The Killer Inside

by Lindsay Ashford

  Megan held his gaze, her face betraying no emotion, waiting for him to go on. This was good. This was something he hadn’t mentioned up to now.

  ‘There were others there. They saw what happened but they did nothing. Left him for dead.’

  ‘But he didn’t die?’

  ‘No. But he was brain-damaged. He’ll never work again.’

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘Nearly a year ago.’

  ‘Do you think it’s had an effect on the suicide rates?’ She wasn’t going to say it outright, wasn’t going to ask him to grass anyone up. Not yet, anyway.

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘And how.’

  ‘Dom,’ she ventured, ‘did you ever…I mean, have you ever thought about…’ She hesitated, searching for the right words.

  ‘Topping myself?’ he finished the sentence for her. ‘There was a time, yes,’ he said softly, stroking his chin. ‘It was five years into my sentence and I’d just had a knockback. They told me I was looking at seventeen years minimum before any chance of parole.’

  She nodded, waiting for him to continue. Wondering if he could talk about it.

  ‘I did the usual, you know,’ he grunted, his mouth twisting into a half smile as his eyes met hers. ‘Tore my bed sheet into strips and plaited them. Tied one end to the top of the window and looped the other round my neck.’ He sniffed, glancing at the scuffed grey lino on the floor. ‘I sat there on the edge of my bunk. Ready to jump. Four, five times I must have got right to the edge, closed my eyes and thought This is it!’

  Megan waited, but he was just staring at the floor, his eyes glazed over. ‘What changed your mind?’ Her voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Having the choice,’ he said, his mouth turning up at the edges as his eyes snapped back into focus. ‘It suddenly came to me that this was the one thing I did have a choice about. And somehow, once I’d realised that, it was much easier to bear. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Was that when you decided you wanted to do the degree?’

  He smiled. ‘When I was first here I couldn’t even string a sentence together. Never even tried reading, bar page three of the Sun. Now the library’s my favourite place. Can’t imagine life without books.’

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand about your life in here, though.’ Megan looked into the twinkling grey eyes. ‘You’ve got all this responsibility, the respect of the staff and the governor, but you’re still on the wings. Why aren’t you on enhanced status?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a sore point,’ he chuckled, sitting back in his chair and rolling up the sleeves of his blue denim shirt. ‘Me and one of the other lads – Carl Kelly – are both up for transfer to the enhanced wing, but there’s no beds. There’s only forty available out of a total of six-hundred and fifty, so you can imagine, there’s a bit of a waiting list.’ He shrugged, still smiling.

  Megan tutted under her breath. How frustrating it must be to know you were entitled to sleep in a decent pine bed with a normal mattress instead of the metal cots with their thin, stained pads. Entitled, but not able. Not able to walk freely to and from a cell with no locks; look out of a window with no bars…

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t actually make it to enhanced,’ he added. ‘The transfer might come sooner than free beds in here.’ He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘S’pose it doesn’t matter that much. What’s a few more months after thirteen years?’

  Megan pursed her lips. What was there to say to that? She sometimes had nightmares about prison; dreamed that she was on the other side, banged up with the people she’d been interviewing for a book or an academic paper. She would wake from such dreams bathed in sweat, her heart pounding, her eyes searching the outlines of the furniture in her bedroom for reassurance and comfort. Her ex-husband, Tony, had teased her about talking prison talk in her sleep; regurgitating the slang she had heard during the day. Going into a jail was like visiting another country. The language, the way of life, the whole culture was something set apart from the world outside. And each prison had the same language: Wormwood Scrubs or Parkhurst, Strangeways or Dartmoor – the slang was identical. And to get to know the inmates, you had to learn the lingo. Sometimes they would test her out, as Dominic had at their first meeting. He had told her there was a ‘jugging’ or a ‘chibbing’ in Balsall Gate at least once a week. She had nodded in silent assent. A jugging was an attack by one prisoner on another, involving pouring a jug of boiling water over the victim. It was usual to mix sugar with the water so that it would stick to the skin, causing the maximum possible damage. A chibbing, on the other hand, involved an attack with a blade. These would be manufactured by inmates, usually by melting the end of a comb or some other plastic object and inserting a razor blade into it.

