‘Take a look at him now: skin like a patchwork quilt. He’s been bottled so many times, he’s bloated like a stuck pig; he’s lost his teeth, he’s deaf from a blow to the head and he’s been kicked in the testicles so often by the inmates he walks as if he’s got a trolley between his knees.’
Langton shoved the most recent pictures of Sutcliffe directly under Oates’s nose, but he turned away, waving his hand. Then he leaned closer, whispering.
‘I do the devil’s work, I need to pray.’
‘I will make sure you get there, Henry, and this is what you have got to look forward to for the rest of your dirty disgusting life. You’ll be able to trade prayers with him, he might even come on to you, they can’t keep their hands off fresh meat, even with all the surveillance and officers trying to protect the poor demented souls. You will get knifed, razored, bottled and raped, they’ll give you medication to dull your whimpering crying and you will never get released – that’s what they do to inmates that can’t take the mental strain: crush it, crush you.’
Langton turned to the cell door, folding the pictures and stuffing them into his jacket pocket.
‘You say your prayers, Henry, you are going to need them. They’ll be taking you away tonight, unless…’
Oates’s wide frightened eyes blinked rapidly.
‘You can assist us. Tell the police doctor you’re fine and it was all an act. Then if you help close our cases you could end up in a nice secure prison with your own private cell, TV, computer games, we can sort that, make sure of it if you help us; we notify the authorities, tell them this guy is not all bad, he’s intelligent, he’s not a crazy, no way is he mentally unfit, he’s too sharp, too clever, and he deserves some respect because without his help we’d never have nailed him.’
Oates sucked in his breath. Langton glanced at his watch.
‘You’ve got five minutes before I call the wagon to get you carted back to prison, then it’s on to Broadmoor when that solicitor of yours insists you are incapable of standing trial. You are going down for the murder of Justine Marks, for the murder of Fidelis Julia Flynn, you know that, no way out of that, but get the others off your chest, Henry, come clean with us and stop fucking around.’
Langton had his hand on the cell door, ready to leave, when Henry Oates whispered, ‘I want to make a statement.’
Mike was furious as there had been a press leak. This meant he’d had to get hold of the press office, who wanted a statement they could release regarding the arrest of Henry Oates. Mike kept it very brief: they had a suspect in custody following the disappearance of Fidelis Julia Flynn, but as yet no charges had been brought. The press officer asked if this was also connected to Rebekka Jordan, as there had been enquiries from Fleet Street. Mike admitted that their suspect was also being questioned about her disappearance, but gave no more details.
Anna had listened and could see how riled-up Mike was, but leaks happened, it could even have come from inside the prison. She felt he had handled it well, but hoped the press wouldn’t speculate further. It could create a lot of media attention, and they really didn’t want that at this stage.
Langton walked back into Mike’s office, leaned against the door and smiled. Anna turned, half expecting him to call it quits for the night at least.
‘Henry Oates wants to make a statement. He’s quiet now and the police doctor’s with him. Give him another fifteen minutes, cup of coffee, get him brought back up from his cell. If he acts up again or refuses to answer any further questions, charge him with Fidelis Julia Flynn’s murder then call it a day and take him to the magistrates’ court in the morning.’
Mike looked at his watch – it was already five-fifteen, and the thought of conducting another round of questions with Oates made him feel sick.
‘How about we do this in the morning?’
‘No bloody way, get some black coffee down you and get the energy up,’ Langton retorted.
Anna said nothing, but like Mike did she found the thought of going back into another session with Oates daunting. She stood up and said she would arrange the refreshments. She would also talk to Kumar to let him know they were about to continue the interview of his client.
Kumar was astonished, and pointed out that it was almost six o’clock. He was also peeved that he had been left in the reception area waiting to know what was happening.
‘Your client wants to make a statement,’ she said, almost enjoying his reaction.
It all took slightly longer than Langton had anticipated and it was six-thirty before they reconvened in the interview room to wait for Oates to be brought up from his cell. Kumar had complained sulkily that he should have been told sooner that his client wanted to make a statement. Mike replied curtly that he was almost as surprised as Kumar was, especially after the performance they had all witnessed.
‘Performance? My God, it was perfectly obvious that my client was breaking down and incapable of even talking coherently.’
Before Mike could answer the heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor outside and the interview-room door opened. Oates did not appear to be suffering any adverse effects from his ‘breakdown’ as he sauntered in and sat in the same seat without saying a word.
Kumar asked him if he would like to have a private consultation before the interview began. Oates shook his head and then looked at Mike and Anna.
‘You don’t have to show me nothing. I don’t need to see anything you got, I’m gonna tell you the truth and get it over with.’
He didn’t look as if he was unstable, or even close to it, but there was a strange look about him that made Anna and Mike apprehensive of what was to come. He folded his hands in front of him on the table.
‘Shall I start now?’
Anna kept her voice low and controlled as she very quietly said that when he was ready he could begin, but if he wanted she could repeat what they had been discussing before he had halted the last interview session.
‘Strange it didn’t burn when I set light to the Jeep. That doll’s arm was wood and you’d have thought it would burn. I never even saw it, didn’t know it was there, it must have fallen out of her pocket.’
Oates closed his eyes.
‘The other things I found in her jacket; the head and the leg, I think it was. I got rid of everything else, but I kept those items – stupid really, but they reminded me of what I’d done. Sounds odd, I suppose, that I ever needed to be reminded, because I never forgot anything, forgot nothing, but I always kept a little something. Sometimes I would play with them, not like a kid, no, I’d just lay the stuff out and look at it. Gave me a sense of power, do you understand? It made all the shit in my life go away.’
Anna glanced at Mike. He seemed unsure as to whether or not he should interrupt, but Anna knew they had to get some direction in the rambling monologue.
‘Mr Oates, when you say you had a feeling of power, was this over your victims? Explain to us about the feelings you had about Rebekka Jordan.’
Oates nodded and took a deep breath. In the same monotone he described working for the Jordans in their garden, how he had seen Rebekka when they were taking down the wall and he said she looked forward to the new pond for her frogs. He said she was such a pretty little girl and she had spoken to him in such a nice voice. After he had had the argument with Mrs Markham he was angry and didn’t want to walk all the way back to London so he broke into a house nearby, found the keys and stole the Jeep. He said that he had intended to dump it but he liked it so he parked it some distance away from his squat and got false plates for it the next day. He didn’t use it often, just if he was going out looking for work, and he never parked it near his flat. He admitted that it was him who had driven off without paying for the petrol in Shepherd’s Bush, and that he had been going there on and off for a few days looking for work at Westfield, or on nearby building sites, as sometimes they needed extra workers and would give you cash in hand.