Doc could feel his world starting to come unhinged again, sliding perilously into the nightmares that occasionally plagued him, both asleep and awake.
He didn’t need this.
Maybe he should have listened to Jack and let the detective follow up on the letter and photographs with this excuse for a human being instead. Doc’s stubborn streak would not allow that, and although the memories relating to his father’s death were buried very deep, there were questions he had always wanted answered. Not least of all:
Why?
Instead of allowing himself to be sidetracked by his own morbid curiosity, he took the photographs from his pocket, aware of greedy eyes following his hand as he did so, then placed them face down on the table before him.
‘Four images. Four victims. Four questions.’
In truth, Doc did not expect to get any relevant information directly from the man, given the length of time he had been incarcerated and the recent nature of the latest crime. He also knew Harding enjoyed playing games, but was sure he could gain some insights into questions he would not ask the inmate outright. And he had no intention of showing the psychopath these images.
‘What makes you think I ain’t seen ’em already?’ Harding sprawled himself on his chair as he tipped it up on its rear legs away from the table, one arm slung over the back, dangling to the side. Like a teenager, presented with a meal he did not want.
‘Well, this was taken this morning.’ Doc touched the back of one and circled his finger there, pushing the photo forward, as if to tempt Harding. ‘So I know you haven’t seen that. And the others, well, although they might be on some illicit websites, I can guarantee you haven’t had access to them.’
Broadmoor policy did not allow any mobile telephones, smart or otherwise, on the premises, for staff or inmates, and no internet access for the latter, just supervised email sessions. All contact with the outside world was monitored and controlled, determined by the specific care plan tailored for each of the hospital’s charges.
‘I might have.’ He dropped the front chair legs back to the floor with a thud, and reached forward as if to snatch the picture from under Doc’s finger, but Doc did not flinch, just sat scrutinising the man’s reactions. Harding laughed at his own feint, pulled back his hand and added, ‘In fact I’m sure I have!’ He locked eyes with Winston, and aimed his words at him. ‘I’m guessing you stole them from my letter. The one you censored and decided I shouldn’t read… Arrived this morning, did it, Winnie?’ His face relaxed back to a supercilious stare, his chin lifted and eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to Doc. ‘Security in here’s gone downhill since the bloody golliwog took over. Don’t believe the Broadmoor bullshit, Powers… I know exactly what you got in the post… But you ain’t here for that, are ya?’
Doc scooped up the images and tucked them back in his pocket, placed his palms on the table and pushed himself upright, looking down into Harding’s disturbing — and disturbed — gaze.
‘Thank you, Antony… You’ve told me all I need to know today.’ He straightened and turned to Winston, whose face seemed a shade darker, his lips curling, as if he wanted to respond to Harding’s insult. He nodded as Doc added, ‘We’re done here.’
Harding, seemingly unfazed, tutted. ‘I don’t think so… You’ll be back!’
Doc turned and thought about how often he had dreamed of throttling the life from this being’s larynx, but decided he had no wish to spend another moment in Harding’s suffocating presence. No reply was necessary. He had what he came for, and that was enough.
Winston gestured to Doc to step out of the room before him, but as Doc reached the door Harding’s voice rattled his sense of well-being, like dirty fingernails being dragged across his brain.
‘Oi, Powers! One last thing. You should take a closer look at those photos you got this morning!’
Doc tried to ignore the implications, convinced this was yet more gamesmanship, so he carried on walking, his pace quickening as he tried to get away from his tormentor.
Harding, frustrated at having the meeting cut short, shouted after them, his words echoing with harsh laughter, amplified as it bounced off bare corridor walls before his door slammed shut.
‘You really should. Check out the females. You might just see someone you recognise! Hahaha!’
***
Carver’s shoes came clomping down, drumming above her head, his voice slightly muffled to her ears.
‘How’re you doing, Sarge? I’m done…’ His voice became clearer as he stood behind Fiona. ‘Found anything in there?’
