Grave Doubts (19 page)

‘What about his behaviour at the bar?’

‘He stopped smoking when asked and was “charming and discreet”; I quote from a girl standing next to him. The barman said that he didn’t drink much.’

‘Fingerprints?’

‘The bar was wiped down when business closed and chairs put up to allow the floor to be cleaned so we don’t even know which was his. At last count we’d identified over seventy individual prints. None of them match records on file.

‘This is going to be a long haul, Fenwick. I’m grateful for your cooperation, and if anything comes from your inquiries I’ll be delighted, but at the moment I’m managing expectations away from an early result.’

Fenwick recognised the dismissal but he had unfinished business.

‘I have one other suggestion – and I apologise if it’s already in hand. Do you have a good profiler? One possibility is that the person who killed Lucinda is behind our unsolved cases in Harlden and connected to our prisoner Griffiths. Superficially the crimes on my list look like the work of two men. If we could establish that with more confidence then it’s worth pursuing the possibility and Griffiths would be a real lead for you. With the resources at your disposal, you’d be able to set up a hunt that we could link into.’

MacIntyre frowned sending worry lines into his receding blond hair.

‘My priority is to find Lucinda Hamilton’s killer, simple as that. I’ll be straight with you, I’m not convinced that the killer’s connected to your prisoner but I’ll keep an open mind.’

‘I appreciate that…’

MacIntyre raised a hand. He hadn’t finished.

‘But, if all my current lines of investigation fail, I’ll be forced to consider other strategies. I’ve already engaged a Home Office profiler and the Home Secretary has asked for support from the FBI – God knows why. Meanwhile, I suggest we keep things simple.’

A week passed without a word from MacIntyre. Fenwick returned to his other work and scythed through it relentlessly. His secretary, Cooper and the rest of his staff kept out of the way and wished that his previously sunny mood would return. Ten days after he’d seen MacIntyre, the prison called to say that Griffiths had received another letter from Agnes. It was placed in a plastic bag and sent to Harlden where Fenwick passed it immediately to forensics.

On Friday, he had all the results except DNA analysis from the envelope and he called Cooper to his office.

‘We have a set of prints from the letter, too many from the envelope to be helpful but,’ he paused, his excitement obvious, ‘those from the letter match a partial taken from Nightingale’s wrecked apartment.’

He had been working on the theory of a connection between the stalking of Nightingale and Griffiths for weeks, without any supporting evidence. This physical proof changed everything.

‘The letter was posted in Birmingham two days ago and we know that the PO Box address Griffiths writes to is in Birmingham as well. Now we should have enough of a case to have it watched. I was denied a surveillance order before but they can’t stop me now.’

He didn’t mention that he had given copies of the letters to Anne the day before, then deliberately turned a blind eye as she slipped them into her bag. Somehow, he didn’t think Cooper would understand.

‘What about the message?’

‘Nonsense again. Quotations from those books, the odd half sentence. It doesn’t make sense. I’m going to ask the prison governor to keep a watch on Griffiths when he receives the next letter to see what he does. I won’t be rebuffed with a civil liberties argument a second time.’

Fenwick had learnt more than he ever wanted to know about prisoners’ rights.

As soon as Cooper left, Anne came in. She was flushed, but not with embarrassment.

‘The letter from Griffiths first. Here’s my friend’s assessment.’

As Fenwick read the single page, his scepticism gave way to suspicion.

‘What did you say to her, Anne?’

‘Absolutely nothing, I pretended that he was a potential recruit that’s all.’

He believed her but the graphologist’s words were uncanny.

The subject is an interesting and complex individual. He exists on many levels at the same time. Outwardly quiet, he may give the impression of diligence and application and indeed he has the capacity for this, although he is easily bored. However, beneath this show of adaptation he is an insecure individual prone to wildly changing moods. He is distrustful of people yet
may
have the tendency to be easily led. He enjoys games and any pursuit that brings speedy gratification. Think carefully before hiring.

‘She determined this from one letter?’

