Macmillan frowned. ‘Good God, where is this place?’
‘Middle of nowhere according to Barrowman. It’s an old Victorian asylum which now plays host to fourteen people who would have been executed in times past.’
‘So why are they keeping them there instead of somewhere like Broadmoor?’
‘A decision was made that they would be taken out of the system, never be subject to review and therefore never be released.’
‘By whom?’
‘That’s not clear, but it seems it was taken after a killer named Clifford Sutton was released from Broadmoor, having been “cured” and went on to rape and kill again. The press and the public were furious and a plan was hatched to make sure nothing like it could happen again. Prisoners — or patients depending on your point of view — from across the UK who were judged beyond redemption were quietly transferred to Moorlock Hall, never to be released or even considered for release. Officially it doesn’t exist.’
‘So how the hell did Barrowman find out about it?’
Steven told him.
‘The old story, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.’
‘Should we be interested?’
Macmillan made a face and leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t think it’s a matter for Sci-Med, do you?’
‘Personally, I think it a pity that the cat ever got out the bag.’
‘I’m inclined to agree: it wouldn’t worry me greatly if they transported these people to the planet Zog, but my concern is that Sci-Med might be thought negligent if we knew about this situation and neither said nor did anything. What do you think?’
Steven considered for a few moments before saying, ‘I’ve forgotten what we were talking about...’
Macmillan smiled. ‘So be it, but chances are it’s not going to stay a secret for much longer. Once this gets around Whitehall there are those who will be bound to see a way of using it for their own ends.’
Four
‘Well, here we are again,’ said Malcolm Lawler as Owen Barrowman was shown into the interview room at Moorlock Hall where Lawler had been strapped to his chair in preparation.
Barrowman felt his teeth go on edge, reading more into what on the surface was a polite greeting. What was it? Mockery? Derision? A patronising acknowledgement that someone mildly amusing had arrived?
‘Afternoon, Mr Lawler.’
Although this was their eighth meeting, Barrowman stuck doggedly to formality, something Lawler had made easy for him with his smug air of superiority. Barrowman loathed the man but also found him spell-bindingly interesting. It was like speaking to a creature from another planet. There was much to learn.
‘So, what has science learned from my blood, doctor? Is a ground-breaking paper about to rock the British Medical Journal?’
‘Too soon for that, Mr Lawler, but there are certain enzyme levels that look interesting. They just need more investigation.’
‘Ah, that’s always the way with science,’ mused Lawler. ‘More research needs to be done... progress always lies round the next corner.’
Barrowman smiled. Lawler’s preliminary blood results from samples taken on the last three visits had revealed more than he cared to talk about, least of all to Lawler, but it needed checking — thorough checking. Publishing conclusions which later proved to be wrong could end up in scientific crucifixion. Scientists liked seeing what they expected to see: they liked hearing what they expected to hear. Beware. Check, check and check again.
As a researcher, Barrowman knew the importance of being observant — perhaps that above all else. In the early stages of an investigation there was no way of knowing what was important and what was not. The smallest detail could be the key to a much bigger truth. When they’d first met, Groves, the medical superintendent at Moorlock Hall, had complained bitterly that Lawler could fool psychiatric assessors by telling them exactly what they wanted to hear and making sure they saw exactly what they were looking for. When later, Lawler had bragged to him personally that he could assume the persona of whatever psychiatric label he cared to assign to him, Barrowman had put him to the test. He had manoeuvred the conversation around to the difficulties inherent in psychiatric diagnosis and Lawler had taken up the challenge to demonstrate his skills in faking mental conditions.
Barrowman had not only made a point of flattering Lawler over his ability, he had collected lab samples immediately afterwards. His plan had been to compare the biochemical profiles of someone pretending to suffer from a recognised psychiatric condition with those he’d already obtained from officially diagnosed cases in other institutions. He hoped that, as a side interest, he might be able to establish a blood test to expose the fakers — those who sought to use mental illness as a way of escaping the full weight of the law when it came to punishment.
Barrowman had spent the previous evening examining Lawler’s biochemical results — which had just come back from the lab — with those he had on file from patients in Broadmoor and Rampton. What he saw had excited him and then caused him to stop and wonder. The most likely explanation for what he was seeing was that there had been some kind of mix-up in the specimens he had given to the lab — embarrassing as he’d been solely responsible for this, but it had to be checked. Earlier this morning he had taken up what was left in the fridge of Lawler’s blood sample from the date and time in question and asked if the lab might hurry through repeat tests as a favour. Barrowman could be very charming when it suited him, the results would be ready when he got back.
‘So, what is it today?’ asked Lawler. ‘How are we going to progress the great discovery? More blood?’
‘Of course,’ Barrowman replied a little hesitantly, ‘but to reach any firm conclusions I’d like to understand more about you. I need to differentiate between nature and nurture. I don’t want to waste time looking for a genetic reason for behaviour that is really down to an experience you had in childhood, if you know what I mean?’
Lawler gave Barrowman a withering look. ‘I’m perfectly familiar with the concepts of nature and nurture, thank you.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be patronising. It’s just that I know so little about what makes you tick. I know why you’re here of course and I’ve heard your views on mental illness and the people who treat it, but I need to understand... more about what goes on in your head as a person... what you think about when you’re alone... when you’re not performing for your own amusement...’
Owen saw the expression on Lawler’s face darken and sensed that he’d got it all wrong.
Lawler saw his unease and paused to revel in it. He leaned forward in his chair, the restraints on his arms forcing him into the body shape of a cat about to spring. ‘What you really want to know is why I did it,’ he snapped. ‘Just like all the rest. How could anyone bring themselves to do the things I’ve done? How could anyone in their right mind — woops, but I’m not, am I? — even conceive of some of the things I’ve done? My god, Marjorie’ — Lawler affected a posh matronly voice — ‘it makes me quite ill to think about it.’
Barrowman felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and a feeling of trepidation engulf him as Lawler’s unblinking stare transfixed him. He made a weak attempt at arguing that this wasn’t the case but Lawler ignored him. ‘What goes on in my head, Doctor? What goes on in my head?... all right.’
Barrowman heard the last two words as his ticket to a place he really didn’t want to go to.
Lawler, still straining forward, said quietly, ‘I think about fear, doctor. Fear is the key to my world. Sweat glistening on skin, gasps for breath — music to my ears. My god, let me tell you, doctor, the smell of fear is quite intoxicating, but it’s only an aperitif, a joyous hint of what’s to come as you strip away every veneer, every vestige of dignity, every scrap of belief and hope from... your subject.’