by David Wilson
Chapter Forty-Two
Liz Duffield was working at Greenbank that day and she agreed to meet Kate. They did not know each other and Kate wondered why Liz would voluntarily give up part of her precious shift time to talk to her, the prison’s principal psychologist.
Kate made them both coffee.
“So this is the big boss Munro’s man cave?” said Liz. “I like his taste in art,” she pointed to Mark Gertler’s Merry-Go-Round. “About sums it up doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” said Kate. She handed Liz a mug, “Might be too hot, we only have powdered milk.”
Liz took a sip and winced. “Fuck,” she said under her breath. “Sorry.” Kate could see she was nervous.
“The painting, what does it sum up?” said Kate.
“Life’s ridiculous, grotesque, merry-go-round; vicious, short and pointless. Look at those faces, see any joy in them? They’re automatons, but they’re screaming with pain.”
Kate looked at Liz’s eyes, they were gleaming. “That is quite a negative view, don’t you think?”
“So would yours be if world war destroyed everything you believed in like it did for Mark Gertler, and then another one twenty-two years later. Endless bloodshed and misery. I know people still affected by those two wars, and the wars that have blown up decade after decade since.”
“Who would that be?”
“Older men, and their sons, and their sons after that, it doesn’t end you know. Don’t worry I’m not going to use you as free therapy.”
“I don’t mind if you do,” said Kate.
Liz looked down at the floor and held herself tight. Kate had seen patients on the verge of nervous collapse before and wondered if this was going to happen to Liz. She’d have to be careful.
“Why did you want to see me?” said Liz.
Kate let the question hang in the air for a moment or two.
“I think you know,” she said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Kate. It was Knight, he shut the door quietly behind him.
“Right I want a lawyer,” said Liz, she stood up.
Knight eased himself into a chair, relaxed and calm. He had some hard facts and made some connections with this case but they were loose, and a good lawyer would rip his hypotheses to shreds.
“Liz you know this can’t go on,” he said. “It has to stop somewhere and now is the time, otherwise good people are going to get hurt, women and children.”
“My Harriet is not under threat,” said Liz, she began to shake.
“I’m not saying she is,” said Knight. “But we have reason to believe that at least one girl, a teenager, is in serious danger.”
Liz attempted to compose herself, “Ok.”
“If you can help us Liz, the future won’t be so frightening, your child will be looked after. We will do everything in our powers to plea mitigation, trust us.”
Liz shook her head, “No,” she said.
“Wooldridge recruited you,” said Knight. “A compassionate, kind man, murdered. Did you play any part in that killing?”
“I had nothing to do with that side of things.”
Knight caught Kate’s eye but kept his face expressionless.
“Your ex-husband, what happened to him, do you see him much?”
“No.”
“Where did he go?”
“He started a new life in the Philippines, married a Filipino girl,” she mimed a yawn. “Has got two kids, lives the modest life.”
“Never comes back to this country?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Why did he leave the country? Same reason you went off the rails for a decade? Let me see that would be 2002.”
“Yes, it was National Autism Awareness year in 2002 as well,” said Liz.
“Your son was autistic?” said Knight, he was speculating.
“What son?” said Liz.
“Your seven-year-old son, Sammy, murdered by John Mazurski, in 2002.”
It was then that Liz broke down. She put her hands to her face to cover her eyes and did her best to swallow her grief though it seemed to be choking her. Knight looked at Kate, she had tears in her eyes. Sometimes he hated his job, hated it with a venom that he hoped would poison him and finish him off right here. He was an assassin, as vile as any serial killer, cutting open people’s lives to reveal their most painful secrets for all the world to see. He dreaded to think what the press would do with this story.
“He murdered my son, not only that, he defiled him, Sammy was autistic, he was trusting, he didn’t know any better when someone came up to him at Waterloo station while we briefly had our backs turned to see the train times. We were going to Legoland, then he was gone, can you imagine how that feels? Can you? It burns inside me every single day, like rat poison. Two weeks of not knowing the whereabouts of my boy who I’d given everything to, then finding his body and being told to stay away, stay away from my son. And that fucker Mazurski gets put away in a comfortable prison, all his needs taken care of, soothed and pampered, his perverted mind wrapped in cotton wool while my son is dead and I’m broken and no one comes to look after me. How do you think I can live with that?”
Knight bit his lip, trying to stay rational. Kate came round the desk and hugged Liz which she gave in to. Her body was shaking, but Liz tried to keep the tears suppressed, as if it was shameful to cry like a baby. Kate signalled to wrap up the interview, but Knight shook his head. He wondered how much more Liz could take but he pressed on, step by step.
“I’ve looked into your background and I see your father was one of the Kray Twins’ henchmen, their driver? He was involved in a couple of murders and he helped dispose of their bodies? He never went to prison, not enough evidence, no one would testify against him.”
Knight could see that’s Liz’s resistance was almost spent.
