by Conrad Jones
The door opened and DI Kim Davies stepped in. Her dark business suit touched her curves subtly. Alan was a few steps behind her. They looked stern as they took their seats and went through the legalities. Brian had the feeling that there had been a paradigm shift in his situation.
‘I want you to take us through what happened in the woods when you were with Lloyd Jones and Stuart Radcliffe,’ Kim opened. Brian was about to object but she held up her hand to silence him. ‘You need to think very carefully about the sequence of events and exactly how things happened. Take your time and tell the truth, Brian.’
‘My client has answered this several times,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘Why are we going over this again?’
‘Because the evidence tells us that Brian is telling lies and this is his last opportunity to tell the truth,’ Alan said, leaning forward. His forehead was creased with deep lines. ‘I would suggest that rather than being obstructive, you advise your client to tell the truth.’
Thomas opened his mouth to speak and then decided not to. He looked at Brian and nodded. Brian had no idea what he meant by that. He shook his head and frowned. The atmosphere was oppressive. He felt like he was being suffocated. The desire to be outside in the fresh air, free to walk around was crushing. He pulled at the neck of the grey sweatshirt that he was wearing.
‘Brian?’ Kim pushed.
‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘We don’t think that you have.’
‘Do we have to do this again?’
‘Yes. We do.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Brian said, sighing. His chin was down, making him appear to have no neck.
‘Start from when you were digging up the drone,’ Kim encouraged.
‘Okay. I dug up the bag and showed them what was inside.’ He began. ‘I thought that would be enough but Lloyd took out a gun and told me to keep digging. Stuart kept shouting at me. He hit me a couple of times and scratched my neck. I thought that they were going to kill me and bury me and I was pleading with Lloyd not to kill me.’ He looked up and tried to gauge how the detectives were reacting. ‘Then Lloyd started asking how much the Drug Squad had paid for information. I didn’t know what he was talking about.’ He paused and looked down at the table. ‘Then he turned on Stuart and shot him twice in the chest.’
‘And then?’ Alan asked.
‘Then he made me help him drag Stuart into the hole and we started to bury him,’ Brian said. He nodded to reinforce his words. The detectives remained silent, waiting. ‘We covered him with soil but then he tried to get out of the hole. He wasn’t dead.’ Brian looked from Kim to Alan. They looked back at him, their eyes boring into his brain, searching for the truth. ‘Lloyd picked up the spade and stabbed it three times into the ground, one, two, three,’ he explained. ‘Then Stuart was really dead. Lloyd covered him and then he told me to fill in the grave so no one could tell anyone had been there. He said he had to be somewhere so he left and I did what he told me to do. When I was finished, I left the woods and the police arrested me.’ He sat back and took a deep breath, relieved that he had finished without being put under pressure. He steepled his fingers on the table. ‘Now can I go home to see my mum, please. She’s very upset by all this.’
‘I’m afraid not, Brian,’ Alan said, with a shake of his head. ‘You won’t be leaving for a while, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not? I’ve told you everything!’
‘There’s a problem with your version, Brian,’ Alan said, calmly. Brian blushed but didn’t answer. ‘You see, we didn’t find any evidence to prove that Lloyd Jones touched that entrenching tool.’ Brian felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘There are no prints and no epithelial tissue on the handle.’ He paused. ‘If someone had held that handle tightly and stabbed it into the ground with force, there would be skin cells sheered from the hands. The only epithelial tissue on the handle is yours.’
‘Oh, come on, detective,’ Thomas interjected. ‘Jones was wearing gloves!’
‘Who said he was?’ Kim countered. Her stare turned him to stone. ‘Brian never mentioned gloves.’ She looked at Brian. ‘Was Lloyd wearing gloves?’
‘Yes,’ Brian said, swallowing hard. His face flushed again. Beads of sweat appeared on his lip.
‘What type of gloves were they?’ Alan asked.
‘What?’
‘What type of gloves were they?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Leather or wool?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘But you do remember him wearing gloves?’
