Tyrone didn’t move, but both hands dropped to his sides. They stood there for another twenty seconds, Victor talking, Tyrone listening.
With another quick movement, Victor stepped away, taking his hand off Tyrone. He stood still for a moment before walking off, out of the camera’s field of view.
Tyrone remained where he was, motionless, both hands hanging by his side. The clock ticked. Thirty seconds, then two minutes. Alex turned to Robert.
‘How long—’
‘Twenty-four minutes,’ said Robert, pressing fast forward. As the video played, Alex watched the stationary figure while dozens of other inmates darted around, back and forth. A few other inmates appeared to take interest, pausing briefly next to Tyrone before moving on. One of them waved his hand in front of the man’s face, before backing away.
‘He appears catatonic. Static and unresponsive. Then this,’ said Robert, pressing play.
Tyrone moved. He lifted both hands and pressed his palms against the wall. He started to sway towards and away from the tiled surface, his head coming within a few centimetres of the wall each time. He did this several times, Alex counted five, before he jerked his head as far back as it could go then rammed it into the wall with such force he staggered, holding himself against the sink.
Alex sat up straight, astonished.
Tyrone pulled his head back and did it again, headbutting the wall with such force that the tiles cracked and splintered. Two other prisoners appeared, standing off to one side. They were waving their arms, shouting, but didn’t go any closer.
Again, the huge muscular man smashed his head face first into the wall. Dark patches of blood appeared on the wall and dripped to the floor. Several other inmates joined the first two, some standing to watch, others trying to get Tyrone’s attention, going close enough to talk. Nobody touched him.
‘Notice how the other inmates stay away,’ said Robert. ‘They’re puzzled, but Tyrone is a big lad with a reputation. They don’t want to get involved.’
‘Where are the guards?’ said Alex, inching forwards in his chair, squinting at the low-resolution images, trying to study the event, watching again as the man drove his face into the wall.
Time and time again, the big man smashed his face against the broken wall. After four more attempts, his legs gave way and he collapsed at the base of the sink, rolling on to his back. The sight of his face made Alex turn away. Not normally squeamish, this was enough to make him gag.
Tyrone’s facial features were hidden by the bloody mass of tissue and skin that had burst across the broken tiles. His nose was flat, shattered, and several of his teeth were hanging out. The blood was pumping with some force from his forehead, creating a growing pool around him. He convulsed several times before falling still, the circle of inmates closing in.
Robert paused the video and cleared his throat. ‘The guards arrived thirty seconds later. Tyrone died four hours after that. Epidural haemorrhage. Fatal build-up of blood and pressure in his skull.’
Alex swallowed several times and looked away from the screen, trying to process what he’d seen. A man dashing his own brains out against a wall. Ten minutes ago Alex would have sworn such a thing wasn’t possible.
‘There was nothing else wrong with him?’ he said, trying to apply some logic, trying to push away the images of blood and gore from his head. ‘Nothing underlying?’
‘Nothing,’ said Robert, his hands back on the keyboard, bringing up another video. ‘Tyrone was physically and mentally as healthy as they come. He wasn’t on any uppers or hallucinogens – hospital blood tests ruled out any drug use. He sold plenty, but never used.’
‘Alcohol? Homebrew?’
‘No.’
‘Personal issues. A visit gone bad. Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Somebody cheated on him?’ Alex was grasping and he knew it.
‘No, nothing. The one change to Tyrone’s routine in the last few months was his new cellmate, Victor, who happened to be in the medical centre at the time, complaining of a headache. He went there straight after his visit to the bathroom. The CCTV verifies it.’
Alex rubbed his temples, his composure weakening as he struggled to offer a reasonable explanation. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the man’s nose spread across his face.
‘I don’t see how this has anything to do with Victor,’ he said after several moments.
Robert frowned.
‘All they did was talk,’ Alex continued. ‘You don’t even know what he said.’
‘I agree,’ said Robert. ‘Which is why he was left on an open block. But that’s video one of two. Try this for size.’ He pressed play and the screen displayed another scene. This time the camera was on the wing, facing a row of cell doors. They were all open and inmates strolled between them.
