by David Wilson
Chapter Forty
Jim Dabell hated nights. Some members of staff enjoyed night duty; it was a way of avoiding prisoners, but Dabell was not one of them. He didn’t like sleeping during the day; he missed the sun, and he especially missed evening activities with his kids. He couldn’t understand why so many staff volunteered for extra night duties, and he dreaded it when his turn to act as night orderly officer came around, as it did once every eleven weeks.
He found it odd that during the day the prison was overflowing with specialist staff – from doctors and nurses to therapists, teachers and educationalists – but as soon as the prison was locked up after 2130 hours, all that was left was him, three basic grade officers, and four elderly, usually retired, officers called night patrols. Prisoners didn’t stop having problems after half past nine, and on many occasions Dabell had to call out doctors to attend to someone who was sick, or the governor to deal with some problem that he couldn’t cope with himself. Staff had been trained to convince the prisoners that their problems could wait until morning, but an emergency was an emergency, and as the only person with a key to the prisoners’ cells, the night orderly officer was always required to be where the emergency occurred.
Prisons are frightening places in the dark, and Dabell felt vulnerable walking the prison’s paths and corridors, checking doors were locked, with only a flashlight for company. The shadows could be hiding many secrets.
What was often hiding in the shadows were scores of feral cats, which had been attracted to the prison by rats and mice who gorged themselves on all the food waste that was thrown out the cell windows. Prison was a thriving ecosystem of vermin, but Dabell had no desire to be a penal David Attenborough. They freaked him out. And tonight he’d been given some special instructions to contend with as well.
Munro had asked him to let Sandel and Brock work together on one wing – C wing, as opposed to allowing them to work on D wing, where they were used to operating, or splitting them up on different wings. Munro had asked this as a special favour, but he’d refused to tell him more.
Dabell had briefed the night staff as they came on duty, and allocated everyone to their wings. He reminded his staff that he wanted a “quiet night, and I want your pegging done properly, but do remember to take your breaks, and no sleeping!”
“Pegging” was the system of centrally controlled, timed electronic checks to ensure that the night staff didn’t sit in the staff office reading a book – or, more likely, a car or porno magazine, but that they toured the wing clocking on at various “pegs” that were dotted along the landings. A careful check would later reveal if all these pegs had been accounted for, at the correct time, and if they were not, the relevant night patrol, or member of staff, would be asked to explain why a peg had been missed. As double security it was the responsibility of the night orderly officer, the only member of staff with keys, to do a round of the prison, monitoring the night staff, who were locked up as the prisoners were themselves, to ensure that everything was as it should be.
Sandel and Brock could share the pegging so that one could read, rest or eat, whilst the other went around the landings.
Nights shifts had a tendency to throw out major difficulties, especially in the form of suicides, or suicide attempts. Heaven help the night orderly officer who found a dead body on his shift, for he would be writing reports for the next six months, or until after the coroner’s inquiry had ended. Dabell had cut down one prisoner in his previous nick, and it took several months before he got the images of the swinging body out of his mind.
Dabell had been informed that Munro was “indisposed” that night so he had the added burden of authority to shoulder as well as his night duty.
Kate and Knight had hidden themselves away in Munro’s office to watch in secret as events unfolded on C wing.
Munro had instructed Foster – the new sparks in the works department – to rig up a CCTV camera on the wing, on the pretext that this was a prototype for a new security system, and had the camera placed directly in front of former SAS man David Maguire’s cell. He’d told Foster that he’d wanted this to be hidden within some of the brickwork so as not to alarm the prisoners, but if the scheme was successful he’d make everyone aware there was to be extra camera coverage within the wings.
Munro had consulted with Kate before taking Foster into his confidence, given that he was amongst the new cohort of staff that she had identified in her profiling exercise, but she had suggested his age and arthritis meant he was “very unlikely” to be the killer.
If Sandel or Brock made a move on Maguire they’d be caught on camera.
