‘Mate?’ Roberts grinned widely, showing uneven and yellowing teeth.
‘Turn of phrase. Don’t be expecting a Christmas card.’
‘Someone like me?’ Roberts sniffed. ‘You know who I am then?’
‘I know what you are.’
‘And what is that?’
‘What version do you want? The media, they generally call you a monster. Your defence team would have us believe you are mentally unwell with delusions of being some sort of god. The police profiler reckons you’re an impotent virgin who probably had a thing for your own mother—’
‘And what about you? What do you think I am?’ Roberts leant forward just a little so the cuffs scraped the table. He tilted his head. His eyes were dark and intense.
‘Well, we just met, so I can’t talk about the impotency. I have to go on the facts that I know. You killed four people and it would have been five had your last victim not been stronger than you expected. So you’re a murderer. You’ve offered no reason for the killings and you’ve no links to any of your victims. So I guess the media are on the right lines.’
‘A monster then?’ Roberts leant back and pressed his eyes shut. ‘Do you believe in God, Inspector Elms?’
‘I believe in hell. The way I read it, you might have a couple of weeks until you get to experience it first-hand.’
‘So you do believe in God. You can’t believe in hell without the existence of heaven also, right? So you will know that He will punish those who do not know God and do not obey His gospel. I know God, Inspector. I obey His words as they are written in the Bible. When my day comes, I will have nothing to fear.’
‘I’m sure there’s something in that bible of yours about how He’d get the hump if you killed someone. Am I right? I’m not sure I got the wording right there, but . . .’
‘Murder? He would never approve of murder. But the Bible talks of mercy. He is the most merciful one. He sent His son to set people free. In some people the constraints can be less obvious.’
‘That’s what you did, was it? You set those girls free?’
‘You cannot hope to understand. You have much to learn first.’
‘Did you have something to tell me? I was told you needed to talk to someone and that you had something to say that might benefit the people whose lives you destroyed. That’s the only reason I agreed to sit here and listen to your shit. If you have nothing to say then I have nothing to sit and listen to.’
‘I have much to say, Inspector.’
George took a swig of the water. It was lukewarm and had a strange taste. Who knew where the guard had got it from. He finished it, though. The dusty air and the searing heat of the room had conspired to dry out his throat, and the sweat ran freely down his back. ‘You get five more minutes of my time. And that’s only if the next thing that comes out of your mouth is relevant.’
‘I will tell you where the other two are.’
George fixed a stare back at those dark eyes. He tried to hide his reaction. ‘The other two?’ George didn’t want to give Henry Roberts an inch. He didn’t know much about him, not as much as he would normally have liked. He hadn’t been given much notice. His chief inspector, John Whittaker, had called him late the day before and told him that he needed to visit a prisoner at a Category A prison in South East London. George had recognised the name Henry Roberts immediately, the subject of a well-publicised case from a few years back. But it had all taken place a long way from George’s patch. The case had been handled by Herefordshire Police working closely with the South Wales force. George’s brief retold how young women had been disappearing on the English–Welsh border. The second of them was found in a shallow grave in the Forest of Dean. Her boyfriend became the third victim, found stabbed to death behind the wheel of his car, which was parked up in the confines of the forest. His girlfriend was assumed to have been snatched from the seat next to him and a manhunt ensued. From what George could tell, there had been little to go on. It was only when a potential fifth victim, a mountain biker separated from her party while fixing a puncture on a fire road in the forest, was approached by Roberts, that the police got their break. He had offered his assistance at first but, when she declined, he turned instantly angry, grabbed hold of her and dragged her towards his van. She was fit, athletic and determined. She got free and found help. Roberts had disappeared but she knew enough: details of his van, his distinctive build and booming voice, his hair shaved close to his scalp and the distinctive tattoo on the top of his head. Angel’s Wings — the description that gave the suspect a name. The media gave him a name too: The Bull. She had done well to get away from a man ‘built like a bull.’
Roberts was found and charged with the murder of four people and the attempted murder of a fifth. More than three years had passed since those charges were read in court and two of the bodies were still out there somewhere. Roberts had never made any confession nor issued so much as a word to law enforcement save a couple of rambling statements concocted by his legal team. George Elms was the first. Lucky him!
‘There are two who still elude you, are there not? Detective Inspector Emma Rowe . . . a good detective . . . a pure soul. She spent a lot of time trying to convince me that I should talk to her about where their mortal remains were. But her position was always a moral one, that I should help the families find closure. That was her mistake. The family should be delighted. Their daughters are with God now. I sent them to him.’
‘So what position should she have taken?’
‘She didn’t have one at that time. That was her problem. There’s no way you people could ever understand a man like me. You live in a world of black and white, right and wrong. Life is many different shades. There was nothing she could offer me.’
‘And now there is?’
‘I am dying, Inspector. You mentioned it already. My day of judgement is coming. When it arrives I wish to be looking out to sea.’
George laughed; he couldn’t help it. ‘And what? You think you stand a chance of a nice view in exchange for telling us what you did with those women? You really are wasting my time.’