  ‘Carl’s really pissed off about the enhancement.’ Dominic’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘His cell’s much smaller than mine. Don’t know how he stands it.’

  Megan had had a guided tour of the prison and she knew that cells differed according to which wing they were on. The Victorian architect who had designed the place must have had a particularly mean streak, giving Balsall Gate the distinction of having the most cramped accommodation in the country. But she had only seen the cells when they were empty. It would be useful to hear just how pissed off Dom’s fellow inmate was. If she went to Carl’s cell with Dom, she might be able to persuade Fergus the guard to give the three of them a few minutes on their own. She gave Dom a sympathetic smile. ‘Can I take a look?’

  ‘Yeah, course you can.’ Dom rose from his seat. ‘Don’t s’pose Carl’s going to mind.’ His eyebrows flicked upwards. ‘He’s been on his own the past few days ’cos his cell mate was released last week. It’ll be a bit of light relief for him, talking to you.’

  Megan looked at him. Her years of assessing the worst offenders in the criminal justice system had made her an expert bullshit detector. She had a lot of respect for Dom Wilde. He’d talked to her about the murder he’d committed but he’d also told her things he needn’t have, like the fact he had a grown-up daughter he hadn’t seen since the day she was born. The opinion she had formed was that he was a man who said what he meant and didn’t try to massage egos to get what he wanted. She hoped the motivation for his helpfulness right now wasn’t about providing a bit of titillation for a mate on twenty-three hour lock-up.

  The giant Fergus came to escort them from the relatively civilised section of the prison that housed the counselling room to the wing occupied by Carl Kelly. The smell hit her when they reached the end of a winding corridor and Fergus unlocked a connecting door. It was a rancid mix of stale sweat and cigarettes, so powerful it made Megan want to gag. The smoking ban had not extended to prisons. They, like hospices and care homes, were considered in law to be private residences, so prisoners were still allowed to smoke in their cells and in the exercise yard. The reaction from prison officers to this decision had, in the main, been one of relief. There had been dire warnings of riots breaking out amongst inmates if they’d been prevented from smoking during the long periods of lock-up.

  As she stepped across the threshold the sound of banging and shouting echoed behind the row of locked doors. The men nearest the entrance had heard the rattle of Fergus’ keys and their catcalls spread from cell to cell. It was like standing next to a huge, bubbling saucepan that threatened to boil over at any second. Dominic turned to her and grinned. ‘Welcome to Delta Wing – aka Baghdad. Quite quiet this afternoon, actually, isn’t it Fergus?’ he said.

  The warder cocked his head on one side and listened. ‘Yeah. Not too bad.’ He looked at Megan and winked. ‘Reckon they saw you out the window, ma’am – they’re on their best behaviour!’

  Megan grimaced. Fergus had made it clear from the first time he’d escorted her around the prison that he found her attractive. The comments he made were so obvious and were said in such a guileless manner that she found it impossible to take offence. She glanced at Dom an
d saw that he was grimacing too. ‘Which is Carl’s cell?’ she asked him. He jerked a thumb towards the far left of the corridor and she followed him, Fergus trailing in their wake.

  ‘I’ll just make sure he’s decent,’ Dom said, flipping up the rectangular panel that covered the perspex observation window in the door. He bent down to peer into the cell. ‘Shit!’ He jumped back as if the metal flap had burnt his fingers. ‘Fergus!’ he yelled. ‘Get in there – quick!’

  ‘What is it?’ Megan saw that his eyes were wide with horror and his face was drained of what little colour it had had. Then the guard was between them, keys rattling as he fumbled for the right one and thrust it into the lock.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ As the door swung open Fergus stopped dead, his huge frame blocking Megan’s view of the cell. Then his hand shot to the radio pager hanging from his belt. Through the gap created when he lifted it to his mouth Megan saw what Dom Wilde had seen through the observation panel. Carl Kelly was slumped on a chair, naked apart from a pair of blue boxer shorts. There was a syringe lodged in his left thigh. His head was tipped back at an angle against the wall of the cell and his arms were locked together, the elbows sticking out at unnatural angles and the fingers clawing at the air. As the guard lumbered towards him she got a full view of the face. The mouth was contorted into a ghoulish grin.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Carl! Christ, mate!’ Dom Wilde pressed the pale flesh at the neck, feeling for a pulse. Megan was still staring at the lifeless face. The eyebrows were raised and the open, grinning lips were blue round the edges.

