Six Months Later
A crowd had gathered outside the front gate of Wandsworth Prison. It was early evening and its number continued to be swollen by people who were on their way home from work. The mood was quiet but even so, a small squad of riot-police was in attendance.
Jake arrived early, having misjudged the time needed to get through the evening traffic. She parked her car in a nearby garden centre and, to fill in time, bought some geraniums for her window box. As she waited for the assistant to debit her cash card, it crossed Jake’s mind that she could buy some flowers for Esterhazy, that he might welcome some colour in the last few hours of his conscious life. She glanced about her and, seeing nothing that wasn’t rooted in soil, asked the assistant if they had any flowers. He sniggered and pointed out to the yard where there were hundreds of plants flowering.
‘What do you think they are?’ he sneered.
‘No, I want cut flowers.’
The man’s sneer grew deeper. ‘This is a garden centre,’ he said. ‘Gardens grow, know what I mean? You want cut flowers I suggest you walk down to the cemetery on Magdalen Road. You’ll get cut flowers there, although speaking for myself, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to cut something down as was already growing.’
‘Spare me the botany lecture,’ said Jake, and selected a well-bloomed hyacinth, one of the new red variety, from a box nearby.
‘You don’t want to take that one,’ said the assistant. ‘That one’s in full flower. Be finished in a day or so. Best have one that’s still budding.’
Jake shook her head. Another day would be too late for Esterhazy. ‘No, this one will do just fine.’
‘Please yourself,’ said the man.
Having placed the geraniums in the boot of her car, she walked on towards the prison gate. She thought it was probably safer to leave her car where it was, than in front of the prison. Just in case anyone decided to slash her tyres on the off-chance that the car belonged to a member of the prison staff. The sun had set but she kept her sunglasses on, to stop anyone recognising her. Esterhazy’s trial, and her own role in his capture, had been well reported on television. But the crowd paid Jake little attention as she walked up to the gate, deceived by the red flower she held in her hands. There weren’t many police or Home Office officials arriving at HMP Wandsworth who brought flowers with them. She had presented her ID and was through the door in the gate before any of the demonstrators were aware that it had opened and closed.
‘You here to see the jab?’ enquired the warder still holding Jake’s identity card in his gloved fingers.
She said that she was and the warder picked up a computer.
‘Just a mo’, while I check you off on the guest-list,’ he said. He grinned to himself as his forefinger held down one of the keys. The computer clicked like a geiger-counter as it scrolled down a long list of names. ‘We wouldn’t want any gate-crashers, would we? Yes, you’re all right, ma‘am.’ He glanced uncertainly at the potted plant.
Jake wondered if he was thinking of inspecting it for drugs or something.
‘Is that for him?’ he said.
‘Yes. All right?’
The warder shrugged. ‘Under the circumstances, I s’pose so. I’ll get one of my men to walk you down to the new wing.’
‘Don’t bother. I know my way.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the warder and returned to reading the previous day’s edition of the News of the World. On the front page was a photograph of a rather bemused-looking Esterhazy, underneath a headline which read, ‘PSYCHO KILLER GETS THE HOT MILK TOMORROW’.
Jake grimaced and walked quickly away.
Wandsworth’s Punitive Coma Wing was of recent construction. It had even won an award from the Institute of European Architects. Built of red brick, like the Victorian walls which surrounded it, the PC wing was a large dome resembling an observatory from the outside, and a library from the inside. Reinforced-concrete ribs supported a ceiling of many windows which from beneath looked like the huge eye of God. Around the interior circumference were what seemed to be large filing drawers, many of which, like a mortuary, contained the comatose bodies of convicts.
The PC wing was colder than the outside air, being partly refrigerated, and, dressed in a light linen summer-suit, Jake was soon shivering. She quickened her step as she crossed the main floor underneath the eye of the dome, heading towards the holding cells.
The sight of one open drawer, slightly larger than a coffin, interrupted her step. Curious, she stopped to examine it more closely. The bottom of the drawer was upholstered in soft black calf leather, which was the only concession made to the prevention of pressure sores. A number of tubes and catheters, which would be attached to the convict’s body, protruded from the drawer’s sides. On the front of the cabinet was a small flat screen on which the body functions could be read and a card key lock to prevent anyone from interfering with the drawer’s occupant. Jake’s shiver progressed as far as her jaws, and rubbing her bare arms she quickly carried on her way.
In an antechamber close to where Esterhazy was spending his last few conscious hours, a small group of people had assembled. Most of them were faces she recognised from the Home Office and the Brain Research Institute: Mark Woodford, Professor Waring, and Mrs Grace Miles. For the first time, television cameras were also there to cover the event, having successfully petitioned the High Court that if print journalists were allowed to witness such events, then why not other media as well?
Jake stopped to see how ITN was covering the event and was all the more interested when she saw that the programme was being presented by Anna Kreisler. She herself had been the object of serial killer David Boysfield’s obsession; and this was the case which Jake had made the subject of her lecture to the EC Symposium on law and order when first she had been requested to command the Wittgenstein investigation. It all seemed like a very long time ago to her now.
