She Will Rescue You

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She Will Rescue You Page 21

by Chris Clement-Green


  While flattered by MI5’s assessment of his interviewing capabilities, Mark was intensely frustrated by the Counter Terrorism Division of the CPS.

  ‘They’re still acting like the Criminal Protection Service. They haven’t got the fucking balls to prosecute one single terror-related offence!’

  ‘It’s tough, Boss, but Mia will do time—’

  ‘Five years max for attempting to pervert the course of justice — big fucking deal, Matt!’

  ‘In fairness, Boss, we’ve very little hard evidence against her. Her notebook was blank and her dirty phone showed only one contact — obviously Campbell’s destroyed mobile — but they were all voice calls: no texts, no voice mail, zilch.’

  ‘It’s got more to do with the government not wanting the embarrassment of a terrorist case collapsing or it ending with an acquittal.’

  Mark swivelled his chair to face the window. The bitch had won. Even if she was given the maximum sentence — which was frankly unlikely for a first offence — Barrington would get it reduced on appeal and she’d be back out after two years; free to spend all that money they now couldn’t even attempt tracing, without a terrorist charge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The important things in life are not things.

  Despite the downgrading of her offence, Barrington had to work hard to persuade Mia to plead guilty and get the automatic sentence reduction. They were in a tiny, white-tiled cell under the Old Bailey.

  ‘It’s not me that wants the spotlight, John — it’s what I promised Ellie. We both know my trial will be a global media frenzy — you saw them lined up, flashing away as I was driven in. What better way to get across Ellie’s ethos than to put me on the stand?’

  ‘You’re being obtuse, Mia. This trial is about you nicking evidence that would incriminate your boyfriend. The judge will make damn sure that neither you nor I are allowed to use the witness box as a pulpit. He’ll be under strict instructions from the MOJ to keep a tight rein on things and not allow any ideological grandstanding.’

  ‘I’ve got to try. I owe it to Ellie.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mia, get down off that bloody cross! Seriously — you can make better use of the wood!’ This was the first time she’d heard Barrington swear. ‘And I’ve told you before, I don’t want to hear about you and Ellie — that’s not my concern. Getting you the shortest possible sentence is.’

  Mia was missing Alex to the point of a physical ache running through her core. Her mind was ragged with worry about how he was doing. All she knew, via Mick, was that he’d avoided arrest and made it to South America where he was getting a new face. She took her fears out on her barrister.

  ‘I’m paying you a shed load of money to do as I say!’

  ‘You’re paying me a shed load of money to defend you! My job is to give you what you need, not what you want, so pull yourself together and think! Plead guilty, look remorseful, let me do a blinding mitigation and then spend your prison time writing Ellie’s Exploits. The longer you’re inside the longer animals in need — and Alex Campbell — will have to wait.’

  Mia stared at Barrington, digesting the facts, before giving him a reluctant nod of agreement.

  ‘Now, remember, despite this being your first offence and your guilty plea, the judge is still likely to give you the full five years. Someone’s got to be made an example of over the Danish operation and you’re the only person they’ve got. But, once the media circus has left town, I’ll appeal the sentence and get it reduced to the three years it should be.’

  Three years without Alex. She did a mental calculation. One thousand and ninety-five days — did that seem longer or shorter than three years? Twenty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty hours—

  The jailor unlocked the door. ‘Right, let’s go!’

  Mia stood, smoothing the skirt of her understated suit. Her hair and makeup were also conservative and, as she climbed the ancient narrow stairs into the dock of Court One, she bowed her head and pulled down a mask of contrition.

  Everything worked out just as Barrington said it would. Back in the cell, he tried to cheer her up.

  ‘After appeal you’ll likely serve two years before being released on licence and, even with an electronic tag and a probation officer breathing down your neck, you’ll be able to get back to your rescue work.’

  The hardest part about that day was her last conversation with Mark Johnson, a man she still liked and respected.

  ‘Good work, Mia! You’ve managed to buy yourself a level of justice that you clearly don’t deserve!’

  ‘You think I should have been given community service?’ Her smile was brittle and hard to hold on to.

  She wanted to give way to the tears welling behind her over-bright eyes and sob for the loss of Alex, but she would not give Mark the satisfaction. It still felt odd to be on this side of the fence, to experience the hate and rejection thrown at the guilty, and she found herself adopting the same self-defence indifference she’d witnessed in so many of her study subjects.

  ‘You can’t legalize murder and call it belief!’ Mark stood over her, blocking the light from the tiny cell window high in the wall.

  ‘Dire Straits would beg to differ, and no one has been murdered since Ellie’s death.’ Mia’s smile widened to the point of cracking. They had both enjoyed listening to the poignantly named ‘Brothers in Arms’ as they’d driven around the country, working cases.

  ‘You really are a piece of work, Mia. People respected you, fucking liked you, and you’ve let them down — badly!’

  ‘People still respect and like me, Mark. They’re just a different set of people. Was it Conrad who said that the terrorist and the policeman come from the same basket? Not that I consider myself a terrorist.’