‘Leisure time,’ said Robert. ‘Three hours before lock-up. Victor’s cell is the third from the left. He was moved up a floor after Tyrone’s death.’
Alex saw Victor appear on screen in profile. He walked with a weariness – slumped, bad posture. He didn’t look like a killer.
‘The cell he’s entering isn’t his?’ said Alex, as Victor disappeared behind one of the battered blue doors.
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘The cell belongs to Graham Dunstall, a rapist serving fifteen years, and Ben Chargate, GBH, serving seven. Ben wasn’t there at the time. He was in visitation seeing his girlfriend. Graham was a nasty human being. Victor obviously thought so too.’
‘Graham and Victor are alone?’ said Alex.
‘Yes,’ said Robert. ‘For the next nine minutes.’ Robert fast-forwarded and watched the timer. The video flashed with other inmates scuttling back and forth. He hit play as Victor and the other man appeared outside the cell. Victor glanced across the wing. Alex couldn’t be sure but it looked as if Victor was staring directly into the camera.
‘Do the inmates know where all the cameras are?’ said Alex.
‘Most of them,’ said Robert. ‘We’re not allowed to hide surveillance devices, strictly speaking.’ He shrugged as if he didn’t quite agree. ‘The one we’re looking through is obvious. Big and white, mounted on the wall.’
‘So Victor knows we’re watching him.’
‘It would appear so.’
Victor continued to stare for a few seconds, before shifting his gaze back towards Dunstall. He uttered something, his lips mouthing the words slowly.
‘What’s he saying?’ said Alex.
Robert shook his head. ‘I couldn’t make it out. Give? Forgive?’
Alex peered at the grainy image. ‘Did anybody else hear them?’
‘If they did they wouldn’t say.’
Victor turned. Staggering slightly, he grabbed the handrail. Pushing himself up, he shuffled back to his own cell, nudging the door closed. It remained open a few inches.
‘Inmates can’t close their doors,’ said Robert. ‘They have stoppers preventing it during leisure time. It’s supposed to discourage secretive congregations, barricading during riots et cetera.’
Alex nodded, watching the other inmate, Graham Dunstall. His eyes were open, his expression blank. His right hand drifted to his pocket. He pulled out a thin object.
‘What’s that?’ said Alex, squinting, struggling with the low-res image.
‘A shiv,’ said Robert. ‘A toothbrush shaft with a razor blade stuck on the end. Quite common.’
Alex nodded, aware that prisoners managed to make stabbing weapons out of almost anything. He’d read one case of a papier mâché shiv being used to stab an inmate through the throat. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what to expect next.
‘Seven minutes this time,’ said Robert. ‘In a trance – catatonic, perhaps. He didn’t move, speak or gesture for seven minutes, then this.’
The prisoner lifted the hand containing the shiv to his face. His expression changed. It broke, he clenched his teeth and his eyes widened.
‘He’s scared,’ said Alex. ‘Hiding it, but the signs are there.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Robert. ‘But his fear isn’t enough to stop him doing it.’
Alex was about to ask what, when the man took the shiv and cut his own throat from ear to ear. It was deep; the skin parted easily and opened up. Blood rushed out of the cut arteries, spurting outwards and coating his shirt.
He gasped two or three times before dropping to his knees, head banging against the railing on his way down. He didn’t move after that, as several pints of blood emptied themselves on to the floor, through the cracks, raining on the floor below. Victor’s cell door remained closed as several inmates rushed over. One tried to move the man, putting his hands over the gushing throat, but it was obvious to Alex any treatment would be in vain. The man was dead the second he cut both arteries.
Robert paused the video, leaving a fuzzy image of the dead man wobbling on the monitor. ‘Seen enough?’
CHAPTER SIX
‘When can I speak to him?’
Robert shook his head and sniffed, pouring a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, spilling half on to the desk. He swept it on to the floor.