She shuffled back on her hands and knees, blew some hair out of her eyes, rubbed her sore skull with her fingertips, and said, ‘Yeah. It’s like a little dungeon in there, Boss. There are shackles hanging on the end wall. It’s small inside, but I reckon I could just about stand upright where they’re fixed in place. There’s a crucifix nailed above the chains... And there’s an enormous image of an angel’s wings etched into the paint at the back. Nothing else.’ She traced a finger over the inside of the door as Carver bent to take a closer look. ‘It’s like someone tried to claw their way out. A little person.’ She pushed the door to, and stood, pointing at the handle. ‘This is not a normal cupboard door, sir. Much thicker. And this lock is heavy duty too. My guess? It hadn’t been opened for years, it was so stiff. I doubt the old man could’ve used it recently, given how feeble he was…’
‘Mmm.’ Carver placed a hand on her shoulder, massaged it for a second, as if trying to comfort her. ‘Our Mister Butler was not a very nice man, Fi. I’ve organised a couple of uniforms to come and collect those tins.’ He dropped his arm back to his side, and said, his voice more formal now, ‘Well done on finding that little lot, Sergeant. We’ll get some photos of this too, but it’s all history. Nothing that relates directly to any of the more recent victims on our list… I’ll tell you all about the trophies inside the other eight baccy boxes on the way to the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Yeah. We’re supposed to be meeting Doc Powers there, and I’m hoping Bob Koch can join us too.’
‘Prof Koch? The Home Office Pathologist? What’s going on, sir? Is there another body? Or has our victim died?’
‘Not as far as I know. We’re all going to have a little chinwag together. With our Mister Mutilated. See what he can tell us.’
Fiona was baffled by the DI’s optimism, given the state of the vic, but she kept her own counsel and followed him to his car.
***
‘Bloody hell, Winston! This place is supposed to be the most secure facility in the UK. And when I say, Don’t speak to the inmate, whatever he says, that’s exactly what I mean. As if I’d care if he’s rude. Christ!’
Doc’s elevated blood pressure had created a pulsating pressure on his temples that had already developed into a dull thudding headache. He wanted to meditate, to stretch his body into awkward shapes, to feel the burn of yoga returning his equanimity. Instead, he continued to blast his frustration and anger with Harding at Broadmoor’s head of security.
‘A hospital for the criminally insane is supposed to control everything the inmates see and do. Fat lot of good it does, censoring their mail, if they’re getting help from someone on the inside!’
‘We don’t know that’s what happened, Doc —’
‘Oh, really?’ Doc rarely raised his voice, but now he was ranting as he paced Winston’s office, burning carpet fibres as he stomped back and forth. Without breaking stride he counted off on his fingers. ‘One. How did he know that paedophile he attacked was due to leave the Visitor Centre immediately before his visit was supposed to take place? Two. Who authorised for those two visits to coincide like that, despite his known hatred and violence towards paedophiles? Three. How did he know I received a letter — a letter sent here, remember, years after I last did any work for Broadmoor? Four. Had he already seen those images? Even though you intercepted his mail? Did someone here sneak him copies? And finally, why doe
s he think I’ll recognise one of the victims? Who told him the person’s identity?’
‘Woah, Doc! I’ll admit we have some questions to answer, but let’s not get too hasty, eh? You’re upset. Understandably so. The guy’s a piece of work. And I will be looking into this —’
‘That’s not good enough, Winston. Sorry.’ He saw the security chief squirm with embarrassment at the failures Doc was listing, felt for the man, but this was a serious breach. And it related to a current criminal investigation. ‘I’d suggest you do that today, because tomorrow, I will be back with Detective Inspector Carver who will undoubtedly want to make this an official part of his enquiries. You need to have answers for him. And for me…’
Doc, calmer now, though his brain still thumped, needed to get away from here. He had to talk to Jack about that parting comment from Harding — it had started a cascade of worry tumbling through him, and his stomach now harboured a murder of ravens, beating their wings against his heart, not mere butterflies.
