Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  Over the years Tommy thought again and again about the life of crime that he’d been introduced to as a child. There had never been any doubt that he’d follow the family trade, but life inside had been even worse than he’d imagined, and now he wished he could have taken a different route. He started to read, and apart from Holden’s friendship that was his only saviour. The books were all that kept him sane and took him away from the reality of what he suffered most days. There were books he’d never have thought of reading before. He began to learn about a world that actually existed – all you had to do was book the flight or buy the train ticket. There was freedom of choice, but he’d never realised it, and of course no one had told him. Apart from Andy Holden of course, who’d had almost the same thoughts about what life might have been for him with a different turn of events. Holden tried so hard to convince his young friend that there was still hope, because every day he sensed that the boy might not make it and was falling a long way compared to most of the population inside. In Holden’s case life had been shite and was still shite, so no change there. He coped okay with that, but for Tommy McMartin . . . well he was the equivalent of the guy who’d won the lottery then blown the whole wad with nothing to show for it but memories.

  ‘You’ll have lost a few years, Tommy, but you can still make something good. Just do what you want to do and go an’ have a look at the world. It might surprise you.’

  The thing about Holden was that he might be a wife murderer, but he meant every word of what he said. It was as if he might still live, or at least keep his dreams going, through Tommy. There were long dark nights where Holden talked endlessly to his young friend, who seemed at times to lose his train of thought, and it didn’t take someone with a medical degree to realise that the combination of drugs, abuse and hard time behind the doors was wearing the boy down. The physical changes were there for all to see: the dramatic weight loss plus lack of sunshine added an extra ten years to the looks that had once been such an attraction to so many women and quite a few men. Holden came to rely on the boy, and for all his problems almost saw Tommy as family. After several years of watching his decline, however, Holden gave in to his own instincts and pleaded with the boy to protect himself. He didn’t want to lose his company but knew if Tommy stayed in A Hall he wouldn’t make it to the end of his sentence.

  ‘You need to go into protection; there’s no other way. Listen to your old pal . . . Eh?’

  Tommy’s response was always the same: ‘Christ, Andy. You want me in there with the fuckin’ beasts! Behave yourself. Once in you never come out – you know that as well as I do. Is that what you want?’

  Until one morning he came back to the cell and flopped onto the bunk, turning his back on Holden and curling up, which usually meant something bad had happened. When Holden saw the red stain on the back of the boy’s shorts he cursed and felt nothing but self-loathing that there was nothing he could do to protect the boy.

  That was the day Tommy finally cracked and admitted that there was no other option but the protection wing, or E Hall as it was known officially. He was under no illusions about what it meant. Holden had talked to the screws, who it turned out had been about to take matters into their own hands and move him before they were wiping up the pieces.

  Tommy barely spoke when he left Holden and shook his hand for the last time. But later the same night Holden opened the drawer of his cabinet and found the expensive watch his friend seemed to treasure – it was the last vestige of the material wealth he’d once had. There was a note beside the watch: ‘Thanks, Andy. See you later.’

  Tommy was casting what passed for his life into a complete wilderness. He wouldn’t see Holden again on the inside, and given the length of their respective sentences and Holden’s age it was probably unlikely even on the day they stepped back through the gates and onto the streets of Glasgow. They’d both been convicted of horrendously violent murders, and neither was likely to get an early release. When – and if – the day came, the only thing he could hope for was that he’d be a forgotten man and he could hide in some miserable bedsit for the rest of his life.

  11

  Tommy McMartin opened his eyes and even after three weeks in E Hall he still expected to hear Andy Holden snoring gently in the bunk below him. Tommy should have thanked the old boy for always keeping the noise level down during those long nights they’d spent together in the cell. He’d been quite a contrast to the rest of the population in A Hall, who seemed to be competing for who could snore the loudest.

  Unfortunately, although the move kept Tommy away from the Gilroys and the other animals in A Hall, the sense of isolation crushed him from the first day. The majority of the prisoners in E Hall were sex offenders, but there were a few like Tommy who had been under serious threat in the general population and had been moved or asked for the move. Even in E Hall they knew that it was healthier to stay away from the McMartin boy; they all had enough problems without adding more. For his part, Tommy wanted nothing to do with the beasts, and it sickened him that even among the lowest of the low there was a pecking order. The rapists were top of the pile and looked down on the paedos. In fact, half of the rapists thought they’d done nothing wrong.

  It took only days for Tommy to realise that he’d moved from one end of hell to the other. When the screw came into his cell to tell him that Holden had taken a beating, it nearly broke what was left of his spirit. ‘What happened?’ he asked, staring up at the screw from his bunk. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was, but he felt the answer before the man spoke.

  ‘They found him in the showers, son. Story is your uncle wanted payback for him being your mate all this time. Andy wants you to know he’s okay though. He’s worried about you.’

  Once Tommy came to accept there was no way to see his sentence through it was a weight off his shoulders. He wanted out of it all. Simple really, and almost a relief when he acknowledged the option.