‘Detective,’ Thomas objected at the repeated question.
‘There was no fibre or leather trace on the spade,’ Alan said, shrugging. ‘How do you explain that?’
‘I can’t,’ Brian mumbled. His eyes filled with tears. He swallowed hard again.
‘You said that Stuart Radcliffe scratched you,’ Alan changed tack.
‘Yes,’ Brian said, touching his neck instinctively. ‘He was a bully.’
‘You were standing up when he scratched you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is a simple question. Were you standing up when he scratched you?’
‘Yes,’ Brian mumbled, confused.
‘You had deep scratches on your ankle, Brian,’ Alan said. His face turned purple. Brian sensed what was coming. ‘How did he scratch your ankle if you were standing up?’
‘I…’ Brian stuttered. ‘I scratched myself walking through the woods, on some brambles.’
‘The scratches on your ankle were made by a human hand, Brian. Our experts can testify to that beyond questioning.’ Alan watched his face. He broke eye contact and wiped his lips with his sleeve. ‘Which would suggest that you were standing over him or kneeling above him when he scratched you.’ He paused. ‘Which was it?’
Brian looked at his brief for help. His brief offered none. He seemed to be intrigued by the evidence.
‘Do you know what else we found?’
Brian shrugged. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek.
‘Your blood and skin under his nails.’
‘I told you that he scratched me.’
‘You did but you said that you were standing up.’
‘I was.’
‘So, was he?’
‘Yes.’
‘The thing is, Brian,’ Alan said, lowering his voice. ‘There is soil under his nails too.’ Brian stared at the table. ‘But the soil is beneath your DNA. Which suggests that he forced his hand upward through the soil to scratch your ankle. Your skin is above the soil. He was in the ground when he scratched your ankle.’ Alan paused another moment for effect. Brian glanced at his brief again but he wasn’t game to challenge the evidence. ‘Stuart Radcliffe wasn’t dead when you buried him. He tried to fight his way from the grave and he scratched you and you stabbed him three times and you killed him. You did it, not Lloyd Jones.’ Alan pointed his index finger in a stabbing motion towards his face. ‘You killed Stuart Radcliffe. Lloyd Jones may have shot him but you struck the blows that killed him.’
‘Lloyd said he would hurt my mum if I didn’t do what he said,’ Brian whimpered and put his head in his hands. ‘Lloyd shot him twice. I thought he was dead. I was so shocked and scared and I didn’t know what to do! I thought he was dead.’
‘But he wasn’t. He wasn’t dead, Brian, and when he tried to fight his way out, he clearly wasn’t dead, was he?’ Alan pushed. ‘That was your opportunity to help him but you didn’t, did you?’
‘No, but I panicked.’
‘You could have phoned for an ambulance and Stuart Radcliffe might still be alive,’ Kim said, sharply. ‘You killed him, Brian. We’re going to charge you with his murder.’
‘Can we talk about a deal?’ Thomas said, quickly realising that they had just called checkmate on his client.
‘A deal for a cold-blooded murder?’ Kim asked, laughing. ‘We don’t do deals with murderers. Especially when they try to pass the blame. I’m afraid t
his is on Brian. We’re still trying to put Lloyd Jones at the scene but Brian removed the only evidence that there was. We can’t prove anything in front a jury. This is all on Brian.’
‘Surely there was gunshot residue on his hands?’
Alan and Kim exchanged glances.
‘Jones had been shot when he was taken to hospital and he had tried to protect himself by raising his hands. He was rushed into surgery before any swabs could be taken. Obviously, his skin was cleaned before they could remove the shotgun pellets. There is no trace evidence.’
‘My client will testify that Jones was there and that he shot Radcliffe.’
‘Your client is a liar and he’s going to jail. I’m not sure how much credence a jury would give to his evidence.’
‘What do you mean, going to jail?’ Brian said, astounded. ‘What about my mum?’ Brian gasped. ‘I need to go home!’
