George’s head rocked from side to side. He was groggy but still determined. His face felt like it was broken all over, but he managed a smile. He looked at the cleaver.
‘You could’ve just taken the beating. We weren’t gonna finish the job for a few weeks yet. Maybe even months if I enjoyed it enough.’ The man lashed out and the kick connected with the sole of George’s right foot. Pain from his shattered ankle shot through him again.
George’s body contorted in agony but he steadied himself quickly. He breathed, deep and long, and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to form words. ‘There’s me, fucking up my future again. Fucking do it then. Get it done’.
The man raised the cleaver, his feet firmly planted either side of George’s legs. He was close enough to smash it through his skull.
‘What the fuck!’ A panicked shout came from somewhere behind them. The man standing over George hesitated.
George just made out the uniform as the voice drew near. ‘You said it was a fucking word! A bit of a slap! How do I explain away a man chopped to fucking pieces?’
‘This don’t concern you!’ The uniformed officer grabbed the cleaver man’s arm.
‘Drop the fucking blade — now! This weren’t the deal.’
The ringleader seemed to be running over his options. Suddenly, his arms lost their tension. He lowered the weapon and allowed it to be taken off him.
The guard backed away, and took in the two bleeding men. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he muttered. ‘Get them cleaned up in the showers. I’ll get you some dressings and a new tracksuit. If you need sickbay, then give it as long as you can and make it fucking believable.’
No one moved. The scene was frozen like a still from a movie as the credits rolled.
Then the man relinquishing the cleaver gave George one last look. ‘This is just the start, Sarge. You’re gonna wish we’d finished this today.’
‘Get the fuck out of here!’ shouted the prison guard.
The men moved towards the separate shower area. George watched them leave, then grimaced as he pulled himself up to his elbows, his legs still splayed out in front of him.
‘Where are your crutches?’
George gave a harsh laugh. ‘What the fuck do you care?’
‘You need to be somewhere else. Now.’
‘What, so you can save your skin? This didn’t quite go to plan, did it? Why the fuck should I help you?’
‘You don’t need to help me. And I don’t need to take you with me. You can follow me out or you can stay and finish your conversation with your mates in there.’
‘And live to fight another day. Or at least until you decide to throw me back to the wolves.’
The guard tensed his jaw. ‘You coming or not? I need to clean you up.’
‘Course you do. Bit difficult explaining the state of me to your bosses.’
‘My bosses hate you more than the blokes you’re in here with. They wouldn’t fucking blink, Elms. It’s them on the outside that I have to clean you up for. It only takes one to think you’re human enough for human rights, and there’s all sorts of writing to be done to cover arses. Like we should fucking have to.’
George had pushed himself backwards against a wooden bench. It was bolted to the floor and was low enough for him to pull himself up to a sitting position. His ankle throbbed. He’d taken a good few blows to his head. His vision was still a little blurred and he could taste the blood from his nose. The tinnitus in his ears made a whooshing noise, interrupted by the sound of his own racing heartbeat.
‘The outside?’
‘That’s right. Fifteen minutes. Get yourself looking something like normal. You’ve got a visitor.’
George gripped his nose and sniffed. He was satisfied it wasn’t broken but his hand still came away covered with blood.
‘You know I don’t see visitors.’
‘It’s your solicitor.’
‘I definitely don’t want to see him.’
‘You do look a right fucking state. Probably best I tell him you can’t make it.’
George finally processed the guard’s words.
‘Human rights, you say? Nah, fuck it. Maybe I should have a little chat.’
The guard sneered. ‘You don’t seem to understand what goes on in here, George. My advice to you is to keep your head down and play the game. The people that are keeping you safe in here won’t appreciate you rocking the boat.’
George gestured at his battered face. ‘This is safe, is it?’
‘You ain’t dead, are yer?’
‘Not yet I’m not.’
‘Exactly. You ain’t dead till I say you are.’
CHAPTER 6
Martin Young emerged from the drunk cell and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the solid wall of the passage, eyes on the floor.
‘You okay, sir?’ Jim said.
‘Oh yes, Jim, fine.’ Martin forced a smile.
‘She okay?’ Jim the jailer nodded at the closed door. ‘The skaghead?’
‘Maybe we should show a little more professionalism when we refer to prisoners. We don’t know what’s caused them to be here, do we?’
‘Sorry, sir, you’re right. I get a bit loose sometimes, you know, working with these people all day.’
Martin pushed past him to the next cell, where he fiddled with the lock. He swore as the heavy bunch of keys slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. He was aware of Jim passing behind him.
The prisoner was sat up on his bed when he pushed the door open.
‘Good morning,’ Martin said. He sounded hesitant, his thoughts were still very much on the next-door cell.
‘Good morning.’ The prisoner looked at him expectantly.
Martin lifted a blue folder which contained the prisoner’s notes. ‘You must be Tony Robson?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And this is the first time you’ve been in custody, I understand?’
‘It is, yeah.’
