Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  ‘Steve, it’s Jonesy Tolling. To avoid publicity, we want to strike out all the London and Manchester venues. They are too easy for paparazzi. We ideally want a private room in a mid-sized country hotel with a secure rear entrance, as per the list we sent you.’

  Virgil could hear some conferring taking place at the other end.

  ‘Okay, Jonesy. That’s fine. Now about this bodyguard of hers. Mr Wall’s not happy about it,’ Gilpin said. Clayton Ferrall could be heard rumbling in assent in the background.

  Brinsley Coad leaned over to the speaker and re-introduced himself. ‘Can I draw your attention to the original memorandum. Ms Roskova will not go without her close protection officer.’

  The point was batted back and forth for some time. Virgil was slightly uncomfortable that the biggest argument was about him. Stardust was adamant that Virgil had to be in the room with Mira, while Wall’s people were firm that it would be demeaning to their client. The allegation about Wall’s brutal assault on Mira lay unspoken between them.

  ‘He doesn’t feel the need to be accompanied,’ Steve Gilpin said. ‘This is an entirely private meeting.’

  Jonesy stifled a sarcastic laugh.

  Virgil caught Thad’s eye, and was given the go-ahead to speak. ‘I’m Virgil Bliss, Mira’s close protection officer. Perhaps I can make a suggestion. I am happy to be out of the room and of earshot, so long as I have line of sight. It will be clear to me when I might need to intervene. There are a number of restaurants here with private rooms which have glass doors, and I’m happy to be on the other side, so long as I have a clear route in.’

  The other side finally agreed to that, and after ninety minutes, the meeting broke up. Thad, Mira, Virgil and Jonesy stepped out, leaving the lawyers to finish off, detailing exactly what would be returned, and when.

  * * *

  SEVENTY-THREE DAYS

  Virgil was nervous. This was the biggest test so far, against the man who was the biggest proven threat to Mira. He had picked Mira up from her home in a big rented Vauxhall with darkened windows and drove her to the Warwickshire hotel they had finally settled on, halfway between Mira’s London base and Wall’s place in Cheshire. The booking had been made in Thad’s name, and the manager had agreed to open an hour early to maximise their privacy.

  The place was an ivy-covered Georgian inn, not much more than an upmarket pub, in an obscure but prosperous village. The car park was almost empty, and there was no sign of Lawrence Wall. Virgil took ten minutes to fully check the place out before bringing Mira in from the car. She was classically dressed: Burberry raincoat, conservatively-cut trouser suit, court shoes, royal-blue designer bag and big sunglasses. She had affected a look of generic beauty. She could have passed for the trophy wife of any lucky millionaire.

  Mira was seated in the private room, with a glass of wine to calm her nerves. The agreed time came and went. Wall hadn’t arrived. Virgil rang Stardust to ask them to chase the other side. When he still hadn’t arrived after forty minutes, Mira stood up. ‘He’s got five minutes, then we go. He’s just trying to make an infantile point,’ she told Virgil.

  The roar of a high performance engine startled them. A black glossy Lamborghini swung onto the gravel drive at high speed, and screeched to a halt. Two minutes later Lawrence Wall, dressed in wide-cut grey suit with purple tie and aviator shades, walked nonchalantly into the hotel. He was carrying a large bunch of red roses. As the manager greeted him, Wall tossed him the flowers to deal with, and was led along the corridor towards the dining room. Virgil stood aside, a good ten feet out of the way, to let Mira handle the greeting.

  Wall pushed open the door glass. ‘Hello Lawrence,’ she said.

  ‘Hiya.’ Wall reached out to embrace her, but she held up her arms to stop him.

  ‘Lawrence, don’t.’ For a second or two there was confrontation, and Wall’s face narrowed. Virgil cleared his throat. Mira’s eyes flicked sideways, and Wall’s face turned to follow, his jaw clenching, his thick neck corded above the shirt collar. ‘Ah, Mira’s personal army. Let’s have a look.’ Wall let her arms go, and strode towards Virgil, only stopping when they were a foot apart, locked eye to eye.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wall.’ Virgil, arms crossed in front of him, offered a thin smile. They were exactly the same height and a similar build. Nothing, it seemed, had changed in Lawrence Wall’s belligerence toolbox since playground days.

