Grave Doubts (8 page)

By the end of the week Nightingale had received a further twenty-three hang up calls, four Emails from Pandora inviting her to play a game, and two requests from Doctor Batchelor for a meeting. In the end she checked out his credentials and agreed to an interview over the phone just to shut him up.

Batchelor was in no obvious rush to discuss Griffiths and Nightingale had no intention of raising the subject.

‘You’re not going to ask me, are you?’

‘Ask you what, Doctor?’

‘About Griffiths.’

‘Why should I?’

‘All right. I’m not going to play games. It’s just that sometimes a victim will show a continuing interest in the perpetrator of the crime against them. It’s quite common.’

‘I’m not common,’ she said, ‘and I’m not a victim.’ She immediately regretted her protest. There was no need to explain herself to him.

‘But you were attacked. And injured.’

‘So? It happened whilst he was resisting arrest.’

‘I see.’ He was meant to be asking her about Griffiths, not psychoanalysing her and she didn’t appreciate his word games.

‘Get on with it, Doctor, I have work to do.’

‘Very well. I see Wayne once or twice a week. He has changed in that time from near suicidal to merely depressed.’

‘Sounds like progress.’

Batchelor took her comment at face value.

‘Yes, but I’ve brought him so far and no further.’

‘You’ve barely spent six weeks with him. Give it time.’

‘But I can find no way to penetrate his façade. I’m looking for an insight that will help me take his therapy on to the next stage.’

‘Surely it’s highly irregular to contact someone like me. Speak to his family, or be patient. I can’t see how I can help.’

‘He has no family, at least he hasn’t admitted to any and there are no records of friends on his file.’

‘Well I’m sorry, Doctor Batchelor, but I can’t help you…unless you’re not telling me something.’ It was a statement, not a question, but as soon as she had said the words Nightingale wanted to take them back. She did
not
want to become involved with Griffiths in any way. She had nightmares enough and didn’t need more information to fuel them. Batchelor snatched at her remark with obvious relief.

‘You’re right. I didn’t want to worry you but it seems I have no alternative. Griffiths has kept scrapbooks of the investigation and trial. I judged that it would help him to confront and manage the guilt I believe rests at the heart of his problem.’

‘Oh please! The man’s a sociopath. He has no concept of guilt. He’s wholly driven by the desire for power and control over anyone on whom he becomes fixated.’

‘That’s one idea,’ his sarcasm was unexpected, ‘but mine is different.’

Batchelor’s studied calm was starting to irritate Nightingale.

‘Then why don’t you share it with me?’

‘My diagnosis is bound by patient privilege.’

‘I thought that you hadn’t yet made a diagnosis.’

She could hear irritation in the sigh and decided to say goodbye. Enough was enough.

‘Wait.’ Batchelor sounded desperate. ‘The truth is that I do have some emerging ideas. If I could count on your discretion…’

‘Whom would I tell?’ She scoffed at his hesitation.

‘Very well. I mentioned his scrapbooks. He has two, one is full of cuttings and print-outs from the Internet.’

‘Internet! Are you mad? That’s how he found and stalked his victims.’ An unwelcome memory of Pandora’s messages surfaced and Nightingale went cold.

‘It’s only under my direct supervision. I allow him five minutes use as a reward at the end of my session though the Governor is threatening to stop even that. I watch him the whole time. He can only surf and print. Under no circumstances could he send or receive a message.’

‘I still think it’s an unnecessarily risky thing to do, but you said there were two scrapbooks. What’s in the second?’

‘You. It’s full of pictures and photographs, and every single word that was written about you during and after the trial.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’

‘I have no idea. Is it just me? None of his other victims?’ She bit her lip and hoped that he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue.

‘Only you. What happened that should make you so important to him?’

‘I arrested him and gave evidence that led to his conviction. He’s bound to resent me, perhaps even hate me.’

‘I don’t think it’s that simple. This is not about resentment or hate.’ The way he said the words made her think that he knew more than he was sharing.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Batchelor sighed, suddenly uncomfortable.