  Fergus was barking into his radio pager. Seconds later there was a thunder of footsteps in the corridor outside. Half a dozen guards crowded into the cell. A few minutes later the prison doctor arrived to confirm that the inmate was indeed dead.

  He pulled down the boxer shorts and shoved a thermometer into BG 199718 Carl Kelly’s anus. Death, he estimated, had occurred within the past two hours. This was confirmed by Dom, who said he had been chatting to Carl about an hour and a half ago, just before he went for the interview with Megan.

  ‘Why is he…smiling?’ Dom had turned away when the doctor was making his examination. His question was addressed to the cell wall. His voice, calm and matter-of-fact up to now, was bitter, almost accusing.

  ‘It’s what’s known as risus sardonicus.’ The doctor wiped the thermometer and slid it back into its case. ‘Common symptom of tetanus – otherwise known as lockjaw.’ He beckoned to the hospital orderlies who were waiting outside the door with a stretcher. ‘Heroin addicts are a high-risk group for it. Dirty needles…’ He trailed off as the orderlies prepared to lift the dead man.

  ‘Could the tetanus have killed him?’ Megan asked.

  ‘Possible, but unlikely,’ the doctor replied. ‘Cause of death is much more likely to have been an overdose. Of course, we can’t be certain. Have to wait for the post-mortem.’

  Fergus and some of the other prison officers removed their caps as the corpse was carried out of the cell. Megan watched the two who didn’t. One was short and stocky with a grey moustache. The other was taller with ferrety eyes. She saw them exchange glances as the body went through the door. Ferret-face mouthed something to his friend. Something like, ‘Stupid bastard.’

  Megan looked at Dom as they waited to be questioned by the police. He was so different from the man she’d got to know over the past few weeks. He had always seemed so calm, so in control of his emotions. She had seen him with other prisoners, men who were literally shaking with fear after being threatened by another inmate, or weeping like children after receiving a ‘Dear John’ letter from a wife or girlfriend. Dom had a knack of pouring oil on troubled waters. He was always able to find the right words and say them in the right way to put others at ease, no matter how worked up they were. But he hadn’t spoken since they had left Carl Kelly’s cell. He was sitting, bent over, with his head in his hands as if he was racking his brains for an answer to what had happened.

  ‘Do you think it was an accident?’ Megan wasn’t sure if he had heard. His shirt collar was up over his ears. ‘Dom…’ she began again, but in a quick movement he sat up.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes locked on hers for a second before turning back to the floor. She couldn’t read his expression. There was genuine grief in those eyes. But there was something else as well. Despair? Anger? Clearly Dom and Carl had been close friends. Just how close she wasn’t sure. Did Dom blame himself for Carl’s death? Did he feel he’d failed him some way?

  ‘What I mean,’ she said, ‘is that the overdose could have been deliberate.’ She paused, waiting for him to give her more.

  ‘He told me he was off the gear.’ The pale skin below his hairline puckered into frown lines. ‘Carl was doing a lot of brown when I first got to know him. He’d done just over a year of his bird when I arrived.’ Megan nodded. She knew Dom Wilde had been in three other prisons before being transferred to Balsall Gate. ‘He had regular suppliers,’ he went on. ‘Screws, mainly.’ He glanced at her again. Probably to see if she was surprised by this revelation. She wasn’t. ‘Anyway, he really wanted to get clean,’ Dom went on. ‘He knew he’d never get parole if he didn’t. And fair play to him, he did it. Took about six months, but he really kicked it. Started going to the gym, reading books – even got himself a girlfriend.’

