by Jack Murray
Miller turned around to Kit and asked, ‘Where to, sir?’
In response, Jellicoe gave an address south of the river, which caused Kit and Miller to look at one another.
‘Is this a new prison?’ asked Kit, ‘I can’t say I’m familiar with it.’
Jellicoe replied with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘Not new so much as special.’ He didn’t elaborate further, so Kit let the matter drop despite his curiosity.
The address of the facility was a little way out of the centre of town. Miller drove them south towards Clapham. The journey took around fifteen minutes. As they passed through the London streets, the three men chatted amiably about commonplace subjects. This was frustrating as Kit was burning to know who the second prisoner might be, but the good Chief Inspector resisted any subtle invitation of Kit’s to talk further on the matter.
They finally arrived at the facility which was cunningly disguised as a small mansion with a high wall and trees around its border. The area seemed relatively well-to-do. It amused Kit to think about how residents would feel about having a prison in their midst.
As the car drew up a man, dressed in country tweeds, came to meet them at the gate. Although his attire seemed to suggest a county gent, his face told a different story. The skin was rough-hewn, with heavy eyelids that slanted downwards; his nose had been broken once too often and been given up as a bad job. Kit recognised a boxer when he saw one. Up close, as they sped in, it was clear the tweed suit was scarcely able to contain the epic dimensions of this particular squire.
The driveway was around fifty yards long and ended in a large area in front of the house set aside for vehicles. It seemed to Kit, once he was out of the car, that they were in the countryside rather than the heart of a major capital city. The doors of the large house opened and out stepped a man who greeted them on the steps. The man was in his fifties with a bearing that was unmistakably military.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Jellicoe, shaking the man’s hand, ‘Are you Major Hastings?’
The man smiled, ‘No longer a Major, Chief Inspector, but thank you notwithstanding that.’ He looked at the car and smiled.
‘Police cars have certainly come a long way.’
Jellicoe smiled and turned to Kit, ‘May I present Lord Christopher Aston and my colleague, Detective Sergeant Ryan.’
After the usual greetings, Hastings ushered the men inside. The interior was dominated by dark wood walls, flooring, and staircase. It was perhaps a little dark for Kit’s taste, but this was a detail in what was otherwise the most extraordinary prison Kit had ever visited. A sense of anger began to build as he hoped that the second prisoner was not the murderer of Mary’s uncle. As he thought this, he quickly scolded himself. Such a trick would be out of character for the Chief Inspector, a man he found he had increasing regard for.
-
Joe Ryan knew something was wrong as he walked towards the factory gates. Several men were walking away rather than to the factory. Some looked angry; a couple were in shock and others had the muted resignation of another defeat. He felt his skin tingle and for once he knew it wasn’t the cold. The feeling in the pit of his stomach grew with each step towards the gate. He knew the feeling well. It was almost an old friend. Or enemy.
Once through the gates he made his way towards to the entrance of the factory. Inside, the noise of the machines was loud but not quite deafening. The height of the vast arched roof overhead meant that the sound was dispersed more widely making it just about bearable. A few of his mates were strolling around the factory floor. He waved to one but was not acknowledged. Not a good sign.
‘Joe,’ shouted someone from behind.
He turned to see Alf Fairfax motioning for him to come over. Fairfax was the local union organiser for the factory. He was a sharp featured man in his forties with a look that was, whether by design or good fortune, permanently sly. This made him an ideal interlocutor with management, who probably disliked him as much as the workers unquestionably did. Ryan tended to avoid him if he could, which made him more like the factory management than the union man would have imagined.
Ryan felt his feet begin to drag. Fairfax looked at him impatiently. Before he reached the union leader, Fairfax turned and walked through a door. It led up to the management office on the floor overlooking the factory.
Ryan followed Fairfax up the stairs. There was no conversation. There was no need. Ryan had seen this before. He knew why his workmates had not looked at him. Why should they? He would have done the same. In fact, he had done the same. What could any of them do?
