Free The Killer Inside by Lindsay Ashford Page B

up. ‘It doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?’
    ‘No, it doesn’t.’
    ‘The newspaper article you found – what was the date on it?’
    ‘The sixteenth of March 1991. Why?’
    ‘That explains why I never got to hear about it. Carl never told me exactly when it happened. And I thought I’d remember a name like Moses Smith – if I’d read about it in the paper at the time. But I wasn’t living in Brum in ’91’
    She searched his eyes, wondering how he was going to react to what she was about to ask. ‘I need to find out where that dodgy heroin came from, Dom.’ Silence. But he didn’t look away. ‘I want to talk to Carl’s girlfriend,’ she persisted. ‘There’s just a chance he might have said something to her; told her more than he told you.’
    There was a small sigh before he responded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know I can’t help you with the first thing, but I have got this.’ He reached into the pocket of his denim shirt: ‘It’s one of his girlfriend’s letters: it’s got her address on it.’ He leaned forward, his head inches from hers. She thought he was going to touch her again and her insides went into meltdown. But whatever he intended was interrupted by the rattle of keys. Megan stuffed the letter into her pocket as the face of Fergus appeared round the door.
    ‘You’ve got another visitor,’ he winked at Dom. ‘Popular today, aren’t we?’
    Megan thought she saw a flicker of confusion in Dom’s eyes as he rose to leave. She wondered who this visitor was. He hadn’t talked about anyone on the outside; no one who mattered, other than his daughter.
    * * *
    Megan didn’t leave Balsall Gate straight away. She asked to see the governor, Malcolm Meredith, who was dunking a digestive biscuit into a pint-sized mug of tea when she was shown into his office. As she sat down he carried on without a hint of embarrassment. Nor did he attempt to conceal the newspaper that was spread on the desk in front of him, open at the crossword, which he had half-finished.
    ‘I’ve come about Carl Kelly.’ She said it baldly, with no preamble. She was damned if she was going to be polite when he didn’t even have the manners to offer her a cup of tea. Before he could gulp down his soggy biscuit she went on: ‘Someone gave him those drugs and I think you should start searching the staff. They should all be checked when they arrive for work. Bags, wallets – even their lunchboxes.’
    Meredith eyed her over his rimless bifocals, which were steamed up from the tea. She knew he didn’t like her; that he resented her being foisted on him by the Ministry. He’d made his views about psychologists quite clear at their initial meeting. As far as he was concerned she was a namby-pamby academic looking to boost her own reputation by brown-nosing the likes of Dom Wilde.
    ‘Dr Rhys, am I labouring under some kind of misapprehension ?’ She glared back at him. What did he mean by that? She kept silent. ‘I was under the impression that you were here to research the Listener service,’ he went on, his lips barely moving as he enunciated the words. ‘Is this some new brief from the Ministry? Something I haven’t been informed of? Because unless I’m very much mistaken, you’ve come marching in here trying to tell me how to run my own prison.’ She held his gaze, refusing to be fazed by this accusation. But she remained silent, a trick she had learned long ago when interviewing prisoners. It confused them. Gave you the psychological advantage. Meredith’s eyebrows knotted as he waited for a reply. ‘Well?’ Hisvoice was shriller and his face was going red. ‘I don’t think searching the staff would do a great deal for the atmosphere in here, do you?’
    ‘I don’t expect it to.’ Her own voice was deadpan. ‘But if Carl Kelly died because one of your staff is bent I think we need to know, don’t you?’
    He gave her a look that reminded her of the iguanas in the window of a pet shop