine leave her and run down the inside of her leg. Henley flushed with shame, reached for a towel, soaked it under the running water and wiped up her piss from the floor. The slow breaking down of her body, telling her that she couldn’t do the job. She threw the damp towel into the wash basket and stepped into the shower. She rested her head against the tiled wall and breathed in the steam.
‘I won’t let it happen,’ she said, water running down her back. ‘I won’t let you break me.’
Chapter 16
‘Oh God, this place is still depressing,’ said Henley as she and Ramouter walked through the rust-coloured doors to HMP Belmarsh. The reception area was devoid of any sort of personality. The walls were painted the same neglectful grey as the security exterior. Henley resisted the urge to wave at one of the small black domes covering the security cameras in each corner of the ceiling. The security guard, stationed behind reinforced glass, looked up from her copy of the Daily Mail. Her gaze flicked from Henley to Ramouter and she let out a huff.
Ramouter stole a look at Henley that didn’t need explanation. They shared an inherent understanding that came from a lifetime of assumptions based on the colour of their skin. Henley felt her face prickling with heat as she sensed the subtle racism. The unspoken words of ‘What are you doing here?’
Henley tapped the glass harshly when she realised that the woman behind the glass was smirking. She dropped the warrant cards and folded piece of A4 paper into the metal tray and waited.
‘Detective Inspector?’ the woman said.
Henley waited for her to attach the word ‘Really?’ to the disbelief that was evident in her voice. It never came. She walked to the back of the office, picked up the phone and said, ‘Yeah. Two of them. OK. OK. Yeah, I know. Ta.’
Henley sighed with annoyance and worked out the crick that had been growing in her neck. The woman handed back the warrant cards and the security door opened. Henley and Ramouter were body searched, and Henley’s hair grip got thrown into the waste bin. They waited for the faceless officers in the control room to check their fingerprints against their ID cards.
‘That was a bit intense.’ Ramouter put his jacket back on and the security doors in front of him opened. An officer led them past a small garden that was being tended to by three prisoners all dressed in burgundy tracksuits. The almost fluorescent bed of dahlias looked out of place against the otherwise drab background. The prisoners had stopped working and were staring at Henley. She ignored a wolf whistle as they walked past the main prison building and headed towards the High Security Unit.
Fifteen security doors later and Henley and Ramouter were in the prison within the prison.
‘Wait here,’ said the officer. In the distance Henley could hear the murmur of a television and doors slamming shut.
A second officer, flanked by a smaller man, entered the corridor with a black Labrador.
‘Good morning. I’m Terry Wallace, the acting governor. You must be Inspector Henley?’ He extended his hand to Ramouter.
‘Erm… No,’ said Ramouter as he took a step back.
‘Oh… my apologies.’ The governor turned towards Henley. His forced smile disappeared when Henley ignored his hand. He pulled at the lapels of his beige jacket which was far too big for him, and then clasped his small hands in front of him.
‘We informed Mr Olivier of your visit.’
Henley raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s my policy to remind the prisoners that even though they are considered to be high risk, it is not my intention to dehumanise them. Not everyone in the HSU is a killer.’
‘No, just your average rapist, gangland boss or terrorist leader,’ said Henley. She stood a little bit straighter, trying not to betray her nerves. She had barely slept and hadn’t been able to eat breakfast. The corridor was narrow with no natural light. The body heat from four people and a dog made the dead air rise. It was claustrophobic.
‘We have a room that we use for legal visits available for you. Even though he expressed surprise, he appeared quite eager to see you.’
‘Eager?’
‘You can hardly blame him. The only people he sees are the nine other men in the unit and the guards.’
The governor pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch.
‘How long do you anticipate this… meeting will be? It’s important that there is as little disruption to Mr Olivier’s routine as possible.’
‘It takes as long as it takes.’
The acting governor sniffed and wiped away a trickle of sweat from his temple. ‘Ah, this is Officer Bajarami.’
A female officer walked through the door. She was shorter than Henley, but not by much. Her auburn hair was tied back into a bun. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. There was nothing distinguishing about her and the uniform was unflattering. She was the sort of woman who would be lost in a crowd if it wasn’t for the purple remains of a bruise under her left eye. Bajarami was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and Henley’s eyes moved down to the visible scratches on her right arm, which added colour to a tattoo of shooting stars.
‘You should see the other guy,’ the governor said with a weak laugh. ‘Anyway, places for me to be, Inspector Henley, Detective Ramouter.’ He nodded, before walking out of the door that Bajarami was holding for him. She locked the door behind him.
‘It was a prisoner on the remand wing. He got refused bail and he kicked off,’ said Bajarami. She opened another door and waited for Henley and Ramouter to walk through before locking it behind her. ‘To be fair on him, the judge was a bit harsh. He’s only twenty-two and he’s never been inside before.’
‘And then he finds out that he’s coming here?’ said Ramouter as they walked up a set of stairs.
