A Private Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  He declined the offer and then watched as she used an internal phone to tell her secretary that she wasn’t to be interrupted for ten minutes – in a day like hers, that was probably quite a long time. The office was functional rather than personal, and on the wall behind the governor were many bookshelves that held bound copies of what must be every regulation relating to the prison service since its inception. He guessed that Mrs Durrant – there were two rings on her wedding finger – could quite possibly quote at least fifty per cent of these from memory.

  ‘Straight to the business in hand, then, sergeant. I’ll be honest and say that I don’t quite know how we got here. Martin and I are old acquaintances. When he rang me on Wednesday afternoon, I took it to be a part of an ongoing investigation down in Kings Lake. What he told me was enough for me to ask for Mr Andretti’s cell to be searched…’

  And Smith was thinking, who the hell is Martin, before realising that it was Detective Superintendent Allen.

  ‘…the searching of cells is something we undertake regularly for all inmates, part of the Long Hill regime. It’s about ownership of the space and all our inmates are used to it. I had shared a little of what Martin had told me with a senior officer, and this officer happened to share something of that with Mr Andretti.’

  She paused and looked at the detective but his face gave nothing away. It seems like a small thing but lots of policemen would object to the “Mr’ – if Sergeant Smith did so, he wasn’t letting her know.

  ‘This senior officer should have known better, and I have reprimanded him. However, I then felt duty bound to let your superintendent know what had occurred – which was that Mr Andretti said he was willing to help the police with their inquiries in any way that he could.’

  Andrea Durrant gave him time to reflect. He had come alone, and she could see that he had made an effort with a new-looking shirt and a tie that almost matched it, but he wasn’t sharp-suited like most of them these days, and he wasn’t young. She noticed the scar on his cheek and wondered whether that was something he had acquired in the line of duty.

  He said, ‘Do you know exactly what your officer told Mr Andretti?’

  He had moved without apparent effort into her milieu because he wanted the information and the cost for him was minimal – and the eyes, she thought, look younger than the rest of him.

  ‘Yes. He was told that it concerned his regular visitor.’

  ‘I see. But not, presumably, the full details – no mention of why we have interviewed the person concerned?’

  ‘No. Martin told me about that but I didn’t share it all with the officer concerned. Or anyone else here.’

  ‘Right. When the visits take place, I assume it’s the usual thing, in a public space along with everyone else’s. A table in between and officers supervising?’

  ‘Yes. And all visitors are searched beforehand, some on the way out.’

  He was taking time to process each answer, nodding a little before the next question.

  ‘The inmates have access to television and radio?’

  ‘Yes. Those on the full-life tariff have both in their cells. Being in touch with the outside world is seen as an important part of their rehabilitation.’

  Again, if he suspected that she was trying to provoke him a little, he showed no sign of it.

  ‘What about the internet?’

  She shook her head as she said, ‘Yes, but that is more strictly controlled, obviously. Inmates can access it from our IT room but only under supervision and only for defined periods.’

  The detective took out a small black notebook and a silver pencil from a jacket pocket.

  ‘Presumably they have individual accounts. They log on and off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if necessary you could produce a list of web addresses an inmate has visited.’

  It was not a question. Andrea Durrant said, ‘We could, if necessary. But we would not do so lightly. One of the ways in which we build trust is by giving some privacy, sergeant.’

  Now his very lack of reaction was telling her something, but what he said next she was not expecting.

  ‘How much did Martin tell you about the investigation?’

  The Christian name from a lowly subordinate threw her off balance for a moment.

  ‘I – well, it was about a missing person.’

  ‘Yes, a missing girl. A teenaged girl.’

  He left her to work out the implications but surely she would have done so before this.

  Then he said, ‘So when we discovered that our person of interest has been making regular prison visits to Mr Andretti of all people, we thought it was in order to investigate that as well.’

  ‘I understand, but you do know that they are in fact related?’

  The sergeant met her look with blue but expressionless eyes before he said, ‘Yes. That hadn’t escaped our attention, either. If Mr Andretti has any information at all, it’s important for us to know where he might have got it from, and that’s why his browsing history would be of value.’

  She made a note on a pad in front of her, and said, ‘Two more matters, then. It isn’t unusual for inmates to receive visits from the police, naturally. I’m right in thinking that you have met Mr Andretti before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were the arresting officer in the case that led to his conviction?’

  Just a nod this time.

  ‘That is a little unusual. I have to ask whether you intend to question him about further offences in which he might be implicated.’

  A long pause, then, and she could see him measuring words carefully.

  ‘I would say that is unlikely at this point.’

  ‘You are unable to state that categorically?’

  ‘If you can tell me categorically what he’s going to tell me this morning, I might be able to reciprocate.’

  Andrea Durrant made a mental note to ask Martin Allen about this man the next time she spoke to him, which might be as soon as this afternoon.

  ‘The reason I have to ask is that Mr Andretti must be offered legal representation if that were to be the case. I mentioned this to him yesterday and he declined it. However, he is entitled to have someone present as a friend and he said he would like Dr Glover to be there in that capacity.’