Kate was aware that much depended on the night’s events. It had been her plan, and whilst she had no way of predicting when the next murder might occur she was certain from her profile that they were dealing with a new member of staff, and that Sandel and Brock could be suspects.
Kate and Knight had a good view of the CCTV images that were being beamed from C wing into Munro’s office. They watched as Sandel and Brock settled into their routines.
The camera did not cover their activities in the staff office, but was fixed to Maguire’s cell, and every so often either Sandel or Brock would pass by on their way to a peg. Neither seemed to take any interest in Maguire.
Two o’clock became three, and three became four.
At five-thirty in the morning Maguire got up from his bunk and pressed his cell bell. A light flashed in the wing office where Sandel and Brock were sitting reading bike magazines. Sandel looked up.
“Go answer it,” ordered Brock.
Sandel moved out of the office with slow, but assured authority, and then came into the camera’s view. He didn’t have a key to open the cell door, but Knight immediately radioed the police outside of the gate to stand by. Sandel hesitated by Maguire’s door.
On their monitor they could see that Sandel, who had briefly gone out of view, had returned to Maguire’s cell, and was holding something under his arm. A second later he pushed a magazine under Maguire’s door.
An hour later the first of the day staff reported at the gate and started to retake Greenbank from their night colleagues. The kitchen staff were the first to appear, as the ovens had to be lit and breakfast started, and Dabell started the process of unlocking the prisoners who worked on the kitchen party. They emerged yawning, scratching themselves into consciousness as the day staff waved goodbye to the night patrols.
Nothing had happened, and Maguire emerged from his cell clutching the bike magazine that Sandel had given him.
Suddenly the prison’s alarm went off. As if from nowhere the remainder of the day staff came rushing in through the gate, mingling with the last remnants of the night staff, including Sandel and Brock, who had been trying to leave.
It was D wing, and Senior Officer Charlie Robinson who should have been organizing unlock and serving breakfast was running up and down the M1 shouting at anyone who would listen that someone had been murdered, and that they should get down there quick. He wasn’t making much sense, and was adding to the panic. Eventually he was grabbed by one of the nursing staff, and taken into a staff rest area. This was to be the last day that Charlie worked in the prison service. Enough was enough; retirement couldn’t come too soon.
Kate and Knight made their way down to D wing, and they could see that D wing was in pandemonium with staff coming and going, and prisoners shouting and pointing.
Dabell had returned to offer some help and ordered that the prisoners should all be locked up. He demanded of the first officer that he recognized not to let any more staff onto the wing. As calm was slowly restored he made his way to the back of the ground floor landing, and pushed open the cell door.
“No good,” said one of the nursing staff who was attending to the body. “He’s gone.” And there was Jeremy Walker, the Reptile Man, lying prostate with a knife in his heart. His tongue had been sliced down the middle so that it resembled a lizard’s forked tongue and a computer generated no
te was stapled to his head.
Knight grabbed the note. On either side of the script was printed in black the dragon tattoo motif taken from the cover of Stieg Larsson’s novel The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The message read: We have art in order not to die of the truth.
Chapter Forty-One
“Well that was as effective as a fart in a hurricane,” said Knight.
Kate looked away. It had been her idea that Maguire could be the next victim and to set up the surveillance of Sandel and Brock on C wing but then it was Jeremy Walker who got murdered on D wing. How did she get it so wrong? They were in her cramped office and with Jim Dabell hunched in a corner they could almost hear each other’s heartbeats which added to the claustrophobia.
“Where’s Munro this morning?” said Kate.
“He’s out of town. I’ve informed him of developments,” said Knight.
“But we need him here,” said Kate. “This is a goddam major crisis, what’s he bunked off for?”
“Some off-message investigation, Cleland House are getting heavy, Jim here will cover for him.”
Jim nodded.
“Walker was unexpected, to put it mildly,” said Knight. “How do we go about explaining it?”