  Prison life wasn’t so bad. There was an odd freedom in not having to worry about hair appointments and dry-cleaners, and she remained eternally grateful for the soft underbelly of British justice. It was certainly better than the life (and death) experienced by the people she’d interviewed on Death Row, where eye-for-an-eye retribution was a state institution.

  She also found herself something of a celebrity. Even the guards treated her with a sort of odd deference. Ellie had told her about the almost subconscious fawning their type of money could elicit and, since being forced to break cover, she was experiencing it for the first time. Although a guilty plea had denied her the witness box, Barrington’s mitigation had nevertheless placed all the blame for the black feather assaults on the dead Ellie Grant and Doctor Langley’s controlling boyfriend. So the world’s press were given the bigger, if not accurate, picture after all. But, despite his best efforts, everyone still assumed that she was now the woman behind the black feather organisation, and this kept the queen bees and naturally violent prisoners off her back.

  Life wasn’t too boring either. She was surrounded twenty-four-seven by material that had formed the basis of her working life, and she was enjoying getting back to the grass roots of forensic psychology — and, as a fellow inmate, she was now getting the subtle details usually denied the professional.

  But at night, alone in her bunk, her brave front crumbled. In the early hours, when even the most psychotic inmates fell into a few hours of fitful sleep, she found herself quietly suffocating. Statistically, between three and four a.m. was the most popular time for successful suicides and now she understood why.

  Every thought, waking and sleeping, was filled with Alex: his eyes, his hands, his dry humour, his hard body. His presence in her world held a sense of all consuming beyondness, like those who have a strong faith in God. Alex was her God, ever present. She could not imagine life without him. Even with surgery and a new identity, he wouldn’t risk coming to see her in Holloway — at least she hoped he wouldn’t. So the years stretched before her, an empty and desolate road. The term ‘stretch’ made perfect sense.

  Mick acted as a service station, breaking up the journey with regular links to the outside world, or that part
of the world that mattered most to her. Every other week he made the trip to see her, bringing some of Gillie’s cookies. They were always broken, the prison officers had to show willing, but they were still edible and far better than anything else she was expected to eat.

  Barrington had warned her that Mick’s visits were likely to be covertly recorded, and that she should remain wary of any cellmates, but she still relished these bi-weekly breaks.

  ‘How yer doing, lass?’

  She had quickly realised that if Mick used Alex’s endearment it meant that he’d heard from him. The tone would imply whether the news was good or bad, and so far Mick had always smiled broadly when he called her ‘lass’. He had also started giving her regular updates on Hamish the Westie.

  ‘I tell you, Mia, he’s coming on a treat! The operation took it out of him a bit, but he’s a new dog now — bounding about like a puppy — you’d not recognise him!’

  ‘But he’s still the old Hamish underneath?’

  ‘Of course he is, lass. Hamish will always be Hamish.’

  Hamish was on a satellite phone in Argentina, organising a dark-ops in the UK. He was talking to Ed, the unit’s explosives expert, about using a small bomb to destroy a primate facility that bred animals for experimental use. Adam was back in town and would be accompanying the team to oversee the evacuation of the residents.

  Disconnecting the call, Alex got ready for another lonely night. He’d never missed anyone before. He’d always been a happy loner, content with his own company. Now he desperately wanted to be organising Mia’s rescue, but he’d been warned against any such an attempt. If they failed, she could have her sentence extended and would end up serving it in a maximum security prison. It felt like he’d be a withered old man before he’d have a chance to hold her in his arms again. Before Mia, the threat of old age had always fallen lightly on him; he’d always assumed he’d never make old bones. But that was okay because life was for living, not waiting. But Mia’s eventual freedom was too precious to risk . . . she was worth the wait.

  The surgery had gone well — too well. He now hated looking in a mirror. The reconstruction had been massive — it had to be to get rid of his scar. His face was now too smooth and the brown contact lenses irritated. When he took them out at night, he’d stare into the flecked green of his own eyes, checking to see if there was anything left Mia would recognise.

  At least he’d be back in the UK within a few weeks, arriving at St Pancras via a tortuous route of overland treks, several boat rides and a series of short and long haul flights. Boarding the Eurostar would see him on his third set of identity papers. Mick was expecting him and he was looking forward to trying out his new face at Mountain View. If they didn’t recognise him he would risk a visit to Holloway.

  The little red numbers blinked their descent. Even if there had been an audible tick, no one would have heard it. The rucksack was too well padded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Responding to acts of evil with evil acts, only feeds the existence of evil.

  The protected TV screen, high on the wall, just added to the background noise of prison life. Mia watched the news with little interest, finding it both painful and banal. Not only did it emphasize what they were all missing, but the triteness of some items irritated — who the fuck cared if some self-absorbed celebrity had tweeted something unkind about another self-absorbed dickhead!

  Suddenly the newsreader touched her earpiece as she listened to the breaking news and something very un-trite started to scroll along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘I’m being told that there has been an explosion on the Eurostar. We’re getting reports that it happened in the middle of the tunnel and there have been mass casualties. There are unconfirmed reports that this is a terrorist attack.’