“That’s correct,” she said. “It’s all documented in numerous books about the Krays. My father’s dead so no point in chasing down that avenue. Died of natural causes before you ask.”
“So, Ronnie and Reggie Kray, you know this story right, so I’ll summarize. Twins, very close to each other, Ronnie, gay, manipulative, borderline insane, Reggie, a little less driven, a family man, you know? Happy to tag along, but desperate to impress his twin brother with his toughness, his cojones. Organized crime for them is comfy, lucrative, but then Ronnie wants more, he wants to kill someone, so he does, and then he encourages Reggie to follow suit, and all of a sudden things aren’t quite so cosy. There’s bloodlust, where’s it going to stop, who’s going to be next? No one can tell who the good guys and the bad guys are any more, it gets out of control. Ring any bells?”
Liz remained silent.
“Murder always has a legacy, you grew up in an environment of revenge and retribution. You took your time but you could never escape it.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” said Liz.
Knight paused, considering his options. “What I’m now going to do is ask you to confirm a statement of fact. I’ve looked into the records of the General Register Office births section, and I want you to tell me who the father of your daughter Harriet is.”
Liz looked at Kate and then at Knight. “It’s none of your business, he’s a good man, leave him out of this.”
“Harriet’s father is Chris Sandel,” said Knight. “A prison officer at this establishment, you met him while you were working for the PSTC in Wakefield, he then decided he preferred the company of men and professed himself gay, he’s very close to Prison Officer Will Brock, who, shall we say, is a strong personality, I would suggest manipulative, Sandel worships him and would do anything Brock asked him to.”
“That’s not true, he has his own mind, I won’t implicate him.”
“I think you already have,” said Knight.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lomas thrust the point of the knife towards her face, but Morag
didn’t move, she didn’t even blink. His finger hurt like hell but he found the pain energizing, it cleared his mind.
“You’re a strong girl, you’re going to need to be strong,” he said.
“Who the fuck are you old man, what are you going to do with me, why are you caging me in this shithole cellar for days, what are you waiting for?” Morag couldn’t care less about the consequences of what she’d done, fight fire with fire, except he had a vicious knife, and she’d made the first offensive move. No guy fixated with power was going to like that.
“Do you want to fuck me? If you do then just get on with it,” she said, and then added, “Creep.”
Lomas sat on the bottom step and shook his head.
“Let’s take our time here,” he said. He rubbed his finger, “My God that hurts, but it’s only pain, it’s never as harsh as the torments of a living hell.”
“You some kind of a sicko preacher type?” said Morag.
“There are aspects of my personality that were once considered shamanistic.”
“And now you’re a hateful paedo, abducting innocent girls.”
Lomas frowned, “No one is innocent.” He leant forward, rocking slightly. “I could tear you limb from limb girl, do things to you that would turn your parents into shuffling asylum patients, things your friends would have nightmares about for the rest of their lives. But I want to keep you safe for the time being.”
He placed the knife on the floor in front of him.
“I won’t hesitate to use the weapon, girl, if you start getting clever again. There was a time when I could use a weapon without remorse, always blades, so much closer, so much more to overcome in yourself. The greatest challenge to the human spirit is to watch someone die by your own hand. You cannot discount the burden, the responsibility is yours alone. You choose the entry point, you decide whether it is a quick death or a slow death, you choose when to cut the cord of life. I remember reading the words of a wise man for the first time: You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.”
“Friedrich Nietzsche, and it’s a dreadful cliché,” said Morag.
Lomas held up his hand, “You young people are too quick to judge, you are too privileged, you have endless access to learning, books, culture, wisdom, you are surrounded by people who are willing to show you where these things are. I had none of that, my father would beat me if he saw me reading a book, he didn’t want me to be corrupted by knowledge, as he was. My mother saved me, she found me books, I would read under cover, in hiding. Knowledge was precious, I went into higher education, my father never spoke to me again. You see he had the knowledge of life and death, he had that power during the war and he learnt to kill over and over again, if he didn’t he would have been shot. The blood he shed stained me forever. And I was secondary in his eyes, a diminished person, half a man, a lesser species of manhood because I had never proved myself in war. ‘You may think you know life, but it is only when you experience death that you completely come alive,’ he said to me. By now I knew I had to start my own war. We set up a commune, full of crazy people doing small acts of subversion every day, epater la bourgeoisie, I loved those people. We had links with what was left of The Red Brigades in Italy, Militant Tendency, even the IRA came knocking on our door, but we were small time. We started making nail bombs and amassing small arms that the IRA deemed too useless for their purposes, but we were raided, the police beat up my friends, I was in Italy at the time so didn’t get arrested, but the girls were traumatized. They denied active involvement and were released after a short time in jail and they came to me as the last flame of their ideals. That’s when I set to work and did what I did.”
He picked up the knife and moved closer to her. She was sitting on the mattress, he towered over her, the knife held at an angle so it could easily slip into her neck.
“Do you know who I am?” he said.