‘Exactly,’ replied Bajarami. She opened the door to a room unlike the others. It was small and bright and with a large window, a table and chairs. Everything was bolted securely to the floor. A red light above a security camera flashed intermittently in the far corner and a long black rubber strip, just an arm’s length away from the table, ran along the wall. Henley wondered how many lawyers, doctors or police officers had had to press the alarm over the years.
The last time Henley had seen Olivier he’d been standing in the dock at the Old Bailey as the forewoman stood up, visibly shaking as the clerk asked her if the jury had reached a unanimous verdict. Her voice cracked when she replied, ‘No.’ It had cracked again when she had replied ‘Yes’ to the next question: ‘Have the jury reached a verdict where at least ten of you have agreed?’ Her voice had grown quieter as she said that Olivier was guilty of murder seven times.
He had stood motionless as the verdicts were read out. His face unmoving, in the same navy Hugo Boss suit he’d worn for every day of his trial. From the sharpness of his suit to the shine on his shoes, he didn’t look like a killer. He looked smooth, like he was ready to advise you on how to make the best return on your investments. The only crack in his demeanour came when the forewoman had confirmed the majority verdict of 10-2. Two people on that jury had thought that he was innocent.
Henley watched Olivier through the shatterproof window. He spoke to one officer while another officer inserted a key into the handcuffs around Olivier’s wrists. Oliver said something, and the short Asian officer shook his head and laughed. Olivier placed his hand on the second officers’ arm, and Henley flinched. The cuffs were removed and Olivier walked into the room. Henley’s breath caught in her throat.
‘It’s been a long time,’ said Olivier, his voice hoarse. ‘You’re looking well. You will have to excuse the voice. Haven’t been feeling too well. Those cells get a bit draughty at night.’ Olivier extended his hand. Henley i
gnored it. ‘I saw you on the news yesterday morning. It’s inspector now, isn’t it?’
Olivier’s dark blue gaze shifted down to her stomach, looking for the scars that he had left behind. His smile grew wider, revealing perfectly aligned but nicotine-stained teeth. The charm was still there, but there was something else too. He was not the same man who had walked into Belmarsh two and a half years ago, but he was not entirely broken either.
‘Sit down,’ Henley said firmly, pointing at the chair opposite Ramouter. Bajarami, who had been standing expressionless by the door, left the room.
‘There’s no need to be so unfriendly, Inspector. Enough time has passed. The path to redemption is forgiveness, so we can be civil to each other.’
‘I said sit down. And I’m in no mood for games.’
‘I don’t get any visitors. I get my fair share of fan mail but they’re hardly going to let them come here and see me. I see the doctor now and again but it’s not the same as having someone who wants to see you. So, I’m flattered you’re here, Inspector. It’s a shame you felt the need to bring a friend, but luckily for you I’m not a jealous man.’
Olivier looked Ramouter up and down.
‘Well, you’re certainly better-looking than that other one the Inspector used to hang around with. This place makes you forget your manners. We didn’t introduce ourselves. What’s your name? You look new. Fresh.’
‘Ramouter. TDC Ramouter.’
‘Is there a first name?’
‘Salim. Salim Ramouter.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Salim Ramouter. Are you the Inspector’s new partner?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Henley silently cursed and gave Ramouter a look. The last thing that she wanted was for Olivier to think that he had made a connection with Ramouter.
‘I think that the Inspector just wants you to sit back and observe,’ Olivier said, matter-of-factly. He folded his blue-veined arms across his chest. ‘She’s always had an obsession with me. I remember the first time that I saw her, standing outside Scotland Yard, calling me out—’
‘We’re here to ask you some questions,’ Henley interrupted, careful not to call him by his name, first or last.
‘She called me a monster,’ Olivier said. ‘And then was surprised when I stabbed her. I was only defending myself.’
Henley made a fist with her right hand again and squeezed so tightly that the pain came once more. ‘We’re here to ask you a few questions,’ she repeated.
‘Go on.’
‘On Monday morning body parts were found on the banks of the River Thames in Deptford and Greenwich. A man and a woman.’
Olivier didn’t respond. His face was fixed like granite.
‘Yesterday morning, the rest of the woman’s body was found in Ladywell Fields. Both bodies were dismembered. Legs. Arms. Head cut off and dumped.’
‘So the rumours are true,’ said Olivier, ‘but they haven’t confirmed that in the news? There was no mention of there being two victims.’
‘The public doesn’t need to know that just yet.’
‘Trying to control the flow of information. Sensible, but always fraught with difficulty in these days of social media. What does the public know?’
Henley paused. Olivier was trying to take control of the interview. To show Ramouter and herself where the true balance of power lay. Reluctantly, she answered Olivier’s question.
‘The man has been identified as Daniel Kennedy.’
‘Daniel Kennedy,’ Olivier said the name slowly. ‘You say his name as though he’s someone I should know. Did he serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure?’
‘For a while,’ answered Ramouter. ‘About two years ago. He spent six months at Belmarsh before he was transferred to High Down.’
‘Salim, I’m serving a very long sentence in the High Secure Unit. I’m Category A. I don’t get to mingle with the general population. They think I’m a monster.’
