Grave Doubts Part 8

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, acc.u.mulating 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.

The sight of the Demon King in crude black plastic had brought tears to his eyes. It was so grotesque, as if his own weight-gain had blurred the shape of his alter ego. He had stared at the figure, detesting it, before collapsing onto his bunk in a black mood. For the first time the idea occurred to him that he might indeed spend his life in this cell as the judge had intended. When he woke before dawn, the depression was still there and he contemplated suicide for the first time.

It was ironic that he had mimicked a self-destructive motivation before without any intention to do himself harm. Now the authorities were more relaxed, convinced by his play-acting that he was beginning to accept his fate, yet for the first time the idea of death appealed. There was comfort in the idea that he could kill himself, and the intellectual challenge of working out how would keep him occupied. He still had no belt or braces, and his uniform could not be torn. No sharp instruments were allowed anywhere near him. Perhaps if he could feign illness they would take him to the hospital and an opportunity would present itself.

He was practising expressions of intense agony when a warning rattle of keys announced an intruder. He expected to see Saunders, it was his shift, but instead another guard jerked his thumb at the open door.

'Your shrink's here. Get a move on.'

Batchelor was waiting for him wearing that sports jacket again, the one that looked mouldy, and there was a spot of dried food on his woollen tie. He hid his contempt behind a half smile.

'Dr Batchelor. How good of you to come and see me again.'

'Are you keeping well?'

Thoughts of suicide, the infirmary, perhaps even escape whirled in the prisoner's head. Did he want to die? He wasn't sure. Best to keep his options open.

'So, so. I keep getting this twisting pain in my stomach. It doesn't last long but it's uncomfortable.'

A look of immediate concern showed on Batchelor's face.

'Have you seen a doctor?'

'Only you.'

'I meant a physician.'

'No, haven't asked to. I'll see how it goes. I'm sure it's nothing.'

The conversation drifted into the usual psychobabble that pa.s.sed for a.n.a.lysis. Now that he knew he wouldn't be granted further access to a personal computer, the prisoner saw little purpose in these conversations. He was placid and formless yet never out of control. In order to prevent the doctor from becoming too frustrated he would throw in a fit of gloom or introspection that kept him coming back.

An unwelcome thought ambushed him. Today he had no need to fake his depression.

'...you'd be interested.'

'Pardon?'

'I said I spoke to DS Nightingale.'

He felt as if he had been struck a blow to the chest. For a fraction of a second he didn't know how to react then he realised that the shock must have shown in his expression. There was a brief look of satisfaction on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's smug face. Griffiths felt tricked, outsmarted by a quack, and his self-esteem shrank even further.

'Why did you do that?' Griffiths was proud that his voice was level.

'Oh, a chance conversation. I thought you'd be interested.'

He said nothing. When it was obvious that he was going to remain silent Batchelor tried his next move.

'I can see why she took the role of Artemesia. She's almost the perfect huntress, don't you think?'

Griffiths said nothing. Anger smouldered inside, banked up against the future.

'What was her best score against you?'

'27,500.'

'That's good, isn't it?'

'Almost the best.' He would not meet the doctor's eyes.

'Are you enjoying the board game?'

How he would love to have said that he hadn't even opened it, to thrust the shiny plastic bundle back into Batchelor's arms, unborn. But that wasn't true now.

'I haven't played it. There's no excitement without compet.i.tion.'

'Why?'

Here we are again, he thought, back with the same inane questions. These he could parry for as long as he liked. With a smile Griffiths went into his routine.

Back in his cell, after hours of agonising over the decision, the prisoner finally re-opened the box and unpacked its contents. The six main characters stood three inches high, their acolytes a mere one-and-a-half. As well as the Demon King, which was black with highlights of red and silver paint, there was the Sorceress blue and silver, and the Knight, a laughable character, all blond hair, white armour and golden weaponry. Every male newcomer to THE GAME wanted to be the knight. Most of them 'died'. He was brave, courageous, honest and thus easy to defeat. Whatever he said had to be true as laws of chivalry bound him. On average the Demon King triumphed over him three times out of five but one hundred percent of the time whenever Griffiths had played.

The Mercenary was a more interesting challenger. He frequently teamed up with the Sorceress, although his loyalty could never be relied upon. And the Maiden ah, Griffiths loved her, as did the Mercenary. One could never be sure whether he would follow the rules of money or love, but capturing the Maiden was usually a successful way to neutralise his skill.

He fingered the white plastic dress and long blond hair. She carried a spray of red and white roses, symbols of her maidenhood and vulnerability. She never attacked, but if rescued in the wrong way she absorbed the strength of her would-be saviour. Griffiths thought her the most corrupt of the characters. Whenever he caught a Maiden he used them as bait before killing them; not against the rules exactly but always a shock to the other players.

He picked out Artemesia. For some reason her features were finer, better articulated then all the others. The modelling of her weapons bow, arrows, knife, and spear was detailed and precise. He stared at her for a long time.

She was wearing a long, green Grecian-style tunic, slashed at both thighs. It flowed around her as if blown by a phantom wind, moulding her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pelvis like Botticelli's Flora. He imagined warm flesh hiding beneath the thin material and grew excited. He placed her down gently and sorted out his drawing materials.

Despite the growing pressure inside him he followed his ritual. Paper set exactly in the middle of the tabletop; chalks and eraser to the right; water-colour pencils and a small plastic bowl of water to the left. With a fine piece of chalk he started to sketch the figure. His lines were long and fluid, gliding easily over the smooth paper. He drew in the b.i.t.c.h's face exactly, but the body beneath was more voluptuous. In his drawing, he stripped her of her robe. The breeze had raised her nipples to hard pink points; her s.e.x pouted, pretty as a kiss beneath luxuriant pubic hair the colour of aubergines. Looking at her made his breath come in short gasps and he forgot about his drawing.

