Fame was not all it was cracked up to be.
In fact, it was a pain in the arse. Just like the bloody book. What had made him think he would enjoy this mickey mouse media nonsense?
Doc took a sideways glance at his friend, who was still mired in his own thoughts, chewing on his lip while staring at the photos on his iPad, and came to the conclusion that he actually missed working with his old pal. The thrill of the chase, the delving into warped minds during an active hunt, and, not least, indulging the dark side of his own psyche, letting it loose, but in a controlled fashion, only ever in pursuit of those who acted on their psychopathic impulses….
He made his decision.
‘Okay, Jack, I’ll help. Let’s talk about Harding.’
***
‘He’s just come out of surgery, but I doubt you’ll be able to get any sense out of him just yet. And anyway, he’s in ITU, so you can’t talk to him until the consultant says it’s okay.’
DS Fiona Fielding, having satisfied herself that Piers, her only other witness to this morning’s crime site, really was who he said he was and did actually live where he said he did, was now back at the hospital, hoping to interview the other person who might help them unravel the mystery of the mutilated man on the common. The nurse was decidedly unhelpful, so Fiona just thanked her and went off to see the victim instead.
She knew the copper sitting outside the private room the hospital had allocated, and he stood and opened the door for her as she approached.
‘Got you on door duty, Bill? Jack thinks he’s in danger then?’
This was news to Fiona, but just one of the minor oversights she had come to expect from her boss when he had his teeth into less mundane matters.
No biggie.
‘Ah, visitor for Mister M. Didn’t realise DI Carver had managed to con you into working on this one. It is only GBH after all, not even murder. Bit of a step backwards for you, isn’t it, Sarge?’
‘I think this bodily harm is a bit more than just grievous, Bill.’
She didn’t much like the vic’s nickname, but knew it was pointless trying to stop any of her colleagues using it. She also didn’t bother enlightening the constable about Soundbite’s suspicion that this was linked to a cold case, a murder victim. Nor did she share the news that Jack, initially unconvinced of the connection, but more open minded now, had just called her to relay his conversation with Doctor Powers, or that the esteemed criminal profiler would be joining their little team. No, she just flashed her bleached white teeth, a radiant contrast to her dark skin, smiling broadly at the uniformed constable as she entered the room.
Although she thought she was already prepared for what she was about to see, having viewed the shocking photographs, she couldn’t help but shed a tear for the remnants of the man in the bed. She brushed tender fingers across his right cheek, then the other, and did her best to imagine what it would be like to be in his place.
Fiona’s ability to empathise with victims of criminal acts was one of the traits that made her such a good detective, but today, confronted with this deformed body, she struggled to do little more than weep for the tortured soul locked inside.
Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw, wired shut before the mouth had been sealed, according to the doctor. The first signs of stubble scraped against her nails and the sensation surprised her, given his hairless appearance — he had reminded her of a limbless crash test dummy on first seeing him. This developing five o’clock shadow made him seem even more vulnerable, but also signified a defiance on his part. It was as if his body was trying to tell her, I’m still human, I’m still a man.
Before her brief conversation with the nurse about Gerald Butler’s hip surgery, she had managed to track down the young houseman responsible for admitting the victim. She could see he was completely frazzled, in emotional turmoil, and exhausted. He told her he had been working thirty eight hours without a break on this holiday weekend, and was now desperate for sleep.
‘I went to the staff room and put my head down, but immediately started getting visions, my mind attempting to fathom the unimaginable torture that man must have suffered. And still is… I needed to be sure… Whether there was any brain activity, you know? So I got up, had him put on a gurney and wheeled him to the MRI suite myself. I demanded they test him there and then. At first they refused, but I invited the technicians to take a look at him for themselves… The moment they saw his mangled form their attitude changed, and they managed to squeeze him in for a cursory examination between two other appointments.’
Fiona had waited as the medic choked on the words, then gathered his composure, his voice brittle, ready to crack again.
‘He’s trapped in there. Inside that… that body. A living, functioning human mind, fully cognizant, aware of his flesh bound prison, but unable to interact with the environment. Nor communicate with other humans around him. Can you imagine?’
She could not.
Fiona, hoping the victim could at least feel something still, continued caressing his face, then put her lips close to his cheeks, an almost kiss as she murmured, her breath warm on his skin.
‘I promise you, I will find the bastard who did this… And I will make him pay.’
***
Fiona’s footsteps pounded her determination into the tiles of the hospital corridors while she wondered if the victim’s DNA would lead to a speedy identification.
There was nothing else to go on. No fingers to print. No teeth to match with dental records. No ID of any description. All they had were the twisted spiral strands of acid that made up the unique markers of all life on earth.
The problem, she knew, was that the DNA database was limited in scope. Criminals’ tissue samples accounted for the majority of records, with additional samples from police personnel, innocent individuals and so on that were stored for elimination purposes.
The other major group they had records for was the MisPers, and she crossed her fingers in the hope that this poor fellow had been reported missing, and that some of his DNA had been collected as a result. Not good odds, she thought, but the best they had as things stood.
