He glanced at the photo of Katie on the screen of his phone. She was laughing into the camera, her hair blown half across her face by a sudden breeze and right into her ice cream cone. Alex smiled as he looked at her pink cheeks and lightly freckled nose. It had been the school holiday, work was quiet, and his allocated time with his daughter had landed on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year. A perfect day. They hadn’t had one like it in a while.
He still couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had all gone wrong. Blaming his work was a cop-out and he knew it. His marriage had been in trouble long before that disastrous case. But he took the blame anyway. His family suffered. Katie suffered.
He slid the phone into his pocket and stared at his reflection in the car window. Forgiveness had to be earned, he thought, and doing something useful was part of it. He would make this a good day.
The second trip into HMP Whitemoor was better than the first. Alex listened to the radio on the drive in – warnings from community groups about police cuts. What was the police commissioner doing about it? He flicked through the channels to Classic FM and cruised towards the entrance on a wave of Chopin. He recognised the piece. Opus 27, No. 2. Chopin had always drifted out of his father’s study when Alex was a child, filling the house with his evocative melodies. Alex wondered why his life couldn’t be as ordered and perfect as the Nocturnes.
The guard gave him the same stare and suggested he get a security badge. Alex produced a smile and promised he would, before heading into the office.
‘I’m glad you came back for a second day.’
Alex turned as he approached the desks to see an overweight man, balding, with large gold-rimmed glasses. His white shirt was grey and too tight.
‘I couldn’t stay away,’ said Alex, holding his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you, Dr Bradley.’
Dr Bradley took it and gave a limp handshake before wiping his hand on his trousers and opening his briefcase. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Dr Madison. The CPS said you could help, so I’m glad you’re here. And call me Robert, please. Sorry I missed you yesterday – they’ve got me running around.’
He shrugged as if it was a bad thing, but kept smiling, the fat bunching in his jowls, giving the impression he was chewing on something.
‘It’s OK,’ said Alex, glancing around the office. ‘Sophie was good enough to show me the place. Is she—?’
‘Sophie?’ said Robert.
‘Sophie.’ Alex was puzzled. ‘She said she was my assistant. Dark hair, tall . . .’
‘Oh, right,’ said Robert. ‘Sophie. Yes, absolutely. Sorry. We get a constant stream of trainees and I can’t always remember their names.’
‘She sits there,’ said Alex, pointing at her desk, not impressed with Robert’s lack of attention towards his own staff.
‘Yes, I know who she is.’ Robert’s face flashed with annoyance. ‘She comes in late some days,’ he said. ‘Study time. She should be here around eleven.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Has she worked in a prison before?’
Robert glanced up, shrugging. ‘Like I said, these post-docs go through here quicker than shoplifters. She has an interesting background if I remember, but you should probably ask her.’
‘OK,’ said Alex. ‘She seems friendly, personable.’
‘You two hit it off?’
‘Er, yes. Sure.’
‘Good,’ said Robert, eyeing him up and down approvingly. ‘Good work.’
Alex frowned. ‘I have a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘Look . . . I’m only here for a few days – a couple of weeks at the most. Should we—’
‘Oh. Shame,’ said Robert, reading through his morning post, not looking up.
Alex wondered which bit was a shame.
‘Any kids?’ said Robert.
‘One – a daughter. Katie.’ Alex sat at his desk, unnerved at Robert’s personal questions. He stared at the antiquated PC in front of him and wondered if he should turn it on. He had his MacBook Air in his bag, but wasn’t sure he’d need that either.
‘A daughter!’ said Robert, looking up. ‘I wanted a daughter. I’ve got three sons – brilliant, wonderful children.’ He looked wistful, his eyes clouding over. ‘I don’t see much of them now, since Maggie and I split up. But still . . . brilliant boys.’
Alex stared at the keyboard, deciding he and Robert would not be hitting it off. The man was too abrasive, too loose with his thinking and too open with his personal problems.
