Eye of the raven

NINE

Steven’s mobile phone rang. It was Detective Inspector Teal.

‘ You wanted to know about Mary Lee’s whereabouts,’ said Teal. ‘She’s in Glasgow’s Western Infirmary. She took a heart attack while travelling down to her sister’s place in Greenock.’

‘ Shit,’ said Steven. ‘How bad?’

‘ Touch and go.’

‘ I’m on my way,’ said Steven. He set out for Glasgow immediately, pausing only to fill the car up with petrol at a station at the edge of town. He still saw Mary Lee as his best chance of finding out who Ronnie had contacted since his visit to Ptarmigan Cottage.

As he drove south he tried to think through all the logical implications if the fingernail scrapings had not come from David Little. Had a second person been involved in the crime and Lee had coved it up? This would certainly provide someone with a motive for murdering Lee — to head off another deathbed confession — but why would Lee want to cover up something like that in the first place? Blackmail? The involvement of a relative?

Although Steven had trained himself to think the unthinkable and explore every avenue, dismissing nothing without cold, logical consideration, he decided that he was on the wrong track. The situation in Lee’s lab at the time of the murder was such that Lee simply could not have covered up anything on his own. In any case, it was almost certain that someone else had carried out the tests on the fingernail samples so at least one other person must have known about the findings.

According to Carol Bain and Samantha Styles, John Merton had been riding shotgun on Lee for some time — covering up for his shortcomings, keeping an eye on him in the lab and discreetly checking his findings before reports were allowed to go out. Even if Merton had not carried out the analysis himself he would almost certainly have seen the results of the tests and perhaps even been called upon to verify them. If there had been some kind of a problem with the origin of the scrapings, John Merton would have known about it.

Steven thought he could see a possible scenario emerge. Lee, either through incompetence or inebriation, had messed up his analysis of the nail scrapings. Merton, in his role of guardian angel, had tried to cover for him but Lee’s results were such a mess that they defied interpretation. The small amounts of material available had all been used up, making a repeat analysis impossible and leaving the lab with an embarrassing problem. The temptation might well have been to pretend that the analysis of the scrapings had supported Carol Bain’s findings on the semen and to say no more about it. Whatever the truth of the matter, he was looking forward to hearing what John Merton had to say about all this when he finally managed to track him down.

It was just after four in the afternoon when he entered the outskirts of Glasgow and caught what he thought must be the beginnings of rush-hour traffic as he made his way to the Western Infirmary. Progress however, became even slower and it became clear that, despite having a three-lane motorway that cut a great swathe through its centre, Glasgow’s traffic was grinding to a virtual standstill because of road-works.

Steven turned on the car radio to provide distraction from his growing sense of frustration but if anything, inane chatter and mindless pop music only made matters worse. After covering less than a mile in fifteen minutes his phone rang and gave him the news he didn’t want to hear. Mary Lee was dead.

Although the east-bound traffic did not seem to be moving any more freely than the west-bound, Steven took the next exit when it became possible and circled round to join it, thinking that he might as well make a start back to Edinburgh. A lorry driver flashed his lights and he inched out into the nearside lane to become a piece in a slow-moving jigsaw.

Watching a fat man in overalls, sitting in the passenger seat of the white van in the lane beside him, chew gum and gaze at the nude picture in the tabloid newspaper he was reading made him consider Darwinian evolution for a few minutes. He felt it was anything but cut and dried.

When the traffic in that lane finally started to move, it afforded him a temporary view of the high walls of Barlinnie Prison where David Little had been incarcerated for the past eight years. The file said that he was a rule 43 prisoner — in solitary confinement at his own request. Solitary confinement for life?

Steven grimaced at the thought. How anyone could retain their sanity under such conditions was quite beyond him. He could understand why Little might have opted for rule 43 at the outset of his sentence when, after all the publicity, other prisoners would have been queuing up to establish their credentials as ‘regular guys’ by beating the shit out of him. In prison as in life, all things were relative. Everyone needed someone to look up to and someone to look down on. Child abusers and murderers were welcome in prison because they made robbery with violence seem almost respectable. Beating up a child abuser made you the Lone Ranger. ‘Who was that masked burglar, Mommy?’

On the other hand, it was possible that Little might regard solitary confinement as some kind of penance for his crime. The conditions would be almost monastic — an enclosed order, basic food and endless hours available for contemplation. Perhaps he had even found religion in his now otherwise meaningless existence. He wouldn’t be the first and conditions would be absolutely right for it. Disorientation followed by suggestion — the first rule of brainwashing or religious conversion for that matter. But even if he had, how could he hope to come to terms with having carried out such an awful crime? Could atonement ever be achieved or would guilt stretch out before Little like the expanding universe?