Surely someone somewhere was missing a white male, who, until some demonic psycho had decided to apply unnecessary surgery, was probably just an average guy. The young doctor had estimated his age at late thirties or early forties, but then acknowledged that he was no expert, and given the man’s emaciated condition, only a full examination by his senior colleagues would yield more detail.
As she stomped down the stairs and along the corridors, following signs for ITU, her mind swimming with thoughts about the man, it occurred to her that he might not be just a regular guy, a family man, but perhaps he was a criminal himself. It was also possible that, in the moral fog of London’s underworld, he was a man who deserved everything that had happened to him.
The thought gave a her a momentary sliver of comfort, but until they had his identity, she would keep an open mind regarding his history.
Maybe they would get lucky with the DNA match, MisPer or criminal.
Well, either way, she wanted to get to the bottom of this, and maybe, just maybe, Gerald Butler would have some answers for her.
***
‘Well, well. Doctor Powers. You’ve not been here for that long, we were beginning to think you might be too good for us… Now you’re famous!’ Winston Diamond grinned as he stretched a hand out in welcome. ‘I’d have rolled out the red carpet had I known you were coming.’
Doc’s fingers and palm disappeared into the grip of Diamond’s handshake, the massive black fist of an ex-heavyweight boxer, yet the fingers were gentle, as if the man, who had to duck to get through standard sized doors, was aware he had to control his outsized strength when around normal mortals. Doc could feel his presence, even without the mighty fist, and sensed the dark suit, white shirt and clip-on tie were all straining to keep the man’s energy contained. He was always reassured by Winston’s powerful aura.
; ‘I think being greeted so warmly by Broadmoor’s Head of Security is welcome enough, Winston.’
Doc had already passed through three security gates, including one not dissimilar to the body scanners at Heathrow airport, and now stood in reception, with a dancing smile for the big man.
‘Well, you know you’re on TV again, Doc.’ CCTV cameras covered every aspect of this, the most secure hospital in the UK, so Doc assumed Winston had been alerted to their celebrity’s arrival by his staff in the monitoring station. ‘Here’s your pass.’ A plastic card on a lanyard that was designed to break if pulled too hard. ‘Pop it round your neck and I will escort you to see the boss. Celene’s expecting you… Are you able to share with me why you are here? She said it concerned the letter we intercepted. The one destined for Harding.’
Broadmoor may be a hospital, but its security measures reflected the nature of the inmates. The criminally insane. The sick minds capable of the worst atrocities.
Doc’s chosen area of expertise.
Four locked doors were between Doc and Celene’s office, and they chatted as they made their way through each of them, opened with keys from a bunch of dozens hanging from Diamond’s belt.
‘The letter is only part of it, Winston. I’ll explain when we meet Celene. But I want to see him. Today…’
‘Harding?’ Winston, who knew about Doc’s history with the man, was reluctant. ‘I’m not sure we can let you do that Doc. He’s back in a seclusion suite again, though due out tomorrow. He’s been there since stabbing an inmate some weeks ago. Managed to sharpen a plastic spoon handle into a three inch shiv. Plunged into the inmate a half a dozen times before he was stopped. Broke it off inside the man’s liver.’
‘Paedophile?’
Doc asked, but was pretty certain he knew the answer, even though it was years since he had given Harding, or his motivations, a moment’s thought.
At least, until this morning, when that bloody letter arrived. Then Jack had appeared on his doorstep like a bedraggled Rottweiler, enticing him back…
‘Yeah. He’s still in hospital.’ Diamond chewed the inside of his cheek a little before adding, ‘Harding’s made no real progress in all the time he’s been here. Bounces back and forth between the units. Happens whenever his meds are reduced. He lasts a few months, then something sets him off and he reverts to being a vicious animal.’
‘I think that’s his preferred, natural status, Winston. That or being drugged to the eyeballs.’
Despite Doc’s professional recommendation, Harding had wangled things so that he was in a hospital rather than a high security prison.
‘He’s sedated, and on anti-psychotics again.’ A pharmaceutical cosh, Doc thought as he listened to the baritone voice rumbling out of Winston’s barrel of a chest. ‘I doubt you’d get anything out of him. Even if we could allow you to see him.’
They’d arrived at Celene’s office and she ushered them both in while also signalling to her assistant to organise coffee. Doc had always liked Celene, had enormous respect for her professional abilities, her status among his contemporaries unhindered by her appearance. She had one of the most challenging and prestigious jobs in the health service, a role she relished.
He recalled asking her, when they were newly qualified psychiatrists, whether her multi-coloured hairstyle, tattooed limbs, nose ring, and self-inflicted scars on her wrists — the result of an abused childhood, she’d admitted to him — might affect her career prospects. This was in the days when punk rock was young and women with visible body ink were a rare sight.
Celene had shrugged and said, ‘Both of us will be dealing with the criminally insane. Outsiders. You want to catch them by getting inside their heads. Well, I want to understand them too, but help them get better… Both of us need to empathise, but in different ways. My lifestyle choices should help me with that. I’m an outsider, like most of them. Maybe that’ll give me an edge… And anyway, I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. Never have, never will.’
