Groves managed a lop-sided smile and moved on. ‘I take it you know that only one of our patients agreed to your request?’
‘I had heard.’
‘The others didn’t feel inclined to assist medical research after learning there was nothing in it for them I’m afraid.’
‘And the one who did?’
‘Malcolm Lawler, curious I should think.’
Barrowman nodded.
‘I understand this is a preliminary visit so you can tell Lawler about the project and what you need from him?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Barrowman. ‘Actually, I was rather hoping you might be able to give me a heads-up on him.’
‘A heads-up?’ repeated Groves and Barrowman noticed his change of tone to vague distaste. ‘Don’t you know what he did?’
‘Well, I’ve read the trial transcript of course and the newspaper reports of the time. I suppose I was hoping for a more personal slant. You must know him better than anyone.’
Groves stared at Barrowman for a long moment, the droop in his mouth exaggerating a look of annoyance. ‘The trial record will have told you that expert opinion at the time decided that Lawler was a paranoid schizophrenic who was incapable of feeling guilt or remorse. He tortured, raped and murdered five people and would do the same again if released. I don’t think I have anything to add to that.’
‘Well, I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t just call it a personality disorder,’ said Barrowman.
There was an awkward moment when Barrowman thought he might have gone too far and Groves was about to take offence, but it passed and to his surprise the man appeared to relax.
‘I take it that you, like me, do not hold the practitioners of psychiatry in high regard?’
This time Barrowman could not keep the surprise from his face. The ‘like me’ was a bit of a show-stopper.
Groves noticed. ‘Yes, I’m a psychiatrist, but I understand and even sympathise with what many people feel about our specialty,’ he said. ‘In many ways, it’s at the stage medicine was a hundred years ago. My own mistake was in voicing this opinion to my colleagues — in particular to those blessed with more self-confidence than common sense.’
Groves took an exaggerated look around his surroundings. ‘And you can see where it got me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Barrowman, but it seemed painfully inadequate. ‘I suppose I’m just finding it hard to believe I’m hearing this from a psychiatrist.’
Groves nodded but didn’t comment.
‘The people you have here...’ began Barrowman.
‘Have had the key thrown away.’
‘That bad?’
Groves nodded. ‘I’m sure human rights lawyers, given the chance, would milk the cash-cow but that isn’t going to happen. These people are going nowhere.’
‘Lawler?’
‘Worst of the lot.’
Barrowman swallowed and Groves noticed. He said, ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Isn’t he exactly what you’re looking for?’
Barrowman smiled weakly and said, ‘Well, of course... in an academic sense, but...’
‘Real life is different?’
‘I suppose,’ Barrowman conceded. ‘I take it Lawler didn’t managed to convince the colleagues you spoke of that he should be freed?’
‘I’m sure he would have if circumstances had been different,’ said Groves with a pained look that suggested old wounds had been re-opened. ‘But he didn’t get that chance, thank God. A fellow Broadmoor prisoner at the time, Clifford Sutton — a name you may remember — beat him to it. He was returned to society a changed and contrite man according to my erstwhile colleagues... only to resume his career of rape and murder. Ironically his last victim was one of the panel who had freed him. When asked why, he replied, “She voted against”.’
Barrowman grimaced. ‘And that’s where Moorlock Hall comes into the picture?’
‘Yes, it was that case which made me speak out. The Daily Mail whipped up public fury after I suggested to my colleagues it could happen again if people like Sutton and Lawler and a number of others who were capable of manipulating the system were subject to regular review by people who weren’t as clever as those they were reviewing. It didn’t go down too well and I hope you appreciate the irony now that Lawler and I are locked up together.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘How did you find out about Moorlock Hall? It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘Someone enjoying the hospitality of a drug company at a scientific meeting let the name slip and my old supervisor made a note of it. He thought you might be an interesting final source of volunteers for my project. I jumped at the chance.’
‘Tell me about your project,’ said Groves.
‘Progress in genetics has uncovered several genes which appear to be linked to extreme psychiatric conditions. I’m a biochemist. I’m working in a group who hope to find out more about what these genes do and how they’re controlled by looking at DNA sequences and spotting enzyme differences in the blood of very different types of people.’
‘Lawler is certainly different.’
Barrowman nodded and said, ‘Because the work is at a very early stage we’re obliged to look at extremes of human behaviour, comparing people who seem absurdly happy and optimistic with others who only see the dark side of life. We’ve got people looking at those who devote their lives to religion — praying for the salvation of others — and, of course, my interest in people who apparently kill without compunction.’
‘As you seek to populate the epigenetic landscape?’ said Groves thoughtfully.
Barrowman smiled. ‘I see you’re familiar with the jargon. You obviously read the journals.’
‘I have time.’
Barrowman nodded.
Groves said, ‘I remember reading that less than twenty percent of our DNA comprises actual genes. What does the rest do?’
‘For years it’s been called junk DNA,’ said Barrowman, ‘simply because no function could be assigned to it, but recently, biochemical activity has been credited to at least some of it. There is wide disagreement about how much, so I think the answer to your question at the moment is... we don’t know.’
‘Not something one hears too often from academics,’ said Groves. He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to meet Mr Lawler?’
The smile disappeared from Barrowman’s face and he gave a less than enthusiastic nod.
‘We’re all on the ground floor here,’ said Groves as they left the office. ‘A modern prison unit inside a Victorian shell. The rest of the building is sealed off and uninhabited apart from the rats and the rolling tumbleweed of times past.’
Groves stabbed numbers into a key pad on the wall and the steel door opened to reveal a brightly lit corridor.
‘I’ve asked that Lawler be put in the interview suite. He tends to have the television on all the time in his own accommodation and there would be extraneous noise from those adjoining. You won’t be disturbed in there. It’s private. You can speak on a one to one basis.’
Barrowman felt a hollow appear in his stomach. Being left alone with a serial killer was not exactly top of his wish list.
Groves read his mind. The room will be under camera surveillance. Lawler will be under restraint.
Barrowman pretended he’d never imagined anything else.
They stopped and Groves spoke into a grill on the wall. ‘Groves with Dr Barrowman.’
‘Password three please.’
‘Pine tree.’
The door opened and a tall, thickset man wearing the uniform scrubs of a male nurse but displaying the physique of a nightclub bouncer ushered them inside.
‘This,’ said Groves walking over to where a man in his fifties sat in a chair, ‘is Malcolm Lawler.’ Barrowman immediately took in that the chair was bolted to the floor and its occupant had his wrists and ankles restrained by straps securing them to the frame.