  Mia sat forward and watched the horror unfold. It was a well-executed mess, with the bomb being detonated exactly halfway through the channel tunnel. This added to the rescue mission’s initially confused and at times contradictory response. The death toll was going to be huge. At least one suicide bomber had instantly ended the lives of around thirty men, women and children, and the resulting fire and smoke was ending the lives of many more. It was half term and the number of children on the train had been far higher than usual.

  As with any train, if there were spare seats you didn’t have to pre-book and could pay cash for a ticket. No one could be absolutely certain therefore if passengers had actually boarded and, if there appeared to be a choice, which seats they’d sat in. Family and friends at both ends of the tunnel had ideas and fears, but the casualty bureau was in chaos and the relatives’ helpline had crashed several times from the weight of the panic-stricken. It certainly put her troubles into perspective.

  Reactions within the prison mirrored those on the streets. Some cried and most asked why, but others quickly turned their grief to anger and revenge. No one had yet claimed responsibility but in the immediate aftermath of the attack everyone assumed it would be a branch of radical Islam. As a precaution, all Muslim prisoners were segregated onto one wing, and even those who just looked Muslim were moved to another. For the first time in her academic life Mia was able to witness the real-time cause and effect of hatred breeding hatred.

  It took just five days for the attack to fade from the front page and be replaced by a racially offensive tweet from a football manager. Mia returned to the pattern of her prison life, and was looking forward to Mick’s visit at the end of that week. But when he entered the visitor’s room, nine days after the Eurostar bombing, his hands were plunged deep in his pockets and his eyes were on the floor. Slumping into the chair opposite her, he looked up and got straight to the point.

  ‘Hamish is dead, lass.’

  Mia stared at him, struggling to digest those four small words.

  ‘He was coming back from a very long walk, the day of the terrorist attack, and he suffered a massive heart attack. The vet said he wouldn’t have known what hit him; he died instantly.’

  Mia’s brain, unable to cope on any level with what she’d just been told, shut down and her body hit the floor. She came to in the hospital wing, where her grief erupted into a storm of raw emotion. Enormous waves of inconsolable loss washed over her small frame threatening to drown her, but her brain refused to return her to the oblivion of another blackout and she heard herself screaming like a wounded animal. It took two orderlies to hold her thrashing body down, while the doctor injected a strong sedative.

  ‘All this over a fucking dog?’ he asked.

  Twenty-four hours later, back in her cell, Mia slept heavily: semi-comatosed by sedatives and the slowly receding fever of grief. If she had any dreams she forgot them, subconsciously consigning them to the sealed storage areas of a fractured but still pragmatic mind. Her grief-storm lasted three days before eventually crying itself out. Now it was just the rain that battered the cell window, sending tears racing towards the already rusting ironwork of the sills.

  For two more days she lay on her hard narrow bed, refusing to eat or wash. Her current cellmate had given up on any form of contact, but she was being made to stay with Mia as an unpaid suicide watch, and resented this fact almost as much as she was beginning to resent the smell rising from the bunk below.

  About five o’clock on the sixth day, Mia found herself able to consider taking the tiniest of steps. She uncurled herself from the foetal position she’d adopted throughout both waking and sleeping hours, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bunk. Placing her bare feet on the cold concrete floor, she made herself register the difference in temperature her soles were experiencing. She needed to feel things again. Her cellmate gave her a tentative smile and she forced herself to smile back.

  At tea-time, she walked slowly down the corridor to the canteen, concentrating on each step, not thinking beyond that series of individual actions. She ate a bowl of non-descript soup in the same way and then asked to be allowed an out-of-hours shower. It was the first time she’d spoken and
her throat was still sore from her grief screams.

  The officer agreed, but insisted on watching her in case she did anything stupid — the shower being the place where thoughtful prisoners went to die. If they were going to hang themselves the shower heads gave them the necessary height, and if they were going to cut their wrists the hot water made things easier. Not just because it made it quicker to clean up the mess of their lives, but because the warmth made the blood flow faster.

  But Mia had travelled beyond suicide. She knew what had happened to her, she could even put a name to the all the stages she’d gone through, but none of that helped. In fact it made it worse. It reduced her very personal loss to a generic process that everybody went through at least once. If they didn’t, their life wouldn’t have been worth living.

  Mick still felt Ellie’s loss every day, but they had not been lovers. So he was relieved when Mia agreed to his next visit, a fortnight after he’d been the bearer of such fucking tragic news.

  ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  Mia looked far from okay. She had dark panda-like circles around her eyes, her hair was unwashed and he could smell her breath across the width of the red plastic table. But her smile came from her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry it fell to you to tell me about Hamish. It couldn’t have been easy.’

  ‘Nothing’s easy about the type of work we do, Mia — but it still needs to get done.’

  His look of heartfelt sorrow was in danger of making her weep again, but she swallowed hard and nodded. They talked in some detail about the various shelters and Mick even got some of the necessary decisions he’d come for.

 

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