‘Yeah… Okay, I’ll get a report sorted for you both tomorrow. We have all the records of who has had contact with him, where and when, going back years. I’m on it, Doc. And I’m sorry you had such a crappy meeting.’
Doc stopped pacing the room, saw the crestfallen look and decided he needed to reassure his old friend.
‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, Winston. One way or another. Okay?’
‘You know, there’s been only one break out from here in almost twenty years. And although we have had some issues with smuggling, our security is pretty rock solid. But metal detectors and X-ray machines aren’t designed to pick up a few photos or typed sheets, Doc… Much of our focus is on weapons, or contraband like drugs or phones. But paper?’ He shrugged. ‘Short of strip searching all five hundred or so staff and consultants when they arrive each day, well… We have to rely on their moral standards. We vet them all, but occasionally we get a bad one.’
‘I know, Winston. And you need to find that bad apple. Fast.’
‘We tightened things up after last time, three years ago.’ In response to Doc’s quizzical look, he added, ‘We had a bit of a scandal with a couple of nursing staff feeding confidential info to the press. They were taking backhanders to supply the tabloids with salacious details of our worst offenders, including Sutcliffe and Napper.’
‘Celebrity criminals. And the journalists paid for information… What is the world coming to?’
Doc’s words were laced with irony, considering his own part in the phenomenon. Sutcliffe, nicknamed the Yorkshire Ripper, brutally killed thirteen women, with ongoing police investigations into the same number of killings, possibly related. James Napper was convicted of double murder, manslaughter and rape. Both cases had featured in Doc’s TV series, in which he posited the theory that many unsolved murders were the work of these and other convicted serial killers.
Like Harding…
Doc wiped that thought from his mind as Winston made excuses.
‘We’ve not been immune to the government slashing state funded enterprises either. Many of our security staff are on contract these days. Employed by GCS, and their reputation’s not exactly top drawer. We do incredibly well, considering…’
Global Contracting Services.
A highly profitable organisation, but one whose standards were questionable, and their incompetence a matter of public record.
‘It amazes me that the government still gives them contracts after they screwed up security for the Olympics. But let’s keep an open mind, Winston. It could well be an NHS employee in need of some extra cash, unaware of how serious this is.’ Doc joggled his car keys impatiently, then made for the door. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning, with DI Carver. I’ll leave you to brief Celene as I’m in a hurry. I’m supposed to be meeting him right now.’
***
Doc jabbed the unlock button on his remote control and his British racing green Jaguar XK convertible honked a welcome as he approached. The car park, with space for over a hundred vehicles for staff and visitors alike, was almost full, but only one car was moving.
The purr of a Bentley Mulsanne was almost drowned out by the swish of bloated tyres on the damp tarmac, and Doc turned as the luxury saloon, registration plate MD1, pulled up beside him. He got a waft of cigar smoke from the interior as the driver’s window descended silently, along with a booming greeting from a voice he had not heard for years.
Today was turning into a real trip down memory lane, but not a pleasant one.
‘Well, Colin Powers! Good to see you back at the sharp end. Not everyone’s cut out for a career in TV. How are you, old boy?’
‘Dickie Maddox. I was hoping to catch up with you but I have to dash… Are you here tomorrow? I’d like a chat about an inmate you’re working with.’
‘Let me guess. Harding.’ Doc must have looked taken aback, as the other psychiatrist explained. ‘I only consult for a handful of patients here, Colin. He seems the most likely candidate for your attentions given what happened not long after I graduated. Dreadful business. Your father. Happy to help in any way I can.’
‘It’s all rather more complicated than that. But I wasn’t aware you were back to psychiatry. I thought you still spent most of your time at your plastic surgery clinic in Los Angeles, filming episodes for your TV series. What was that called? Ask the Dick Doc? I never saw it. Unfortunately.’
