by David Wilson
The list contained the usual high-tariff offenders who were the staple of Greenbank: murderers, rapists, and armed robbers. They scored high on Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist, with an average age of thirty-two. Most were white. Despite several in-service campaigns to increase the number of ethnic minority prisoners in therapy, largely led by Johnsson, Greenbank remained resolutely white. For black prisoners Greenbank seemed like a mental institution, and the history of black people and mental illness was too littered with racism for the prison to overcome by itself.
She noted the prisoners’ names and offences and it was obvious that any one of them was capable of murder. “Access and motive,” she repeated to herself. However, there was one prisoner who caught her eye. He was ex-Territorial Army and would know how to handle a weapon and probably be well organized. His name was Jeremy Walker, known as the “Reptile Man” on account of his claim that while training in Africa he killed eight local men in a day and fed their bodies to crocodiles. At the age of thirty-two, he shot two sailors in Glasgow and dumped their bodies in the Clyde. He then began murdering prostitutes in the area, claiming nine victims before his capture less than two years later. The women were strangled and battered to death and sometimes mutilated. His last victim’s body was found in October 1994, and the police left the body undisturbed while setting up a surveillance team in the area, prompted by a psychological profile that indicated the killer would return to the scene of his crime. Walker was seen masturbating as he sat in his car on the Albert Bridge over the Clyde where the body of his final victim was floating. He was arrested and confessed in custody. He was a sad figure, consumed with self-loathing: “I was so full of hate that there was no room in me for such feelings as love, pity, kindness, honour or decency,” he said. “My only regret is that I wasn’t born dead or not at all.”
Knight was overseeing the police investigation. The prisoner interviews were under way but John Johnsson was being unusually officious, insisting that prisoners be interviewed in the presence of a solicitor. Locating solicitors always took time, and they didn’t have time to play with. No one knew when the killer would strike again. Knight emphasized that the prisoners shouldn’t be spooked more than they were already, but Johnsson wanted procedure adhered to correctly.
Kate was keen to interview Jeremy Walker with Knight in attendance. She had phoned ahead to ensure that Walker wasn’t let off the wing to attend classes. She also consulted with the senior medical officer about Walker’s medication, and had been reassured that there were no reports that he’d stopped taking his prescription, or that he had been selling it on the wing. They discussed briefly how to handle the interview, and agreed that Kate should introduce Knight, but that Kate should do the talking. She knew Walker vaguely from her therapy sessions.
As they entered the wing, one of the officers let them know that Walker was waiting for them. “He’s been a bit odd of late – even odder than normal. Always muttering to himself. Should be in a hospital if you ask me,” said the officer. “I’ll come in with you in case he kicks off.” They pushed open the door, and found Walker sitting in a chair, staring at his feet. The interview room was regulation prison service grey, bare and smelled of piss.
“Hello,” said Kate. “I’d like to introduce you to DI Knight. Can we have a chat?”
Walker said nothing, but started to rock to and fro. “Do you remember me?” said Kate. “I’ve taken a number of your therapy sessions. I know all about you so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Walker stopped rocking immediately, and stared at her. “Your problem Miss is that you know too much. Knowledge is the devil’s weapon. I knew you’d come back. They’re here, the Lord’s messengers, aren’t they? Hunting us who are damned.”
“Who’s here?” said Kate.
“They killed Clark and then Mazurski, but that won’t be the last. They’ll kill and kill until they’re stopped.” The interview seemed to be going nowhere fast. Walker was demented, medication or no medication.
“Who’s next?” asked Knight.
“They are hunters, and seek out those that hunted,” said Walker. “We did bad and now we must pay. In war the defeated must be punished, remember Nuremberg, remember Hamburg, the guilty sentenced to death by hanging, white crosses painted on their backs, queuing up to die, hanged, women on their own, men in pairs, the short drop method…” he raised his arms and lowered them rapidly as if he was ramming a wooden stake into the ground. “A long, slow, painful death by strangulation. We live in a state of perpetual war and punishment.”
“Look,” said Kate. “I don’t think we are going to get much further here. I think we should go.”
“Don’t go,” said Walker. “Don’t go.” He tried to grab Kate’s arm but the prison officer intervened and held him back. He took him away.
“Well, that was pretty useless,” said Knight.
“He’s terrified,” replied Kate. “But there’s something he said that we could work on.”
*
Munro tried as best he could to keep the normal routines of the prison running. His mind was elsewhere though. He felt there was a small rodent in his gut trying to eat its way out. His phone was on silent but he’d programmed Morag’s incoming call or text alerts with a specific buzz but all his calls were standard alerts of work issues, and there were many. He toured the prison, and tasted lunch, signing the catering manager’s menu book to the effect that the shepherd’s pie was “excellent – well done”. One or two prisoners asked him what was going on, and when he was going to get to grips with the place. “How many of us are going to die before you sort it out?”
He continued his round in the hospital, and spoke with a couple of the hospital officers before signing their Daily Occurrence Book, and then headed back to the wings to take Applications. Each day prisoners were allowed to apply directly to speak to the governor about any unresolved personal, or prison issues, to make requests of various kinds, such as a plea for Temporary Release, or simply to complain.
