by David Wilson
“Maybe somebody new, or somebody who’s been waiting for an opportunity for a very long time, who’s seen his chance, and taken it.”
Knight slipped into third gear, blipping the throttle, the engine emitting a low growl, the transition seamless. The road ahead was clear and ready for speed but he preferred an unhurried cruise.
“Munro’s new,” offered Knight, only half-joking.
“I don’t think so. If it was a governor, judging by the look on John Johnsson’s face after the staff meeting I think he might have been harbouring murderous thoughts, but remember we have other new staff, and of course new prisoners – don’t forget them, coming and going all the time in a place the size of Greenbank. And ‘new’ is very imprecise. What does it mean? Six months? A Year?”
Kate paused.
“We should get a list of all the new prisoners and staff who have come to Greenbank in the last twelve months,” she said. “It’s a hunch, and this is a work in progress, but I think a new member of staff has arrived with some kind of personal grudge against the place, or a hang-up with therapy. And I don’t think he’s working alone.”
A few minutes later Knight pulled up outside Kate’s house and switched off the car’s engine. As Kate readied to leave the car, he said: “I’ll walk you to your door.” Kate noticed that he’d kept his driving gloves on.
In the porch, Kate looked through her bag and found her key. Her house was a thirties semi, solid with a curved ground floor bay window. Knight took a good look, running his gloved hands around the window frames. They were the original metal, slightly warped in places with no security locks. There was no way to reach the first floor without a ladder. Kate put her key in the front door lock, it was a brass Yale, tarnished with age.
“Get that lock changed,” he said. “Put security bolts top and bottom. New window locks as well.”
He was standing too close to her. The Chardonnay was making her mind spin and their conversation that evening had been unnerving. Kate had a terrible need to be held tightly, enveloped for eternity, letting oblivion overcome her, but then she felt diminished by the thought. She turned to say goodnight and as she did so Knight edged forward. Kate pulled away and said, “Let’s talk about all of this later. Another time; not tonight.”
Knight smiled and turned to walk away. He waved and shouted, “Soon,” and as he did so his pager blinked, prompting him to look in his car for his mobile phone.
“Knight,” he said, and then listened intently.
“When? Ok, Where?”
He put the phone away in his pocket and stared through the car windscreen at the darkening evening. The sky was turning black as the day leached out of it, dissolving dimension and detail into blankness like the emptiness that was all he could feel in his heart.
He returned to Kate’s house and knocked on the door. She opened it and looked at him quizzically.
“I’m staying the night,” he said.
“Not tonight, Sir Galahad,” she replied.
“Wooldridge’s been murdered.”
Chapter Twenty
Kate went pale and she thought she was going to be sick. She held her stomach and bent over. Knight put his hands gently on her shoulders and rubbed the top of her back. When she straightened, she fell into his arms. They did not move except for an instinctive rocking like the waves of the sea invisibly shifting the deep sands below.
Knight made coffee and they sat opposite each other in the lounge. Kate had her head in her hands. He thought he heard her crying, a held-in sound as if she was embarrassed with herself.
“A good friend?” said Knight.
“Yes,” said Kate, her eyes were red. “He brought me over from America, gave me the opportunity to work at Greenbank, he was so enthusiastic about his therapeutic community as if it was the last bastion of civilization, holding back the tide; he was such a motivator. I was his blue-eyed girl until he had to retire. He abhorred violence of any kind, mental or physical, the gentlest, kindest person I’ve ever met. I never knew him that well, he was a very private person, rumour had it that he was gay, he organized wild parties in his new place in Dorset, but always such a positive force for good. What happened?”
“He was found in an alleyway off Boundary Gardens in Shoreditch, east end of London. Single stab wound to the heart. No robbery, wallet still in his jacket, man bag with the usual inside, Kindle, a packet of condoms, unopened, clearly off to meet someone, perhaps never made it. Didn’t die at the scene, not enough blood, body was carefully placed, hands over chest, fingers intertwined, bizarre. That’s all we have, sorry, sometimes details help with the grief.”