‘When the press cuttings stopped he started to draw. He’s using your photographs as a model. He makes you look like a cross between a queen and a warrior.’

‘He’s drawing Artemesia, the huntress.’

‘Interesting. If that’s who it is, then he sees you as a manifestation. The portraits are perfect.’

‘And he hasn’t drawn any other characters from THE GAME?’

‘Only you.’

‘Well, my amateur analysis is that he’s fantasising about controlling me. Now, I really have to go.’

‘Can you tell me more about Artemesia?’

‘Buy a copy of THE GAME, it’s all in there. Oh, Doctor, just one more thing,’ she hoped that she sounded casual, ‘does he have access to a phone?’

‘No, not yet. The Governor’s too worried about him. Why?’

‘Nothing.’

After she replaced the phone she replayed the conversation over again. Was Griffiths her unwelcome caller? If so then he was finding a way to access the phone unofficially and at all times of the day and night, and that was impossible. It could not be him.

‘Wake up, Nightingale, they’re looking for you.’ A ball of paper bounced harmlessly off her head. DS Randall shook his head in exasperation. ‘You were expected in a briefing five minutes ago.’

Nightingale looked at her watch, five past three. She had put the phone down just after two and she couldn’t recall doing anything since. A whole hour gone! She grabbed her notebook and ran from the room.

Sergeant Cooper was in a bad mood, something that was no longer as rare as it had been. For nearly a year the senior officer on his more serious cases had been DI Blite, a man he found it increasingly hard to be civil to, let alone respect. As soon as DCI Fenwick had been seconded to the Metropolitan Police, Blite’s ego had expanded to take his place. He had enough arrogance, in Cooper’s opinion, for two men but barely enough talent for half. In fact, Cooper thought that his unique skill was the ability to lick the boots of his superior officer whilst having his nose stuck somewhere up their arse. Marks out of ten for being a contortionist eleven, for being a good detective nil.

Blite prided himself on being the most effective SIO in the Division. The ACC heaped praise on him for his efficiency, whilst the officers in his team resented the pressure he applied and the hours he expected them to work. They were dealing with a series of violent robberies on a run-down estate. Blite was convinced that the crimes were drug-related but Cooper wasn’t so sure. All his instincts told him that they were dealing with something less complicated but more brutal, a gang that simply enjoyed robbing and beating up victims weaker than themselves.

‘Now listen up. There are two known drug gangs operating on the Parklea estate. I want you to focus your enquiries on them. So far we’ve no witnesses and none of the snouts has come up with anything. The latest victim, Emily Thornton, saw them but her glasses were knocked off during the assault and she’s as blind as a bat without them, so it’s little help.’

Nightingale arrived as copies of the briefing were circulating. One look at her convinced Cooper that something was not quite right and he worried that she might shine too bright and burn herself out. The Griffiths investigation had been a step too far. Using her as bait had been Blite’s idea but to be fair she had been willing enough to go along with it. Cooper had had his doubts about her role and had gone so far as to consult Fenwick, even though he had been seconded to the Met at the time. The DCI had intervened but been told to mind his own business.

Looking at Nightingale now, Cooper regretted their joint inability to change the course of that investigation. It was widely regarded as a great success, not least by Blite who referred to it on a regular basis, but he was sure they could have achieved the same result through more traditional methods. It would have taken longer, perhaps cost more, but the human toll would have been less.

He caught Nightingale’s eye and nodded, no trace of reprimand for her tardiness in his expression. She smiled back but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes, which he noticed were blue-ringed.

At the end of the briefing she hung back waiting for him.

‘Hello, Sarge.’ Despite her recent promotion, Nightingale couldn’t yet bring herself to call Cooper by his first name. It amused her that he had a similar problem with her, but she took no offence as none was intended.

‘Afternoon, Nightingale. So you’ve drawn the short straw to work with me again have you?’

‘I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t had a decent case to get my teeth into for a while. Can I be on surveillance? I’ve been inside for weeks.’

It wasn’t often that Cooper had a volunteer for surveillance duty and he agreed quickly.