‘Black and white, right and wrong. Let me fill in the colour for you, Inspector. You should not be so quick to make your judgements.’
‘You have a minute left.’
‘You may know that I am a rich man. Old money, I suppose they call it. There’s certainly a long history of land ownership in my family history. A family chosen by God. My father has been dead five years. My mother died a few weeks into my trial. The pressures were just too much — it was never fair, the way she was treated. I am the only heir. My estate is considerable — even by modern standards with those ghastly Russian oligarchs buying up much of our capital city.’
‘And you think money makes a difference? It didn’t count for much when you hired your legal team. Why would it now?’
‘We now have a proposal for you — grounded in law and backed up by the European Commission of Human Rights — whereby I be allowed to die at a secure unit situated on the cliffs of Langthorne on the southernmost tip of the country. A prison transfer. It happens all of the time across the country.’
George was baffled. He had lived and worked in Langthorne for fifteen years. He had no knowledge of a secure unit, certainly nothing that could hold Category A prisoners. What was Roberts babbling about?
‘There is no secure unit in Langthorne.’
‘There is. I’ve built it.’
‘You’ve wha—’
‘Don’t feel bad, Inspector. There is no way you could have known. My initial diagnosis came as part of my entrance into the penal system three years ago — that very first medical. The cancer was in the bowel at that point. Surgery removed it and I was told to expect a long and happy future.’ Roberts raised his palms at his surroundings and smiled grimly. ‘But I always knew that God wanted me by his side. He had summoned me. I endured their treatment — the chemotherapy. They said they had killed off any trace of cancer cells but I knew it would come back.
There is nothing manmade that can stand up to the will of God. I instructed work to begin at Langthorne immediately. It is a large property on top of the cliffs looking out to sea. We used to holiday in the area when I was a child. As you know, Inspector, the view is nothing short of spectacular.’
‘And you think you deserve to choose your view? To choose where you die? Did you give those people a choice? The ones who died at your hands? They say one of the girls was found in a stinking hole, being picked at by the wildlife. Why would any judge in the land consider any request that kept you from a high-walled cell with a plug in the middle to catch your bodily fluids when you finally stop contorting in pain? Your legal team have nothing. You have nothing. No wonder your team lodged an insanity plea — this request does nothing but add to that claim.’
Henry took his time to reply. ‘I got to learn a little about the police, about your rank structures. Being an inspector must be a thankless and cheerless existence. You’re not high enough to be shielded from the flak from the troops at the bottom, you’re just right to take the flak from the more senior officers and you have no real influence at all. You’re here as a pair of ears Inspector George Elms, nothing more. You aspire to be my Malakh. Your opinion is nothing to me. You are nothing to me. My proposal is already with your force, addressed to those who actually matter. You are required simply to add my desire to reveal the location of the missing remains. Now it would seem that you are wasting my time.’ Roberts lurched to his feet and loomed over George. The prison guards both took a step closer, one at each shoulder. One of them looked a little panicked.
George did his best to appear indifferent. ‘The problem with knowing nothing but a life with money is that you get very used to getting your own way. You’re in prison, you’re a murdering piece of scum and you will be tossed in whatever dark corner the judge has ordered. You will be forgotten about and then you will die. In pain and alone. Me, on the other hand . . . I’m now going to return to my life and my sea view and I won’t be giving you another thought. Run along now, I’d like to get back in time to see the sun setting on the sea. It’s quite spectacular this time of year.’
Henry lunged, his giant hands still trussed together. He stopped inches short of George’s face. George stared him down. He didn’t flinch. Henry’s faced twisted into a smile.
‘Shame,’ George said, ‘I was nearly able to add another charge to your rap sheet there.’ He turned to address the prison guard who had hurriedly spoken into his radio and now had a hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Can you chuck this one back into his hole? We’re done.’ A third guard appeared. He had a boyish face that flushed red. He looked out of breath.
‘See you soon, Inspector.’ Henry stood back up straight and suppressed a cough. He allowed himself to be led away.
George was still furious when he made it back out. He had gone through the numerous security protocols in silence, desperate to go through the final door that led out into the sunshine. His car was parked a few hundred metres from the entrance. He sat in the driver’s seat and rested his hand on the keys. Sweat still ran down his forehead. He snatched his hand away, scooped up the mobile phone that he had left in the compartment under the armrest and got out again. There was a row of shops nearby with a café among them. He walked in and ordered a mug of tea. The café was almost empty. It was nearly 11 a.m. He turned on his phone and it pinged with a message from ‘MAJOR’ — George’s nickname for his boss, Chief Inspector John Whittaker, who had reached that rank in the army and seen action in Kuwait and Afghanistan. He was just a few years off retirement from the force now and he gave George the impression that he had half an eye on his plans to move to the sun in Cyprus when the time came. No doubt that was why George had been sent a hundred miles from their shared office space in Langthorne House Police Station to talk to some crackpot who fancied himself as God’s right-hand man. George reckoned today was what was known in policing as a ‘tick-box exercise.’ Where the police have to complete certain tasks purely so they can say they have. The Major’s message said simply, Call me.