He held back about the mutilation of Wooldridge’s tongue.
Kate nodded, “Thanks,” she said. She took a deep breath. “So, this murder has ritualistic elements, suggests another hand, we’re dealing with more than one murderer. But what’s the pattern? The victims are all Greenbank: ex-con, con, ex-staff… the next one staff?”
“Who knows,” said Knight. “I’m not making any assumptions.”
“There’s chaos combined with planning here,” Kate was thinking aloud. “Anger and rage with Danny and Clark’s murders, fear with McCabe’s suicide, now Wooldridge’s been murdered by someone with a vision, an agenda. Who could be next?”
Knight was silent. Then he said, “We need to assess the risk.”
“You don’t think it’s me do you?”
“I’m staying the night.”
“No!” Kate raised her voice, a full stop like a boxer’s jab. “I’ll deal with this my own way.”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not happening.” Kate felt lightheaded, a wave of nausea swept over her. She would take it on like she’d taken everything on in her life, and if this was to be, then she’d accept it, she would look it right in the eye. She heard a bird trill from the back garden, she’d heard it before many times, always late in the evening when it was almost dark, its melody in sharp defiance of the dying day.
Knight finished his coffee and stood up. He scribbled a number on the back of a receipt he found in his pocket.
“Here’s my mobile number. Call it any time, something spooks you, something looks suspicious, I want to hear from you. Call for a chat even… if you’d like to.”
“Thanks,” said Kate. She saw him to the front door and waved him off, the Alfa gunning noisily down the long empty street. Kate looked around, all was still, curtains were drawn, the night was just beginning.
Chapter Twenty-One
Munro was still in his office talking to prison officer Will Brock when a call came through from DI Knight.
“How’s it going? Right…” said Munro. “Jeez,” he felt a bolt of electricity shoot through him. “When did you hear?”
“About an hour ago,” said Knight. He outlined the details he’d given to Kate, giving him the full story including the removal of the victim’s tongue.
For a moment Munro couldn’t breathe. Wooldridge didn’t deserve that, Munro’s mind was in chaos; no one deserves that.
“You still there?” Knight had given him time to collect himself.
“Sure.”
“We’ll keep you updated as the investigation proceeds. Right now, and without scaremongering, I want you to be vigilant. I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”
“It’s getting a little too close,” said Munro, mostly too himself. “Any links, connections, is a pattern forming? I’ve got a damn prison to run and I don’t want anybody else to get killed.” Brock got up from his chair to leave. Munro waved a finger at him to remain seated.
“Who’s with you?” said Knight.
“Officer Brock, he’s just returned from an outward bound course and was picking up his bike. I called him in.”
“How well do you know him?” asked Knight.
Munro looked over at Brock. “He’s new, but clean.”
Brock smiled.
“Ok, we’ll talk furthe
r in the morning,” said Knight.
“And Kate?” said Munro. “Where is she?”
“I’ve just left her, she’s fine, she’s got my number.”
“We’ll need to identify vulnerabilities, there’s a possibility Kate could be at risk,” said Munro.
“Potentially,” said Knight. “Yes.” He rang off.
“Jesus H Christ,” said Munro. “It’s all kicking off. You hear any of that? Wooldridge’s bought it.”
Brock looked genuinely shocked.
“The rain it raineth every day and then the bloody Tsunami comes along,” said Munro.
“Kate’s that fit psychotherapist?” said Brock.
“Don’t be crass officer, we’re running a progressive outfit here. Now I want you to check out Ian Clark, his friends, enemies, his predilections, his habits, good and bad, the full Monty. We need to know why he was picked on. I want to know who the killer is going to attack next, or at least narrow the field down. Until we do no one is safe.”
“What makes you think he’ll strike again, maybe the job’s done?” said Brock.
