by Ken McClure
‘How many prisons was Barrowman in before he ended up here?’
‘Just Broadmoor.’
Barrowman asked why Sutton hadn’t been transferred to Moorlock.
‘He died in Broadmoor. Cerebral haemorrhage.
Barrowman raised an eyebrow.
‘No suspicious circumstances,’ said Groves. He noticed that Barrowman kept feeling his throat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a hospital check-up?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ said Groves cautiously tip-toeing up to a new question. ‘Dare I ask where this leaves your research?’
Barrowman looked at the samples he’d taken from Lawler. ‘I may have all I need here. If not . . . I’ll be back. Lawler is something else, science should know about him.’
Groves applauded his dedication.
‘Just don’t have Clements riding shotgun on me.’
‘Absolutely not, although he’ll be difficult to get rid of without concrete evidence. The best I can do is probably keep him and Lawler apart. After all, the other inmates should be given the chance to benefit from his artistic skills.’
Barrowman sat in his car for a few minutes, his fingers alternately squeezing and releasing the steering wheel as he struggled with being an emotional mess. The adrenalin rush from the Lawler incident had dissipated, leaving him feeling confused, exhausted and depressed, but also strangely angry with himself. He didn’t seem to be in control of anything. He should have gone to hospital but he hadn’t. Instead, he had sought to cover the incident up, dismissing it as a minor blip in proceedings when it had been anything but. He could have died. Why? he wondered, why had he done that? Why had he stopped official procedure taking its course? Was his research really so important that nothing should be allowed to interfere with it? Were the secrets that Lawler held really worth risking absolutely everything for? The answers, when they came, brought with them a feeling of calm that settled over him like the morphine-induced relief given to those in severe pain. They were yes and yes again. Nothing must stand between him and Lawler.
Barrowman was ten minutes into the drive home when he managed to turn his thoughts to the evening seminar. He hadn’t been lying when he’d given this as the reason for cutting short his time with Lawler, although he hadn’t reckoned on it triggering the nightmare it had. His friend from his time in Scotland, Dan Glass, really was speaking tonight about his research on epigenetic changes and hormone levels in teenagers and Barrowman had volunteered to be the member of staff to take the guest speaker out for supper afterwards. He had been looking forward to catching up on news of contemporaries and talking about the old days over a few beers but now . . . He couldn’t pull out now, he decided. If he did, it would demand explanations he didn’t want to give.
He did his best to put all other thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on the evening ahead. He even managed a smile as he recalled animated discussions over pints of Belhaven Best beer in Bannermans bar in the heart of Edinburgh’s old town. Pubs had been important in student days. Looking back now as he approached his thirties he suspected that many ideas in young minds might well have stayed there if expression had been confined to formal seminars and scientific meetings where established scientists ruled the roost, speaking long and loud of the road well-travelled and perhaps discouraging thoughts of any venture into uncharted side roads.
The smile faded as reality insisted that times had changed. Things would not be the same this evening. They couldn’t be. He and Dan had been students in these far-off days, free to speak about the first thing that came into their heads and argue without restraint, but circumstances were different now. He wouldn’t tell Dan anything about what he was working on. He couldn’t. He couldn’t risk telling anyone anything about it. He had too much to lose. The history of science was littered with the wrong people getting the credit for the ideas and discoveries of others.
He would say nothing until his work was safely in print, then he would speak of little else as the invitations rolled in. With one single publication in Nature he would secure his future in academe and more importantly a place in medical history as the man who explained the basis for psychopathic personality and how the condition might be reversed. No one was going to take that away from him. No one.
Thinking about Dan and the old days however, had given Barrowman an idea. Dan was still a pal and he might be useful. He had a favour to ask.
NINE
FOUR WEEKS LATER
‘Ye gods,’ John Macmillan exclaimed as he opened a Home Office confidential note that Jean Roberts had brought in. She exchanged a knowing look with Steven, suggesting that something unpleasant might be about to unfold.
‘There’s been a leak from the committee who inspected Moorlock Hall. The report was supposed to be kept confidential but the Press are on to it and have been phoning to check their facts. The existence of Moorlock Hall will be all over the papers in a couple of days unless the government can come up with a reason for a D notice.
Steven cursed. ‘I take it it was a damning report.’
‘Yes,’ Macmillan confirmed. ‘It appears Mrs Lillian Leadbetter, chair of the committee was not at all pleased.’
‘I wonder if the woman has given a moment’s thought to the victims of these monsters and their families What’s her angle anyway, do-gooder or self-interest?’
‘I’d go for self-interest,’ replied Macmillan. ‘She’s a Lib-Dem MP looking for a bit of a career hike now that her party has decided it’s time to flex its muscles to show the voters they’re not just Tory government gophers in the coalition.’
‘And without a moment’s thought to the consequences,’ said Steven. ‘What does she want for psychopathic killers? Five hundred lines? I must not rape and murder.
Macmillan smiled ruefully and said, ‘There’s a chance she’s just having her moment in the sun. Maybe she’ll move on and look for a new handhold on the greasy pole of political success.’