  ‘Lawrence…’ Mira said plaintively.

  ‘I want you out of here, pal,’ Wall said to Virgil, flexing his shoulders for the denial he expected. Wall’s open mouth gusted spearmint, the gum visible as the jaw worked.

  ‘You know the deal.’ Virgil stood his ground. After thirty uncomfortable seconds, Wall finally turned away, and stalked back towards Mira. He took a final glance over his shoulder, as if to say: I’m watching you.

  Virgil was itching to call him out, to challenge those proprietorial hands, but to make it smooth for Mira he had to bite his lip. That was his job. He knew the line, and so did Wall. Step over it, he’d intervene in a shot. Stop short, he’d just smile sweetly.

  The waiter arrived, and led the couple to their seats. Virgil stood behind the glass door, exactly opposite the doors into the kitchen, with Mira and Wall halfway between, perhaps ten metres away, at a large table. On Virgil’s instruction, the restaurant had cleared all the other tables away giving him a clean approach if required. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the body language was clear. Mira was nervous and frightened and Wall had taken charge. The waiter was summoned, and brought a vase of Wall’s roses to present to Mira. Wall then pointed to the menu. A discussion ensued, and Mira’s face had become small and tight in suppressed disagreement. Virgil presumed that the tapas had fallen victim to the force of nature that was Lawrence Wall. He realised he was watching here a fast-forwarded domestic tableau played out in a million troubled relationships: intimidation, submission, acceptance and fear. If it could happen to Mira, it could happen to any woman. A pale pint arrived for Wall, another glass of wine for Mira. Wall leant forward, monopolising the shared space, full of animation. She leaned back, a fork in one hand, the other moving in emphasis, but also to disrupt the connected space between them.

  Food arrived. A steak for him, something with lettuce and red cabbage for her. Virgil took a call from Thad, who asked how it was going. ‘Mira will be glad when she can get away,’ Virgil said. He was still on the call when Mira got up, handbag in hand. Lawrence Wall grabbed her arm, tight. Virgil opened the door in a second, and took a single stride towards the table.

  ‘…and if you try to, I’m warning you...’ Wall looked up, then released her arm.

  ‘I’m the one who’s going to be doing the warning, Sir.’ Virgil looked pointedly at Wall’s fists, still clawed in frustration.

  Mira stood, and finally free to do so, walked behind Virgil to find the ladies’ toilet. As she did so, she drew a finger along his back, shoulder to shoulder. Naughty. Lawrence Wall’s eyes flamed, and his chest inflated. Wall seems to have trouble enough distinguishing between a bodyguard and a rival without Mira muddying the waters. But how else could she get back at him?

  Once Mira returned, and Virgil resumed his position behind the glass door, things quietened down for a while, Wall looking down at the table. Virgil then realised Mira was showing Wall the picture of the injuries he’d inflicted. He looked up, and his features were squeezed tight, as if in pain. He lifted a napkin to his eyes, briefly wiped then held out his arms to her, fingers open. She did not take them. She was doing the talking, angrily by the look of it.

  Virgil saw Wall feel for something in his jacket pocket. He slowly brought it out. Virgil suddenly stood straight up, his hand ready on the door. Wall gave her a small blue jewellery box. Mira’s face was shocked as Wall opened it. The diamond on the ring was big enough for Virgil to see from the door. For the first time in the encounter, Mira leaned forward to Wall, but Virgil could still read her lips: ‘You haven’t listened to
a single word have you? This isn’t just about what the great Lawrence Wall wants. It’s about what I want, and Lawrence, I promise you, I’d rather die than marry you.’

  Don’t give him ideas. Maybe she had received Virgil’s thought telepathically, because she glanced to Virgil anxiously and nodded. Virgil entered the room, and she stood up to leave. Lawrence Wall seemed to have shrunk, his shoulders sagged, face closed, eyes focused on some middle distance. The ring was still in its box on the table, the footballer’s big hands clenched around it, guarding a precious but fragile dream.

  As Virgil led Mira to the car, he realised that Portia had been right, Lawrence Wall really was smitten. And he wouldn’t give up.