You are a monster, Henley said to herself. The longer that she sat across from him, the more agitated she became. She realised how closely she was watching his movements, hypervigilant to the fact that at any moment Olivier could try to kill her.
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’ she asked.
Olivier didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, walked to the door and tapped on the small window. The prison officer appeared and opened the door. ‘You couldn’t get me some water? I’m a bit parched in here. All of that body heat.’
The prison officer nodded. Ramouter mouthed to Henley. ‘What about Zoe?’
‘Not yet?’ Henley mouthed back. Olivier may be spending his days in prison but he was clearly in command. No one seemed to recognise the danger in him, except Henley.
Olivier returned to his seat, and watched Henley for a beat too long. ‘I don’t know any Daniel Kennedy,’ he said eventually. ‘What else is there?’
‘One of the victims was found with a crescent and double cross cut into their skin.’
Henley purposefully didn’t tell him which victim had been stamped with his symbols. She watched Olivier for a reaction, but there was nothing. The prison officer returned with a cup of water.
‘I sincerely hope that you don’t think this has anything to do with me,’ Olivier said.
‘They’re the same symbols that you cut into your victims’ skin, all seven of them.’
Olivier turned his gaze to Ramouter as he raised the cup to his lips and drank.
Henley continued. ‘There aren’t many people who knew about those symbols. Your—’
Olivier held up his left index finger as he continued to drink, forcing Henley to pause.
‘They’re your marks. Your brands.’ Henley’s voice rose with frustration. The concrete walls of the small room amplified her every word. Olivier placed his empty cup onto the table. The corners of his mouth twitched.
‘The two victims mean nothing to you but your style of killing is all over them. It all points—’
‘Surely a coincidence?’ Olivier asked with almost genuine curiosity.
‘Unlikely. I need to know if you’ve spoken to anyone about what you did to your victims?’
Olivier didn’t answer.
‘Any other prisoners, jailers, social visits?’ asked Ramouter.
Olivier laughed. A deep throaty laugh. ‘Social visits? Really? They don’t let anyone see me, except my legal team.’
‘Legal team?’ Henley asked cautiously.
‘Of course. I’ve still got one. We’ve been discussing the merits of an appeal. Being called the Jigsaw Killer is not very flattering, Inspector.’
‘You killed seven people?’ Ramouter said incredulously. ‘And you think that you’ve got grounds to appeal?’
Olivier laughed again. He turned to Henley and winked.
‘Can you think of any reason why these victims would have been branded with your symbols?’ Henley asked firmly, trying to get them back on track.
There was no reply.
‘Is there someone out there trying to send you a message?’
Olivier folded his arms and leaned back.
‘Is someone trying to get your attention?’ Henley continued.
A cracking sound. Olivier swivelled his head.
‘If you are working with anyone. If these murders have absolutely anything to do with you, I’m telling you right now—’
‘This must be killing you,’ Olivier said slowly.
The muscles in Henley’s back seized as Olivier kept his eyes firmly focused on her.
‘Here you are. Sitting here with me. Asking me for help.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Henley. ‘This is not a request for help.’
‘What is it then? You came here to ask me what I know. You’re struggling.’
Henley sat back. ‘I’m struggling? Not likely. You know what I think? I think this is burning you up inside. You’re stuck in here, no chance of parole. They’ll wheel you out of here in a wooden box, cremate you and dump your ashes in t
he nearest bin.’
‘Careful, Inspector.’
‘You’re stuck in here while someone is out there, chopping up bodies, using your sign and you can’t do a thing about it.’
‘Careful,’ Olivier repeated, his voice dropping, low and dangerous.
‘You’re not in control here,’ Henley said firmly.
Olivier smiled, but said nothing more. Ramouter tried to suppress a cough in the silence. Henley’s watch was locked away in the glovebox. There were no clocks in the room. A minute felt like an hour.
‘We’re done,’ she said to Ramouter.
Henley braced herself as Ramouter stood up and made his way quickly to the door. She heard the rustle of Olivier’s clothing as he turned his body to watch her leave the room. Henley didn’t look back. She couldn’t let Olivier see the frustration in her face, nor could he see that she was fighting to stay in control.
Chapter 17
Dr Mark Ryan looked like a forensic psychologist. Confident. Trustworthy. His office, in the old biscuit factory in Bermondsey, was homey. Warm. Comfortable. Safe. You couldn’t tell that this was a space filled with stories of trauma, betrayal, limiting beliefs, anxiety and sometimes just deafening silence, but Henley was not relaxed.
‘You look as though you’re pissed off with me, Anjelica?’ Mark asked as he sat down in the leather armchair across from her.
‘You know full well that I’m pissed off with you,’ said Henley. She picked up the cup of tea that Mark had put on the coffee table.
‘I don’t know why. I’ve been telling you for the past three months that you weren’t ready to go back. You just weren’t listening. I’m pretty sure that your own therapist would have told you the same thing.’
‘I’ve stopped seeing him,’ she said.
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