Despite having been involved in a series of his own, Doc was no fan of the small screen and rarely watched any TV programmes, and although he knew the series title he could not resist a little jab at the man’s Zeppelin sized ego.
‘Not quite, Colin. Ask Dick, the Doc… Number one across all major US cable networks for six seasons. The last series was shown over here too, on Channel Five. I also did a series on war medicine, but that’s all history now… Are you in a hurry then?’ Doc had pulled open his door and already had one boot inside, but the Dick Doc was blocking his exit. ‘We could catch up this afternoon. Better for me as I have no pressing need to be here tomorrow. Harding’s being moved up a level, so I’ll no longer need to see him every day.’
‘I have to go… Would you mind?’
Doc waved his hand in a move on gesture, but Maddox responded by plucking a business card from his breast pocket, then held it out for Doc.
To fetch.
Like a dog.
He sighed and went to the window, took the gold embossed card, and muttered, ‘Thanks. But I really must go now.’
‘Call me — we can meet at my clinic. In Harley Street. Address is on the card. I’d really love to catch up. Cheerio, Colin!’
Doc rarely disliked anyone to a degree that could be described as hatred, but today he’d had the misfortune to meet up with the two people from his past who had amply qualified for entry to that category. Harding was bad enough, and now this…
Maddox.
A man he had met as a student at Oxford University, three years his senior, undertaking the same degree. Both of them, the youngest medical students in the UK at the time they entered college, precocious and brilliant, with just thirteen weeks separating them in age as freshmen. Maddox was sixteen years three months on arrival, but Doc’s sixteenth birthday was on his first day on campus, and so he took over as Oxford’s youngest ever medical student, eventually taking the mantle as Britain’s youngest qualified doctor. His record would never be beaten either, as the minimum age for entry to medical school had been increased to seventeen years some time after he graduated.
Maddox, piqued at having his record taken from him, even before either of them had qualified, used his seniority to make life hell for Doc, never missing an opportunity to belittle him, to play practical jokes on him or embarrass him. It was obvious he wanted Doc to fail, or at least have to take an extra year to reach finals, but it only spurred the younger man to greater endeavour, and they ended up as rivals, jockeying for the higher honours.
Doc’s car gave a throaty roar as he gunned the throttle, his recollec
tions fuelling a dark mood as he sped through the Berkshire countryside back to the motorway. The rain had stopped and the air tasted clean and fresh, so he flicked a switch and let the roof fold away, and did his best to calm his nerves as he drove.
His brain, firing like the eight pistons in his racing engine, was turning over the unlikely occurrences that had happened since he’d woken that morning. He could not help but wonder who might be behind the unhappy coincidences that had congealed around his visit to Broadmoor today.
But the most pressing issue on his mind, the one that had him on tenterhooks, with his belly being chewed from the inside out, was the last thing Harding had yelled at him.
The photographs were burning his chest through his jacket pocket, and he found himself thinking of the dismembered torso and the ravaged body of what appeared to be a female victim. Her hairless head held no clue to her identity, but he held her image in his mind’s eye as he drove, burning rubber while joining the M3.
He had not seen the woman he loved in over eighteen months, had tried not to dwell on her departure, but found himself visualising her, conjuring her in his mind, creating an image as detailed as if she was sitting beside him. As he joined the three lanes of traffic, he used his voice command to make a call. He uttered the name with a croak, but his smartphone responded, recognising who he needed to talk to, and Jack’s voice answered immediately.
‘Doc, where are you? We’ve just arrived at the hospital. Got Bob Koch coming over too.’
The two pictures in Doc’s mind’s eye finally coalesced, and freezing tentacles of panic gripped his throat. He managed to force out the words that were determined to stay lodged at the back of his tongue, only to be replaced by the sourness of bile. He gulped in air as he spoke.
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 10