They were back in the office and Alex’s mind was at work, the images of both men burned into his eyes. He was sure he’d see them tonight in his dreams: washed-out images of men in their moment of death. Painful deaths.
‘Nobody has been in Victor’s cell for six days,’ said Robert. ‘The guards push his food through the hatch. The mandatory medicals are performed through the door.’
‘I heard,’ said Alex, sipping his own coffee, fresh from Robert’s cafetière. The man could do one thing right, after all. ‘That’s off protocol, isn’t it? He hasn’t been sectioned. He’s on remand.’
Robert sniffed and shrugged.
‘You have no qualms about that?’
‘It’s legal,’ said Robert. ‘He’s withdrawn. Looks in pain but won’t accept any meds. The governor has seen the footage. She’s not willing to risk any more contact at this time, whatever the cause. Victor stays where he is, unless he starts talking.’
Alex wondered if he had any say in the matter. As a consultant on the case, he had a duty of care to Victor, but he had no explanation for what he’d seen. No simple diagnosis or deduction. He’d been expecting an overblown and overhyped account of Victor Lazar and had intended to follow this up like an expert, with careful patient time, diagnosis and treatment, to put to bed any rumours or fear. Instil some reason into this situation and come out on top. This was an opportunity to reassert himself in forensic psychology and start a new professional chapter in his life. To show the CPS he was the right choice.
But what he’d just seen was incredible. He considered and discarded several possibilities: suggestion theory, manipulation, hypnosis techniques. None of them even came close to explaining what he’d just witnessed. This was beyond him.
Or was it? Was anybody else qualified to work on this case? Robert certainly wasn’t. Alex could name a handful of ex-colleagues who’d jump at the chance to interview Victor Lazar, but none were more qualified than Alex himself. Besides, the CPS had called him. They were giving him the chance. He should grab it with both hands.
‘And he’s not talking? Have you assessed him yourself?’
‘No. No, I haven’t,’ said Robert, looking uncomfortable.
‘Why isn’t he sedated? I mean, that would be an obvious precaution. Do you think it would help?’
‘We’re not allowed unless he’s presenting an immediate danger to himself or us,’ said Robert. ‘That was one of the few things the solicitor did say. If we sedate without a full psych assessment we’ll leave ourselves wide open – too risky.’
Alex nodded. ‘You know I have to see him,’ he said. ‘I can’t be here unless I do.’
Robert smiled. He took a long draught of coffee.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I half expected you to drop the case after seeing those videos, but I hoped you’d insist on staying. Believe me, I think we should bury the man in a hole and never let him out, but . . . I’m baffled.’
‘And you’re sure that Victor had something to do with these deaths?’
Robert stared at him. ‘You’re not?’
Alex leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t sure what to make of Robert. He seemed terrified of his patient and certain that Victor had caused the gruesome deaths of his fellow inmates. But although the videos seemed to indicate that Victor was somehow involved, there was no easy explanation as to how or why. Robert seemed to have lost sight of that fact.
But he had just lost a colleague and friend, Alex reminded himself, and was bound to be feeling anxious. Robert had worked closely with Henry Farrell, yet the man’s suicide had taken him completely by surprise. It was understandable that he would be searching for quick closure.
‘So,’ Alex prompted gently, ‘do you have any theories as to how he did it?’
‘Direct suggestion? Conversational hypnosis?’ said Robert. ‘We’ve all studied it as undergrads. I put in some time at Guildford on the subject.’
Alex shook his head. ‘Even if we pretend for a second that Victor is a master hypnotist, hypnotising people into committing crimes or violent acts just doesn’t happen. It’s impossible to break a person’s value judgements. The person being hypnotised knows it’s wrong and stops it.’
‘I agree,’ said Robert. ‘I have refreshed myself in the latest literature. What you say holds true. I wish we had more history.’
‘Do we have any?’
‘Nothing of value,’ said Robert.
‘And he won’t tell you?’