  ‘Dr Glover?’

  ‘Dr Glover is Mr Andretti’s psychotherapist. This is something we offer to every inmate. It gives them the chance to build a long-term relationship with someone outside the formal hierarchy of the institution. Many find it beneficial.’

  ‘I see. Does every inmate take up the offer?’

  ‘No…’

  And there was on his face the faintest smile at that, as if he was revealing that it was no surprise to him Marco Andretti had been one of those who did – or perhaps the smile was in anticipation of the small bet that Smith placed with his spiritual bookmaker at that moment.

  Andrea Durrant went on, ‘Naturally, there will be prison service personnel present also, two experienced officers who will play no part in your interview.’

  Allen had said everything would have to be on the prison’s terms, and Smith had not been expecting to have a tête-a-tête with a category A prisoner – nevertheless, they already had enough for a five-a-side football team. Or maybe they could play a hand or two of bridge.

  Smith said, ‘That’s all fine, Mrs Durrant. I’d like to thank you for your help and cooperation. I’m ready when you are.’

  But he wasn’t sure anyone could ever be ready for this. The last time they had met, it had been Andretti sitting behind a table, waiting for the detectives to enter the room and charge him formally with the murder of Juliet Richardson, his first victim. Now there was another table in an empty room but Smith could not sit there and wait for the man to be brought in. He walked over to the single small window – no bars but this would be security glass, thick enough to stop a bullet. Through it there was a view across a neatly mown lawn to some low outbuildings, workshops of some
sort; behind them the top of a security fence and beyond that the grey hills of the Lincolnshire Wolds. The sun had shone briefly this morning on the drive north but now it had retreated once more behind the low, grey clouds, and snow had been mentioned again in the weather forecast.

  Then he heard distant voices and the possibility of approaching footsteps, and his stomach turned over a little, like when you’re still a child, in school or a hospital, and something has gone wrong but you don’t know what it is. Your first taste of fear. And he was afraid to look on that face again, he would have admitted that to someone like John Murray or Maggie – even to Jo now. He had spent thirteen years burying this man beneath memories of better days, and now he had agreed to dig up the corpse once more. To what end? There could be nothing here that would lead them to Zoe Johnson. Footsteps were approaching the door, and Smith’s jaw clenched a little. He had been played by Andretti, hadn’t he?

  A prison officer opened the door and asked his name. Smith told him and then the officer stepped aside and ushered a man into the room. Dr Glover? No – the man was wearing jeans and a prison-issue grey sweatshirt. A middle-aged woman came after him, and then the first prison officer, followed by a second. Smith dismissed the crazy idea that they had brought the wrong prisoner and looked again. A full beard, neatly trimmed, and a long pony tail, the dark hair with touches of grey at the temples, grey to match the eyes which had not changed. This was Marco Andretti.

  The eyes sought his own immediately, like a lover’s, and Smith felt his stomach turn over again. He remained for a moment by the window while the officers arranged the seating – one chair for Andretti across the table from the policeman, another to his, Andretti’s, right for the woman, and two for themselves a little way off to the left. It was a meeting room rather than an office and there was space for them to be away from the conversation that was to take place.

  Everyone had remained standing – it was down to Smith to come away from the window and approach the table but the silence was awkward as he did so. He hadn’t rehearsed this moment, invariably relied on his wits in such situations, but realised that there never had been a situation like this before.

  The woman held out her hand to him and said, ‘I’m Dr Ann Glover. I’m not here in an official capacity. Marco asked me to be here as a friend.’

  Andretti’s eyes had not left his own, and now they were searching for a reaction to what the woman had said.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Durrant explained it to me.’

  Explained, he thought, wasn’t really the right word; she had told him about it but was anyone capable of explaining what was going on here? The psychotherapist was in her forties and generously built for her height – Smith couldn’t put it any more kindly than that. She had beads around her neck – surprising in view of the environment in which she spent her working days – and bangles around her wrists. She too was wearing jeans, no doubt to underline just how far away from the formal prison hierarchy she was, and what looked like a hand-knitted woollen jumper from a flea market craft stall.

  There was no authority in the room and no procedures had been agreed in advance, not even a line of questioning. Reeve had said, let him take the lead, he’s the one who has brought this about – and she had also said walk away the moment you feel he’s exploiting the situation for his own benefit. In which case, Smith thought grimly, I shouldn’t even sit down in that chair.

  Andretti sensed all this, naturally. After a look around at the psychotherapist and the two prison officers, he said, ‘Well, this takes me back, Detective Chief Inspector!’

  The voice was educated, cultured even, though Andretti hadn’t completed formal schooling, and it was enough to throw one off the scent in an initial interview. No, you might think, it can’t have been him, he doesn’t sound like a killer – he doesn’t even sound like an ice-cream salesman, any more than Harris sounds like a burger-van man.

  But Andretti would know, without a doubt, that this was no longer Smith’s rank – it would be a ploy to get Smith to explain himself and his fall from dizzy heights. So, we won’t go there, and we won’t bother with the usual declaration of name, rank and station either.