‘Uh huh. Had it been the original you would have had even more.’ She handed him another page. ‘This is about the letter sent to Griffiths. Her findings are rushed, but still…’

Fenwick read, his features impassive.

An assessment is difficult as there is much about this character that is elusive.
However, with a heavy caveat and not for any file
,
this subject has plenty of charm, is articulate and quick-witted. There is considerable intelligence here, combined with daring. He has courage and an urge to do things that take him to the edge. He is entirely self-directed, dislikes authority and can be arrogant. He probably considers himself more intelligent than others.

There are strong indications that he is manipulative, perhaps even a bully. I have the sense again of many levels in this person but they are more carefully concealed. There is passion here, strong sexual energy, and there may be a violent tendency, though this needs to be probed fully…

‘Thank you, Anne.’ Fenwick gave no hint of his deep concern. If she was right then this unknown man was far more sophisticated than Griffiths and he was roaming free. He was left with few choices but one was obvious. He needed to visit the prison again. Whilst Griffiths was re-interviewed by Cooper, Fenwick planned to search his cell. The timing of the visit would be arranged to coincide with an activity period. Provided the guards remained discreet his search would go unnoticed.

Griffiths still had a cell to himself. Doctor Batchelor was convinced that he was a suicide risk and it suited the Governor, at Fenwick’s request, to maintain the additional privacy. The cell was tiny and sparsely furnished: a bunk, toilet, sink, table and chair, with one shelf for his few personal possessions. Fenwick asked the guard to check the bed and under the mattress whilst he scrutinised materials on the shelf and desk. There were three books. He noted their titles, checked the pages for any markings, and then opened them upside down by their covers to see what fell out. He sent the single folded sheet from the back of
Around the British Isles
for photocopying and continued his search. When he opened the scrapbooks he gasped in shock.

‘Good grief!’

The sketch was drawn in flowing lines: a young woman in torn robes. Her hands were tied around a post tightly enough to draw her shoulders back and curve her spine. The front of her gown had been ripped open, revealing nakedness beneath. The woman’s head was thrown to one side, her eyes averted from a dark formless shape in front of her.

It was Nightingale, drawn with almost photographic clarity, no doubt copied from one of the many press cuttings in the other scrapbook. Fenwick sat down and looked at the next study. Nightingale again. She looked like a doll. Griffiths had drawn her naked, stretched out on a stone altar, arms and legs tied wide. The detailed anatomy drew a blush from Fenwick. He hated the idea of Griffiths creating then lusting over these images.

‘Is it usual for prisoners to be allowed to draw stuff like this?’

‘It’s part of his therapy. Dr Batchelor supervises him. It’s all legit.’

Fenwick shook his head in disgust and returned the scrapbook to its place.

‘When he received his last letter do you know what he did with it?’

‘I was on duty and watched him. He read it, made lots of notes, left it while he read some of his books, made some more notes, then finished at lights out.’

‘What else does he do when he’s in here?’

‘Plays that game over there for hours on end. I’ve seen them do more stupid things.’

Fenwick opened the box, making an effort to remember how the pieces, board and cards had been stacked. He removed them then shook his head.

‘Means nothing to me.’ But as he was replacing everything, he noticed that the board was warped. Thinking he had folded it incorrectly he opened it and tried again, without success. He ran his fingers over the surface and around the edges.

‘There’s something in here.’

At last the guard looked interested.

‘Probably his stash.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He prised the edges of the board apart wide enough for him to reach the paper folded inside. Two more pictures, both of Nightingale.

In the first the paper had been gouged where her heart should have been, with enough savagery to leave a hole. The second image was even more violent. It showed a naked woman with Nightingale’s face. She was tied to an altar and there was a wound in her chest. All her fingers had been severed. Above her the grey shape had been drawn in detail. The Demon King: black wings, scales, a long articulated tail and a gaping red mouth. He was holding aloft a steaming bloody heart.

Fenwick shuddered at the graphic detail, so reminiscent of Lucinda’s murder.

‘He’s seriously sick.’

The guard laughed, a cynical sound that annoyed the detective.