Anna Kreisler, elegantly suited in Chanel, with the slightly plastic good looks and perky air of a model air-hostess, was responding to questions posed on air by an unseen studio anchor-man. It was an indication of the importance that ITN were attaching to coverage of the punishment that Kreisler was there in person and not behind her usual desk in the studio.
‘What’s the atmosphere like there in Wandsworth Gaol, Anna?’
‘Well, as you can imagine, Peter, it’s very tense here. A sizeable crowd has gathered outside the walls of Wandsworth Gaol to protest against Paul Esterhazy’s punishment, and although the police are in attendance, they’re not expecting any trouble. This kind of thing differs very much from what used to happen with capital punishment because, unlike then, now there is no expectation of a last minute reprieve. Telephone calls from the Home Secretary commuting a sentence to life imprisonment are a thing of the past, because of course there is no such thing as life imprisonment. I spoke to the prison governor a little earlier and he told me that Paul Esterhazy ate a light dinner at around five o’clock and that he refused the opportunity to speak to a priest. Since then I understand that he’s spending his last few hours watching television.’
‘So he might even be watching this broadcast. Anna, we still don’t know much about Esterhazy’s motives for these dreadful crimes: at the trial it was suggested that the balance of Esterhazy’s mind may have been affected by protracted use of reality approximation programs. Has there been any word from Esterhazy himself as to what made him into a mass-murderer? Any indication of remorse?’
‘No indications of remorse whatsoever, Peter. Of course, we now know that the background for these murders was the Lombroso Program and that, like Esterhazy himself, many of his victims had been given the names of famous philosophers in order to protect their identities. Esterhazy was himself an undergraduate at Oxford University until he was sent down for drug abuse, and some commentators have suggested that this may have brought about a resentment of intellectuals in general, and philosophers in particular. It’s also a bizarre coincidence, but like the r
eal Ludwig Wittgenstein whose name Esterhazy was given, he himself came from a rich Austro-Germanic family, and spent some time working in the pharmacy at Guy’s Hospital. This was one of the factors which was alleged to have contributed to Esterhazy’s failed defence of not guilty by reason of insanity.’
‘Anna, you’ve spoken to lots of people who have met Esterhazy. What kind of a man is he?’
‘By all accounts, a highly intelligent one, Peter. Well read, well educated, skilled with computers. He was popular at work too. Many of the people who knew him at Guy’s said he was a nice man, well-mannered, the studious type who wouldn’t have harmed a fly. But at the same time it seems he was a rather solitary, lonely figure. We know how he became estranged from his parents many years ago, and so far there has been no sign that they have any wish to re-enter his life at this late stage in the day. Records also prove that Esterhazy was married for a while, but his wife divorced him and has since changed her name. All attempts to trace her have so far proved fruitless.’
‘So in many ways, even now he’s in custody awaiting punishment, Esterhazy remains something of a mystery?’
‘Very much so, Peter. What’s frustrating a lot of people is that carrying out this punishment today might mean we never discover any more about him. But it’s only fair to say that Esterhazy may be something of a mystery even to himself. There have been occasions, especially during the trial, when he seemed unable to distinguish between reality and an approximation of reality, as I think you mentioned earlier. For that reason there are lots of people who believe that the proper place for Paul Esterhazy is not in a PC drawer, but in a hospital for the criminally insane.’
‘You mentioned the Government’s Lombroso Program, Anna: where do you think this leaves that and other controversial aspects of the Government’s law and order policy?’
‘Critics of the current policy, most notably the opposition spokesman on Law and Order, Tony Bedford MP, have argued that the Lombroso Program constitutes an invasion of human rights and should be scrapped. But I think that’s unlikely to happen, Peter, since the European Court has already ruled that since the accent of the Program is on care and counselling people who have an innate capacity to develop an aggressive disorder, the Program does not constitute a violation of human rights. Nevertheless radical changes will have to be made, not least to the Program’s security, and it’s being said that heads will have to roll. But until the results of the public inquiry, we won’t know how the system’s security was breached and exactly who will be held accountable. And of course until that result, the Program itself remains in suspension.
‘I’m now joined by the Minister for Law and Order, Mrs Grace Miles. Mrs Miles, how do you answer the critics of punitive coma who say that it is a cruel and unusual punishment and has no place in a civilised society such as ours?’
Mrs Miles smiled, almost painfully.
‘First of all, Miss Kreisler, let me correct an earlier remark that was made about the Lombroso Program. The Lombroso Program is not just this Government’s policy. It is part of the policy of the European Community, as enacted by all the member nations in the European Parliament. It just happens to have been introduced in this country first of all.
‘Now to your questions about punitive coma, I would say this: the European Court has ruled that it is neither cruel, nor unusual. This kind of punishment has existed in the United States for a number of years and has many proven advantages, which I don’t propose to discuss now. This hardly seems like the most appropriate time. However I will say this about its detractors. What surprises me about them is that their arguments are the same arguments that these same people used to use against the return of hanging. I myself was, and am against capital punishment. But everyone felt that in certain cases, such as this one, some punishment tougher than imprisonment was required. I think PC does that job very well indeed. And the best argument of all for PC as the law’s ultimate sanction is that, where mistakes are made - and let’s face it, any system is fallible - a sentence can be reversed. I would only add to that that there is clearly no room for doubt in this particular case.