  ‘A girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He blinked, then rolled his eyes. ‘This woman had been writing to him. Started visiting him a couple of months ago. She was…’ He hesitated, shrugging again. ‘She was what the lads in here would describe as “very fit”.’

  Had Dom been jealous, she wondered? He didn’t sound it. Perhaps he and Carl hadn’t been lovers, then.

  ‘Are you sure she hadn’t finished with him? I mean, that could’ve been a reason…’ She tailed off. His pain was tangible. She felt uncomfortable about saying the word ‘suicide’ now.

  ‘No,’ Dom cut in, ‘she hadn’t. He showed me a letter she sent him this morning – she said she couldn’t wait for him to get out.’ His eyes clouded and he turned them to the floor again.

  ‘Dom, what was Carl in for?’

  ‘Dealing.’

  ‘Heroin?’

  ‘Yeah, and the rest,’ he said. ‘Carl was in and out of prison from when he was a teenager. He was on a five-year stretch this time.’ His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth as if to add something, then shut it again.

  ‘What?’ Megan asked.

  Dom pursed his lips, shaking his head.

  ‘Please, tell me.’

  ‘It’s not important. Not now.’

  ‘Dom, if this was deliberate…if Carl overdosed on purpose…’

  ‘I know what you’re saying: you want to know if someone drove him to it. Well they didn’t. Not anyone on this earth, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something he told me. I promised I’d never tell anyone. But now he’s…Christ!’ He broke off, cupping his face in his hands.

  ‘What was it? Please, Dom, it might be important.’

  There was a muffled sigh. When he answered her he uncovered his mouth but not his eyes. ‘He said he killed a man and got away with it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Stabbed him in a row over money he was owed for drugs.’ Dom rubbed his eyes and jerked his head at the tiny, barred window. ‘He said the bloke was buried over there.’

  Megan gave him a blank look. Then she twigged. ‘In St Mary’s? In that graveyard near the prison gate?’

  ‘Yeah, it used to freak him out. See, if you stand on a chair you can see the graveyard through the cell window. Carl said he used to lie awake at night thinking the bloke was coming back to haunt him.’

  Chapter 3

  The police didn’t seem interested in attending Carl Kelly’s post-mortem. It was obvious from the questions Detective Sergeant Les Willis asked that he regarded the investigation as a waste of his time. As far as he was concerned a convicted drug dealer had died by his
own hand – and good riddance. Whether it was suicide or an accident really didn’t matter. Nor did the fact that the drug Kelly had injected had been smuggled into the prison. Megan got the message loud and clear: to DS Willis, that was the governor’s problem, not theirs.

  So she was the only person, other than the pathologist, to be in on the examination carried out in the hospital wing of the prison. Alistair Hodge was an old acquaintance of hers. She had watched him dissect the bodies of several murder victims, all female, but she had never seen him perform a post-mortem on a man.

  ‘I’m surprised to find you here.’ He glanced at her across the shrouded body, his broad Scots voice echoing round the bare walls.

  Megan gave him the official line about her research. There was no reason to suspect that Hodge would go telling tales to Malcolm Meredith but there was no point taking any risks: for all she knew they could be golfing pals. ‘I certainly never expected to find myself at a scene of death while I was here,’ she added. That was enough to justify her presence, if that was what he was after.

  ‘Well,’ he chuckled, pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves, ‘I’ve done so many post-mortems here in the past six months I’m thinking of renting myself a cell. Hell of a place, isn’t it? Not surprising the poor bastards keep topping themselves.’ His silver-rimmed spectacles caught the light as he pulled back the sheet covering the body. ‘This one looks like a happy chappy, though, doesn’t he?’

  Once again, Megan found herself staring at the evil, open-mouthed grin on Carl Kelly’s face. She looked away. The only way to take a dispassionate look at the dead man was to hold her hand up in front of her, allowing a view from just the nose up. His eyes were large and blue and the cheeks were plump. The hair was dark brown and short-cropped, slightly spiky. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Robbie Williams. She dropped her hand and immediately her eyes were drawn back to the mouth. It seemed to exert a horrible fascination. It was impossible not to look.