Hateland (36 page)

   Sorry to hear that you writing to me has caused rifts in you private life with your family, thank you for standing by me I know how hard it can be for you, 

   Ive never douted you patsy, Qut the oppersite, you have been a piller at my side during my incarceration, and I appresiate this alot, Anyway sorry I might off hurt you, I didn't mean to, write back soon.

   Love Dave.

     For the first time, he'd ended his letter with 'love'. Again, I decided to stop writing for a little while. I hoped he'd torture himself with the thought he might have scared Patsy off. I always bore in mind the adage, 'treat them mean, keep them keen'.

    In a short time, I'd expanded considerably the haulage business I managed in Peterborough. It took up more and more of my time. My working day grew even longer, to the point where my job began to affect my relationship with Emma. Her mother had recently been killed in a tragic accident and, when I wasn't at home, she felt isolated and lonely.

    On top of everything, when we went out to relax in Basildon I'd sometimes be confronted by unwelcome ghosts from my Raquels past, one of them being a small-time drug dealer with a grandiose self-image called John Rollinson. This gnat, who likes to call himself 'Gaffer', has described himself publicly as the most dangerous man in the country, proving at least that he's got a sense of humour.

    I'd heard he was unhappy that I'd named one of his drug-peddling friends at the Leah Betts trial. He'd then told lots of people he was 'after' me and was going to 'do' me. One evening, Emma and I went to a nightclub in Basildon called Jumping Jacks. When we entered the club, I found myself confronted by a scruffy degenerate calling me a 'fucking cunt'. It took me a little while to realise that this was in fact Gaffer. His appearance had changed drastically since I'd last sniffed his body odour. His ravaged face now bore cruel testimony to the perils of a lowlife existence spent popping pills and sniffing coke.

    To cut a long story short, he squirted me in the eyes with ammonia. As I stood in front of him, temporarily blinded, he had the best chance he was ever going to get to 'do' me. He failed to take it and, as I prepared to sink my double-bladed, 12-inch combat knife into his head, he screamed hysterically and ran away.

    The incident had been partly captured on CCTV cameras, and I was arrested and charged with threatening unlawful violence and possessing an offensive weapon. The charges were eventually dropped, but this minor incident on top of everything else made me realise that to escape the shadows of 1995, Emma and I would have to leave Basildon. We decided to move to Peterborough, where I continued my correspondence with the nail-bomber.

    Copeland wrote again. He, too, had a new address - Broadmoor Special Hospital for the criminally insane.

Patsy,

How are you, I haven't heard from you in quit awhile, I hope I didn't scare you off in my last letter but it's the way I feel, Ive been moved to broadmore, this place is mental, I dont think ill be staying hear long thou, If you want me to phone tell me in your next letter and ill do so, it would be so good to hear your voice and would cheer me up, so what you up to in Peterborough, this place is full of lunatics, one off them is hear for killing sheep then shagging them, its so easy hear, but I can't wait to get back to belmarsh back to doing hard time, Its because of who i am, a soldier, someone who thrives on hardships, I sit hear and think about what we could of done together, so many exciting things I could teach you, make you feel alive, not the boring things ordinary people get up to, but dangerous things, ill hope I will hear from you soon,

   Dave.

     I noticed he hadn't signed this letter with love. Perhaps he felt he'd been too mushy in his last letter: he was, after all, a soldier. In my next letter, Patsy returned to her cheerful and exuberant self. Her only worry was that she wasn't going to enjoy Christmas. I also acknowledged his move to Broadmoor by saying Patsy feared for his safety with all those dangerous lunatics around him. At the same time, Patsy started referring to him as 'my little soldier'.

     Patsy said she hoped her letters cheered him up. She added she wanted to write more intimately about her feelings, but feared having her words read by strange men in the censor's office. She needed to feel sure any words of intimacy would be read by him alone.