‘How many days a week are you based here?’ said Alex, wondering how he could schedule his assessment work to include minimum time with this man.
‘Two.’
‘Oh.’ Alex felt better already.
‘Sometimes three. But now you’re here to help the CPS with this particular case, probably fewer.’
Good to hear, thought Alex. Whatever the doctor’s professional qualifications, which on paper were impressive, he was not the sort of person Alex wanted to befriend. He decided to change the mood.
‘Shall we talk about him,’ he said. ‘Victor Lazar?’
Robert raised his head again and stared at Alex for a few moments. His smile was gone. He folded his mail with care and put it to one side, smudging one of the envelopes as he did so. He slid his briefcase off the desk and winced as he lowered it to the floor. He suddenly looked ten years older.
‘We shall,’ he said, glancing at his watch, eyes darting to and fro. ‘Let’s do it before anyone else gets in.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Let me start by saying what this isn’t,’ said Robert, leaning back in his chair, shirt buttons straining at their threads. ‘I don’t believe in paranormal nonsense,’ he said, as if that statement itself wasn’t absurd coming from a forensic psychologist. He closed his eyes and gulped, the skin on his neck straining with the effort.
Alex waited, puzzled at the remark, notepad and pen poised, deciding it was more fitting than his MacBook in the current environment.
‘I’m not sure how much the CPS told you—’
‘A summary,’ said Alex.
‘OK. Well. From the beginning then.’ Robert gulped again and cleared his throat. ‘Victor came to us thirteen days ago on remand. Did they tell you he’s a Romanian national?’
Alex shook his head.
‘Well, his legal status is unclear, but he’s in the hands of the CPS now. He was arrested at the scene of three murders at the University of Southampton. The bodies were found in a classroom in the psychology faculty building. All three were brutally cut and stabbed with a kitchen knife. The forensic assessment, backed by a single witness statement, was that one man, a Professor Florin – Head of Psychology – killed the other two in a frenzied attack, before committing suicide with the same knife.’
Alex raised his eyebrows. The press hadn’t got hold of the details and the summary he’d been sent had skipped over it. Murder–suicides were rare, the causes either very simple or very complicated. He assumed this wasn’t the former, or he wouldn’t be here.
‘Indeed.’ Robert nodded and continued. ‘Our man, Victor Lazar, was found sitting outside the classroom. The police report says he appeared dazed and they assumed he was in shock, because he clammed up. There was no blood on his skin or clothes and the murder weapon was clean of his prints. He remained quiet throughout processing, giving us the minimum. The CPS has left him with us.’
‘Why?’ said Alex, puzzled at the vagueness of Victor’s legal status. ‘Surely he’s a witness, not a suspect?’
‘He was present at the scene and offered no explanation.’ Robert shrugged. ‘That’s enough for the CPS while we do our assessment and the police try to build a case.’
‘He’s been charged with murder?’
‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘and apparently immigration is having a hard time getting any useful information out of the Romanians. Personally, I think if it weren’t for his immigration status, he’d be out by now. But anyway.’ Robert ru
mmaged through a folder on his desk. ‘His arrest report is strange. I’ve not had the time to assess it properly. The police certainly couldn’t, and they’re being next to useless on the matter.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s no evidence,’ said Robert. ‘Nothing they can use.’ He pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘Here it is.’
‘What am I looking at?’ said Alex, as Robert passed him the top sheet.
‘Witness statement. A student at the university. He was handing in a paper when he saw the events unfold. It’s the bit at the bottom that caught our attention. Plus the disturbing events since he arrived at our prison. The CPS wants a full psychological evaluation before they proceed – that’s why you’re here.’
Alex skimmed through the fragmented report, probably gathered in stages from a witness in shock at having seen three people die in such a gruesome manner. There was a lot of jumping around in the order of events, which suggested the witness was being truthful – false accounts were typically ordered and rehearsed.
Alex read from the statement: ‘I could hear him screaming, “Please don’t make me do it. Please don’t make me do it.”’