‘You’ll be on from oh-seven hundred tomorrow. Your partner will be DC Rike. He’s experienced. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open and you might learn something.’

He watched her walk away and went to see if Fenwick was back from compassionate leave. He was, and the Chief Inspector motioned him into his office.

‘Any chance of two coffees, Anne? Plenty of milk and sugar for Bob.’ Fenwick motioned Cooper to sit down in one of his visitor’s chairs. The Sergeant regarded the skimpy, metal-framed thing with a feeling close to hatred then eased back into it. The Chief Inspector looked at him expectantly. He wasn’t a man for small talk or gossip.

‘Just came to say that it’s good to have you back. We sort of miss you, me and the others and it would be good to have you more involved in the day-to-day again…’ His voice trailed away. What was he saying? He’d just implied that Fenwick was being sidelined despite their growing caseload.

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

Cooper winced. He had never grown used to Fenwick’s sarcasm. It was as sharp as raw vinegar and about as palatable. He cleared his throat.

‘And I also wanted to say that I am sorry for your loss. Me and the missus were both very sorry to hear about Mrs Fenwick.’

It was as if a fine veil descended across Fenwick’s face. As far as Cooper could tell, the expression hadn’t changed but he had withdrawn behind a mask that obliterated any emotion from his expression.

‘Thank you. Now, if that’s all…’

Cooper left still holding his untouched coffee and rubbing the back of his right thigh to encourage feeling to return. He should have known better than to stop by.

Behind him Fenwick closed the door. In the privacy of his office he sat down heavily and rubbed his forehead, trying to shift the dull ache that had tormented him since the funeral. Sleep was almost impossible and he refused to take sleeping pills. He had started to miss Monique again as desperately as he had when she had first gone into hospital.

The headache had grown with the fierce sunlight of morning and painkillers had failed to shift it. He rummaged in his desk drawer for some more aspirin and found half a strip. Knowing that he should wait another hour, and only take two, he swallowed three with the dregs of his coffee. There was a tentative knock on the door.

‘Phone for you. It’s Claire Keating.’ Anne took one look at his face and took his empty cup away for a refill.

‘Claire.’

‘Andrew, at last. I wanted to say that I’m so sorry for your loss. How are the children?’

‘Coping. I’m in a bit of a hurry. What can I do for you?’

‘I know that this isn’t a good time but I was hoping to see you. I’m writing up the McMillan investigation as a case study and there’s a deadline. I wouldn’t have troubled you this week otherwise.’

‘It’s years old.’

‘Yes, but it represents a breakthrough in forensic psychiatry and it would be very helpful to have your input. You were the SIO.’

‘I see.’ He tried to keep the sigh from sounding over the phone. ‘Can it wait until next week.’

‘Of course. My deadline is Friday but I’ll call and beg some extra time.’

They agreed a time and place to meet and Fenwick put the phone down with relief.

The prisoner had put on weight. He performed press-ups, squats and sit-ups for hours every day, but the weight had still crept up on him. He imagined yellow globules of fat coagulating under his skin and the thought repulsed him. On the rare occasions that he was allowed out into the yard, he jogged for the whole hour, sprinting in short bursts. During that too short time he could feel the burn in his muscles and the pain was exquisite. They were brief flashes of orange-red in an otherwise grey life.

For some reason he had been denied further computer access. No amount of argument had persuaded the Governor to relent. Instead, the doctor had brought him the board version of THE GAME. Griffiths had ignored it, too insulted even to acknowledge its existence in his tiny cell. For over a week it had lain undisturbed, wrapped in plastic, accumulating a layer of gritty dust from the walls.

He had been a Grand Master. His score on capture had been a magical, and purely coincidental, 666,106. It was an unchallenged record for the Demon King, or it had been. One of the many reasons he was desperate for release was to ensure that he still reigned supreme. What was moulded plastic compared with the reality of a live game?

Today had marked the low point since his capture and he was filled with self-loathing. He had long nails and wasn’t allowed a manicure set to neaten them. His hair curled over his collar, inches longer than he had ever worn it in his life. Prison trousers pinched at his thickening waist. And last night he had opened the board game.