“You’re assuming the killer’s a ‘he’? Based on what? Level of violence? There’s too much guesswork, prejudice, assumption going on. I need hard facts. Hence I want you to find out everything about Clark. I’m giving you a day, then report to me. Thanks.”
Brock picked up his grey Arai crash helmet. “Leave it to me,” he said. He closed the door quietly behind him.
Munro looked at the photo of his daughter on his desk. He never wanted her to grow up, and now she was too far away, a deep pocket of vulnerability. He wondered what she was doing now, imagined her life, tried to enter her soul, her sweet generosity, her trusting innocence. The dreaming spires. You dream too much you fall.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kate switched on the hall light, and walked through to her kitchen where she placed the kettle under the tap, and then put it on its base flicking the “on” button which turned the light orange. More coffee would help dilute the Chardonnay. She went back to the hall, and into her study where she turned on her laptop, the power light glowing luminous green. She plugged her mobile into the charge cable, waiting for the muted double buzz to confirm the connection. She found solace in these small routines, the binary act of on/off simplifying the world. The laptop screen saver – “Go Tar Heels” – a reference to the University of North Carolina, floated from side to side as if lighter than air, a helium balloon of memories. Kate logged onto the internet to retrieve her email, and as they downloaded she returned to the kitchen while the kettle boiled.
Coffee cup in hand, she was about to return to her study when the urgent ringing of the landline in the kitchen stopped Kate dead in her tracks. She never used that phone if she could help it and no one knew the number apart from the telecoms company that installed it. She received irritating cold calls from companies who must have bought her phone information but no one rang that line at this time of the evening. It took her a few seconds to gather herself, and then a moment more before she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said it in a terse voice, the subtext of which was fuck off I don’t wish to upgrade my computer software at this moment in time. There was silence, then a crackle and a sound she was dreading. Her heart went to her mouth, not this please she thought, not now; how easy it is to be crippled by fear when you’re alone. She heard breathing, a deep guttural sigh as if someone was lifting a heavy weight. She was about to slam the phone down when she heard, “Hi.”
It was Knight.
There were several heartbeats before Kate could speak.
“My God Knight, what’s with the heavy breathing? This is a training exercise and you’ve chosen the part of the perv? Because you’re bloody good at it. Second point, how did you get this number?”
“Sorry Kate, I dropped my cigarette just as I made the call and it rolled into the gutter, it won’t draw now, damp, damn. Second point, I’m a copper, I find things out.”
“Since when do you smoke?”
“I’ve started again.”
“Stress?”
“Something like that.”
“You need looking after.”
“I just rang to see if you were all right.”
“I was, until now.”
“Sorry.”
They were silent. Kate could feel the glow of his presence, the tingle of his sightless surveillance.
“Are you still wearing your gloves?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
Kate let out a snort that verged on the indecent. She tried to hold it in but her eyes began to moisten and she swallowed something that was threatening to turn into hysteria. Smooth, smooth leather, she thought, she could almost feel it on her skin.
“That’s great,” she managed, letting out a hiccup of laughter.
“I’m here if you need me,” said Knight.
“My Buzz Lightyear,” said Kate.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
Kate left the phone off the hook, and made her way back to her study, by which time she had received five new emails; nothing important, so she logged off, and then sat down at her computer. She tried to work out if, how, in what way Wooldridge’s murder was linked to the deaths of Clark and Danny. Perhaps there was no link? Maybe it was a jealous lover placing Wooldridge’s body in a ritualistic pose to distract the police? A bizarre sex game, a suicide pact? But Wooldridge was happy in his retirement. Kate couldn’t escape the fact that he was inextricably associated with therapeutic practice at Greenbank, just as she was, and still is.
She opened Word on her computer and attempted to compile a profile of the killer based on the details that she knew about the murders.
In reality this wasn’t so much a profile as a series of interconnecting points that flowed logically from each other based on the premise, developed by the FBI’s behavioral support unit, that it was possible to reveal something about the killer’s personality from the characteristics of the murder itself.