He frowned at Robert. ‘Who did the witness hear?’
‘Professor Florin. The professor shouted it several times before stabbing himself in the throat.’
Alex raised his eyebrows and placed the paper on the desk. ‘Well, that is interesting.’
‘Indeed,’ said Robert.
‘And your initial thoughts?’
‘The witness misheard. Or he heard someone else shouting. Or Professor Florin was hearing voices.’
Alex shrugged. ‘So?’
‘The professor was staring at our man Victor while he was shouting. Read the rest of it. It’s pretty clear. Hard to fabricate, and why would he?’
Alex studied the rest of the report, chewing the inside of his lip, his thoughts racing with the intrigue. Professor Florin, according to the witness, had stabbed the other two victims multiple times with a kitchen knife, pausing on occasion to scream for mercy. He’d staggered and held his head, as if under the influence of drink or drugs. Then he had stared through the doorway at Mr Lazar, pleaded for ten seconds or so, and finally cut his own throat.
The arresting officer’s statement said that when police had arrived on scene Victor looked sick, remaining silent, still sitting outside the classroom containing the three mutilated bodies, blood thick on the floor. The bodies were lacerated, with slash and stab wounds to the neck, heart and lungs. The police report supported the witness as far as it went, for the professor’s dead body was found still holding the knife, his throat cut ear to ear.
Victor had offered no information at his arrest or at any time since. He had a brief session with a solicitor and a doctor before being transported to HMP Whitemoor.
‘His solicitor?’
‘A guy called Burrows,’ said Robert. ‘Fresh-faced and obviously drew the short straw. I get the feeling he’s terrified of Victor.’
‘Does he want to be present when I assess Victor?’
‘No. He’s happy for us to talk to Victor, as long as it remains clinical – in other words, no police. He wants the psych evaluation before he does anything else. I got the feeling he’s not in a rush.’
Alex slowed his breathing and tried to concentrate. ‘I’ll need to speak to the witness,’ he said, ‘the guy that saw all this at the university.’
‘We’ve tried,’ said Robert, ‘but the police say they got everything they needed, and the witness has clammed up. Probably mild PTSD. He’s being medicated and refuses to talk about it.’
‘Not even to us?’
‘Especially us. They said it’s too risky.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Robert shrugged. ‘The witness was a psychology PhD student. They said, and I quote, “That was some violently disturbing shit.” ’
‘And we trust his statement?’
Robert held his palms out. ‘I was hoping it might make more sense to you. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Alex truthfully, ‘and I’m not about to make a snap judgement based on a witness statement. However . . . there is the other matter.’
‘Dr Farrell’s death,’ said Robert.
Alex nodded, writing the name with a question mark next to it, noting his hand shaking with adrenaline. It had been such a long time since he’d discussed a suspected murderer. He felt the surge of professional pride that was lacking in his private practice. Taking a deep breath, he examined Robert. His face was red, flustered. Perhaps the case had hit him in the same way as with Sophie. Alex rested his pen on the paper. Robert’s chest was heaving and his face was pasty.
‘Do you need a minute?’ he said.
Robert sucked in slowly and blinked. ‘No, I’m fine.’ He didn’t look fine. Even an amateur could have diagnosed him as being very far from fine. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he clasped his hands together convulsively.
‘You’re scared of him,’ said Alex. ‘Mr Lazar.’
Robert’s eyes widened and he slapped his palms on the desk, startling Alex. ‘You’re damn right I’m scared of him,’ he said. ‘Dr Farrell was a friend of mine.’
Alex nodded. He suspected he wasn’t going to get an objective assessment from Robert, who already seemed convinced Victor Lazar was responsible for his friend’s death.
‘What do you want from me, Dr Bradley?’ Alex figured he should change tack. ‘What do you expect me to do?’
Robert frowned and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry for the outburst,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit . . . you know.’
‘Understandable,’ said Alex.