Doc had thought her naive at the time. Then watched as her career went into overdrive. He admired her for sticking it out during the tough times, the snooty looks from colleagues and condescending attitudes from most of her managers, heaped on her in those early years, though her rebellious appearance had moderated somewhat since.
‘Good to see you, Celene. It’s been too long.’
The three of them settled into the sofas in a corner of the room as the assistant rattled in with a tray of cafetières, cups and saucers, one for each of them. The aroma reached Doc even before she entered, and it smelt good, even to his discerning nose, leading him to reflect on the differences between this place and its prison equivalents. Decent coffee was a rarity there, but many of Broadmoor’s inmates had access to proper kitchen facilities — at least, those patients who had graduated from the most secure wards. The majority of inmates progressed in this way, ultimately in preparation for release.
But not Harding…
‘So Doc, you must’ve decided to take the letters very seriously. I certainly didn’t expect you to head here this morning. Definitely not a crank then?’
Doc had called Celene from his car as he made the journey from central London to Crowthorne, a village just north and west of Camberley, less than an hour’s ride via the M3 motorway.
‘Yes. I wanted to talk to you both after I met with DI Carver first thing this morning. There’s been a… development. I think it’s related.’
Winston, his face questioning, interrupted Doc. ‘Jack Carver? He was on the BBC news just before you arrived. A female reporter was asking about a mutilated body discovered in south London earlier this morning. Dismembered, she’d said. He had no comment for her, but you think that investigation’s related? To those photos you received?’
Celene’s brow scrunched in confusion, her attention on Doc. ‘He was the one who arrested Harding, wasn’t he? Carver? Your friend?’ She then directed a piercing gaze at Diamond. ‘A dismembered body, Winston, like in the photos that were sent to Doc? I haven’t seen the news yet.’ Her eyes tracked back to Doc’s, the mind behind them sharp and incisive. ‘This is very strange. The three of you, linked like this, today, over twenty years since Harding’s arrest. Especially given his history…’
Both pairs of eyes were now on Doc, expectant.
‘Okay, let me explain.’
Jack had told Doc not to divulge the details of the Clapham Common victim, his detective’s propensity for suspicion kicking in. He’d insisted, ‘None of the staff at Broadmoor can be trusted. I know you have friends there Doc, but the letters arriving at the same time as our victim was discovered… Well, it’s just too much of a coincidence. There must be some insider connection with Harding. My guess is it’s a member of staff. So, as far as anyone at Broadmoor is concerned, the two incidents are totally separate. At least for the time being. I’ll get down there tomorrow and make some enquiries. Fair enough?’
Doc had other ideas. He had known Celene since their university days, so Jack’s suspicions about her were simply too ridiculous to contemplate.
And Winston could be trusted. Of that there was no doubt in Doc’s mind…
He could almost feel the chokehold, the sting of a hypodermic pricking the skin on his lower eyelid, the roar of a deranged inmate’s angst searing his eardrum. The bellowed threat to ‘Kill the motherfucking psychiatrist’ who had poisoned his mind with questions about ‘evil crimes’ he ‘did not commit!’
It was at a time when the hospital’s security was less rigorous and Winston had been a new member of staff, not long retired from the ring, a junior guard fresh out of training, assigned to keep an eye on Doc while he interviewed the patient. One moment, Winston was attempting to calm the tense situation with softly spoken words, the next, a panther, springing at his prey, too fast for the inmate to react.
The incident had been over in moments, but Doc still occasionally suffered nightmares, vivid scenes involving a needle spearing his eye before bei
ng jammed into his frontal lobe.
That was the day he almost died, here, in Broadmoor… A wake up call early in his career, when he had discovered just how dangerous his job could be.
The day an ex-boxer had saved his life with one blurred jab to a disturbed inmate’s temple.
Sorry, Jack.
Doc could trust these two people, so he shared everything he and Carver had discussed earlier that morning.
***
‘Fuck me! That hurt. Felt like you ripped my back open.’ A few beats passed and then Slim added, as he sat up, ‘Phew… Wow! Actually, it’s not so bad already.’ Then, eyes wide and startled, ‘Jeez, guys, my head’s spinning.’
‘Drink this.’ Tamsin handed a warm cup of sweetened tea to him, followed by a boiled sweet when he’d finished that. ‘Your blood sugar will have dropped as the adrenaline kicked in. Don’t worry, the flood of endorphins will soon have you feeling great, luv.’
Harry was double-checking the rigging with Glen, but could barely hear the conversation thanks to the music, specially chosen by Slim for this, his first session. He had decided to go for a simple two hook ‘Suicide suspension’, so Harry was working with just two wires, both connected to what looked like a giant metal coat hanger with holes drilled through for pulley attachments. Satisfied, he gestured to Slim, who was still sitting on the table sucking his sweet. Tamsin and Shazza held his elbows as he took a few unsteady paces towards Harry.
‘I’m good now, man. Feeling it!’ He laughed, a little manically, his eyes glittering as the high kicked in.
‘This will sting a bit too.’
Harry straightened up the hooks, attached them to the wires, and then indicated to Glen to start tightening them. Shazza stood behind Slim using sterile pads to mop away the trickle of blood from each of the fleshy mounds created as the wires pulled at the piercings.
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 5