‘It might not be that straightforward,’ said Steven. ‘If it suits their purpose, Labour will bring up the subject in a few weeks’ time and point out that the Lib-Dem’s complaint has been completely ignored by their Tory masters and that Labour’s the only party who really cares about mental health issues. This in turn will force the lady to pretend that she’s still deeply concerned and we’ll have a very public competition to show who cares the most – the answer of course being none of them. The less they care the more they have to appear to care. It’s one big game.’
Macmillan gave a resigned nod. ‘I wish I could argue.’
‘Well, I was about due to get in touch with Owen Barrowman anyway. I’ll give him the news.
‘How have your enquiries been going?’
‘Thanks to some sterling work by Jean we now know something about the firm of lawyers fronting the anonymous backers, Messrs Scarman, Medici and Weiss. They are not a high-profile firm, but they did pop up in a case in the city a few years ago. They were representing the Catholic Church in some big claim against the church for compensation.’
‘Abuse?’
Steven nodded.
‘Were they successful?
‘Let’s say the claimants weren’t happy with the outcome. Scarman and co. successfully argued that it was all a very long time ago, many of those being accused were now dead and distant memories from middle aged adults who were small children at the time could not be relied upon. In a damage limitation gambit, they did however, accept that there may have been shortcomings in behaviour of a few in positions of authority and offered apologies . . . along with small payments as a gesture of goodwill.’
‘Bless ‘em,’ said Macmillan.
‘As for Dr Tyler, he doesn’t hold a post at any British university as far as we can see although Jean found it quite difficult to check.’
‘Mm,’ said Macmillan. ‘Every pillar box seems to be a university these days. I’ll get her to keep at it.’
When Steven got home he found Tally packing
a bag.
‘Was it something I said?’
Tally didn’t laugh. ‘It’s Mum, she’s had a fall. My sister, Laura, called: The home thinks she may have broken her femur.’
Steven screwed up his face. He knew as well as Tally that the breakage of a major bone in an old person was very serious, often leading to death through complications.
‘I’m sorry.’ He gave Tally a hug and asked if there was anything he could do. Tally said not. She would see her mother at the hospital up in Leicester and stay over with her sister.
Tally had always been close to her mother and had gone through a difficult time when it became clear that she would have to go into a home. It had been a guilt-ridden situation familiar to so many and she and her two sisters had gone to great efforts to find a home committed to top class care and comfort.
‘And no bloody stupid names featuring havens of rest or bloody forest lawns,’ her older sister Jackie had insisted. Jackie, who lived down in Dorset, had suggested at one point that her mother might like to live down by the sea near she and her husband, but, in the end, they had all agreed that home territory would be best. They had settled on the Granby Road Care Home in Leicester. It was near where Laura lived and in a part of the city their mother had known all her life.
‘How was your day?’ Tally asked.
‘The newspapers are on to Moorlock Hall.
‘That doesn’t sound good. Exposing this sort of secret will be right up their street. Heads must roll.’
Steven agreed but said, ‘Let’s not talk about it just now, you’ve got other things on your mind. Off you go. Love to your mum.’
‘I’ll call you.’
Tally left and Steven paused for a moment with his hand resting on the door, letting the silence engulf him. There was no escaping the feeling that one of life’s milestones was looming.
Steven left it until seven thirty before calling Owen Barrowman. A young woman answered. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Can I give him a message?’
‘You must be Lucy?’
‘Who is this?
‘I’m sorry, we haven’t met. My name’s Steven Dunbar.’
Lucy Barrowman’s voice relaxed slightly, but still gave Steven reason to think that all was not well. ‘Oh yes, Owen mentioned you. You had a drink together a few weeks ago?’
‘That’s right, I learned something today that might interest him and was hoping we might meet up.’
‘He’s working in the lab, Steven. He said he wouldn’t be home before midnight and then he’ll probably be at his computer until all hours. Was it important?’
‘Not really,’ Steven replied. ‘Owen’s been keeping me in the picture about his research and I had a bit of relevant news for him if he hadn’t already heard . . .’
‘Does it concern Moorlock Hall?’ Lucy interrupted.
‘You know about Moorlock Hall?’
‘I wish I didn’t. I wish I’d never heard of it or that dreadful creature he goes to see there.’
Steven was surprised at the venom in her voice. ‘I’m sorry. Has something happened? Is there anything I can do?’
‘What’s wrong with Owen, doctor? Do you know? He’s changed. He’s not right . . . He’s just not Owen any more . . .’
The harshness in her voice had changed to anguish. Steven even heard the suggestion of a sob as she waited for an answer. ‘Look, why don’t I come over there? It’ll be better than trying to speak over the phone.’
Anguish became embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, this is ridiculous. I’m so sorry. I’m pregnant; it must be my hormones.’