Martin held the man’s gaze. ‘Never in trouble with the police, and here you are with bricks of heroin on your passenger seat?’ Martin was suddenly angry. Shits like this were responsible for flooding the streets with Class A drugs, making sure the addicts stayed addicted. Addicts like his daughter, lying on the cell floor next door.
‘I fucked up.’ Tony sounded sincere. He seemed genuinely sorry. Probably sorry for being caught, thought Martin. He was a big man, strongly built and thuggish looking.
‘You haven’t eaten or drunk a thing since your arrest. You should have something.’
‘I can’t eat.’
‘A coffee though?’
‘They’re shit here, machine crap.’
Martin flickered a smile. ‘True.’ A shadow passed the cell door. ‘Jim!’ Martin called out.
The jailer appeared at the door. ‘Boss?’
‘I’ll have my coffee in here if I may, please, and can we make Mr Robson here a real one too? In a mug from the staff stash. I’ll sit with him while he finishes it.’
Jim hesitated for a second. The rule was that the prisoners drank the instant rubbish out of small cardboard cups. ‘I’ll bring them down.’
Martin turned back towards the seated prisoner. ‘There — a proper coffee. I’ll have to stay with you while you drink it but at least I know you’re not going to dehydrate on my watch.’
‘Thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘You think I’m some scumbag drug pusher,’ Tony said, looking at the floor.
‘I’m not the one to decide what you are. I just get to make sure whoever is down here is being treated right.’
‘You got angry though, earlier, when you spoke about heroin. Like you don’t like me for what I did. I don’t like me either. I only did it for my son. I know you probably hear it all the time, but I got pushed into a desperate place and I thought I saw a way out of it. I’ll have made that place a hell of a lot more desperate if I go to prison. Time is not something I have to waste.’
‘It was un
professional of me. It’s just a subject that’s a little raw. Think of a copper who’s had to mop up a terrible road accident caused by someone on their mobile phone. One day you’ll be on yours, sitting at some traffic lights, chatting away happily. That same officer will tear your head off for it. We all have things that are sensitive for us. I shouldn’t speak to you about the reason you’re here, and you shouldn’t either until you’ve spoken to a brief.’
‘I’m not having a solicitor.’
‘Why not?’
‘I know what I did. You know what I did. A solicitor can’t change that.’
‘It’s your choice, but if there are extenuating circumstances? Even if there aren’t, you should take some advice.’
‘I should take some responsibility for once.’ The man raised puffy eyes to Martin. ‘Will I go to prison? I can’t tell you how important it is for me to be at home.’
‘I don’t want to jump ahead. You’ll get interviewed, they’ll tell you what they think they know and you’ll tell them your side. Go from there. And if you get charged, you’ll have your opportunity to go to court and put your reasons for making your decisions. You’ll get to go home whatever happens, I would imagine. They will likely bail you out while they do the tests. We need to know that what you had was definitely drugs before you get charged with anything.’
‘It’s a stay of execution, then.’
Martin didn’t reply.
Jim blustered in and handed them two steaming mugs of coffee. Martin glanced up at the camera in the top corner of the cell. He’d already talked too much. He knew the rules about discussing cases outside the interview rooms. The cameras in the cell didn’t record sound, but the ones in the corridors did. The last thing he needed was to be caught offering legal advice to a prisoner. Both men swigged at their drinks in silence.
‘What’s your issue with drugs? I mean, I know police officers must hate drugs, but you said it was sensitive, like you might have had an experience with them. Was you a druggie once?’
‘No,’ Martin said too loudly, then more quietly, ‘No, I was never a druggie.’
‘So . . . what? Just pissed off with them because of your line of work?’
Martin looked up at the camera again. He moved further into the cell. ‘I have a family member, a close one, who has an ongoing battle. I’ve seen what those chemicals do to people. They take everything from them, strip everything away until all that’s left is the need for more drugs. When good people get into drugs it takes all the good away.’ Martin felt weak all of a sudden. He found a perch on the end of the bed. His voice was low, to avoid being overheard. This was the first time he’d ever spoken out loud about it. He couldn’t talk to his wife — he’d tried more times than he could remember, back when Sally started showing the first real signs. The money disappearing from his wife’s purse was put down to forgetfulness or misunderstanding. Then jewellery went, including her nan’s ring, a precious heirloom. After that, his wife became increasingly angry and bitter. She seemed to think Sally should just pull herself together and snap out of it. Martin knew it wasn’t so easy, and that anger was counterproductive, even destructive.
‘Your kid?’ Tony’s question didn’t register at first. Martin was thinking about his wife, and whether he would even bother to mention that their daughter was back in custody.
‘Your son?’ Tony persisted.
Martin shook his head. ‘My little girl.’ The day was starting to get on top of him and he was afraid he might start crying.
‘You’d do anything for your kids, wouldn’t you?’
‘Anything.’
‘Muscular dystrophy,’ Tony said.
‘Muscular dystrophy?’
‘My boy. He’s seven. He was diagnosed a few years back and should be pretty severely disabled by now. It’s basically a muscle-wasting disease. It hits mobility first but eventually it attacks every part of you. Until there’s nothing left.’
Martin looked at Tony. ‘Should be disabled?’
