Ken McClure: Eye of the raven

‘ Good of you to come at such short notice, minister,’ said assistant governor, John Traynor, when he saw Lawson appear in his doorway, brushing the rain from his shoulders. ‘Hell of a night.’

The prison officer, who’d ushered Lawson in, closed the door behind him as he left and Traynor motioned Lawson to sit with a wave of his hand.

‘ I have to say I was a bit surprised when I got your call,’ said Lawson. ‘I don’t recall Combe and I ever having much to say to each other.’

Traynor nodded. ‘I have to say I hadn’t marked him down for deathbed repentance either,’ he said. ‘He’s always struck me as being hard as nails and cold as ice. I suppose it only goes to show I never did discover the inner man.’

The comment had been tongue in cheek. Lawson knew Traynor to have little time for what he regarded as ‘trendy psycho-babble’ when it came to penal matters.

‘ How is he?’

‘ Lucid but fading fast.’

‘ Relatives?’

‘ None that care to call,’ said Traynor.

‘ Best get on then,’ said Lawson.

Traynor pressed a button and two prison officers appeared. ‘Take Rev Lawson to see Combe, will you.’

As Lawson walked behind the leading officer he was aware of the sound of rain hammering against a metal section of the roof. He glanced upwards and the officer walking beside him said, ‘Hell of a night.’

They passed through three locked sections before the leading man said, ‘He’s along here.’

Lawson knew this part of the establishment to be a hospital within a hospital, a sickbay for the already mentally ill when they went down with some more physical ailment. The smell changed from stale food and urine to sweat and disinfectant. The leading officer unlocked a heavy door and asked, ‘Do you want us to stay, minister?’

Lawson shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘ Have a care,’ said the man. ‘He looks as weak as a kitten but you can never be sure with that bastard. Be on your guard. He might just fancy taking you with him for the hell of it.’

A male nurse who stood well over six feet tall and looked more like a boxer than a nurse acknowledged Lawson’s arrival with a nod and walked with him to Combe’s bedside.

‘ The minister’s here, Combe,’ the nurse said in a surprisingly soft, lisping voice.

Hector Combe, his face pointlessly disfigured by surgery to combat a cancer which had subsequently spread throughout his entire body anyway, opened his eyes. Even at death’s doorstep, they were still the compassionless glittering orbs that Lawson remembered. They always made him think of a bird of prey contemplating its next meal.

‘ You asked to see me, Combe,’ said Lawson sitting down on the chair that the male nurse had brought up behind him. It creaked loudly when he moved on it so he tried to remain still.

‘ Dying,’ said Combe hoarsely and with difficulty as he twisted his lips in an effort to form the word.

‘ Comes to us all,’ said Lawson, guiltily aware of the starkness of the comment but unwilling to soften it.

‘ Confession.’

‘ For an awkward moment Lawson thought that Combe might be Roman Catholic. He asked him.

‘ Not that kind… another one… another death…’

Lawson felt a chill run down his spine. He moved uncomfortably and the chair creaked. ‘You want to confess to another murder?’ he asked.

Combe’s hand shot out and gripped Lawson’s wrist, forcing him to think of the throats it had held, the cords, the knives… He had disembowelled one victim. He tried to pull his hand back but the white bony claw with its bulging blue veins held fast. ‘Julie Summers… it was me.’

‘ Who?’

‘ Julie Summers… the babysitter… it was me. I killed her.’

It had been several years before but Lawson remembered the murder of a teenage girl in a village outside Edinburgh. ‘The West Linton girl?’ he asked tentatively.

Combe nodded and relaxed his grip on Lawson’s wrist. ‘Yeah.’

‘ But they got the man for that. I remember it well enough,’ said Lawson.

Combe seemed amused as indicated by a slight wrinkling of his eyes for he was incapable of smiling. ‘Stitched up… some poor bastard, they did… God knows why.’

‘ We can’t be talking about the same case here,’ said Lawson. ‘The evidence against that man was overwhelming.’

‘ It was me, I tell you’ insisted Combe. He seemed annoyed at being doubted and Lawson could feel impatience and hostility emanating from him.

‘ Why?’ asked Lawson, feeling bemused but also under obligation to ask something more.

Combe looked at him as if he were stupid then he said sarcastically, ‘Because… she was there…’

Lawson saw from the look in Combe’s eyes that this had been intended as a joke. He was filled with horror at the very idea of anyone making such a comment and a chill ran down his spine at the unwelcome insight he’d been given into Combe’s mind. ‘What were you doing in West Linton?’ he continued hoarsely.

‘ I was on my way… back to Manchester… been in Edinburgh on a job… There she was… wiggling her little arse… all on her ownsome at that time of night… bloody asking for it. Would have been a shame to waste a nice little peach like that,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

Lawson was appalled. He felt totally out of his depth but he was trapped in a situation that demanded he stay. Combe was confessing to a priest. He had to hear him out. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he murmured, pausing to swallow because his mouth had gone dry. ‘You are saying that it was you who raped and killed Julie Summers?’

‘ No fucking saying… about it,’ said Combe angrily. ‘I did it! Want to know every little fucking detail, do you?… Fucking turn you on, will it?… Don’t get much pussy in your line of work, right?’

Combe started to talk and Lawson felt his senses reel as he was subjected to hearing every detail of a rape and murder. Combe appeared to feed on his revulsion and seemed to gain strength from Lawson’s every wince.

‘ Scratched me, so I broke the little cow’s fingers… This little piggy went to market… Snap! This little piggy stayed at home… Snap! This little piggy…’

‘ Stop!’ commanded Lawson as a wave of nausea enveloped him followed by the almost irresistible desire to strike Combe. With great difficulty he regained his composure and asked hoarsely, ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Why not the governor, the police, the authorities?’

Combe ignored Lawson and continued, ‘Silly little bitch… didn’t have to start screaming the place down… did she? I had to shut her up before she woke the whole fucking village.’

‘ Why me Combe?’ insisted Lawson, raising his voice.

The glittering eyes turned to Lawson betraying puzzlement. ‘Need to square things with the Church… before I meet my maker… don’t I?’ he said. ‘Make sure… everything’s in order like.’

Lawson couldn’t quite believe his ears. Did Combe really think that that was all there was to it? ‘In order?’ he repeated.

‘ That’s what you do… in’t it? Make… a clean breast of.. things. Confess and then the sheet’s… wiped clean. Right?’

Lawson said like an automaton, ‘You think that by telling me this you will automatically be accorded forgiveness for what you’ve done?’

‘ Yeah,’ affirmed Combe, irritated at Lawson’s continual questioning of what he clearly felt was obvious. ‘That’s how it works. You know it is. That’s the deal. Salvation and all that… that’s what you call it, right?’

‘ Wrong,’ said Lawson, feeling a deep anger well up inside him and speaking as if pronouncing sentence. ‘Hector Combe, if there is any justice, you… will undoubtedly burn in hell.’