Morag shook her head.
“I am Bobby Lomas, I killed six women, they were students, all bright young girls like yourself. The first two were my comrades in the commune, they wanted me to do it, they couldn’t see a reason for living in this vicious world, where the best men were beaten and imprisoned, where hypocrisy is everywhere, money replaces morality, beauty inevitably gives way to ugliness, love is derided and exploited, where lies are the currency of success. None of the girls I killed departed unwillingly, I gave them drugs, they were no longer bound by their chains, their links to past atrocities, they could fly free forever.”
“I don’t buy it, there’s not shred of humanity about you,” said Morag.
“There used to be, believe me,” he looked like he was going to cry. “Those days of summer, joyous, endless, the world was ours, we could co-mingle our spirits, the doors of perception were wide open, we communed with deities. Then I had to give up my war. The hateful media called me the ‘Varsity Blue’, sickening, demeaning, trivialising my vision, my methods, making me out to be insane, when they were the ones creating insanity.”
“So I’m next?” said Morag. “Another little notch in your deranged grand plan? One last twist of the knife, for old time’s sake?”
“You do not know the remorse I have suffered for years, you do not know the agonies I have had to live with, the acid of self-loathing corroding my soul every single day of my life. I wanted to make amends, to be a beacon of light in this darkness. And then like father like son my world fell apart. Do you know I used to reside at Greenbank, the prison run by your father? He will be looking for you.”
“Oh God,” said Morag.
“Come,” said Lomas, he held out his left hand. In his right hand he still held the knife. His hand moved closer to her cheek.
“Hold my hand,” he said.
“You’ll hurt me,” she said.
He shook his head. “I want you to see my compassion, I want to prove to you that I practise remorse, that pain is my perpetual punishment. Come, hold my hand.”
“No,” said Morag backing away.
“I want you to commit to me,” said Lomas. “I want you to enter my soul. Please do this for me.”
He lowered his hand, and held it palm down. “Take my middle finger,” he said. “Hold it tight, break the bone.”
Morag stared into his eyes, they were bright with the fire of yearning. “And then you’ll kill me,” she said.
“You have to trust, you have to make that decision, you have to risk all, you have to commit.”
She took his middle finger, it was long and bony. She pushed it back hard, but she didn’t have the strength.
“Do it,” said Lomas. “Do it hard, break it, break my body.”
Morag heaved the finger back, pushing with all her strength, she heard the tendons snap, but none of the bones would break. He was crying out with pain, she didn’t want to hurt anyone, but this might be her last act of defiance. There was a terrible crack and the finger went limp. Lomas fell to the floor moaning, the knife clattering onto the red bricks as it slipped from his hand, just out of Morag’s reach, but if she was quick enough she might have a chance to scoop it up. But she was shaking so much and the man’s cries were like nothing she’d ever heard. She only wanted to stop him crying.
Chapter Forty-Four
Knight rang Jim Dabell. He’d asked Kate to take Liz Duffield to her office where she could continue the interview in a less threatening environment. Knight wanted gently does it and no formal handover to the police as yet. He was confident Kate could draw out more information and leave her less likely to break down and clam up. Liz was in the pre-traumatic collapse stage where she was only partially in control of her thoughts and actions.
“Jim, get me Sandel and Brock here in Munro’s office, do not let them leave the prison, as a last resort disable their motorcycles, kick them over if you have to, I want them in here as soon as possible but don’t scare them unless they resist.”
“Brock’s not signed in,” said Dabell. “Sandel is on the premises though, I’ll have a quiet word
in his ear.”
Knight rang off and put his iPhone down next to the photo of Munro carrying his sleeping daughter. Morag was her name if he remembered correctly. The glass in the frame was broken giving the image a sense of violent termination. Knight felt a snaking sickness in his gut as he considered another tyrannical element to the case, that time may be running out.
“Dude, how can I help you?” It was Sandel, he’d entered without knocking.
“Sit down,” said Knight.
“You going to arrest me?”
“No.”
“Then I can leave when I want?”
“Yes, but you’re not going to.”
“Why would I want to cooperate with the police? I don’t like the police.”
“And I don’t like this stinking filthy business you’ve got me sucked into. We’re supposed to be on the same side.”
“Calm my friend, we can work this out.”
“Good people are getting hurt, women and children.”
“Fuck that.”
“No, I’m fucking serious, wise up creep, it’s not just the bad guys now and I think you know that, it’s gone all wrong, it’s gone fucking haywire.” Knight rose from his seat and stepped around the desk. He stood in front of Sandel with his hands palms upwards as if he was presenting him with a massively heavy weight.
Sandel leant backwards in his chair trying to create more distance between himself and the steaming copper. “Ok, I understand, violence begets violence,” said Sandel.
“Too fucking right,” said Knight who gripped him by the lapels of his jacket and brought his face closer to his. He could see the insouciance in his eyes, the lack of giving a shit. He wanted to slap him until he was purple and bleeding.