‘We need help,’ said Robert. ‘You’ve worked in clinical and forensics. We need to know what we’re dealing with . . . You need to . . .’ Robert shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘What?’
Robert stood slowly, easing his overweight frame out of the chair. He indicated for Alex to follow him. ‘Come with me. It’s easier to show rather than tell you.’
Alex shrugged but followed Robert out of the office and along the tatty walkway between sections. They walked through dull corridors and offices coming to life with managers, medics and guards all starting their shifts. Phones were ringing and printers humming as the prison administration woke up for the day. No one looked at Robert or Alex as they passed. The atmosphere was cold and uninviting. They passed along another corridor and through two locked gates before Robert stopped outside a door with ‘D Wing Surveillance’ written on the outside in peeling gold letters. He thumped on the door.
‘Mr Lazar is a scary man to be around,’ said Robert as they waited. ‘Dr Farrell realised too late. You never asked why Victor is in segregation. I’m going to show you why.’
The surveillance room was impressive. Twenty wall-mounted monitors with a sixty-inch screen at the centre. The archaic nature of the prison seemed to be transformed by the technology on display in this room. The video feeds were controlled by three desktop PCs and a dedicated console control. The guard who’d let them in smiled at Robert.
‘Can we have the room?’ said Robert. ‘I need to show Dr Madison the footage of Mr Lazar.’
‘Oh,’ said the guard, his smile disappearing. Worry creased his forehead. ‘I don’t need to stay, do I?’
‘Of course not,’ said Robert. ‘I’ll call you when we’re done.’
The guard’s relief was palpable as he exited the room and closed the door.
‘Have a seat,’ said Robert, taking one of the keyboards and navigating through the archive software. He browsed by date and picked out specific days, dragging them into a folder, ready to be played.
‘They’ll show you later how we catalogue surveillance. We store key footage with the case records in our own system – for example, if we need it for court, a parole hearing or suchlike. But the raw footage is all stored centrally. If we want to see it we have to come here.�
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‘Fine,’ said Alex, now seated, hoping most of his contact would be face-to-face rather than via video.
‘I have to complete the security checks,’ continued Robert. ‘Everything is logged, for our safety and theirs. You watch a video, you need a reason. Simple as that.’ After a few more clicks, Robert pointed at the central screen. ‘On arrival, Victor was housed in the general population of D Wing,’ he said. ‘Standard drill: two to a cell, facilities for exercise, leisure and personal time. For the first twenty-four hours he kept to himself, talking to nobody.’
A low-resolution image appeared on the screen. The video played and Alex saw twenty or so inmates walking back and forth in green prison-issue towels.
‘This footage was recorded on Victor’s second night,’ said Robert. ‘The camera covers the entrance to the shower room on the first floor – where Victor’s cell was. We don’t video inside the shower room, but the sinks and toilet cubicles are visible.’
Alex nodded, watching as a tall black man approached one of the sinks. He had a towel wrapped around his lower half. His upper half was muscular, with a series of tattoos across the back of his shoulders.
Robert hit pause. ‘The man there is Tyrone Jeffries, Victor’s cellmate. He was nine years into a twelve-year stint for supplying Class A. A nasty piece of work. Outwardly well behaved, but off camera he was running the wing. The guards never managed to pin anything on him, but they think he was responsible for a number of revenge beatings in here.’
Robert glanced over at Alex and caught his eye. ‘This man is hard as nails, and was going to be out in a couple of years.’
He pressed play. A few seconds later another man approached the sink next to Tyrone.
‘There’s Victor,’ said Robert.
Victor appeared. Out of the cell he appeared even shorter, tiny in comparison with Tyrone. He adjusted his glasses, turning to the wall so neither his nor Tyrone’s faces were visible to camera.
A few more seconds passed before Victor moved, quickly, putting his right hand on to Tyrone’s left shoulder. He leaned in and appeared to be talking, straining his neck, his mouth a few inches from the tall man’s ear.
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