Ploughing Potter’s Field

7 (#ulink_fa5c408c-8f32-5d48-b958-ee2681b0f27e)

Forty-eight hours later, I found myself back in the smoky, pokey office of Dr Stephen Clancy once more. He had in front of him a thin manilla file entitled HMP Oakwood High Security – Graduate Training Programme. My name had been crudely added to the cover.

I had no idea why he’d asked to see me.

‘Come in, sit down,’ he gushed. ‘Glad you could come.’

‘Is there some sort of problem, Steve?’ I asked.

‘Problem? Good heavens, no. Just thought maybe we should have a little chat.’

‘Could’ve used the phone, surely?’

He shifted a little. ‘I wanted to talk face to face, Adrian. Clear the air, perhaps.’

‘Go on.’

He chose his words with care. ‘I gather from speaking with Neil Allen that you expressed some surprise that I kept him so closely informed of our conversations.’

‘I can’t remember saying anything at the time.’

Another long draw on the cigar. ‘He sensed it. He’s a master of body language.’

‘Now that you mention it, I was a little taken aback.’

‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly standard. I’m more or less obliged to report back, so to speak. It’s nothing personal. Just the form.’

‘The form?’

‘Procedure, dear chap. Let’s just say that one has to exercise great caution when allowing research students to meet with inmates. The experience can prove … a little upsetting to those with sensitive dispositions.’

I began putting the pieces together. ‘And neither Oakwood or the university would want any adverse publicity should something go wrong, right?’

He smiled. ‘You probably think we’re all being dreadfully paranoid, but we have good reason. Very occasionally, exposure to Rattigan and his like can have unforeseen consequences. A similar scheme in Cumbria nearly came unstuck two years ago. The student in question, a woman, I believe, jumped from a tower block midway through her thesis researches.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Fancy held up a hand. ‘Now, I’m not saying there was any connection between her death and the work at the hospital, but it could’ve turned nasty. I mean, for all we know, the woman’s love life was probably in a damn mess.’

‘You’re all heart, aren’t you?’

‘I’m merely saying it doesn’t do to make any assumptions. You only have to cast your mind back to the field day the damn press had with the balls-up at Ashworth to realize the Home Office is rather keen any whiff of scandal emanating from Her Majesty’s secure hospitals is kept to an absolute minimum.’

I well remembered Ashworth, the catalogue of damning allegations made by an inmate concerning visits by children to suspected paedophiles. ‘You say don’t make assumptions, Steve, yet you assume I’m a candidate for the suicide-watch, too?’

He laughed, stubbed out the cigar. ‘Good God, no. It’s simply that I know you far better than Allen does. And if it looks like the pressure’s getting to you, I’m duty-bound to inform the old sod.’ He passed the file over. ‘This is yours. Inside you’ll find a transcript of every interview, together with an assessment of your performance. You can copy all the material inside for use in your thesis should you wish, but you must ensure you return the file for updating at every interview.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken a peek. Seems you’re still keen Rattigan tells you more about the girl.’ He leant forward. ‘Just don’t pin your hopes on anything.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘With good reason. Besides, what if he tells you something astonishing? Could you ever trust him to tell the truth?’

‘He’s sitting on something, Steve. I’m sure he is. He keeps letting things slip.’

‘Maybe he’s doing that deliberately. I suspect you’re legitimate sport as far as he’s concerned. “Fun”, even.’ He stood, made for the door, putting on his overcoat. ‘You still got that Aretha Franklin tape in the car?’

‘Yes?’

‘Grand. Shake a leg. We’re going for a drive. The good Dr Allen’s arranged a little surprise for you and Aretha’s just the dame to serenade us on our journey.’

‘Bingo!’ Fancy exclaimed. ‘We’re here.’

Twenty minutes later we drew up in front of the Essex Police Headquarters, just five hundred yards from Chelmsford Prison, me still none the wiser as to what the hell we were doing there.

Throughout the journey, Fancy had playfully resisted all my questions, until I grew tired of asking. I contented myself with following his occasional directions, trying desperately to ignore his tuneless warblings.

We parked before a huge complex of grey concrete buildings and playing fields. Stepping from the car, I noticed the tired rows of nearby semidetatched houses, looking as if they clung to the place for the security offered by the Essex home of law enforcement.

A group of young recruits struggled to complete the required number of press-ups barked at them by a muscular intructor, and I found myself cringing at the effects institionalized buildings and their occupants had on me. Just like Oakwood, everything had been seemingly designed for the single purpose of intimidation, the faceless architects responsible having no ethical dilemma over form versus function. Likewise the inhabitants themselves, uniformed, regulated, cracked, all empathy syphoned off by the real brains of the machine – ancient laws and flawed systems laid down by our long-dead forefathers. Difficult to believe these men were all cooing babies once.

Fancy spoke as we neared the entrance. ‘DI Russell’s your man. He knows you’re coming.’ He stopped. ‘I’ll maybe catch you for a drink later in the week, eh?’

‘You’re not coming in?’

‘I’m not invited, dear chap.’

‘You’re going to wait out here, then?’

‘Heavens, no. I’ll ring a cab, pop back to the uni. Thanks for the ride. That Aretha’s a gem, isn’t she?’

‘Steve, what’s going on?’

‘You’re here to learn a little more about Rattigan. Allen’s been in touch with the Met; they’ve rushed the stuff up here for your delectation.’

‘What stuff?’

‘The original file you were given was just a taster. Now Allen feels the time’s right for you to know a little more about the kind of man you’re dealing with. A sort of unexpurgated version.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘You’re going to find out what he did to that girl. Word for word.’

‘This DI Russell’s going to tell me, is he?’

‘No,’ Fancy replied. ‘Rattigan is.’

I waited ten minutes in reception before I met with DI Russell. Six-two, wiry, regulation haircut, black shoes, grey trousers, white shirt, brown tie, no jacket – introduced himself as Dave, before taking me up to the second floor into a small side office.

Next he brought in a tape recorder and a box of cassettes. ‘Had this sent up from the Met. All the tackle they have on your man Rattigan. Gave it a listen myself last night. Quite a headcase.’