‘Not according to the good doctor. He thinks Griffiths is getting better.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘So you say, and I might agree with you, but it’s Batchelor who’s the expert. What do our opinions count?’ He looked at the picture in Fenwick’s hands. ‘He’s good though, isn’t he? Wonder who the models are?’

Fenwick stared at the guard, then at the picture a second time. He had failed to notice that the face on the Demon King’s was not that of Griffiths.

‘Do you have a colour photocopier here?’

‘The Admin officer might have one but I doubt it.’

‘I need to borrow this to make a copy but he mustn’t know it’s gone. What can you do?’

‘Confiscate his game for a few days. He’ll go ape, and we’ll have Batchelor all over us but what the heck,’ he smiled, ‘it’ll serve the pervy shit right.’

In the car park, Fenwick debriefed Cooper and showed him the picture. His sergeant blushed.

‘Recognise the face – the man’s I mean?’

‘No.’ He folded the image away fastidiously and handed it back to Fenwick.

‘Well, I think I do. We need a copy made and the original returned – would you see to it while I visit the good doctor.’

Doctor Batchelor was in his consulting room with a patient when Fenwick arrived and he had to wait ten minutes. The patient left through a side door and Fenwick heard sobbing from the stairwell.

Doctor Batchelor opened the door and frowned when he saw Fenwick waiting.

‘You again. I thought I was finished for the day, Cynthia.’

‘I need to talk to you again about Wayne Griffiths?’

Batchelor’s mouth settled into a thin line.

‘The man’s in prison. Can you not leave him alone even now?’

‘Please, Doctor, I’m one of the good guys. We have so few resources, why waste them on a man who has already been sentenced. I’m hoping by speaking with you to put a stop to all this.’

‘Hmm.’ Batchelor eyed him suspiciously. ‘I’ll give you five minutes. Cynthia, note the time and interrupt accordingly.’

Fenwick took a moment to judge his surroundings, as he hadn’t seen the consulting room before. The carpet was of warm burgundy wool, the couch and doctor’s chair a matching leather shade. All the walls had been painted a dark pinky-cream and were hung with abstract paintings of spirals and valves that looked as if they had been bought at a car boot sale. It was his desk though that convinced Fenwick he was dealing with an egocentric with pretensions of world salvation. The top was solid smoked glass, arranged on steel legs and cross-pieces that braced to give it strength. And it was completely empty. Even the dark red phone was on a side cabinet.

He kept his face blank but nodded appreciatively.

‘Does the sense of re-entering the womb help your patients?’

‘Perceptive, Chief Inspector, but it doesn’t mean I’ll talk to you.’

‘I’m just curious to gain your assessment of Griffiths as a man, not as a criminal. His strengths, concerns, his character if you like.’

Batchelor said nothing for a long time. He had not invited Fenwick to sit but had positioned himself in his leather chair behind his desk, hands raised, fingers steepled against his lips.

‘I will not give you my clinical assessment of him.’

‘Of course.’

‘However, I will answer specific questions if I feel they are of a sufficiently general nature.’

Fenwick hid his irritation at the man’s powerplay in an acquiescing nod of his head.

‘Very well. Is he intelligent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he artistic?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘That must help in terms of therapy.’

‘No comment.’

‘Does he have a good imagination?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘So when he draws he copies what he knows?’

‘One could say that. I really don’t see where this is leading?’

‘But it is helpful, I assure you. So he would be good at copying or drawing from memory?’

‘Yes.’ There was exasperation in his tone now.

‘Let me change the subject. Does he follow rules well?’

‘Yes. He believes in rules. It is why he plays THE GAME so well and why he hasn’t gone mad, despite his false imprisonment.’

‘So you don’t agree with the jury?’

‘In my opinion it was a clear case of entrapment.’

‘Despite the attack?’

‘I accept that Griffiths has a few problems, not least his response to disappointment.’

‘Is he making progress in therapy?’

‘Excellent progress. If ever there were an appeal against the sentence I would have no qualms now about testifying in his favour.’

There was a tap at the door. Fenwick didn’t wait to be dismissed.