At Greenbank, Munro generally advised the applicant to “take this matter to his group”, where it would be discussed. If it was felt that what the prisoner was requesting would be good for his therapy, then he could reapply to the governor with the backing of his wing.
Applications over, he returned to his office where Mr and Mrs Mazurski were waiting. As he entered, Mrs Mazurski dabbed her eyes and Mr Mazurski rose, extending his hand. Inwardly Munro sighed.
“Yes, yes, how do you do? I am so very sorry to see you in these dreadful circumstances,” he said.
Munro reached into a drawer, and pulled out a bag.
“These were all the personal effects that were in your son’s cell.”
“What about the money Governor Munro?” said Mr Mazurski. Munro could feel the pull of something deep and insatiable coming from the man. It was like gravity, a cosmic force of need.
“Your son had about £50 in his personal cash, and I’ll have that transferred to you today.”
Mr Mazurski frowned, his eyes seemed to recede in their sockets.
“Governor Munro, we were looking forward to John taking care of us in our old age. We have lost a dear, and beloved son. Quite naturally we will be wanting some form of compensation. After all, the people who come into prison should not be murdered, and as I understand it you have… what is it called, a duty of care?”
“Mr Mazurski, I’m grateful that you and your wife have made the journey here today, and in these dreadful circumstances. I want to be as helpful as possible, and I am certainly not insensitive to your loss. However, you must realize that your son was serving natural life; he was never going to be released, and so there was never any possibility that he would have been able to look after you in your dotage. As for compensation you must take all the legal advice that you feel is appropriate, but I can assure you that we will fight this case in the courts. And would you want your son’s offences dragged through the papers again?”
Mrs Mazurski started
to cry.
“This is not the last you’ll be hearing from us,” said Mr Mazurski. “Our son died when he should have been afforded protection. That is your job, and this murder is your responsibility. I will not let this matter rest, and please be assured that you will be hearing from our solicitor.”
Munro knew that the lawyers would soon be crawling all over the prison, like a fungus, driven by no-win-no-fee, their sophistry and precedents leaving no billable stone unturned. He would get Johnsson to deal with the problem. He needed to give him something to do.
As the Mazurskis left his office, Kate and Knight returned. Munro gestured for them to take a chair.
“So, what do you know?” said Munro.
“There have been around twenty prisoners who have come to Greenbank in the last twelve months who are still here, and who theoretically could be the killers,” said Kate. “There have been eight new members of staff in the last year – including you. If we exclude you…”
“That’s generous of you,” said Munro.
“…there are really only three possible candidates. The two new officers – Sandel and Brock, and some guy in the works department called Foster.”
“That’s only four members of staff – you said there were eight,” said Knight.
“I have excluded the four new women that have joined the administration department – there’s no way that the killer is going to be female. Murder in my professional opinion is nearly always a man’s business.”
“Don't count on it,” said Knight. “I’m the cop, I’ll make that decision. How do we know there isn’t some sort of collusion, a witches’ brew of scheming? I’ll interview them one by one. They are suspects until proven otherwise.”
Kate glared at him.
Munro turned to Knight, “Sandel and Brock, what do you have on these guys?”
Knight shook his head, but said as far as he was aware Brock and Sandel had been away during the previous week, holidaying in Wales.
“Doesn’t that rule them out?” suggested Munro. “The general opinion is that they are first-rate officers, highly committed. Brock I know, Sandel is more of a mystery.” He tapped their names into his computer to bring up their photographs and their shift system.
“We still have to check on the addresses that they say they stayed at. I have one of my guys interviewing them right now. Just routine, so as not to scare them,” said Knight.
“Sandel and Brock start a week of nights tomorrow,” said Munro consulting his computer. “And what do you know about Foster?”
“He’s an electrician on the works. Late fifties and fighting off arthritis. Not exactly prime suspect material,” said Knight.
“Ok,” said Munro, “tell me about the interview with Walker.”
“Walker is still coming to terms with his own demons, but I think he told us who the next victim might be,” said Kate.
“He did?” said Knight.
“He said that the killers were hunters and would seek out those that hunted.”
“But these are the ravings of an unstable mind, or are you saying he’s in cahoots with the killers and he’s in on what they’re going to do next?” said Knight.
“He’s scared out of his wits, but I think he wants to help us,” said Kate. “They seek out those that hunted. Walker has a military background so he could conceivably be someone ‘that hunted’ and he himself could be the next victim, but I don’t think so. Have you heard of David Maguire?”