‘Yeah. The Americans have got this drug that has pretty much stopped it in its tracks. We were in the most desperate place I’ve ever known, and then there was hope, you know. It was better than anyone imagined. We have a normal boy with a football at his feet, full of energy and mischief, me telling him off for never leaving me alone and breaking down my fence with his ball.’
‘That’s great.’
‘It was. Our doc spoke to me a few days back. Basically, the NHS won’t pay for Daniel’s treatment any more. His condition is rare, and saving his life alone isn’t worth the three grand a month it costs for the drugs. Just like that, they cut us loose, told us we’re on our own. So now it’s down to finding three grand a month or watching my son waste away to nothing in front of my eyes. Maybe we’re not so different, you and me.’
Martin sighed, and shook his head. ‘I feel bad. All my woes are caused by self-inflicted drug abuse, and here you are fighting a terrible disease that your son did nothing to bring on himself.’
‘I’ve seen these crackheads, the way they live. No one would choose to live like that. Your daughter’s got a disease too. At least with Daniel, I know what the cure is.’
‘Three thousand pounds a month,’ Martin said.
‘Three thousand pounds a month,’ Tony confirmed.
‘Hence you suddenly turn up on our radar with three bricks of heroin on your passenger seat.’
Tony rubbed his cheeks hard, distorting his mouth. Both men took a long drink of coffee. ‘Is that what it was?’ Tony spoke into his cup, his eyes glazed and empty. ‘I mean, I guessed, but . . .’ He ran out of words.
‘If you did have a brief, they’d probably tell you to answer every question with “no comment.”’ Martin blurted this out before he could stop himself. What was he doing? He shouldn’t be advising a prisoner how to answer questions in a police interview.
‘But that won’t help in the long run. I was caught red-handed.’
‘You’ve not committed any offence until we’ve proved that what you had was heroin. That takes time, six weeks or so. If you don’t reply to their questions there’ll be no reason to keep you. You’ll get six weeks with your son before you have to come back.’ Martin’s pulse had quickened, his stomach had tightened up. He was close to having one of his anxiety attacks and needed to get out of there. He stood, swept up the empty coffee cups, and made for the door.
‘Six weeks. I suppose I should count myself lucky if that’s what I get,’ Tony said as Martin reached the door. ‘I was thinking they might just cart me off to prison. What am I going to do if they send me to prison?’
Martin stopped, a hand on the cold metal of the door. He stepped out and put down the cups. Closing the door was a two-handed job. He leant back into the cell, his eyes wide open, furtive and intense.
‘No comment,’ he repeated. ‘Play for time.’
Martin slammed the cell door shut.
CHAPTER 7
‘We need to stop meeting in such circumstances, George.’ Solicitor Howard Staples shook George’s hand.
‘Thanks for ignoring my requests to stay away and coming down anyway. Your timing is impeccable.’ George sat down on the wooden bench. It was fixed to the floor at just the right distance to make it impossible to lean comfortably on the table.
‘Thanks? Really? You’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding any contact at all. Here we are with a trial looming, your trial, and your solicitor can’t even get to speak to you.’
‘Is this a bollocking?’ George’s expression lightened a little.
‘Yes.’
‘Noted.’
‘I’m only here for you, George, you know that. The only reason I need to have a chat is because I need to look after your best interests and I can’t do that if you hide behind these brick walls, can I?’
‘Like I said, noted.’
‘Bollocking over.’
George sat back in his chair, smiled, and immediately flinched in pain. ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad.�
�
‘I assume I’m here because someone beat some sense into you.’
George gingerly pushed at his cheek, then gripped his aching nose. ‘The showers get very slippery in here.’
‘You wanna be careful they don’t kill you, George. Is that why you finally agreed to speak to me?’
‘Well, to be honest, I had no intention of speaking to you this morning. In fact, had you been an hour earlier you still wouldn’t have got your meeting, but the option was to continue with the conversation I was having or come and drink a coffee with you.’ George shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. The room was used for prisoners to speak to their legal advisors. The only bright colour in the beige room was provided by two red panic buttons on Howard’s side of the table. A notice on the wall read, “Anyone causing damage to this room will be charged.”
‘So you don’t want to talk about the case?’ Howard prompted.
‘You’re a good man, Howard, and I really don’t like wasting your time.’
‘And you didn’t even get a coffee.’
‘Water’s fine.’
‘I just want to help you, you know.’
‘And you have. Like I said, perfect timing.’
‘Change your plea. Go not guilty, talk to the cops about what happened and why, and I can have you out of here in weeks. Maybe less. The CPS have no real case, just circumstantial bits and bobs. I’m sure they wouldn’t even take it to court if they didn’t have your confession and your continuing insistence on your own guilt.’
‘But they do.’
‘But they do,’ Howard repeated. ‘And here we are. You’re stuck in here. This is a remand prison, George, you know how this works. If they sentence you for real and to a Cat A prison you are looking at far worse than just never seeing your family again.’
George said nothing.
Howard knew that he had touched a nerve. He waited.
BLOOD MONEY a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 4