When he climaxed he cried out a growl, a name, he didn't know, but the release was exquisite. For once he was oblivious to the peephole in the door as he sprawled back in the chair, exposed. He hadn't felt like this since...well, in a long time, before that b.i.t.c.h had ruined his life.

He washed fastidiously. When he was quite clean he bent to pick up his latest drawing, to slip it into his sc.r.a.pbook. The paper was torn. In his ecstasy he had stabbed her. A great gaping red wound had ripped apart her paper b.r.e.a.s.t.s and throat. He stroked the drawing with his fingertips, lingering over the face and crimson tear.

It would have to go. The guards searched his cell regularly and Batchelor insisted on looking through his sc.r.a.pbook, yet he couldn't face the thought of simply s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the picture and throwing it away. It had become a totem, a promise of something beyond the prison cell. The idea that he could always draw another didn't appease his desire to preserve this one. He wanted to sleep knowing that he had it, to wake and be able to unfold it secretly and remember the taste of her tears. He would be revenged for this imprisonment. A promise had been made and he knew it wouldn't be broken, it was only a matter of time. Meanwhile the picture would be a talisman.

He looked for a hiding place. His gaze was drawn to the game, lying scattered on the floor. The laminate on the glossy moulded board had split, peeling away from the cardboard backing. He picked it up and with a long fingernail began to prise it apart. The drawing folded once, slid neatly between the plastic surface and card backing. He squeezed the board together again. No one would notice the damage.

Instead of packing THE GAME away he started to read the rulebook. After his evening food he began to play, throwing the elaborate set of five varicoloured dice with increasing dexterity. He memorised the possible combinations and the implications of each score. There were tens of thousands of variations, even in this non-computerised version. With a small grunt of pleasure, he pulled his paper and charcoal towards him and began to note down his first ideas for mastery of this new Game.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Parklea Estate had been built late enough in the 1970s for there to have been no excuse for the mistakes of design. The towers rose sixteen stories, with half-covered walkways joining them in an ugly concrete spider's web. They criss-crossed above long-dead patches of lawn, casting shadows and providing a perfect launch-pad for the missiles that were cast down by the younger generation on the old.

On Monday morning the estate was dry, hot and airless. The stench of urine and dog or human excrement from numerous hidden corners made the officers concealed in flat 6B Compton gag. Past tenants had run ahead of eviction and trashed the place. The Council had not bothered to repair the damage and it had become a squat then a doss-house for down and outs. After a fire had threatened to spread to the occupied part of the block, the Council finally took steps to secure the premises. They had been empty ever since.

Unfortunately, 6B was the perfect location for police surveillance of the open ground that lay between the towers, half in shadow, the other half burnt white. DS Nightingale was on first watch, her partner wore his undercover five-day growth of beard and long greasy hair with pride. He was currently in a cafe on the other side of the estate buying breakfast.

DC Rike had taken one look at her designer jeans and freshly laundered T-shirt and suggested that she should stay concealed until the end of their shift. So she was condemned to this stinking cell for another six hours and twelve minutes exactly.

Tomorrow she'd remember to bring some bin liners to sit on but right now she had the choice between enduring the discomfort of remaining standing or the horror of being contaminated by whatever had been smeared on the walls or deposited on the floor. She chose pain.

The door banged open and she jumped. It was Richard Rike, returning with hot drinks for them both.

'Jesus it stinks in here!'

'I hardly notice it now. They say that after about twenty minutes the olfactory system adjusts, neutralising the odour.'

'You what?'

He handed her one of the cups and she lifted the lid from the Styrofoam to reveal a weak, milky drink. She had asked for her coffee black, no sugar. She took a sip. It was lukewarm, and sweet.

'Your nose doesn't smell anymore the brain sort of blocks out the stench.'

Rike looked at his watch.

'Only nineteen minutes and thirty seconds to go then. I couldn't remember whether you said you wanted tea or coffee so I got you tea, just how I like my women: white with two lumps.' He grinned in antic.i.p.ation of her disapproval.

Nightingale kept a straight face.

'Pity, I'd asked for coffee, just how I like my men: black and strong.'

He barked with laughter and threw one of the bags at her.

'What's this?'

'An iced doughnut. They're yesterday's. The van with the fresh stuff hadn't arrived, but they're OK. I've had one.'

Nightingale looked at the sugar-coated wedge of greasy dough and tried to feel hungry. She'd only had an apple for breakfast and that had been two hours ago.

'You going to eat that?'

'Not if you're still hungry. You have it.'

He demolished the cake in three large bites, cramming them in with barely a pause. It was gone in thirty seconds. She tried not to stare and looked away from the goo-covered teeth of his triumphant smile.

'Fastest in the canteen,' he spluttered proudly.

'I can believe that.'

The conversation proved to be the high point of their day.

They were relieved from duty at four o'clock and Rike went off to deliver their brief report to Blite.

It was gone half past four by the time she reached home. She padded up the stairs to her flat in socks. As soon as she was inside, every st.i.tch of clothing went into the washing machine with an extra load of powder. For once she didn't care if her T-shirt and underwear turned blue, she just wanted them clean. She showered twice.

There was a pub opposite the park and she decided to go out for her wine instead of staying home. That way she could pretend that she wasn't a solitary drinker, honest. It was turning into a glorious evening, cool after the heat of the day. She'd almost walked to her destination when she cannoned into a good-looking man who stepped out in front of her.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.'

'That's OK.' She moved to walk around him but he spoke, preventing her.

'You wouldn't know of a place where I can get a decent drink would you?'

He had amazing eyes, a charming smile and looked vaguely familiar so she took the time to answer, although part of her thought it odd that he should ask so close to a public house.

'This place is pretty good.'