The name started to ring bells. David Maguire was a former SAS man serving life for eleven known murders, and Munro had forgotten that he’d been at Greenbank for almost a year. After the first Gulf War, Maguire had been dishonourably discharged, but didn’t want to part with the military way of life. For the next two years he would cruise up and down the M40, dressed in camouflage gear, looking for stranded motorists. He’d disguised his van to look like an AA rescue vehicle, and he pretended that he was about to offer them help. Rescue was the last thing on his mind, and after he’d subdued the unlucky motorist he would take them into the countryside. Once he had calmed his victims down, as much as he could, he’d explain to them that they had a chance – one chance to get away. He’d release them, give them a five-minute start, before he’d come looking for them. Nothing sexual ever took place; it was the thrill of the chase that lit Maguire’s fire. When he found them – as he inevitably would, he’d toy with them for a while, enjoying the power he exercised over them. He’d stab them a little, but never where it was going to inflict much damage – certainly not where they might be killed. After he’d grown tired he’d snap their necks, skin them, and cook and eat their body parts. He’d have gone on for years if a real AA man hadn’t spotted the imposter filling up with petrol.
“So, you think Maguire’s going to be next? Pretty far-fetched don’t you think Kate?” said Munro. His patience was wearing thin, it seemed crackpot to him. He checked his phone, there was a text from a firm of solicitors waiting for a reply. He needed to get Johnsson to take some of the burden off his shoulders, and quickly.
“Maybe Walker is our killer and all of this is a ruse to get the heat off him?” said Knight.
“Unlikely, trust my instincts on this one,” said Kate, tentatively. “I have a plan. What have we got to lose? What would you rather do – wait around until someone else gets killed?”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Take a seat,” said Munro. “Coffee?”
John Johnsson cast his eyes around the large office. It had windows on two sides, let the light in, showed off the paintings on the walls to good effect. The canvases were too bright and shapeless for his taste, he preferred landscapes or better still film posters. There was a picture of a fairground merry-go-round that was simply weird, the product of a deranged mind, it gave him the creeps. He’d stick a picture of his beloved Liverpool FC on the wall if he ever had an office as big as this, another of Stevie Gerrard playing in his last game for the Reds, one club, one hairstyle, role model, hero.
“No thanks Boss, busy, busy.”
Munro studied his deputy. He liked to think he could read character. Johnsson seemed jittery, he kept sniffing and his nose was running. Too much coke or amphetamine up his nostrils perhaps, but he didn’t think so. Johnsson was straight, uptight, wanted to get on. His wife was very keen that he reach the top. He was almost there, but not quite.
“How’s your wife?” said Munro.
“Oh you know, bearing up.”
“And your son? Getting up to mischief?”
“Mostly exams, stress, that time of life.”
Munro sensed his impatience.
“How do you get on with DI Knight?”
“He’s ok.”
“Kate?”
“Charming.”
“Good, then we have something resembling a team with everyone pulling together, except you’re not, John, you’re holding back. We’re sitting on an ever more ball-crushing series of crises here, and if I go down you’ll go down with me. Neither of us wants that. You know about Mazurski, the latest, but now there’s another one – suspicious death – Penny, Wooldridge’s housekeeper; hit and run.”
“I’d heard.”
Munro wondered how he knew, he’d only just found out himself.
“Did you know her?”
“Never met her.”
Munro nodded, waiting for the silence to reach breaking point. Johnsson shifted in his seat; something was simmering, maybe coming to the boil if he turned up the heat.
“Look Johnsson, don’t fuck about with Knight, he’s a decent copper trying to get the job done. Leave out the insistence on prisoner’s legal representation with the interviews he’s doing, we can’t afford the blockage, we need statements from them and quickly.”
“Whatever you say, you’re the boss but it goes against the grain and against my conscience. This is a therapeutic prison and we don’t coerce, we encourage and explain, we lead by example, we’re not like in the old system. It’s all going
to fall apart otherwise with these coppers trampling over procedure.”
“The system is falling apart around us as it is, Johnsson.”
“Well sir, with respect, I’m not sure you’re handling it the right way. The prisoners are agitated, pumped up like Mexican jumping beans, they’re going to blow. You’re new to all this and I have years of experience of this kind of prison and I don’t get a look in, you have a tight team, but I think I can contribute a lot of good experience and nous to the situation as it unfolds, do you see where I’m coming from?”
There was a subtle change of colour to his face from white to pink as he spoke. He was holding it in and Munro admired his efforts. He decided on another tack.
“Granted you’re a wise bird John. In fact I need to you liaise with the legal eagles who will be knocking on our door, can you use your skills of diplomacy to keep them out of our hair until this all dies down? Also Mazurski’s parents have been shaking us down for compensation for their son’s death in custody, in their mealy-mouthed way, I’d be grateful if you could smooth that one over for me. Good man.”
Johnsson took a deep breath.
“I have expertise and it’s only right that you utilise it Munro. Wooldridge made promises that he’s obviously not around to keep, God rest his soul. It could be that someone disgruntled wanted revenge and took it out on him in a nasty fashion.”
“What do you mean?”
“Officer Brock, I don’t trust him.”
“But he’s only been here a short time. What’s he got to be unhappy about?”
“He’s scum, mark my words, I think you should sack him.”
“That’s a little extreme, let’s keep things in proportion.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, it’s gone to rat shit, and I should know.”
Johnsson was trembling ever so slightly now and hurried his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out his handkerchief and as he wiped it across his nose something glinted in the air and fell to the floor by Munro’s desk. He bent to retrieve it. It was a silver ring. He looked at it curiously.