‘You coming?’
‘In a moment. I’m sorry.’
She stood by the door. ‘What for?’
‘Bringing it all up again.’
‘Yeah,’ she replied, turning. ‘So am I.’
‘Do you know what really frightens me?’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’
‘I’m meeting with a man who claims to have killed for fun. It’s his sole motive. According to him, he just went ahead and did it, because he wanted to. Yet I find myself wondering what is it about him that obsesses me? And it all comes back to me. He did something, grotesque, irrational, something I can’t possibly make any sense out of. Just like I did – when I hit you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adrian …!’
‘I think … I fear that in some senses Rattigan and I are possibly the same,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve both harmed others without a real motive. Perhaps that’s why I’m so hellbent on finding his. Because if I did it’d give me some kind of chance to apply it on myself. I don’t know, make me less of a monster than him.’
She’d had enough. ‘Christ’s sake, Adrian! Listen to yourself. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not a monster, you haven’t killed anyone, and you’re putting far too much of you into the whole stupid business. Honestly, it’s like comparing a petty shoplifter with the Great Train Robbers. You’re talking crap. I’m going upstairs.’
Which she did.
PC KILLER TO HANG
The trial of Joseph Attwood Rattigan concluded yesterday, when Judge Andrew Beaumont Clarke pronounced the death sentence for the silent defendant found guilty of the murder of PC John Scrimshaw, after a late-night brawl during January.
The jury deliberated for less than an hour before returning their unanimous guilty verdict, leaving Judge Clarke with no option but to don the black cap as he passed sentence.
Throughout the nine-day trial, the defendant had refused to take the stand, offering a plea of diminished responsibility and manslaughter, subsequently refused by the court. Upon sentencing, Rattigan silently shook his head, before being taken down.
The guilty verdict comes as no surprise to many who have followed the case. Evidence offered by the Crown during the trial supported its contentions that PC Scrimshaw had been mercilessly attacked while about his duties on the night of January 15th, 1949. Witnesses were able to testify that Rattigan had been seen drinking heavily in a series of public houses found on the Mile End Road, when, stumbling upon PC Scrimshaw about his duties, he proceeded to enter into a drunken verbal exchange with the 22-year-old police officer.
An altercation ensued which rapidly developed into a violent assault on the officer, resulting in Rattigan pushing Scrimshaw through a plate-glass window of a grocery shop. PC Scrimshaw was later identified as dead at the scene of the crime, his throat fatally cut from injuries sustained during his fall through the shop front.
It was only the selfless action of three brave passers-by who managed to manhandle the fleeing Rattigan to the ground as he sought to escape, so bringing the cowardly killer swiftly to justice.
At no point during the trial was Rattigan prepared to offer any motivation for his crime, leaving the jury with little option but to conclude that the defendant’s actions were the result of overintoxication due to drink.
In passing sentence, Judge Clarke stated, ‘It is the intention of this court that your punishment serve as a warning to all others foolish enough to consider assaulting officers of the law as legitimate sport, following reckless drinking of the sort you were undoubtedly involved in immediately preceding Officer Scrimshaw’s untimely demise. Let no one be in any doubt – the law has only one response to perpetrators of this vile, increasing crime. Police officers of any rank will be protected by the law, using its ultimate sanction. And those of us empowered to dispense the righteous justice of retribution will not cower from the responsibilities of our office.’
Solicitors representing Rattigan thought it unlikely he would appeal, as the condemned seemed fully resigned to his fate. At no stage during interviews with arresting officers did Rattigan ever express remorse for his crime, or give solid reasons for his unprovoked attack on PC Scrimshaw.
The Times, Wednesday, 2nd April, 1949.
Forty-eight hours later, I found myself back in the smoky, pokey office of Dr Stephen Clancy once more. He had in front of him a thin manilla file entitled HMP Oakwood High Security – Graduate Training Programme. My name had been crudely added to the cover.
I had no idea why he’d asked to see me.
‘Come in, sit down,’ he gushed. ‘Glad you could come.’
‘Is there some sort of problem, Steve?’ I asked.
‘Problem? Good heavens, no. Just thought maybe we should have a little chat.’
‘Could’ve used the phone, surely?’
He shifted a little. ‘I wanted to talk face to face, Adrian. Clear the air, perhaps.’
‘Go on.’
He chose his words with care. ‘I gather from speaking with Neil Allen that you expressed some surprise that I kept him so closely informed of our conversations.’
‘I can’t remember saying anything at the time.’
Another long draw on the cigar. ‘He sensed it. He’s a master of body language.’
‘Now that you mention it, I was a little taken aback.’
‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly standard. I’m more or less obliged to report back, so to speak. It’s nothing personal. Just the form.’
‘The form?’
‘Procedure, dear chap. Let’s just say that one has to exercise great caution when allowing research students to meet with inmates. The experience can prove … a little upsetting to those with sensitive dispositions.’
I began putting the pieces together. ‘And neither Oakwood or the university would want any adverse publicity should something go wrong, right?’
He smiled. ‘You probably think we’re all being dreadfully paranoid, but we have good reason. Very occasionally, exposure to Rattigan and his like can have unforeseen consequences. A similar scheme in Cumbria nearly came unstuck two years ago. The student in question, a woman, I believe, jumped from a tower block midway through her thesis researches.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Fancy held up a hand. ‘Now, I’m not saying there was any connection between her death and the work at the hospital, but it could’ve turned nasty. I mean, for all we know, the woman’s love life was probably in a damn mess.’
‘You’re all heart, aren’t you?’
‘I’m merely saying it doesn’t do to make any assumptions. You only have to cast your mind back to the field day the damn press had with the balls-up at Ashworth to realize the Home Office is rather keen any whiff of scandal emanating from Her Majesty’s secure hospitals is kept to an absolute minimum.’
I well remembered Ashworth, the catalogue of damning allegations made by an inmate concerning visits by children to suspected paedophiles. ‘You say don’t make assumptions, Steve, yet you assume I’m a candidate for the suicide-watch, too?’
He laughed, stubbed out the cigar. ‘Good God, no. It’s simply that I know you far better than Allen does. And if it looks like the pressure’s