George made it to a table where he began squashing his tea bag in its mug. His phone rang and the Major’s name flashed up.
‘Jesus, man. Give me a chance!’ George grumbled before answering the phone. ‘Major.’
‘George, old boy! How the devil are you?’
‘Funny you should mention the devil. I think I just met him.’
‘More like God, I thought? I read a summary. That’s right, isn’t it? The man thinks he’s God?’
‘I think he sees himself as seated at his table at least. Thanks for this job. I assume I have just wasted a day so you didn’t have to?’
‘Well, what is the point of rank if you cannot abuse it, I always say?’
‘I’ll have to remember that one. What do you need from me? I assume some sort of report summarising the ramblings of our friend and then we can all get on with our lives?’
Whittaker hesitated before replying. ‘Can you speak freely, George?’
George looked around the café. He was sitting as far from anyone as was possible. He was pretty certain no one could hear him but it was a public place. He never trusted places he didn’t know.
‘Not really, Major. I stopped off for a cup of tea. The prison service were as accommodating as ever.’
‘Good. I hoped as much. In that case you can just listen. There was a meeting this morning. It seems I wasn’t in possession of quite the whole picture. Roberts’s legal team have made a further approach. You know they have requested a move, somewhere that he can see out his final days?’
‘Yeah, he said as much. Obviously I laughed in his face, Major. I assume your meeting was filled with much laughter too?’ George was suddenly uncertain.
‘Not so much. I mean my initial reaction was the same, but there are elements of this proposal that might have legs. It’s with the Home Office, George. This runs high — as high as it gets.’
‘Why would they even entertain it? We all know what the man is.’
‘We do. But now the Home Office know what he can offer.’
‘Money?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘But the message we would be sending . . .’
‘It would appear there is a way of diluting that message, George. It’s early days — nothing has been agreed. Look, what was discussed should not leave that meeting, but I see it as need to know. His proposal is that he funds his own end of life care. The secure unit that will house him is being built to a specification approved by the government. He pays the costs of that build, the wages of the staff and every other operating cost. And when he departs this world there is a state of the art, secure medical facility that the government can claim as a big win from Roberts.’
‘A big win? What about how it looks when the world realises that a serial killer is getting special treatment?’
‘That’s one spin. There are plenty others. You know as well as I do that prisoners getting palliative care can be taken to hospital-’
‘And most don’t. Most never leave the hospital wing. They’ve got all the facilities they should need, why are we considering this at all?’
‘I think you have to understand the pressures here. Roberts’s legal team are breathing down everyone’s necks. They’re complaining daily about his medical care and they’ve been petitioning for hospital treatment since he was first diagnosed. They’ve already made it clear they will be launching legal proceedings if he dies in prison.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Human Rights. And look, there won’t be a breach to his rights, the prison services aren’t doing anything wrong, but they could do without it. I think that’s the point here – we all could. Everyone just wants this problem gone. This move might just suit us all.’
‘Including Henry Roberts.’
‘Yes, including him. Imagine if we do move him to a mainstream hospital. That’ll be a huge operation. A man chained to a bed, five prison guards on
overtime covering him twenty-four hours a day and the ward of a hospital largely cleared. It’s a huge pain in everyone’s arse, George and he’s offering quite an alternative.’
‘I still can’t see it happening. It’s not going to sit right with anyone, surely?’
‘Well, it’s not just the government who could be on board. There are a number of snouts in the trough, including our own police force. They have got wind that they can claim any costs that come from policing this venue directly back from Roberts’s estate. Without any scrutiny on what those costs actually are.’
‘A blank cheque?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What costs? If this were to ever happen, the prison service would run the place, nursing staff would do what they do. What police costs?’
‘Well, there’s the part that could cause us all the grief. The part where we would need to be up to speed on the investigation that put Roberts in prison in the first place. We would need a good knowledge of the victims, who they were and more importantly who their families are. If they got wind of his movement, if anyone did, we could have a real situation on our hands.’
‘You’re talking like this could actually happen, Major? His message to me was about telling us where he buried the two missing bodies. He thinks he can use that as a bit more leverage.’
‘Shit! Well, that is something. I know that was asked for as part of the negotiations. He obviously sees that as the final piece. Did he actually say buried?’
George peered around the café again and then lowered his voice further. ‘Well, no. He didn’t actually use the word buried. That’s some assumption on my part.’
‘Politics though, George . . . think about it. That would be quite a result. He’s also laid out in his legal proposal that he will be refusing any further treatment that may prolong his life. So we need to consider that he is proposing to foot his own medical and security bill, sign over his estate to medical facilities across two counties, top up the coffers of a police force facing more and more cuts and give up the location of two victims, bringing closure to a case that still captures the media’s imagination. There was a lot of pressure around this case. The victims were pretty, white, working-class young women. The public really cared.’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 50