‘Moreover, I for one welcome the presence of cameras here today. The public has a right to know about the punishments meted out in its name and at the taxpayer’s expense. Just as long as the faces of those participating in the execution of the sentence can be obscured. I look on this kind of broadcasting as performing a valuable public service.’
Jake could stand no more of someone as manipulative as Mrs Miles defending the freedom of the press, and walked slowly away from the cameras. She was surprised to find Mark Woodford come after her. She hadn’t seen him since the day when he and Waring had tried to persuade her to let Sir Jameson Lang try and talk Wittgenstein into killing himself.
‘Haven’t had a chance to speak to you,’ he said. ‘But well done, you know. For catching this poor fellow. No hard feelings?’
Jake shook her head. ‘I was just doing my job.’
‘That’s right. We were all acting for what we thought was the best, weren’t we? By the way, congratulations about your promotion. I hear you’re heading up the Murder Squad, now.’
‘It’s just temporary,’ said Jake. ‘Until they can get someone to replace Challis.’
Woodford lowered his voice. ‘Oh I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up doing the job permanently,’ he said. ‘The Minister likes your style.’
Jake glanced back at Mrs Miles who was still talking to Anna Kreisler.
‘I can’t say I care much for hers.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t say I care for my own very much either. Not when I see a circus like this.’ Jake was walking towards the chief warder.
‘Well just remember this: it was you who found the star act.’
‘Like I said, Woodford, I just did my duty.’
‘You heard that Doctor St Pierre resigned?’
Jake said she hadn’t.
‘Oh yes. It’s not public yet. But someone’s head had to roll for what happened. And St Pierre was the obvious candidate, I’m afraid. There’s a new security chap on it now. He’s going to change the whole system procedure, before the Program is implemented throughout the European Community, so there shouldn’t be any more problems of unauthorised entry. And when the thing is up and working it really will make your job a lot easier.’
Jake smiled sardonically. ‘I wonder,’ she said. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me.’
She went over to the chief warder and asked if she could see Esterhazy alone for a few minutes.
The warder looked at the flower and then at Jake. ‘What’s the plant for?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘It’s for Esterhazy,’ she explained. ‘Something beautiful for him to see and smell before he’s PC’d.’
‘Against the regulations probably. But under the circumstances, I suppose it’ll be all right. This way, if you please.’
Jake found Esterhazy watching television in his cell, under the watchful eyes of two warders. His hands manacled in front of him he was sitting on the edge of a chair, engrossed in the BBC’s outside broadcast coverage of his own punishment. When he saw Jake he turned and smiled.
‘Ah, the hyacinth girl,’ he said. ‘You know I shall miss colour most of all. It’s my experience that one only ever dreams in black and white.’
Esterhazy was older and more distinguished than Jake remembered from the trial. Lofty even. Like someone who was easily tired by the mundane thoughts of his fellow men. She was struck by his physical resemblance to the real Wittgenstein. Only he was more athletic — vigorous even — than she might have imagined. And there was about him an air of electric intelligence such as Doctor Frankenstein might have set his sights upon in creating his famous creature. He spoke in an exaggerated sort of way, like a character from some Victorian melodrama. His restless eyes became fixed for a few seconds on the flower in Jake’s hands. She said nothing. He rose from his chair, took the pot out of her trembling hands and laid it on the table beside the t
elevision set.
‘How kind of you to bring me a red flower,’ he said. Nostrils flaring he pushed his whole muzzle into the bloom and closed his eyes.
Jake heard him breathe deeply through his nose, savouring the sweet scent of the flower. He repeated this behaviour several times before his eyes opened again. He glanced at Jake and she saw mischief run down his face like a bead of sweat.
‘If I had asked you to bring me a red flower, would you have looked up the colour red in a table of colours and then brought a flower of the colour that you found in that table?’
Jake shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But when it is a question of choosing or mixing a particular shade of red, we do sometimes make use of a sample or table, do we not?’
‘Yes, we do sometimes,’ she agreed.
‘Well,’ said Esterhazy, returning his slightly-hooked nose to the flower, ‘this is how memory and association may be said to work, within the context of a language game.’
‘You’re still playing games, even now?’
‘Why not?’ He pouted and pointed to the television screen. ‘When I myself am to be made the subject of what might be conceived as a game, albeit a concept with rather blurred edges. Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking if a blurred concept is a concept at all. Is an indistinct photograph a picture of a person at all? Is a man who is neither wholly dead nor wholly alive still a man?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jake. ‘Perhaps.’
He grinned. ‘Then again, perhaps not. It seems to me that I shall be more like this plant. Hair and fingernails pruned from time to time. Watered and weeded. Periodically checked for signs of infestation. But largely shorn of relevance other than the purely symbolic.’
‘You killed people.’