‘Is that unusual?’
‘For someone like Robyn, yes. Obviously our emotionally disturbed inmates have communication problems, and some are so heavily medicated that communication is difficult if not impossible, but Robyn isn’t on any medication and she is quite articulate. She simply refuses to open up to us.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
The doctor exhaled through pursed lips. ‘Hand on heart, I think she knows that she is going to be behind bars for the rest of her life, either in a secure mental facility such as Rampton or, if she is ever found to be sane, then in a high-security prison. If she takes that view then there is nothing to be gained by accepting any treatment that might help her.’
‘She’ll never be released?’
‘It’s up to the Home Secretary, but look at what happened with Myra Hindley. And what Robyn did was considerably more — ’ he struggled to find the right word — ‘horrific, I suppose. I doubt that the great British public would ever allow her to be released.’
‘But could she be cured? If she cooperated?’
Dr Keller looked pained. ‘Again, hand on heart, I don’t think so. She’s a classic sociopath and there’s no magic cure for that. She’s not the way she is because of a chemical imbalance or because of something that happened to her in the past. She is simply wired differently to you and me.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘She’s physically different; her neurones, her neural pathways, they’re just different, and nothing is ever going to change that. She butchered young children and never showed any remorse, or any guilt, and I don’t think any amount of therapy is going to make a scrap of difference.’
‘Like paedophiles,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s their nature and you can’t ever change them.’
The doctor nodded in agreement. ‘It’s a similar condition,’ he said. ‘There are ways of controlling the impulses of paedophiles, but basically you are right. Once a paedophile, always a paedophile. Once a sociopath…’ He finished the sentence with a shrug. ‘We can keep your sister away from society so that she isn’t a danger to others, but so far as treatment goes…’ He shrugged again. ‘Let’s just say that I don’t believe in miracles.’
‘Who does, these days?’ said Nightingale.
38
A CCTV camera monitored their progress as Dr Keller and Nightingale walked down a long corridor. The walls were painted pale green below waist height and the upper half was cream. There were fluorescent lights set into the ceiling, shielded by wire mesh.
‘Prior to 2001 we were administered by the Home Office, along with Broadmoor and Ashworth special hospitals,’ said Dr Keller. ‘But since 2001 we’ve been part of the Nottinghamshire Healthcare NHS trust. So, strictly speaking, we are a hospital. But all NHS regions can avail themselves of our high-security service, making us a dumping ground for problem patients around the country.’
‘But they’re all insane, right? That’s why they’re here?’
Dr Keller laughed. ‘That’s the way the media portrays us, but it’s not as simple as that. We do have a large number of patients with mental-health issues, that goes without saying. But we also care for patients who are deaf or have learning disabilities but have to be placed in a high-security setting. And of course we do have a Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Unit, which is where we’re going now.’
‘That’s where my sister is?’
‘She was convicted of five horrendous murders, Mr Nightingale. Where else would she be?’ He unlocked another barred gate and they went through. ‘That’s not to say that all our patients have been through the criminal justice system. About a quarter haven’t been convicted of anything but have been detained under the Mental Health Act.’ He stopped in front of a door. ‘This is our visiting area,’ he said. ‘There has to be a guard present at all times, I’m afraid. But the guard is there for security reasons and won’t be eavesdropping.’
He pushed open the door to reveal a room with several tables, each with four chairs that were bolted to the floor. At the far end of the room were two vending machines, one filled with snacks and chocolate, the other for dispensing drinks.
‘Please take a seat and I’ll have your sister brought in,’ he said. As Nightingale sat down, Dr Keller took a transceiver from the pocket of his white coat and spoke into it. He then walked over to the table where Nightingale was sitting. ‘She’s on her way. I’ll ask the guard to bring you back to my office when you’re done. I’d be interested to hear how you got on.’
Dr Keller left the room and it was almost fifteen minutes before the door opened and a female guard appeared.
‘Mr Nightingale?’ she said. She was in her thirties with close-cropped black hair and a fierce stare.
‘That’s me,’ said Nightingale.
The guard stepped to the side and a woman walked in. Nightingale wasn’t expecting to see a family resemblance but he was still taken aback by how small she was. Barely five feet tall. She was wearing a baggy grey polo-neck sweater, dark blue Adidas tracksuit bottoms and red Converse tennis shoes. She didn’t look up as she walked over to the table and all he could see of her face was a slightly pointed chin and pale lips. Her hair was dyed blonde but the roots were chestnut brown. Nightingale realised her hair was pretty much the same colour as his own.
She sat down and clasped her hands together, keeping her head down so that he was faced with a wall of blonde hair. The guard walked over to the vending machines and stood there with her arms folded.
Nightingale leaned forward. ‘Did Dr Keller tell you who I am?’ he asked, his voice a low whisper.
Robyn said nothing. She stared down at the table, breathing through her mouth.
‘He told you I’m your brother? My name’s Jack.’
‘Bollocks,’ she whispered.
‘It’s true. They wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.’
She continued to stare at the table, breathing heavily. Her hands were still clasped together, the fingernails bitten to the quick.
‘Robyn?’
She flinched as if she’d been struck but still refused to look at him.
‘I’m your brother, Robyn.’
For several seconds she didn’t react and for a moment he thought she hadn’t heard him, then she slowly raised her head. ‘No way,’ she said.
‘Way. Big way.’
She looked up. Her eyes were dark brown, so dark that the irises were almost black. Her eyebrows were thin, as if they’d been carefully plucked. ‘What do you mean, big way? That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I’m guessing it means the opposite of no way. I’m your brother.’
‘I was an only child.’
‘We have the same father. There’s no doubt. I checked your DNA.’
‘How did you get my DNA?’
‘It’s on file. Everyone who’s been arrested is in the system. There’s no doubt, Robyn.’
‘If you’re my brother, why didn’t my parents tell me?’
‘Because they didn’t know.’
She sat back in her chair, folded her arms and scowled at him. ‘You’re full of shit,’ she said. ‘How could they be your parents and not know?’
‘Because you were adopted, Robyn. You were adopted and so was I. Our father was a man called Ainsley Gosling. He killed himself a few weeks ago.’
‘I wasn’t adopted,’ she said flatly.
‘You were. On the day of your birth. That’s what happened to me. I was adopted by Bill and Irene Nightingale.’
‘So you’re Jack Nightingale?’
Nightingale nodded.