“Someone’s one step ahead of us every time,” said Kate. “The reference to Stieg Larsson’s novel, that’s cute. Did you know that the original title of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was Men who Hate Women? What about Men who Hate Men? The quote was from Nietzsche by the way, I looked it up. That’s Lomas’ thing, but he could have spread the philosopher’s bon mots to all and sundry over time. It doesn’t pin anyone down.”
“We were looking in the wrong place,” said Dabell.
“No kidding Einstein,” Knight glared at him.
“Do we rule out Sandel and Brock as suspects?” Said Dabell.
“I’m not certain,” said Kate.
“Why not?” said Dabell.
“We have the video footage of them at Maguire’s cell door, but we do not see them together. One of them could have got out of the wing and onto D wing to murder Walker,” said Kate.
“But to do that,” said Dabell, “they’d need a key to get off the wing, and only the night orderly officer has that key. And even if they had a key to get off C wing and onto D wing they still don’t have a key to the cells. The night staff are in effect locked into their allocated wing, and would have needed to call the night officer to open Walker’s cell door. And anyway, Sandel and Brock were not even on D wing.”
“Ok,” said Kate. “But could they have somehow got hold of duplicate keys, and killed Walker whilst the night patrol was pegging somewhere else in the wing?”
“Isn’t that a bit unlikely Kate?” said Knight. “And maybe we just have to accept that Sandel and Brock are in the clear. No, for me we have to look at the pegging schedule of the night patrol on D wing to see if it reveals anything odd.”
Dabell threw the printout of the pegging schedule over to Knight. “I’ve already checked. No peg was missed, and there isn’t anything unusual. As far as I can ascertain the only person who could have access to Walker was the night officer, and I’m convinced it couldn’t be him.”
“Ok, we’re in a blind alley, up shit creek. Let’s reverse, taking one step at a time and examine every instance of everyone’s movements last night to see where we went wrong. And Kate, I need that Mazurski file.”
“I’m on it,” she said. “I’ll check Munro’s emails, I used his computer for the enquiries.” Dabell and Kate eased themselves out of their chairs and left the office.
Knight’s mobile rang, the display said “unknown number”; he took the call anyway.
“Where the hell is Munro?”
“Who is this?” said Knight.
“It’s Margery Hardy, Munro’s area manager calling from Cleland House.”
“Hello Margery, we’ve not met but nice of you to call. However I should point out that I’m police not prison service, we like guns and ammo and fast cars, we don’t do serving bad guys breakfast.”
“Less of the quips you buffoon, Munro’s not answering his phone or replying to emails, I’m getting serious pressure from the Home Office here.”
“Well it’s not my place to piss on your tent, but I understand he is on an important undercover assignment.”
“Undercover my arse, he’ll be six feet under at this rate, he’s a busted flush that one.”
“You’re being too harsh Margery, it’s not helpful.”
“Whatever, I’m being crucified by all and sundry. I’ve even had a writ today from a solicitor of one of the prisoners demanding that he be moved from Greenbank to – and I quote – ‘a place of safety’. So this is what we’re going to do.” Her voice trailed off, Knight heard her put her hand over the phone while she spoke to someone else. There seemed to be a heated discussion ending with her raised voice and the words, “Not now.”
“Sorry about that,” said Margery. “Headless chickens everywhere. Ok, what we’re going to do is hand over the running of the prison to the police.”
“Right,” said Knight.
“The prison will be formally in the hands of the Assistant Chief Constable of Thames Valley. Governor Munro is not being formally removed from his post, but given that Greenbank has in effect become a crime scene, and there is an active police investigation under way, this has been deemed necessary.”
“Police and prisons by and large do not mix well together,” said Knight.
“I’m relying on you, Detective Inspector to make it work; do we understand each other? Thank you.” Margery Hardy rang off.
Knight put his mobile down and shook his head. Politics and posturing, arse covering and spin were more important than saving lives. What Margery was proposing was going to increase the tension in the prison and muddy the waters.