Almost to his own surprise, Steven found himself indicating a left turn and edging across to the nearside lane in order to take the next exit. He had decided that he needed to confront Little personally. If there was the slightest chance that the man now acknowledged his guilt he might well be prepared to answer some questions about what had really happened on that awful night and in particular, how he got the scratch mark on his arm.

Although there had been nothing in the files to indicate that Little had stopped maintaining his innocence, there was a chance that the files hadn’t been updated for some time. As far as society was concerned, Little had been convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for the rape and murder of Julie Summers. End of story. Whether or not he admitted it was neither here nor there.

Almost as soon as he had parked the car and started to walk towards the prison his sub conscious started searching for excuses not to proceed. Prisons had that affect on him. They were more than just grey, forbidding buildings; they were monuments to human failure, housing a hellish mix of wasted lives and broken dreams, often spiced with evil and violence. They were Pandora’s boxes with the lids wide open.

He glanced at his watch. So far, it had taken him fourteen minutes to reach the office of an assistant governor. His path had been impeded by bureaucracy at every step of the way. The natural response of officialdom to any out of the ordinary request was to set up a wall of obstruction. His ID card had been passed around like a parcel at a party. He had been told by one man that he would have to go through official channels and apply in writing and by another that his request was simply not possible… ‘Because it wasn’t, that’s why.’ It was only his insistence that a phone call to the Home Office be made that eventually paid off and he found himself in the office of Assistant Governor, John Cummings, an angry-looking man with short red hair and a clipped moustache. He had the florid complexion of a heavy drinker but the build of a gym teacher although perhaps a little on the short side.

‘ Little doesn’t see visitors,’ said Cummings.

‘ Has anyone ever asked to see him?’ asked Steven.

‘ That’s beside the point,’ insisted Cummings. ‘He has his books and that’s all he needs. He doesn’t speak to anyone he doesn’t have to. ‘He reads and makes notes. That’s it. He’s shut himself off in his own little world.’

‘ What kind of stuff does he read?’

‘ Journals mainly, scientific journals.’

‘ I’d still like to see him,’ said Steven.

Cummings shrugged and said sourly, ‘And you have friends in high places, right?’

‘ Not friends,’ said Steven acidly. ‘Employers; I believe they just might be yours too if I’m not mistaken.’

Cummings thought for a moment before conceding. ‘Well, don’t blame me if it’s a waste of time and he refuses to say anything. You can take a horse to water etc.’ He picked up the phone and gave instructions that David Little be brought to an interview room. He and Steven sat in silence until the phone rang to confirm that this had been done. A prison officer with a badly repaired harelip and impaired speech because of it was detailed to escort Steven to the meeting with Little. He didn’t say anything en route but Steven was aware of several prisoners along the way affecting a speech impediment as they passed. Most of them did it almost out of earshot but one did it too close for the officer to pretend that he’d not heard.

‘ You’ll be sorry, Edwards,’ the officer spat out the corner of his mouth.

He said it with such venom that Steven had little doubt that the man would, but then he didn’t doubt that life in Scotland’s toughest jail would be anything other than a constant battle of wills with an undercurrent of threatened violence.

The room allocated for his meeting with Little seemed little different from a cell. It had four bare walls and a high, barred window affording glimpses of passing clouds. Perhaps the rough table and two plastic chairs altered its status, he surmised. ‘I want to speak to him alone,’ he said to the accompanying officer. The man opened his mouth as if to protest but changed his mind and said, ‘I’ll be right outside.’

Steven was shocked at David Little’s appearance when he was finally brought in. He had only seen a photograph of him, taken at the time of his arrest but all trace of youth had now disappeared from the man standing in front of him. His head was shaven, his cheeks were sunken and his eyes had retreated into large dark hollows. He was painfully thin. The officer escorting him undid his handcuffs and Steven asked the man to wait outside. He indicated to Little that he should sit opposite him at the table.

‘ My name’s Dunbar,’ said Steven, showing his ID card. ‘I work for the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’m looking into certain aspects of the Julie Summers case.’

Little looked Steven in the eye but didn’t say anything. Steven thought it was a classic ‘You-didn’t-ask-a-question-so-I’m-not-replying’ response.

‘ I’d appreciate if you would answer some questions,’ said Steven.

Little got out of his chair as if to indicate that the interview was at an end.

‘ Sit down,’ snapped Steven.

Little sat down and resumed his stare.

Steven found it unnerving. It wasn’t dumb insolence; it was something more detached. It was the look of a man who had given up on life, someone who was no longer a participant but merely a disinterested spectator.