Fairfax pushed open a door marked Factory Manager. Ryan followed him to the office. Inside was a young woman, Lily, the secretary to Ken Tippett, the factory manager, who was sat behind his desk. Ryan nodded to Lily, who was liked for a variety of reasons by the boys on the factory floor, although none had ever come close to courting her. She smiled sympathetically.
‘This is Joe Ryan,’ said Fairfax to Tippett.
‘Ah, Ryan,’ said Tippett, looking up uncomfortably at Ryan. Fairfax remained standing, so Ryan did likewise. Lily had stopped using the typewriting machine since Ryan’s arrival in the office. ‘Come forward,’ ordered Tippett.
Ryan walked forward, taking off his cap. Holding it in both hands at his waist. Tippett was holding a letter. He looked from Ryan to the letter and then back to Ryan.
‘I shan’t beat around the bush. We’re laying you off,’ said Tippett. He paused for a moment to let the news sink in. It already had. Then he continued, ‘We’re having to do this to a number of chaps. I’m afraid it’s based on last in first out. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes, the ones that didn’t fight can stay, sir.’
‘Ryan,’ said Fairfax sharply. ‘Enough of that, lad. It can’t be helped.’
Tippett looked even more uncomfortable now. He was of an age at which he could have fought in the War. He hadn’t. His occupation was deemed too important for the overall War effort.
‘We’re aware that you served your country, Ryan, and of course we’re grateful. The sad fact is we are suffering. Cheap imports are undercutting us. We must become more competitive. This is the reality of the marketplace. You understand?’
Of course, I understand, thought Ryan bitterly. I’m not an idiot. He stayed silent, leaving Tippett with the impression he was dealing with someone intellectually deficient. He decided to bring the meeting to a swift conclusion.
‘This letter explains it all. The management is also being quite generous to people like yourself, and there is a not insubstantial payoff,’ continued Tippett. He motioned his head and Ryan heard Lily rise from her desk and come forward. She handed Ryan an envelope that jingled. With coins. Tippett meanwhile sealed his envelope also and handed it to Ryan.
‘Come on, lad,’ said Fairfax moving forward and touching Ryan’s arm.
Ryan turned and walked out of the office in silence. As the door closed, he heard Lily begin typing again. The two men walked down the stairs and then down a corridor to another smaller office. This belonged to Fairfax.
‘I’m sorry about this, lad. A dozen blokes have been laid off, too. Do you have any other work you think you can find?’
‘No,’ replied Ryan. He knew a lot of men who had lost their jobs were looking around all the usual places. It seemed to be the same story everywhere. It didn’t matter that you’d fought for King and country. If anything, it made things worse back in civilian life. You’d missed out in gaining work experience that others, who hadn’t served, were able to have. He felt himself sinking into a dark hole. Life wasn’t meant to be easy, but this?
Fairfax wrote down a name and an address. As he was doing so, he said, ‘I know someone that might be able to help.’
Ryan took the piece of paper and looked at it.
‘A job?’
‘No guarantees. Tell him I sent you, mind. That’s important. Ask to speak to him and tell him you’ve been sent by me. Understand?’
‘Thanks,�
� said Ryan, feeling some relief. The room became slightly brighter. The weight crushing his stomach lightened immediately through hope and gratitude.
‘Go along this morning, lad.’
Ryan didn’t need a second invitation. Within moments he was on his feet and heading out of the office.
‘Thanks, Alf,’ said Ryan at the door. He meant it.
-
Major Hastings led Kit to a large office with a view over the expansive garden at the back. The office was sparsely furnished and there were no pictures on the walls bar one regimental photograph. Kit walked over to it. It was typical of the period. Very wide and containing ranks of men. Hastings was in the middle of the front row. The picture was taken in June 1914.
‘Not many of us left, I’m afraid,’ commented Hastings as Kit turned away from the photograph.
Kit and Hastings looked at one another. Nothing else was said. Hastings sat down and bid the men do likewise. Jellicoe began to speak, ‘Thank you for allowing us to see the prisoner at such short notice, Major Hastings.’