‘Don’t apologise, it’s not ridiculous at all and I’d guess it has nothing to do with your hormones either,’ said Steven gently. ‘Your husband’s been spending a lot of time with unsavoury people, convicted killers – psychopaths. That’s not the sort of thing people can cope with without some price being paid. Owen and I have spoken about this. Look, give me your address and I’ll come over. We’ll talk things through. Maybe he needs help.’
Lucy gave Steven the address and he wrote it down. He decided to drive over, estimating a journey of around ten to twelve miles. He hadn’t been out in his car for over a week and his Porsche Boxster didn’t like being ignored. She needed regular driving or she might cough and splutter in slow-moving traffic to remind him that she didn’t like being taken for granted. That’s the way Steven saw it. Tally saw things differently. ‘It’s a bloody car, Steven.’
Steven took the lift down to the underground garage and grinned as the Porsche sprang into life. He blipped the throttle a couple of times before murmuring, ‘Roll over Beethoven,’ as he set off round the exit curve with a squeal of the tyres to join London’s evening traffic.
The Barrowmans lived in a small block of flats in a pleasant avenue in north London It was flanked on both sides by mature English limes, which, judging by their height, had seen the comings and goings of many generations of residents. At nine in the evening the street lights struggled to penetrate their branches, but any loss of illumination was compensated for by an aura of calm respectability.
Steven ran his index finger down the list of those staying at number seven and pressed the appropriate button.
‘Come on up.’
He was met on the second floor by Lucy Barrowman who immediately dispelled his telephone-inspired-notion that she would be small, dark and attractive. She was tall, fair and attractive. He had the impression that when she felt relaxed she would exude an air of quiet confidence, but, at the moment, her eyes showed nothing but anxiety. They shook hands.
‘I’m Steven.’
‘Lucy. I’m sorry, I feel so guilty for dragging you over here like this.’
‘You didn’t,’ Steven assured her. ‘I volunteered’.
‘You said you had something to tell Owen about that awful place?’ said Lucy as if she couldn’t wait any longer to ask.
‘Moorlock Hall is going to be all over the newspapers in the next few days and not in a good way. I think there’s a very real chance it will have to be closed down when the dust settles.’
Lucy Barrowman’s features seemed to freeze for a moment then she let out her breath in a long sigh as tension left her body and she exclaimed, ‘Music to my ears. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.’ She broke into a big smile before asking, ‘Not that it matters . . . but why?’
‘A House of Commons committee has carried out an impromptu inspection of the place and produced a damning report. The fact that the place has been kept a secret for so long will almost certainly ensure that it will turn into a political football’
It suddenly dawned on Lucy that she’d kept Steven standing just inside the front door. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘what am I thinking. Please come in, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?’
Steven declined reluctantly, ‘A wine gum can get you three points on your license these days.’
Lucy smiled and offered alternatives. Steven jumped at the chance of espresso.
‘So, you think that Owen has changed?’
Lucy shook her head as if struggling for words. ‘Owen has always been ambitious, but that goes with being a researcher I suppose. There are no silver medals for researchers he kept reminding me, but, almost as soon as he started going to Moorlock Hall and spending time with that creature, Lawler, he started to change. He’s become angry, secretive, suspicious of everyone and seems to imagine there’s a conspiracy against him. He stays up all night, poring over reams of data, but never seems to take any of it with him to work. When I pointed this out he nearly snapped my head off, accused me of being “one of them” whatever that means. I’d never seen him so angry; his face was scarlet . . . spitting saliva . . . shaking. I thought he was going to hit me.’
Lucy paused and Steven could see she was finding it difficult to hold things together. ‘I’ve become afraid of my own husband . . . I have to consider carefully before I open my mouth . . . I know I’ve led a sheltered life – ev
en privileged – I’m a middle-class girl, the daughter of professionals who’s never known anything but . . . niceness and decency, wanting for nothing. I never imagined for a moment I would end up talking to a stranger about being pregnant and in fear of attack by her husband.
‘This sounds like a terrible situation.’
‘I suppose you know that Lawler attacked him?’ said Lucy.
‘What?’ Steven exclaimed, ‘I had no idea.’
‘He grabbed him by the throat while he was taking a blood sample. Another few moments and he would have died. He was saved by one of the attendants coming back from his break.
‘You mean he was left alone with Lawler?’ Steven sounded incredulous.
‘I don’t know the details,’ said Lucy. ‘He didn’t want to talk about it and, despite what happened, he still wants to continue working with that animal.’
‘I didn’t know anything about this,’ said Steven.
‘Owen wanted it covered up and I suppose the people at Moorlock weren’t that keen to have it made public. I think they all colluded.’
‘Talk about tangled webs,’ said Steven with a sigh.
‘But, from what you say, his association with Lawler might well be over?’ said Lucy, keen to have it confirmed and managing to regain control of her emotions.
‘I’m pretty sure Moorlock Hall’s days are almost certainly over. I can believe it was founded with the best of intentions, but it’s a skeleton in the cupboard and the cupboard door has just been thrown open. Politicians are not the sort to look the other way when that happens. Someone will be sure to grasp the opportunity to storm the moral high ground and the blame game will begin in earnest.’
