The Woodcutter

One way to settle that.

‘How are things at Parkleigh, Mr Homewood?’ she enquired.

He smiled broadly and said, ‘Depends whether you’re looking in or out, I suppose.’

The contrast with Childs couldn’t have been stronger. There was nothing that you could call retiring or self-effacing about Homewood. In his late thirties with a square, determined face topped by a thatch of vigorous brown hair, he fixed her with an unblinking and very unmoist gaze as he talked to her. He asked her about her book, prompted her to expatiate on her ideas, outlined some of the problems he was experiencing in the management of long-term prisoners, and invited her opinion.

Am I being interviewed? she asked herself. Unlikely, because if she were, it could only be for one job. Ten days previously, the chief psychiatrist at Parkleigh Prison, Joe Ruskin, had died in a pileup on the M5. She’d had only a slight acquaintance with the man, so her distress at the news was correspondingly slight and soon displaced by the thought that, if this had happened four or five years later, she might well have applied to fill the vacancy. Parkleigh held many of the most fascinating criminals of the age. For someone with her areas of interest, it was a job to die for.

But at twenty-eight, she was far too young and inexperienced to be a candidate. And they’d want another man anyway. But she enjoyed the conversation, in which Childs took little part, simply sitting, watching, with a faintly proprietorial smile on his lips.

At the end of lunch she excused herself and made for the Ladies. Away from the two men, her absurdity in even considering the possibility seemed crystal clear.

‘Idiot,’ she told her reflection in the mirror.

As she returned to the table she saw the two men in deep conversation. It stopped as she sat down.

Then Homewood fixed her with that gaze which probably declared to everyone he spoke to, You are the most interesting person in the room, and as if enquiring where she was spending her holidays this year, he said, ‘So how would you like to work at Parkleigh, Dr Ozigbo?’

iii

Fortified with a large scotch and water accompanied by a bowl of bacon-flavoured crisps, Alva at last felt up to opening Hadda’s exercise book.

She went through the narrative three times, the first time swiftly, to get the feel of it; the second slowly, taking notes; the third intermittently, giving herself plenty of time for reflection and analysis.

She was as disappointed at the end of the third reading as she had been by the first.

The narrative had panache, it was presented with great clarity of detail and emphatic certainty of recollection, it rang true.

All of which meant only one thing: Wilfred Hadda was still in complete denial.

This was not going to be easy, but surely she’d never expected it would be?

She knew from both professional experience and wide study how hard it was to lead some men to the point where they could confront their own crimes. When child abuse was involved, the journey was understandably long and tortuous. At its end was a moment of such self-revulsion that the subconscious decided the cure was worse than the disease and performed gymnastics of Olympic standard to avoid it.

This was why the narrative rang so true. Hadda wasn’t trying to deceive her. He’d had years to convince himself he was telling the truth. Plus, of course, so far as the events described were concerned, she knew from her close reading of all the trial and associated media material, he never deviated from the known facts. Only the implied motivation had changed. He was a man of wealth and power, used to getting his own way, and while he clearly had a very sharp mind, he was a man whose physical responses were sometimes so urgent and immediate that reason lagged behind. It wasn’t outraged innocence that made him assault Medler but the challenge to his authority. And once he realized that, by doing this, he had provided the police with an excuse for keeping him in custody while they delved into his private business at their leisure, he had made a desperate bid to get within reach of the sources of wealth and influence he felt could protect him.

The important thing was that her relationship with Hadda had advanced to the point where he clearly wanted to get her on his side. She knew she had to proceed very carefully from here on in. To let him see how little credit she gave to his account would almost certainly inhibit him from writing any more. There was still much to be learned even from evasions and downright lies.

As she drove towards Parkleigh next morning, she found herself wondering as she did most mornings why she wasn’t feeling a lot happier at the prospect of going to work. Was it cause or effect that, when she met older, more experienced colleagues, particularly those who had been close to her predecessor, Joe Ruskin, she had to bite back words of explanation and apology? What had she to feel sorry for? She hadn’t been responsible for the lousy driving that killed him!