  * * *

  Mira spent the entire return journey venting about Lawrence Wall over the phone to friends. Virgil gleaned that Wall had grudgingly returned the small bag of Mira’s clothing and jewellery, the spare keys to her flat and the documents and key for the Porsche. But he had done his damnedest to try to persuade her to stay with him. Finally, she hung up on the last call as they were coming into north London.

  ‘I hate him, Virgil’, she said. ‘He’s a brute who does not understand the word “no”.’

  Virgil now knew that it wasn’t his job to offer insight, but offered some mild support. ‘He doesn’t seem to treat you very well.’

  ‘He even tried to make me jealous by telling me that he’s seeing some Victoria’s Secret underwear model. As if I care!’ She punched the seat in frustration.

  ‘You know I’m supposed to be teaching you some self-defence techniques,’ Virgil said.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Mira said, head on hand. ‘I’m sorry for the no-shows. I suppose I really should do it.’ Mira looked out of the window. She then breathed on the glass, and absent-mindedly doodled in the condensation. ‘So who will rid me of this troublesome pest?’ she murmured.

  Virgil laughed, and she looked up. ‘I don’t see Lawrence Wall as Thomas à Becket,’ he said.

  ‘No, neither do I. But sometimes I still think I’d like to kill him.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Right Reverend Harry Fielding regarded himself as a persuasive fellow, but even he would have his work cut out with this one. He shook his head when he considered the sheer outrageousness of the idea dreamed up by Suzannah Earl, and the reaction it was likely to get from Broadmoor’s dour and rather conservative Richard Lamb. Still, as he picked up the phone, he thought it would be worth a try.

  ‘Richard, I’ve got a rather curious but engaging idea to run up the flagpole.’

  ‘Yes, Harry?’

  ‘Suzannah would like to pose for Mordant, for a painting to promote the excellent therapeutic art work being done in secure institutions.’

  ‘I don’t see why that would be a problem. We can arrange…’

  ‘The ticklish bit is this. She has in mind a nude.’

  Lamb’s coughing fit was so severe that Fielding feared they would have to resume the conversation later. However the director managed to squeak out the word ‘preposterous’ before glugging a glass of water.

  ‘The thinking, Richard, is very sound…’

  ‘You must be out of your mind!’ Lamb spluttered.

  ‘Well, you’re the expert on sanity, of course. But just tell me. Which is the most vocal constituency which insists that those held in secure institutions like yours are wicked murderers, rapists and paedophiles, with no redeeming features?’

  ‘The press, of course.’

  ‘Specifically, the tabloids. What chance, do you imagine, would there be of The Sun or the Daily Star covering the finer points of prison reform? However successful it were to be? If you wanted to take the idea of the redemptive power of the psychiatric system into the mainstream of the British public, you have to take head-on those whose opinions were forged by tabloid headlines. So the thousand female mental patients who have been saved from self-harm or suicide by art therapy would never make it beyond the pages of the Mental Health Review Journal. However, the evidence of the rehabilitation of a single mass murderer would be incontrovertible.’

  ‘And you think Page Three would display the naked body of a member of the House of Lords?’

  The bishop chuckled. ‘Actually, I’m sure they would. I take it you haven’t seen Suzannah Earl.’

  ‘Not au natural, Harry. Have you?’

  Fielding roared with laughter. He had known the Broadmoor director for more than forty years. They had both gone up to Oxford in 1973, Fielding to study Greats at Jesus, Lamb to pore over chemistry at Keble. They had crossed swords early on, when they each discovered they had slept with the same woman, and on the same day. There had been no hard feelings from Harry’s point of view. He had met Geraldine Curtis when gatecrashing some otherwise boring Keble cheese and wine party, unaware that Lamb considered her his girlfriend. Fielding was something of a rake in those days, and Geraldine was just the first foothill in a dozen peaks he conquered before his disastrous K2 moment: Katherine Keane’s unplanned pregnancy and suicide during her finals. From that avalanche of grief emerged his own rediscovery of the Lord.

  Lamb had taken the Geraldine matter more to heart. He snubbed Fielding every time they met at the Gilbert & Sullivan Society before marrying Geraldine in 1980. It was only in the last ten years that the bishop and Lamb had begun professional dealings: Fielding as an advocate of prison and mental health reform, and Lamb as Broadmoor’s director. The bishop would never dare say it to him, but once again, it seemed, they were in bed with the same crazy people.