Kate entered.
“No knock, hello, please can I enter?” said Knight.
“It’s my own bleeding office dumbo.”
“Oh sure, sorry.”
“I’ve got the Mazurski documents.” She dropped them on the desk. Knight picked up the file and flicked through it.
“All right Knight, I may have fucked up with the surveillance, and identified the wrong victim, on the wrong wing and been generally pretty useless, but I want in on what you’re looking for, I still think I can help.”
Knight looked at her quizzically. “No sweat, it was a joint decision, we take joint responsibility, let’s move on.”
Kate pulled up a chair next to him.
“Munro’s been canned,” said Knight.
“Oh that’s not helpful,” said Kate.
“I’ve had Margery Hardy, his area manager on the phone saying the prison is in lockdown and now run by the police. We’d better find a breakthrough before this place descends into a riot, it won’t take much, a little bit of police heavy-handedness and all hell will break loose. Cops have no time for cons, especially lifers like this lot.”
“What’s Munro up to? The real reason he’s not here,” said Kate.
“He’s gone AWOL, he’s terrified Lomas has abducted his daughter.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“I don’t know, but that Nietzsche quote pinned to Walker is troubling me. It’s as if someone wants to bring Lomas into this, get him implicated, as a diversion or just to taunt us.”
“I’d say the latter,” said Kate. “It fits the pattern of serial killer game playing, constructing an elaborate narrative that only works if there’s audience participation.”
“Purely random killing is very rare, unless it’s mistaken identity,” said Knight. There’s always an underlying architecture, no matter how incoherent. Let’s get Mazurski’s grubby little story straight for starters.”
Knight divided up the file into roughly two halves and they began to pore over the paperwork.
*
“What a sad man,” said Kate. “There’s a legacy theme here which of course is common in offenders, th
e abused becomes the abuser, violence encourages more violence. Countries go to war and killing becomes an imperative for generations after. We’re all capable of murder. Why is the human race so stupid?”
“Ok,” said Knight. “Check this out. Mazurski’s first three child victims and their names and ages: Jimmy Conway, six, Frankie Farmer, eight, and Sammy Duffield, seven. I interviewed one of the admin staff who lived and worked in Wakefield for a few years, job at the Prison Service Training College. It was a long shot and I got very little out of her. Her name is Liz Duffield, she has a two-year-old daughter. Thirteen years ago she admitted going off the rails, Sammy Duffield was murdered thirteen years ago by John Mazurski, his third victim. It took two weeks to find his body, enough to send any parent over the edge. They refused to let her see Sammy’s body at first, his eyes had been gouged out, but she wasn’t going to be held back.”
“What’s she like this Liz Duffield?”
“Tough cookie, intelligent.”
“Big enough to take down fully grown men with her bare hands and stick a knife in their eyes?” said Kate.
“Not a chance but she could get someone to do it for her. Her ex-husband?”
“Any mention of him?”
“No. Nothing in her documents either.”
“We can trace him. We’ll find him. She worked at the PSTC in Wakefield. Get to know any of the up-and-coming screws?”
“She didn’t want to say without a lawyer present.”
“There’s your answer,” said Kate.
Knight considered the information, separating fact from speculation. Liz Duffield’s husband could be behind all this, but why wait thirteen years? To make amends? Closure? To prove that he wasn’t broken, a failure as a parent? Liz has a child by another man now, how did that complicate things?
He rang Dabell, “Jim can you check the shift rota in admin and see if a Ms Liz Duffield is at her desk today and if so send her down to Kate in Munro’s office this afternoon? Thanks mate.”
“You want me to do the interview?” said Kate.
“Yes, but I’ll be there as well, I don’t want to alarm her so she scurries off to find a lawyer. You’re good at this sort of thing Kate, empathy and understanding, and we’ll see if we can break this open. I’m going to do some more research, I think I can see something emerging. Can you keep Liz comfortable and I’ll arrive a little later?”