Robert shrugged. ‘I haven’t asked. He might tell you.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Nope,’ said Robert, shrugging. ‘But you know as well as I do there are several mind-altering drugs which cause violent behaviour.’
‘I do,’ said Alex, ‘but nothing can cause what I’ve just seen.’
Robert chewed his cheek and studied his coffee mug, twirling it in his hands. ‘Look. I won’t tell you what to do.’
Alex cocked an eyebrow.
‘But take this as a strong recommendation: tread carefully with Victor. Do your initial assessment, but if you don’t think you can do anything, tell the CPS as much and get the hell out. You have other patients, other people who can be helped. Go back to your safe world and leave this man alone.’
Alex nodded, mulling it over. He thanked Robert for his candour and stayed with his thoughts, his mind shaken but whirring, wondering what his next conversation with Victor would reveal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Do you want me to join you?’ Robert’s reluctance was written all over his face. They’d taken some air and reconvened at Robert’s desk half an hour later.
Alex’s head was clearer, if not entirely composed. However, he didn’t think it necessary to include Robert in the interview. He preferred to build relationships with patients on his own. ‘Thanks, but no.’
Robert nodded, looking relieved, but stood anyway. ‘At least let me walk you. The guards will tell you the procedure for calling them if anything happens, but I’d rather be nearby, just in case.’
Alex shrugged. ‘I’ll be careful. I’ll play it by ear.’
‘You know to use a pseudonym?’
Alex paused. ‘No, I never have before.’
‘Ah,’ said Robert. ‘New security regulations on this category – he’s an illegal with no history. We don’t risk exposing personal details at this stage.’
Alex blinked. This was alien to him. The whole purpose of his approach was establishing trust. ‘I can’t—’
‘You can, and you will,’ said Robert, ‘or you don’t go in there. Look . . .’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘. . . nobody likes it, but it’s for your safety. What’s your wife’s maiden name?’
‘Ex-wife?’ said Alex. ‘Carter.’
‘Then you’re Dr Alex Carter for today. Only if he asks. OK?’
A few minutes later the metal door to the segregation ward clanged shut behind him. It made A
lex jump and he took his pulse, breathing evenly to slow it. He was accompanied by Robert, but Alex would enter Victor’s cell alone. That was how he needed to play it. He didn’t say it, but he wanted Victor to see him as an outsider to the prison system. Somebody he could open up to.
Alex walked towards cell fifteen, the final cell in the corridor. Robert stopped short, twenty or so feet away.
Alex stood outside the door and looked up at the ceiling camera. It flashed a red light at him for a few moments until the buzzer sounded, then there was a click as the door unlocked. He paused, taking a deep breath.
‘Mr Lazar, it’s Dr . . . Carter,’ he said, stumbling over the name, but regaining his composure quickly. ‘I’d like to come in and speak to you.’
The door swung open, creaking as the hinges strained with the weight. Alex was hit again by the smell of body odour. The waft through the hatch on his first visit had been unpleasant, but this was revolting. Still, he tried not to react as he stepped inside the cell.
Victor Lazar sat, as before, on the thin mattress. His sheets were messy and draped at the end of the bunk. Victor was slouched this time, staring at the opposite wall with a vacant expression. He scratched his bald head and adjusted his glasses.
‘Dr Carter,’ he said, his voice soft and calm, his accent crisp, ‘come in.’
Alex shuffled into the cell and leaned against the wall. The door swung shut behind him and the buzzer sounded, muffled from the inside. He didn’t reply immediately, using silence as a positioning strategy. It was important to get the upper hand and keep professional control over the conversation. He suppressed a wave of claustrophobia, screwing his nose up against the rancid air. He stood tall and puffed his chest out, shoulders back, trying to imagine the chemical changes in his brain that would result from a change in posture.
Victor cleared his throat and examined Alex, his eyes magnified by the thick glasses as he peered through them. He was short-sighted and angled his head to meet Alex’s eyes.
‘You must excuse my manners, Dr Carter,’ he said, in his thick accent, casting his hand around the room. ‘I can’t offer you much in the way of refreshments.’
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