‘You won’t be going home for a very long time,’ Kim said, shaking her head. ‘Get used to the idea.’
chapter 24
Lloyd Jones pulled on a pair of green denim prison jeans and a grey sweatshirt; standard issue in HMP Berwyn. The stench of incarcerated men filled his senses. The smell of the wings intensified as he neared the landings. He could hear the prisoners shouting abuse at each other and at the PO’s from behind their cell doors. The prison was still locked down. Someone was banging something hard against their door; the noise echoed along the wings. The smells and sounds of incarceration were familiar to him. They held no fear for him. Fear wasn’t something that he endured. He had no fear of being locked up and no fear of any other man. One to one, he was a monster with no empathy or sympathy. If an opponent dared to take him on then he had better be prepared to die. Lloyd would not stop beating an opponent until he was pulled off or they stopped breathing. He believed that letting an opponent live was creating a serious problem for further down the line. Most opponents in his world lived or died on their reputation. Take a hiding and you lose more than your dignity. Your street credibility would be seriously impacted and the lesser animals would see you in a different light, as weak and vulnerable. Lloyd was neither weak nor vulnerable in his own eyes. There were others that thought differently.
They approached the sterile area and he was handed his washing kit. The landings quietened for a moment as whispers passed from cell to cell that a new intake was being brought onto the wing. He was being admitted to B Wing, where category B prisoners were housed. This was where the dangerous inmates were kept. Security was tighter than the other wings and the PO’s were tougher. Discipline was harsh. He had walked those landings before and they held no anguish for him. It was part and parcel of the job.
They proceeded through a series of buffer gates to the final entry point. The prisoners in the cells nearest to the gate began shouting excitedly as they caught sight of him.
‘Fuck me, it’s Lloyd Jones!’
His name bounced off the walls up to the top tiers and back down again. The wing exploded in a maelstrom of noise. A cacophony of excited welcomes mingled with vile abuse and threats. Some were pleased to see his arrival, others not so much. He listened to the voices, trying to identify allies and narrow down where his enemies were positioned. It was an impossible task. Their voices reverberated from the iron landings and steel staircases.
‘I hear you’re a dead man walking, Jones. You horrible bastard!’ One voice kept repeating. It was like a stuck record, the voice excited and full of hate.
‘Fifty-grand for whoever kills your fat arse, Jones!’ another voice called from further along the landings. Raucous laughter rolled along the landings.
‘Fifty-grand for that soft shite?’ a voice from his left shouted. ‘I could do him without putting my brew down! Wanker, Jones!’
‘Fifty-grand? I’ll do that bastard for nothing!’ Another one shouted from his right.
‘We’ve got your back, Lloyd!’ A friendly voice pierced to deafening racket.
‘Take no notice, Lloyd boy. They are all shithouses on this wing,’ a deep voice growled. ‘Fucking window-warriors the lot of them!’ he added, referring to how brave some of the inmates were when they were safely locked in their cells. ‘We’ll see how brave they are later!’
The insult resulted in another deafening wave of abuse crashing along the landings. This time the noise didn’t subside for five long minutes. Even Lloyd was surprised at the vehement polarity his arrival had caused.
‘It sounds to me like you’ve made a good impression already,’ a familiar voice said. Lloyd looked through the bars. Peter Clough was on the landing. ‘I think you’re going to fit right in on B Wing.’ The officer winked and smiled wryly.
‘Officer Clough,’ Lloyd said, grinning. ‘What a nice surprise to see you here. I needed to see a friendly face!’
‘I think they’re going to be in short supply somehow,’ Peter said, straight-faced. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to say, you’ll be lucky to see a friendly face in the mirror!’
The officer escorting him opened the final gate and ushered him through. He handed a paper bag to the officers on the landing.
‘That’s his medication,’ he explained. ‘All the dosages are on the bottles. The doctor said that he can’t work for a few weeks until the bruising has gone down. The governor wants him on the top tier out of the way.’