    On 3 December, Copeland sent a traditional Christmas card with a jolly Father Christmas on the front holding a tree and presents. Inside, he wrote:

Dear Patsy,

How are you doing, I am doing fine, Your right your letters do cheer me up in these trying times. 

   Sorry to hear your not going to enjoy christmass, it's Better when your young, 

   Look to the future and the millenium, as next year is going to be a lot different to this one, I promise you, 

   Being assessed is a horrible concept, being in someones power, I wish I was in your power Patsy having to do what you say sounds like heaven, 

   Ill be back in court by next January and then back to belmarsh, this place isnt scary at all its full of divs, I know how you feel about writing your feelings down on paper for some pervert to read in the censor's office, 

   Anyway try and enjoy yourself at christmass, 

   Until we meet, 

   Love Dave.

I noticed that 'my little soldier' had returned to the 'love Dave'. He'd even added two little hearts. The following week, on 12 December, he wrote again:

Dear Patsy,

How are you, Just a quick letter to let you know im alright, Im thinking about what Christmas present im going to send you, I though ill get you a nice watch Tick tock tick tock something that will remind you of me, I don't need much in hear maybe some nice photos of you, I know you would like to send me some bad photos but they won't let me have them (Bastards), Im still trying to get your number cleared hopefully it wont be to long, Your letters are the only thing that keeps me going in hear, they drive me mad knowing I can't talk to you, hold you, make love to you, pleasure you, teach you, anyway thats all for know, thinking of you,

   Dave.

     I felt our correspondence had fallen into a rut. I had to get him to stop writing as some sex-starved soldier from the front. I needed to get him bragging about his murderous exploits. His bomb-timer joke ('tick-tock-tick-tock') pointed to his pride in his achievements. I felt sure he wanted to talk about what he'd done. Or did he? I began to wonder if he might be playing mind games with me, holding out morsels, then snatching them away. In my next letter, I made clear that with his reference to 'bad photos' he'd delivered yet another blow to Patsy's modesty: she wasn't some porno slut. Yes, she'd indicated she wanted to write to him more intimately, but she'd only meant about romance and nice things and who he was and what he'd done. I sandwiched the criticism between slabs of praise and respect. He replied on 20 December:

Dear Patsy,

Sorry about my last letter but you must realise that its driving me Mad not being able to see you, 

   I was thinking the other day that we could of bean a bonny and Clyde having so much fan, I hope you are ok and are looking forward to the millenium. 

   How are things with you, do you Enjoy Peterborough, what sort of things are you getting up to, will you be seeing your family or just a few friends at Xmass, I wonder if you have got my present yet, it should be there soon, 

   Things here are no good, I can't believe that I have fooled all the doctors, Anyway, take care of your self, I hope to hear from you soon,

   David

     His response gave me a better Christmas present than the one he was promising (and which never arrived). Fooled the doctors? I knew instantly he'd written something he'd come to regret.

    I guessed that no one at his trial would dispute the fact that he'd planted the bombs. What might be in dispute, however - particularly as he'd been sent to Broadmoor for 'tests' - was whether he'd been of sound mind when he did so. If he hadn't, then he could be convicted of manslaughter due to diminished responsibility, rather than murder. In the past, a child-killer had torpedoed himself by telling me ('the only woman I've trusted in years and years') that he thought he had an excellent shot at some sort of insanity plea, even though mentally and physically he was, as he said, 'fit as a fiddle'. He'd wanted to go for insanity because he knew he'd then have a far easier time inside - and be released much sooner.

    I guessed Copeland might be thinking similarly. As someone who'd been in jail awaiting trial more than once, I felt I knew which mental stage he'd reached. When you're first imprisoned on remand (and you know you're guilty), you're depressed. Then comes hope. Usually aided by your lawyer, who highlights legal loopholes, you begin to convince yourself you'll beat the system. Then - usually a week or so before your trial - reality gobs on you. You consider the evidence - and realise you haven't got a chance. I could see Copeland was cocky, sure of himself, going through the period when he believed he might get away with murder. His reference to Bonnie and Clyde, the glamorous gangster couple from 1930s America, gave a hint to the real motivation for his crimes - recognition and fame. The nobody wanted to be a somebody. 'Bonnie and Clyde' had inspired a well-known film. I didn't think 'Patsy and Dave' had quite the same ring as a potential Hollywood blockbuster.