‘ I won’t bullshit you,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t feel any sympathy for you. What you did to that young girl was beyond the pale. But why you did it is another matter and I’m willing to concede that there are all sorts of mental aberrations that medicine knows very little about. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe you couldn’t help yourself. But whatever the reason, you can help lessen the aftermath of what happened by answering my questions.’

Little made no response. He simply maintained his stare.

‘ I’ll be straight with you,’ said Steven. ‘I’m here because a man in the State Hospital at Carstairs, a convicted killer named Hector Combe, confessed on his deathbed to the rape and murder of Julie Summers.’

Although Little didn’t say anything Steven saw a change of expression in his eyes. It was only there for a moment but he was almost certain that he saw the veil lift to be replaced by… what? He found that harder to interpret. Sadness was the best that he could come up with but he suspected it was far deeper than that. It was as if, in an instant, Little had caught a glimpse of what his life might have been like had things been different. ‘Did you ever meet Hector Combe?’ Steven asked.

Little shook his head slowly.

‘ You’re absolutely sure?’

A nod of the head.

‘ Julie scratched you on the arm,’ said Steven. ‘Tell me about it.’

Little behaved as if he hadn’t heard. His gaze moved off to the middle distance.

‘ Did you hear what I said?’ prompted Steven.

Little remained silent.

‘ Come on man,’ urged Steven. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose by telling me now.’

‘ I can’t help you,’ said Little, speaking for the first time and taking Steven by surprise. The voice was calm and cultured.

‘ Why?’ demanded Steven. ‘What’s the big silence all about? Does shutting yourself off make the guilt easier to bear? If you maintain you’re innocent you don’t ever have to face up to the guilt? Is that it? If you don’t say the words it can’t be true? Christ man, you’ve got a lot of years ahead of you to keep that up.’

Little seemed unimpressed. He looked down at Steven’s ID card lying on the table. ‘You’re a doctor,’ he said.

Steven nodded.

Little leaned forward and planted the index finger of his right hand on his right cheek and held it there. ‘What do you think this is?’ he asked.

Steven took a closer look and saw there was a small purple lesion there.

‘ And here,’ said Little, moving his finger to the side of his neck.

Steven saw another purple mark. His blood ran cold as he recognised what the lesions were. ‘Good God,’ he murmured. ‘Kaposi’s sarcoma.’

‘ Well done,’ said Little, without emotion.

‘ Are you telling me you’ve got AIDS?’ asked Steven.

‘ I think we can both agree on that,’ said Little.

‘ But… how?’ asked Steven.

Little let a long silence elapse before he said, ‘When I first came here some of my fellow prisoners — fine upstanding chaps that they are — felt I should be taught a lesson. They decided that I should know what it felt like to be raped — just like my “victim”. At least, I think that was the rationale behind it.’

‘ My God,’ whispered Steven. ‘And you finished up with AIDS.’

Little’s silence was more eloquent than any reply. Eventually he said, ‘So you see, I won’t have all the years you imagine.’

‘ But you must be getting treatment,’ said Steven, although it was more of a question. The look on Little’s face made his blood go even colder. ‘The authorities don’t know?’ he asked almost incredulously. ‘You haven’t told anyone?’

‘ No point,’ said Little. ‘And they haven’t noticed although they probably will when the next little pathological ‘treat’ for me arrives. What d’you reckon? Pneumocystis pneumonia? Tuberculosis? Some creeping fungal infection? Maybe a brain tumour?’

Like Little, Steven knew there was no way of predicting what a person with AIDS would fall prey to next once their immune system had packed in and left them open to the myriad invading forces of the microbial world. ‘But surely the prison doctor noticed these marks on you?’ he said.

‘ He might spot a broken leg on a good day,’ said Little.

‘ But my God man, there’s a lot they can do to help these days. You should be on combination therapy,’ said Steven.

The look on Little’s face made Steven suddenly realise that he was overlooking the now obvious fact that Little didn’t have much interest in slowing down the condition that was going to kill him.

Little read Steven’s mind and said quietly, ‘I’ve really nothing left to lose. My job, my wife, my children, my freedom, my self-respect — all long gone. Ironic really but AIDS is going to be my saviour, my get-out-of-jail card. No more hell on earth, just sweet, beautiful, endless sleep.’

‘ I don’t know what to say,’ said Steven.

‘ Just as long as you don’t start suggesting it’s God’s way of punishing me,’ said Little.

‘ No,’ replied Steven. ‘I won’t do that but I’d still like you to answer my questions if it’s all the same to you.’

‘ I can’t.’

‘ Why not?’

‘ Because I had nothing to do with Julie Summers’ murder.’