‘A third-floor penthouse, eh, Jones,’ Peter scoffed. ‘The top tier with all the nonces and paedophiles. Sounds about right to me. Like I said, you’ll fit right in here!’
Lloyd stopped grinning. His eyes fixed on Peter.
‘You should be careful, Officer Clough,’ he said, leaning closer. ‘That nasty mouth could get you into trouble.’
‘I don’t think so somehow,’ Peter said, shaking his head. He gestured with his hand. ‘Get this piece of shit off my landing.’ Lloyd looked both confused and slightly amused. ‘Enjoy your stay, Jones,’ he added with a smile. ‘The only way you’re leaving here is horizontally.’
‘Fuck you, Clough,’ Lloyd snapped. ‘You had better remember who you’re talking to.’ The PO’s dragged him away towards the stairs. As he came into view of all three landings, the noise level increased again. Lloyd looked around at the cells, cages for humans. Why didn’t they just call them cages? That always puzzled him. A bear was put in a cage but a man is put into a cell. Same thing but a different name, why?
He studied the faces, some were friendly, most were not. Some of the prisoners just stared, impassively, unaware of who he was and why his arrival was causing such a stir. He made a mental note of who was shouting abuse, remembering their faces. He smiled coldly, as one man realised that he had made eye contact midsentence. Lloyd Jones had heard what he shouted and seen his face. The man withdrew from the bars but he was too late. He would be on the list of enemies. Lloyd would remember his face and he would punish him brutally. He could try to avoid him but there was nowhere to hide in prison and Lloyd had years to wait. There would be an opportunity sometime in the future. There always was.
As he reached the middle landing, he caught the eye of a familiar face. His smile faded as the black face looked at him with interest. He was expressionless, uninterested. Anthony John stared at him; his face impassive. Lloyd nodded a silent greeting and AJ returned the gesture. Keeping an uneasy peace with the other top dogs would narrow down his potential enemies. There would be plenty of them when there was fifty-grand on his head. It would not be personal. Del Makin was a personal issue. Killing Lloyd for fifty-grand would appeal to a lot of people who had no axe to grind with him. Business was business and fifty-grand was a lot of money. Lloyd had put out hits on dealers for fifty-pounds and a gram of coke; fifty-grand was another level. Life was cheap in the big prison especially in the drug world. The rewards were huge, the risks equally so.
Lloyd looked away from AJ and climbed the staircase slowly. The PO’s wanted him to move faster so that the wing would settle down but Lloyd was taking his time purposely. His huge frame couldn’t be moved an
ywhere that it didn’t want to go without a mammoth effort. The officers didn’t want to end up rolling around on the landings with Lloyd and he knew it. He played the power game with the PO’s and inmates alike. They could see that he was dragging his feet, making eye contact with as many caged men as possible on the journey just to let them know that he did not fear them in fact, quite the opposite. He was showing them that they should fear him.
The procession climbed to the second landing. The noise didn’t abate. They walked past a cell and Lloyd eyed the occupant. The man was squat and solid, as wide as he was tall. A scar ran from his forehead down his nose to his chin. Someone had opened his face from top to bottom, splitting the nose in half. Whoever had stitched him back together would never win surgeon of the year. Stitch marks crisscrossed the scar, making it look like a pink ladder that climbed his face. His left eye had a turn in it. He grinned widely, making him look crazed.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
‘I’m deciding what you do on the outside, bet you’re a model aren’t you?’ Lloyd said, sarcastically.
‘You’re one funny man.’
‘You’re one ugly bastard!’
‘My boss sends his regards, Jones,’ the man growled. His accent was guttural, as if he had phlegm in his throat. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting you properly,’ he said, grinning like a lunatic. He ran his finger across his throat in a cutting motion. ‘You’re already dead.’
‘Shut it, Volkov!’ one of the PO’s shouted. ‘You’ll be put on report!’
‘Fuck you!’ Volkov snarled. He turned back to Lloyd and smiled again. He blew a kiss. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Lloyd blew a kiss back to him. The Russian stopped grinning and glared at him.