‘It’s not a problem, Chief Inspector. I must confess it was rather a surprise, though. May I ask why?’
Jellicoe, it seemed to Kit, looked reluctant to reveal the reason, and Kit’s hunch proved accurate.
‘There have been a number of recent robberies which bear similarities to Hadleigh’s imprint. We thought he might have some ideas that could help us in our enquiries.’
Hastings nodded and then looked at Kit. Jellicoe caught the direction of the Governor’s gaze. ‘Lord Aston is here because he was the one who uncovered that a robbery had taken place.’
‘And of course, I remember now, his connection to the other prisoner.’
Kit sat forward as he realised the other prisoner’s name was about to be revealed; however, at that moment there was a knock at the door and a uniformed man walked in. He was short but powerfully built. He didn’t so much walk forward as march, coming to a dramatic halt near the Governor’s desk.
Hastings smiled and introduced the new arrival, ‘Gentlemen, this is Chief Warder Brickhill. As you’ve probably surmised, he is, like me, ex-army. In fact, he was my sergeant major.’
The two policemen and Kit rose to greet Brickhill. His dark slicked back hair and features suggested a man who could have been aged anywhere between forty and sixty. The steel grey eyes bespoke a man you didn’t mess with.
After the initial introductions, Hastings continued, ‘If you would take these gentlemen down to our guest Mr Hadleigh.’
‘Yes sir.’ A man of few words thought Kit, unless he was barking at some poor unfortunate. The three men followed Brickhill out of the office, down a flight of stairs to a basement floor with an impressively thick oak door.
Another prison guard opened the door for the men which led to a long corridor, dimly lit. There were four cells it seemed. This made Kit even more curious as to what type of facility this was. A prison dedicated to a handful of men was highly unusual.
Brickhill gave a brief rap on the door before extracting a set of keys from his pocket. Selecting a mortice key from the band, he opened the door, and all four men walked in. When Kit saw Hadleigh’s cell his mouth almost fell open.
Chapter 8
The address on the piece of paper given by Fairfax was in Southwark. Ryan decided to make his way straight there. The alternative was to go home and break the news to his wife as well as risking someone else would get there before him and nab any potential job.
Two bus rides later he was still a short walk away. The factory was one of a number in the city dedicated to the production of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes, and snuff. Ryan walked down one of the most desolate roads he had seen in London. There were no houses or shops or pubs. There were several small businesses and factories. Some of the businesses had been abandoned. Dogs roamed around the grounds, barking, and fighting.
Ryan kept on walking past one vacant unit after another. He turned a corner and saw a fairly austere red brick facility at the end of a road that even the kindest observer would have described as abandoned by the rest of society.
Outside the factory gates, there were hard-looking men smoking cigarettes. They barely glanced at Ryan as he walked towards the office at the front. Outside the office sat another group of men. They eyed Ryan as he headed in their direction. Ryan overheard one say, ‘Another one.’ One of the men stood up. He didn’t seem that much taller once on his feet. He was powerfully built and walked aggressively towards Ryan.
Two years at the front meant that Ryan didn’t shrink in the face of physical intimidation. The man’s hands remained in his pockets, however, so Ryan assumed he was going so to speak to him instead. Rather than wait for the man, Ryan spoke.
‘I’ve been told I should speak to a Johnny Mac.’
‘Who told you that?’ asked the man. His face, his voice and his posture still suggested Ryan’s next answer could land him in a fight.
‘Alf Fairfax.’
The man laughed mirthlessly.
‘Hear that boys,’ said the man turning to his work mates, ‘Another one of Alf’s lost souls.’ He turned back to Ryan and said, ‘Any proof of that?’
Ryan handed him the scribbled note from Fairfax. The man put it in his pocket and motioned for Ryan to follow him inside the factory. Once inside, the man led Ryan down a corridor to a small office. He knocked and opened the door. He put a hand on Ryan’s chest, however, and walked inside himself.
Two minutes later he came out of the office. He gestured with his thumb and said, ‘In you go.’