Steven shook his head in exasperation but he still felt disconcerted when he saw that the man clearly believed what he was saying. ‘For God’s sake man,’ he protested, ‘the prosecution came up with a perfect DNA match for you.’

‘ So they did,’ said Little sarcastically.

‘ So what are you suggesting? That they made the whole lot up?’

Little’s slight shrug seemed to suggest an affirmative.

‘ How? Why?’

Little shrugged again.

‘ I’m sorry, I don’t believe you,’ said Steven.

Little did not show any reaction. He said simply, ‘Neither did my wife, the police, the prosecuting counsel, the judge and the jury,’ replied Little. ‘It really doesn’t matter any more. It’ll soon be over.’

Steven felt uneasy. Although he felt that continuing denial must be Little’s way of dealing with the burden of guilt, the fact that the evidence against him — however good — had come from Lee’s lab was still a worry. He got up from the table and Little did the same.

The Prison officers came back into the room on hearing the sound of the chairs moving back and Steven watched as Little was led away.

As he left the room, Little turned and said, ‘I really didn’t kill her.’

‘ Like fuck you didn’t,’ growled the officer escorting him.

‘ Some of them are like that,’ said the man with the harelip. ‘They go to their grave insisting they were innocent.’

‘ If I want Mickey Mouse psychiatry, I’ll let you know,’ snapped Steven, almost immediately regretting it. He was on edge.

‘ Get what you wanted?’ asked Cummings.

‘ Not exactly. Did you know David Little has full-blown AIDS?’ replied Steven.

‘ Christ, you’re kidding!’ exclaimed Cummings.

Steven’s accusing look removed any doubt.

‘ Jesus Christ, that’s all I need,’ complained Cummings as he picked up the phone and punched in four numbers. ‘Is the Doctor still there? Gone? Shit.’ Cummings slammed down the receiver and looked at Steven. ‘You’re sure about this?’ he asked.

‘ He’s got Kaposi’s sarcoma on his face and neck. It’s usually a sure sign.’

‘ How on earth would he get…?’

‘ Male rape,’ interrupted Steven.

‘ Christ,’ murmured Cummings. After a moment he thought he saw an objection and said, ‘But he’s been on rule 43 for years.’

‘ AIDS can take several years to develop,’ said Steven.

‘ Of course,’ conceded Cummings. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Look, I’ll get on to the doctor at home and tell him to get his bloody finger out and organise some treatment for Little. Best I can do.’

‘ He may refuse. He wants to die.’

‘ I’ll have to see what the rule book says.’

‘ I want to take a buccal swab from Little,’ said Steven.

Cummings seemed shocked. ‘What for?’

‘ I want to check his DNA profile.’

Cummings stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears then he said, ‘That’s all we need, a rumour starting that Little is innocent. You do know what you’re doing?’ he asked.

Steven remained impassive.

Cummings made a steeple with his hands and covered his mouth and nose for a few moments before seeming to conclude that any argument would be pointless. He simple asked, ‘What do you need?’

‘ Just a cotton swab and a sterile tube.’

Harelip was detailed to take Steven first to the sickbay to pick up supplies and then to David Little’s cell.

‘ I thought we’d said our good byes,’ said Little who was sitting reading a copy of the science magazine, Nature.

‘ I’d like to take a buccal smear from you,’ said Steven.

‘ What for?’

‘ DNA fingerprinting.’

‘ Is this some kind of sick joke?’

‘ I want to compare it with samples taken at the crime scene of Julie Summers’ murder. A second opinion if you like. Something your lawyer should have done.’

‘ He believed I was guilty from the outset. That was obvious.’

‘ So what was your defence?’ asked Steven.

‘ My lawyer said he was willing to enter a plea of insanity but that there was no point in arguing about technicalities: the evidence against me was so overwhelming.’

‘ Who was your lawyer?’

‘ Paul Verdi of Seymour, Nicholson and Verdi.’

‘ What did you say to that?’

‘ I said it was all some awful mistake. There must have been some mix-up in the lab but no one would listen, not even Charlotte. I’ll never forget the look on her face when…’

‘ About that swab?’ said Steven, wanting the conversation to end.

‘ There’s no point,’ said Little.

Steven looked at him. ‘Scared of what I’ll come up with?’ he asked. ‘Think you might have to face up to your guilt after all?’

Little didn’t reply. Instead he opened his mouth and allowed Steven to rub the cotton-tipped swab around the inside of his right cheek.

‘ Tell me one thing,’ said Steven as he carefully placed the swab inside a sterile tube, making sure that the tip did not touch anything else. ‘How did you get the scratch you had on your arm when you were arrested?’

‘ Our cat, Romeo, did it.’