  ‘My word, Harry. It is an extraordinary suggestion. The shrinks will have a fit. Besides, Mordant’s crimes are so appalling and repugnant, that if word ever got out…’

  ‘You’ve managed to protect his anonymity so far, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Harry. But this would be a great deal more press scrutiny.’

  ‘I can assure you that the Künzler Trust will continue to refuse to identify which institution the artist comes from. That makes it very hard for the press.’

  ‘I’m still not sure, Harry.’

  ‘But just imagine it, Richard. Those who believe in throwing away the key will be forced to admit that those in secure mental institutions have redeeming features. And once they admit that these benighted souls have something to contribute, the conversation about finding a way back into society can begin.’

  There was a long pause before Lamb answered. ‘Well, there will be significant practical difficulties…’

  The moment Bishop Harry Fielding heard those words, he knew he had won the argument. One of Britain’s worst killers would paint Baroness Earl. In the nude.

  * * *

  SEVENTY-ONE DAYS

  Britain’s most notorious psychiatric hospital was looking at its most forbidding, when Baroness Earl of West Bromwich parked her BMW in the car park. The cawing of rooks and the leaden sky cast a gothic pall over the Victorian towers and crenulations. The high double fence of razor wire, and the many temporary buildings, extensions and Portakabins beyond were a testament to the difficulties Britain had found in accommodating the growing number of patients who required the sort of round-the-clock and secure care that only a handful of establishments could offer. Broadmoor was one of them.

  The baroness walked into the main reception area, where her credentials and appointment were double-checked by a uniformed receptionist. She was then shown through to an airport-style security area with an X-ray machine. Following the instructions of a female guard wearing latex gloves, she emptied her bag of keys, coins, and phone into a plastic tray. She was then asked to remove all jewellery, including her earrings, and to remove her shoes because of the metallic buckles. She passed through the security gate, and an alarm went off. The Baroness was guided into a small booth, where the guard then searched her very thoroughly. In the pocket of her jacket was discovered a spare button still in its tiny plastic bag. This was removed and put with her other items, and she was asked for a second time to step through the metal
gate. The alarm still sounded. In the end it was discovered that her underwired bra had set off the sensor. The female guard, apologising for having to do it, asked her to unbutton her blouse and then ran her fingers carefully around and beneath the underwiring.

  ‘One visitor tried to smuggle in razor blades taped under the wire in her bra, so we can’t take any chances,’ she said. ‘We’re getting a seat scanner soon, to stop the stuff that still gets in internally.’ Kneeling down she proceeded to do a similarly exhaustive check of legs and hips. Unlike at airport security, the only items returned to her were her shoes. She was told she could pick everything else up when she left.

  Finally she was escorted along a blue corridor through two elaborately locked doors and up two flights of stairs into the office of the director. Richard Lamb showed her to a seat opposite his desk. After providing her with coffee, biscuits and some small talk he sat down heavily and sighed. ‘Suzannah, let’s be frank. I really appreciate what you are trying to do with this…project. I’m a great admirer of your energy and commitment to the cause of reform and rehabilitation. However, I’ve agreed to this with some reluctance, as you know,’ he said. ‘The patient’s name is William Mordant. While I would neither dispute the artistic ability nor the improvement in his behaviour, I would be failing in my duty if I did not remind you that the man you are about to see is potentially one of the most dangerous of our clients. He has an acutely antisocial personality.

  ‘Such euphemisms, Richard. To most people antisocial behaviour means groups of lads revving their motorbikes outside the youth centre or spray-painting their tags on railway bridges. I find it slightly disconcerting that pathological killers are hidden under such relatively benign labels.’

  Lamb took off his spectacles and folded them on his desk, before looking out of the window. ‘You’re right of course. Mental health professionals use words to insulate themselves against the public view that we are wasting our time, that secure psychiatric institutions merely exist to contain patients rather than treat them. From my perspective, however, we have to believe that we can make progress. If nothing else we need it in order to motivate and retain the best staff. I’m afraid the debate goes to the heart of society’s view of rehabilitation versus punishment.’