Draft Profile (1) – Ian Clark murder
1.0 Clark was a 34-year-old male serving Natural Life for a series of murders. He was murdered whilst at the therapeutic community of HMP Greenbank. This profile has been constructed without access being given to the body, forensic and DNA evidence – to be assessed if/when available. Clark was murdered in his cell at night, he was strangled, beaten and stabbed in the head through both eyes, the knife blade penetrating his brain and death would have been instantaneous. However victim would have been in considerable pain from being beaten before death suggesting some form of punishment, also blinding, disabling. Tape covered his mouth and cable ties secured his hands suggesting planning and organization. No DNA has yet been found on these items. His body was not concealed suggesting display, bravado and confidence in the killer. A warning perhaps, in a brazen manner.
1.1 Unlikely for a prisoner to have access to murder items, knife, tape, ties, which would suggest that this was not a prisoner-on-prisoner dispute, but rather a murder committed by a member of staff, or person unknown.
1.2 The murder implies knowledge of the prison, and access to it – either through currently working there, or from having worked there in the past. We should not rule out the possibility of the killer being an ex-offender who served time at Greenbank.
(2) – Danny O’Brien murder
1.0 Danny, a former inmate of HMP Greenbank, age not determined, nature of his crime to be included after further research, category A prisoner, one time high risk. On release, whereabouts unknown, no reported instance of reoffending. Reported to have returned to vicinity of HMP Greenbank, resorted to begging. Assault took place outside The White Hart pub, night-time, savage attack, ruptured spleen, broken ribs, facial injuries include broken jaw and nose, skin lacerations, eye gouging, facial defacement. Note similarity to Clark, extensive wounds concentrated around face and eyes, as if in an act of erasure
of primary defining features. However little evidence of planning. Victim found some distance away from point of assault, still alive, suggesting murderer heedless to consequences. Note similarity to Clark in that there was no attempt to conceal evidence of assault/murder. Brazen act of dominance and defiance.
1.1 Probable spontaneous combustion of violence indicating unstable personality.
(3) – Martin Wooldridge murder
1.0 Wooldridge, former governor of HMP Greenbank, retired, body found in Shoreditch, east end of London, fashionable part of city, single stab wound, no indication of struggle, perhaps taken by surprise? Entry wound to the heart through chest, suggests he was facing the murderer, did Wooldridge know the murderer? Check evidence of intoxication or drugs, semen stains, recent ejaculation, sexual assault. Check length of knife blade, if military then suggests careful planning. No robbery, hands placed over chest in ritualistic display, note all three murders evince display, warning? Dominance and defiance, intimation of performance, theatricality. Murder committed elsewhere so pre-planned, access to transportation, a “clean kill”.
1.1 No gouging or mutilation indicates different modus operandi, separate killer(s) or one and the same with advanced range of skills?
Preliminary conclusions: Taking the above into consideration, and bearing in mind those parts of the profile which can be improved upon with access to the bodies etc., it is possible to say that the killer(s) is/are likely to be from within a dominant ethic group, male gender, and between the ages of 21-49, physically fit, and likely to work in a skilled or semi-skilled occupation – which would include prison officer or civilian member of staff.
Draft – Kate Crowther
Notes to self:
a. Remember access and motive.
b. Why now?
c. If the choice is between the fantastic or the ordinary, always go with the ordinary (unless you are very unlucky!)
Kate saved the profiles, emailed them to Munro and Knight and ran off a couple of hard copies. She was exhausted, going over the details of the murders was emotionally draining. She found it particularly painful to think about Wooldridge’s death; he had so much to live for. She felt the cold hand of death creeping up her spine and she shuddered. She tried to recall if she had crossed anyone recently, whether she’d encountered a steely-eyed glare in any of her therapy sessions, someone who took exception to something she’d said, or a prison officer who might harbour violence against her and her methods. She couldn’t remember anything like that. But perception and memory can be fatally imprecise. The human brain can only approximate, the machine roar of nature’s mechanisms continue unhindered.