Ryan walked in, but the man remained outside. Inside the office was a relatively young man, perhaps Ryan’s age or slightly older. He stood up as Ryan entered. The man was slender, his hair was close cropped and there was a scar running from his left eye down the side of his cheek. This alone would have had most men checking for the nearest exit. He was also one of the tallest men Ryan had ever seen. At least six feet five.
The giant made no attempt to be welcoming. Wisely, he had long since realised that his appearance was unlikely to make a first impression anything other than uneasy for the viewer. Fortified by this certainty, he always strove to ensure the second impression confirmed the first. In spades.
He walked up to Ryan with a smile that was reminiscent of a lion coming across an antelope catching forty winks in the hot African sun. Ryan tensed himself. Whatever happened, the man would find himself in a fight all right. The years at the front had deadened much of his fear: he was no coward.
‘I’m Johnny Mac.’
An Ulsterman. Ryan had met many in Flanders. He’d liked them, mostly. They’d fought with a ferocity, a mad courage and a hatred that seemed almost spiritual in its purity. Ryan had almost felt sorry for the Germans. Ulster folk were a God-fearing people who showed no mercy to the enemy.
‘I’m Joe Ryan. Alf Fairfax sent me here.’
‘Why?’
‘I was laid off.’
‘Why?’
‘Last in, first out.’
‘War?’
‘Yes.’
This seemed to satisfy Johnny Mac for he nodded, ‘Can you do nights?’
Ryan nearly jumped for joy. ‘Yes, no problem.’
‘You start at six, finish at four,’ said Johnny Mac, not taking his eyes off Ryan. In fact, Ryan could swear the man had not blinked in all the time he’d been in the office.
‘Thanks,’ said Ryan for wont of anything else to say.
Johnny Mac looked to the door and shouted, ‘Rusk.’
The man who had led Ryan here re-entered. He looked to Johnny Mac, who merely nodded.
‘Go with Rusk. He’ll find details. Give him the two pounds.’
Ryan turned sharply to Johnny Mac.
‘What?’
Johnny Mac glowered at Ryan, ‘You want the job, it’ll cost you two quid. Understand?’
Ryan felt rage and fear. He needed the job, but he wanted to kill the man in front of him. And Fairfax. The other man moved forwar
d towards Ryan. The air seemed to leave the room. Finally, Ryan nodded to Johnny Mac. He needed the job. There were still a few shillings left over from his pay off.
‘Where do I sign?’
He had a job. That was the main thing.
-
Kit stepped into the prison cell after Jellicoe, Ryan, and the Chief Warder, Brickhill. The cell, if it can be so described, was around five times the usual size. There were a couple of landscapes on the wall, a gramophone, a leather armchair with matching Chesterfield sofa. Over by the wall was a dining table with three seats and a large bookcase. On the floor was, to all appearances, an expensive Persian carpet. Only the single bed with the steel grey blanket betrayed the location. The rest of the room was more like the room of a man of independent means in London.
‘Jellicoe,’ said the man in surprise. He rose from the armchair to greet a man who seemed like an old friend.
‘Chief Inspector, I gather now. My congratulations, albeit belatedly. What a pleasant surprise. And if I’m not mistaken, this is Lord Kit Aston.’ The voice was more aristocrat than convict. Kit stepped forward and shook the outstretched hand.
‘Hello, Hadleigh,’ said Kit who if not nonplussed, was certainly not exactly plussed either. Looking around the cell, Kit added, ‘They seem to be looking after you well.’
The convict smiled. Something in the smile made Kit start. There was a look on Hadleigh’s face, something indiscernible. Without knowing why, Kit wondered about where he could have met Hadleigh, but the connection to where and when was frustratingly just out of reach. They looked at one another for a moment. He sensed Hadleigh recognised him but not for the reasons that might appear obvious. There was something in the look. Was it sympathy? Sadness? It was hard to tell and Hadleigh understood Kit’s confusion. However, Kit was certain Hadleigh knew their connection. The moment passed quickly and Hadleigh’s attention was drawn to the younger policeman.