  Smith said, ‘I understand that you asked to speak to me about an ongoing investigation in Kings Lake.’

  He didn’t look at her again but Andretti was very aware of the woman sitting slightly behind and to his right; whatever was going on here was at least in part for her benefit, though Smith doubted whether she realised it.

  ‘I offered to help if I could. When Principal Officer West told me why my cell was being searched, I said I would be willing to speak to the Kings Lake police if they thought it would help.’

  Already the manipulation, the twisting of the truth just a little to suit his own version of reality. No one at Lake Central had suggested such a thing, and only Cara Freeman had said well, maybe, when the idea first arose – but it arose only because Andretti himself had suggested it.

  Smith said, ‘You have been in regular contact with Paolo Harris over the past few months. He has been interviewed recently with regard to an inquiry in Kings Lake.’

  ‘Oh… I thought we were going to talk about Paul Harrison!’

  Do not engage on his terms, keep your distance and throw the left jab – never go into a clinch with this man because it becomes the most horrifying of embraces. And then Smith knew that the worst of this was already over, seeing that face again, looking into the strange, empty grey eyes. He felt his breathing under control now, and his mind sharpening to the task.

  Andretti misjudged the silence, and said, ‘I don’t think you should read anything into the change of name. He was persecuted without mercy after my conviction. In his situation, I think I might have done the same.’

  And the smile, but Andretti was in his forties now, a little fatter in the face behind the beard and moustache, and the lean, dark Italian good looks which he had inherited were gone. Somehow he seemed more obviously what he really was, despite the disguise. Smith glanced at Dr Glover, and the glance confirmed what he had suspected from the start. She had hardly taken her eyes from the prisoner’s face. Every convicted serial killer of women in the Western world gets proposals of marriage by return of post. He would not waste a moment thinking about that but Jo might have a few ideas.

  ‘Are you aware of the nature of the inquiry in which Harris has been involved?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘It concerns the disappearance of a teenaged girl. Harris seems to have been the last person with whom she had contact the night she went missing.’

  Andretti put up a mock frown as he considered the situation.

  ‘Well, I think you can only say he was the last person of whom you are aware, because obviously she then met someone else. But what a ghastly and ironic coincidence. I can see why you are here, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I’m here only because you said you would help with a police inquiry in any way that you could and then because you said you wouldn’t speak to anyone but me. In my judgement, you don’t have anything useful to add to it. We don’t need to prolong this situation.’

  Smith glanced at the senior prison officer and saw the look of mild surprise; as he intended, Andretti saw it too. And Andretti had gone to some lengths to engineer this meeting; he would not want it to end as abruptly as this, whatever his motives

  Andretti said, ‘It’s true that Paul Harrison has been a regular visitor of mine. I don’t get too many, so his support has been much appreciated.’

  ‘Were the two of you close before your conviction?’

  It was a deliberately provocative move – already they were in a place that no-one else in the room would understand. But he could hold the stare of those pale eyes now, and did so with a level gaze of his own.

  ‘I know we are only second generation, Detective Chief Inspector, but it’s an Italian thing, the strong family bond. I don’t know if that’s something you can appreciate. Can you? Is there anything in your own exp
erience…?’

  What had Jo said? “They don’t empathise, they don’t share in other’s emotions, they don’t feel guilt or remorse. The rest of us would hardly recognise the world if we saw it through their eyes.” Because this is all true, they can seem to be an alien species, and because they believe absolutely in their own intellectual and moral superiority, it’s easy to attribute powers to them, easy to allow doubts to form. Andretti could know nothing of Catriona and Adriana Kelly, the half-Italian sisters that Smith had met in Belfast – he could not know of the son that Cati had borne to Smith – but the guilt of it, Smith’s sense of his own betrayal of them, made him vulnerable, and psychopaths are leeches, feeding and thriving on that vulnerability. See how Andretti has turned him in upon himself already?

  Smith said, ‘It was a simple question. Were the two of you close before your conviction, or has this relationship developed since you were locked up?’

  ‘Inspector! Still trying to dig up the dirt? We’re not here to go over the same old ground again, are we?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve no idea why we are here. If you have anything to say pertinent to the investigation in Kings Lake, say it now. If not, we’ll put an end to this.’

  Andretti inched forward in his seat and the senior officer was alert to it.

  ‘“Pertinent”. I remember your language, Chief Inspector. You have this front, the down-at-heel, shabby sort of incompetent, but your language gives you away sometimes. I think you are one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met.’

  More nonsense, naturally, but Smith understood enough psychology to know why Andretti had to say that and to believe it – who else could have caught him but a detective almost as clever as himself? Smith pushed his chair a little away from the table, making ready to stand, and this brought something more from Andretti.

  ‘Do we still believe in character witnesses? That is perhaps all I was suggesting I might add to your investigation. As someone who has had regular contact with Paul Harrison, I can say that he is hard-working, law-abiding and loyal. I would be happy to say so in a public record.’