  Tommy pulled his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed some life back into the tired skin round his eyes. It had been so hard doing the time; if it hadn’t been for Goldstein and Holden he couldn’t have made it this far. He rubbed his thighs; they felt sore, and his body seemed to ache all the time, as if he had some kind of bug. He wondered if what had happened to him time and time again in the early days had passed on the virus. He thought his Uncle Benny would have loved that one as a fitting punishment for the McMartin who’d let the good family name down for loving the person rather than the gender. It felt like old age had arrived thirty years too early. Tommy was thin, and the hard muscle that he’d built on a combination of youth plus years in the gym was wasted – it only existed in the photos he never looked at now. Tommy had a bastard of a toothache on top of everything else, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the dentist.

  He stood on the pipes and gazed out of the small window with the view to the outside world, or at least the small part of it that was visible. The three slats were angled upwards so all he could see was the dark sky. It was enough that night. There was nothing to see, but he heard a couple of cons shouting to each other and laughing as if they were leaning against a bar, enjoying a beer and sharing a great joke. Tommy felt his heart stutter, and there was a moment of panic as he wondered if it would be too painful or if he’d fuck the whole thing up. It had to work – there was no other option, and his only regret was that he couldn’t have one last talk to Holden to explain why. It would hurt his friend, although he was sure he’d understand in time. Holden always understood and had never judged him, no matter what he’d told him in those dark moments when he felt like something was eating his brain.

  It was a bit awkward getting the shirt looped round his neck, and he realised he was going to die in just a few more minutes. He worried again that he might make so much noise that it attracted the attention of the screws, but two or three guys managed it every year in Bar-L so it could be done. Tommy blinked a couple of times and asked himself again if there was any ot
her way – but the answer was easy and always the same. He let his weight drop slowly onto the knotted material; he’d measured it so the tips of his toes could just make the floor. He’d heard that was the way to do it – apparently the auto-erotic freaks did it this way and that’s what got them off.

  As the air cut off his breathing he struggled just a little, putting both hands to the tightening shirt sleeve, but he was strong in his mind, and then it was like crossing a bridge. He was halfway when the image of Holden and the cell that had been home for so long turned a grey-blue colour and started to lose definition. Any sensation of panic and fear soon passed and then it was like falling asleep. Tommy McMartin went still; no one could hurt him anymore.

  At the same time that Tommy was leaving this world, Holden’s eyes flickered, and as he drifted up out of a warm dream about a beach on the Med under a blazing sun, he could actually feel the heat on his back. Consciousness kicked in and he realised he was waking up. ‘Bastard,’ was all he said, the same as every other morning at about 3 a.m. He cursed the ageing bladder that wouldn’t let him do a full night with his dreams. He loved his bed and slept like a child who had all his life stretched out in front of him.

  He said ‘bastard’ again and swung his feet onto the cold floor, shook himself, stuck on his specs and took two steps towards the cludgie before he paused and wished Tommy was still in beside him. He missed the boy. He said ‘Tommy’ into the empty cell and grimaced.

  The screw on night duty had been worried about Tommy and when he was finishing his round thought he’d give him a quick check. He peered into the cell. ‘Jesus.’ His training took over from there, though Tommy’s face and colour told him that the boy was already gone. Tommy had broken out of the Big Hoose in the only way possible for him.

  The prison officer did his level best, as they always did with the poor bastards who’d just had enough. He opened the crash bag, took out the hook designed for the job and worked on the knot around Tommy’s neck. As soon as he’d released Tommy’s body and lowered him to the floor he attempted mouth-to-mouth – you had to try even if you knew it was hopeless. He’d called in a code blue, which meant there was an emergency but no blood to deal with, and the backup started to arrive, prepared to take over what was already a lost cause. The calls were made to the people who needed to be there.

  Later the same day the deputy governor called Danny Goldstein, who said very little, sat down after the call and stared at the books in his study till his wife came in with his morning coffee. She’d heard the phone and only picked up a few words of what little he’d said in reply, but for some reason she could never have explained, she knew exactly what it was about. She laid the tray on his desk, wrapped her arms round him from behind and kissed the top of his nearly bald head. Only a woman who loved him could have done that.

  ‘Drink the coffee. It’s not your fault.’ She left the study and closed the door quietly as if he’d been asleep.

  Goldstein pulled out Tommy’s file again, even though he knew that no matter how many times he looked at it the answer wasn’t there.

  12

  Macallan had grafted, annoyed the right people and proved there were serious flaws in the system that needed more than taping over. It would require money, resources and some retraining in a force that had none of the above. Police Scotland was still trying to pretend that there wasn’t a shambles under the surface of the spin machine’s rosy picture.

  When her report landed on executive desks there was a collective groan, but back-door warnings had been handed down to put a face on it in case the failings in the intelligence systems leaked out to the public, who didn’t need any more negative stories about the force. They were a public already cynical about police performance and the never-ending scandals from the past such as Hillsborough. Then there were the fools who sold information to the red tops, forgetting about the laws of privacy. Lack of action against Jimmy Savile and the parade of well-placed child groomers had left the top brass terrified of the next problem that might tie up more and more resources they didn’t have.

