‘What about mail?’
‘He has never received any mail. He has no living relatives, as far as we know.’
‘Did he have any particular friends inside? Anyone who has been released recently?’
The governor shook his head. ‘Nobody has been released from the segregated section for over nine months and nobody is due to be released.’
‘We’ll need the records of all those who have been released from that unit since he has been a prisoner here,’ said Duncton.
The governor nodded. ‘I’ll get on to it. You think he might have … what? Trained an apprentice from here?’
‘It’s possible.’
Delaney shook his head. ‘I think he’s had an accomplice all along and is somehow getting messages to him. What about the guards?’
‘What about them?’
‘Is he ever alone with one of them? Is one of them given particular responsibility for him?’
The governor shook his head again. ‘There’s always a minimum of two guards with him at any time when he is being moved or being treated. It’s prison policy.’
‘Why?’ asked Duncton.
‘Should any accident befall a prisoner …’
‘Which happens,’ said Delaney darkly.
‘Which happens,’ agreed the governor. ‘So protocols are in place.’
‘And in the interview room?’
‘We’ll have eyes on you again, inspector, if not ears. The guards will be just outside at all times.’
‘If they need to come in, tell them not to hurry.’
*
Peter Garnier had his eyes closed. He was humming a tune to himself. Delaney thought it sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. The door closed behind him. He pulled a chair across, sat down and stared at Garnier without speaking.
After sixty seconds Garnier opened his eyes. Blinking behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘The first person to speak loses. Is that it?’
Delaney didn’t reply.
Garnier smiled. His lips thin, bloodless.
Delaney could picture the disease working its way through him. Destroying the neurons in his brain. Some time in the future and he wouldn’t be able to control his balance, movement, speech or even the ability to swallow. The soulless obscenity of the disease. Delaney used to think that nobody deserved it. But Garnier did. He just hoped the drugs they were giving him kept him alive as long as possible. The longer he suffered the better.
‘I’ll make a deal with you, Inspector Delaney,’ said Garnier.
‘I don’t make deals with pond scum.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘To look you in the face and tell you it’s over.’
‘You’re here to make a bargain. You need my help and you know it.’
‘You’ll die eventually, Garnier. And like I promised, when you do I’ll come and piss on your grave.’
‘What is it the media are calling my old stomping ground? Death Row, isn’t it?’
Again, Delaney didn’t reply.
‘But we’re all living on Death Row, Delaney. We’re all going to die. It’s when and how that’s important.’
‘You are going to die alone and in pain.’
‘Do you know what the Apache Indians believed?’ Garnier didn’t wait for Delaney to reply. ‘They believed that everybody had a spirit. Or essence. Not what the Christians think of as a soul. More like what Philip Pullman refers to as dust, or stuff. Wasn’t it dust that Jahweh blew into Adam’s mouth to give him life, after all? Have you read Philip Pullman, inspector?’
Delaney stared flatly at him.
‘The Apache warrior believed that the slower and more painful a person’s death, the more of his essence the killer took from his victim. Likewise, the mightier the opponent the warrior slayed … the better the essence he took from him, or her. Or someone of spiritual significance.’ He looked at Delaney pointedly. ‘You know, like a priest … or a nun.’
‘You’re a warrior now, are you, Garnier?’
‘I’m a collector, inspector. A special kind. I’ve been collecting life force. It makes me stronger than you can possibly imagine.’
‘You’re not looking too strong to me just now.’