Before I'd had time to reply, I got the following letter: 

Patsy,

Please do not write to me while I am in broadmoor, the reasons why I will explain to you when I get back to Belmarsh early next year, You have done nothing wrong so don't worry, 

   Dave.

     Copeland wasn't a total fool. He must have realised he'd made a mistake with his earlier letter - and in a panic had sought to end his correspondence with Patsy, the holder of his secret. I imagined him sweating before every session with the doctors he'd supposedly 'fooled'. Was Patsy to be trusted?

    I'd reached a crucial stage in our correspondence. I decided once more to alter my strategy. In order to keep him writing after such a damaging admission, I needed to ease his fears. Patsy would have to submit to some of his desires. I'd always tried to imply Patsy thought he was a real man, unlike the wimps she tended to meet in the offices where she worked. I'd made Patsy admire him as a man with beliefs - and the willingness to act on them. Perhaps I could develop the Bonnie and Clyde idea. Patsy could tell him how, if only she had the nerve, she'd like to do exciting things with him too. He needed to know she wanted someone like him to teach her the things she needed to learn. I felt perhaps I'd overplayed the 1940s good-girl role. Patsy had to become a little less innocent. I believed I knew him well enough now to prod and provoke him into reopening the correspondence.

    I sent my next letter to Broadmoor, ignoring Copeland's instructions. In it, I told him Patsy regarded him as her boyfriend. I said how much she yearned to have him on the outside to protect her. She'd been to a New Year's Eve party where she'd been bothered by an Asian-looking man, quite possibly a Pakistani, who'd made improper advances, even though she'd told him firmly she had a boyfriend. I laughed as I imagined the Aryan of the Month's rage at the idea of his 'girlfriend' being harassed by an Asian. I hoped Patsy's little soldier would soon march back to her side.

CHAPTER 17

MADLY IN LOVE

Patsy,
    . . . Sorry to hear about that dirty, stinking sub human paki was bothering you on New years eve if I was there that paki wouldn't be bothering anyone anymore, 

Roses are red,
Violets are blue
All I do
Is think of you

Sorry about the poetry but sometimes its easyer to express how I feel about you,
     Anyway hope to see you soon
     write back
     Dave.

This letter, written on 9 January 2000, marked his return to Patsy. He tried to explain his last letter:

You have done nothing wrong its just sometimes me being in hear and you out there depresses me and not being aloud to see you makes me so angry sometimes, please write as your letters do cheer me up.

     From his next letter, I could tell that life inside had started to oppress him:'. . . this place is a joke so are the Doctors they think there clever but they are as stupid as the fools in hear.'

     He added: '. . . please write back soon and just tell me what you have been up to.'

     He hungered for details of Patsy's life as a free person. When you're stuck in a cell, you think continually of the outside world. The little freedoms ordinary people take for granted become tantalising fantasies. So I kept filling my letters with the mundane details of Patsy's daily life: walks in the park, visits to the pub, trips to the cinema, shopping in Sainsbury's.

     I made sure Patsy came across nearly always as cheerful and exuberant: always thinking of him, always sympathetic to the plight of her brave little soldier alone among the lunatics. I guessed that someone with the self-importance to believe he had the right to blow people to bits would need to feel at the centre of his little woman's world.

     On 28 January, he replied:

Dear Patsy,

How are you, and what have you been getting up to, No dirty Pakies been bothering you I hope,

     Im Still trying to get your phone number cleared but they just keep on mugging me of with the same old excuses, Im am back in court today. Not me personally thou Just a hearing, Ill be back personally in a few weeks so listen to the news I should be in it.