  Macallan, together with Tenant as her line manager, received her summons to discuss the report with an executive team meeting in the police college. She guessed there might be another reason that Tenant would be there – to give her an arse-kicking for allowing Macallan to do a good job and cornering them on the project. They couldn’t kick Macallan’s arse because she’d earned her spurs in the Troubles in Northern Ireland, and they knew that if they kicked her, she’d kick them back, with interest. So Tenant was selected to take the verbal beating in her place, because she would. Like the true bureaucrat she was she would take it on the chin, salute her tormentors then thank them for the privilege – because all that mattered was her next promotion. She was fine with it and actually wanted to take the flak for Macallan. It had surprised her that she felt that way because, at least up to that point, her life had never been about friendship and sacrifice. But Macallan knew exactly why her boss had done it, and it was as much of a surprise to her as it was to the woman throwing a protective cloak around her. She realised Tenant was discovering something new in herself, and if Macallan had learned anything in the past it was that people could change. She was a perfect example herself.

  When they got back to Edinburgh Macallan asked for five minutes in private with her boss, who was looking slightly shell-shocked after the experience of having offered herself up as the sacrificial lamb.

  ‘I know you took it in the neck for me. I’m sorry about that – you didn’t deserve it.’ There was nothing else to say.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Tenant replied. ‘You did the job and they have to go with it; that’s the important thing. We can’t afford to get it wrong in this day and age. Anyway, I’m your boss so I’ll take some of the plaudits when it starts to produce results.’ She almost smiled, but maybe that was a step too far.

  Tenant might not always do things for reasons she’d agree with, but Macallan was sure that her boss would at least always do what she thought was the right thing by the book. Even though the woman wasn’t flexible, she could at least be relied on never to stray too far from what she believed were her standards.

  ‘Suppose the big question is what do I do next? Do I stay on the project and see it put into operation?’ Macallan asked. She would prefer there to be something else in the pipeline but she wasn’t holding out much hope.

  ‘No, they want you to hand it over to an implementation team; I think you’ve caused them enough of a headache on this one. There is something else I’ve been asked to sound you out about, though, which comes from on high. I appreciate you gave up on investigation, but there’s a job that needs an SIO that should be straightforward and is really more of a review than anything else.’

  Macallan tried to keep her expression neutral. The letters SIO should have been enough to persuade her to say no, but she ached for an enquiry, routine or not. She thought about the pens lined up neatly in her tray and that last hour of the day spent staring at the clock that refused to move. She waited to hear what was on offer.

  ‘You’d have very little in the way of assistance, and the fact is that senior investigators are tied up all over the country, but this doesn’t need a high level of detective ability. Would you like to hear about it? If you don’t, just say and we’ll get someone else. To be honest, a competent senior uniformed officer could do this.’

  Macallan knew the alternative would be another project that would probably drive her over the edge; the nerves in her stomach rattled with anticipation. ‘Okay. Run it past me and we can see.’ She was glad Jack wasn’t in the room with her as she put out the feelers. There was a brief twinge of guilt about what they’d agreed, but that feeling only lasted for a moment.

  Tenant gestured towards the seat opposite and told her the story. Tommy McMartin had committed suicide by hanging himself in his Barlinnie cell. That should have been straightforward, nobody cared, and Macallan hadn’t even heard the name – she’d been oth
erwise engaged with the paramilitaries in Northern Ireland when Tommy had been convicted of cutting up Mickey Dalton.

  ‘The problem is that he’d enough prescription drugs in his system and cell to keep Boots going for a week. Everyone knows that drugs get into jails, this isn’t the first problem they’ve had there, and there have been all sorts of allegations about staff selling this stuff to the guests. God knows we’re not going to sort that particular problem out. Just stick to the bare facts of McMartin’s suicide and leave it at that. We’ll make sure the remit is as tight as we can get it. If they want to look at the other issues in the prison service they can set up a public enquiry . . . that isn’t going to happen.’ She paused for a moment and looked at her paperwork. ‘The potential issue with this one is that the post-mortem threw up some problems.’

  The word problem always stimulated Macallan’s interest in a briefing. It was the unknown; it always meant discovering something new – a twist in the normal strands of life. She sat forward in her chair.

  Tenant saw it and knew that Macallan had no way of resisting the offer. She’d noticed this trait over the months and had come to like her for it. It was a flaw in Macallan’s character, yet she never tried to hide it too far away. She wore her flaws all along her sleeve.

  ‘Apparently Tommy McMartin had some injuries, which, although they were healing, indicated serious abuse.’

  ‘Was he in a cell with another prisoner?’ Macallan had asked the obvious question. If he was on his own it couldn’t be murder, and if he was with someone there was only one suspect if it wasn’t suicide. She wondered what the problem could be: suicides happened from time to time inside and you normally would expect the local team to look at it.