As for explanation, she still hadn’t explained things satisfactorily to herself. Had she been deliberately sought out or was she just lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time? After the euphoria of being offered the post died down, she’d asked Giles very casually who’d invited John Childs to the dinner. Not casually enough, it seemed. His barrister sensors had detected instantly the thought behind the question and he had teased her unmercifully about her alleged egotism in imagining she might have been headhunted. Next day he had renewed the attack when he rang to say that Childs had been the guest of the uxorious Mr Justice Toplady, whose cat-loving wife was always on the lookout for elderly bachelors to partner her unmarried sister.

‘Though that might be described as the triumph of hope over experience,’ he concluded.

‘That sounds rather sexist even for a dedicated male chauvinist like yourself,’ said Alva.

‘Why so? I refer not to the sister’s unattractiveness, although it is great, but Childs’ predilections.’

‘You mean he’s gay?’

‘Very likely, though in his case he seems to get his kicks out of moulding and mentoring personable young men, then sitting back to watch them prosper in their adult careers. Geoff Toplady was one such, I believe, and he’s certainly prospered. Word is that he’ll be lording it in the Court of Appeal by Christmas. Oh yes. Hitch your wagon to John Childs and the sky’s the limit.’

‘Meaning what? That he’s buying their silence?’

‘Good Lord, what a mind you have! Still, if you spend your time dabbling in dirt, I suppose some of it must stick. No, on the whole Childs’ young men seem to be very positively heterosexual types, and the fact that most of them seem perfectly happy to continue the relationship in adult life suggests that he never tried to initiate them into the joys of buggery as boys. A form of sublimation, I expect you’d call it.’

‘Giles, if you don’t try any analysis, I won’t try any cases,’ said Alva acidly, stung more than she cared to show by the dabbling-in-dirt crack. ‘Would Simon Homewood have been one of his mentored boys?’

‘I believe he was. Of course, it could be Childs is going blind and mistook you for a testosteronic young man in need of a helping hand. Whatever, you simply hit lucky, Alva. No subtle conspiracy to take a closer look at you. Even the seating plan at these do’s is purely a random thing so you don’t get all the nobs clumping together.’

Alva didn’t believe the last – nothing lawyers did was ever random – but she more or less accepted that fate alone had been responsible for her advancement. Which, she assured herself, she didn’t mind. The world was full of excellent young psychiatrists; far better to be one of the lucky ones!

Still it would have been nice to be headhunted! Or perhaps she meant it would have made her feel more confident that she was the right person in the right job.

She met Chief Officer Proctor as she went through the gate. He greeted her with his usual breezy friendliness, but as always she felt those sharp eyes were probing in search of the weakness that would justify his belief that this wasn’t a suitable job for a woman.

She put all these negative thoughts out of her mind as she sat and waited for Hadda to be brought into the interview room.

His face was expressionless as he sat down, placing his hands on the table before him with perhaps a little over emphasis.

Then he let his gaze fall slowly to the exercise book she’d laid before her and said, ‘Well?’

And she said, with a brightness that set her own teeth on edge, ‘It’s very interesting.’

And this led to the brief exchange that ended with them trying to outstare each other.

This was not how she’d planned to control the session.

She said abruptly, Tell me about Woodcutter Enterprises.’

Her intention was to distract him by focusing not on his paedophilia, which was her principal concern, but on the fraudulent business activities that had got him the other half of his long sentence.

He looked at her with an expression that suggested he saw through her efforts at dissimulation as easily as she saw through his, but he answered, ‘You know what a private equity company is?’

She nodded and he went on, ‘That’s what Woodcutter was to start with. We identified businesses that needed restructuring because of poor management and organization which often made them vulnerable to take-over as well. When we took charge, we restructured by identifying the healthy profit-making elements and getting rid of the rest. And eventually we’d move on, leaving behind a leaner, healthier, much more viable business.’

‘So, a sort of social service?’ she said, smiling.

‘No need to take the piss,’ he said shortly. ‘The aim of business is to make profits and that’s what Woodcutter did very successfully and completely legitimately.’

She said, ‘And you called yourselves Woodcutter Enterprises because you saw your job as pruning away deadwood from potentially healthy business growth?’

He smiled, not the attractive face-lightening smile she had already remarked upon but a teeth-baring grimace that reminded her that his nickname was Wolf.

‘That’s it, you’re right, as usual. And eventually as time went by with some of our more striking successes we retained a long-term interest, so anyone saying we were in for a quick buck then off without a backward glance ought to check the history.’

Interesting, she thought. His indignation at accusation of business malpractice seems at least as fervent as in relation to the sexual charges.