Macdonald started jogging on the spot.
'I'm getting tired just looking at you,' said Harris, and sauntered away. He joined a group of four middle-aged men from the twos.
Macdonald realised that two black men were staring at him from across the exercise yard. Dreadlocks and Stickman. He returned their gaze. He'd beaten them once and had no doubt he could do it again, but he didn't want to have to keep watching his back on the landing. He had a choice: either beat them so badly they'd never go near him again, or win them over.
Dreadlocks whispered something to Stickman. They continued to glare at him.
Macdonald walked slowly to where they were standing. 'How's it going, guys?' he said.
'What the fuck do you want?' said Dreadlocks, fists clenched. Stickman was looking around but nobody was paying them any attention. There were no officers in the yard.
'We got off to a bad start this morning,' said Macdonald. 'It happens. Sorting out the pecking order and all. But I don't want you thinking that you've got to stick something sharp in my back to get even.'
Stickman was frowning, a faraway look in his eyes. 'What do you mean?' he slurred. Macdonald realised he was doped up to the eyeballs, probably been smoking marijuana.
'I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible. We clashed heads this morning, and I want to know if that's the end of it.'
'And if it isn't?' said Dreadlocks.
Macdonald stared levelly at him. It was important to show no sign of weakness. The man had to understand that Macdonald was offering a truce, not surrendering. 'Then let's go to it now, two against one,' he said. 'But the way I see it, either I'm going to have to put you in hospital or you're going to have to kill me. Because that's just the way I am. I'm in for shooting a cop. There's not much more they can do to me. Now you two, I'd guess drugs. Probably dope, maybe crack. If you're lucky you'll be out in a few years. But if we go to war and you win, it's life.'
Dreadlocks continued to stare at him. Stickman was swinging his shoulders from side to side. He wasn't a threat: the dope he'd smoked had dulled his reactions to the point at which Macdonald could have pushed him over with his little finger. Dreadlocks was a different matter, though. The scar on his left forearm could have been from a knife fight and he didn't look the sort to back down, even if he wasn't carrying a weapon. But there was sharp intelligence in his eyes and Macdonald could see the wheels turning as he considered what had been said. Macdonald kept his hands loose but he was ready to strike the moment he saw any sign that Dreadlocks was going to get violent.
'Shot a cop, yeah?' said Dreadlocks.
'Didn't pull the trigger but I'll be charged with it,' said Macdonald.
'Dead?'
Macdonald smiled. 'No. He was wearing a vest.'
'Pity,' said Dreadlocks. He wasn't smiling but Macdonald sensed that the tension had gone. He had made his decision.
Dreadlocks pointed at the wound on Macdonald's head. 'They do that?'
'Hit me with the butt of a Heckler.'
Dreadlocks smiled for the first time. 'Ain't that the thing about the white man? Can't even use a gun the way God intended.'
'So, are we okay?'
'We're cool.'
Dreadlocks held out his fist and Macdonald tapped his against it. 'You did look like a Smurf in that paper suit.'
'No argument about that,' said Macdonald. He turned and walked away.
Harris was still deep in conversation with the men from the twos, but he was looking at Macdonald. As he walked past, Harris nodded. He'd obviously seen the confrontation, and Macdonald realised that the nod had been of approval. Not much got past Ed Harris. Macdonald was going to have to be careful around him.
The spur emptied again as the prisoners went back to work. Macdonald was locked up in his cell. He switched on the television but there was nothing he wanted to watch.
A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies. 'Your solicitor's here,' she said.
Macdonald sat up, frowning. 'I haven't asked for one,' he said.
'Yeah, well, he's asking for you. I wouldn't go looking any gift horses in the mouth, if I were you. The sort of charges you're facing, you need all the help you can get.'
Macdonald swung his legs off the bunk and slipped on his trainers. Lloyd-Davies stood aside to let him out. She locked the door, then walked down to the ground floor with him. 'How was your first night?' she asked.
'It was okay,' he said. He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. After all, he was banged up in a high-security prison, sleeping on a wafer-thin mattress surrounded by drug-dealers, rapists and other violent criminals.
'At least you got a change of clothes.'
'I could do with new trainers,' he said.
'Ask your brief,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'He can have clothing sent in for you. Money, too.' She unlocked the door on the ground floor and took him along the secure corridor. It was deserted and the clicking of her heels echoed off the walls. 'How did he know you were here?' she asked. 'No one even knows who you are.'
'That's a very good question, Miss Lloyd-Davies. I was wondering that myself.'
'Maybe the guys who were arrested with you sent him.'
Macdonald smiled to himself. He doubted that Ted Verity would have sent him a solicitor. A hit-man maybe.
'You do that a lot,' said Lloyd-Davies, giving him a sideways look.
'Do what?'
'Smile.'
'It's my sunny personality, Miss Lloyd-Davies.'
'The way I hear it, you're on remand for armed robbery and facing charges of kidnapping and attempted murder.'
'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald. 'The forensic'll bear me out.'
'Even so, I don't see much to smile about.'
'Things have a way of working out for the best,' said Macdonald.
'You believe that?' she asked.
Macdonald grinned. 'No,' he said. He was a realist. He knew that, more often than not, things didn't work out for the best. Bad people did bad things to good people and got away with it. Good people got sick and died. Life wasn't fair, good didn't triumph over evil, and there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy. 'No, I don't.'
'There's something about you that's not right,' said Lloyd-Davies.
'Yeah, well, if I was completely normal I wouldn't be in here, would I?'
'You don't seem bothered by it.'
'Yeah, well, still waters . . .'
'I've seen thousands of men pass through the remand wing, and they normally fall into two camps.'
'Gay and straight?'
She ignored his attempt at humour. They turned right. More CCTV cameras watched them. Again the corridor was deserted, stretching ahead for almost a hundred yards. Macdonald was bigger than the female officer by a good six inches and probably weighed fifty per cent more than she did. She had no weapons that he could see, and she wasn't wearing a radio. Yet she seemed confident that she could control him.
'Can I ask you a question, ma'am?'
'Fire away.'
'Aren't you concerned that I might turn violent?'
She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Is that supposed to worry me?'
'It's a serious question. I'm an armed robber, what's to stop me grabbing you and holding you hostage?'
Lloyd-Davies laughed. 'For what? A million quid and a helicopter?'
'The point is, they brought me in here with an armed escort and in handcuffs. Now there's just you and me walking down an empty corridor.'
Lloyd-Davies pointed out the nearest CCTV camera. 'We're watched all the time. If anything were to happen, there'd be a dozen guys in here kicking the shit out of you.'
'And if I had a knife?'
'You haven't. And if I was in any way unsure of my safety, we wouldn't be doing it like this. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I trust you?'
'I guess you get to become a good judge of character, working in here.'
'You've got to know that when you open the hatch in the m
orning you're not going to have hot water thrown in your face,' she said. 'Or worse. Now was that you changing the subject?'
'What do you mean?'
'I was about to tell you what was wrong about you when you got me on to the dangers of the job. Worried I was going to have an insight into your character that you don't want to hear?'
They reached a barred gate. Lloyd-Davies stood, key in hand, but made no move to unlock it.
'Fire away,' said Macdonald.
'Like I was saying, there's two sorts of guys on the remand wing. There's the new meat, men who've never been in trouble before. It hits them hard the first few days. They walk around in shock. Then there's the men who've been in the system before. Okay, they're not happy to be back behind bars, but they've got a confidence about themselves. The way they treat the officers, the way they react to the other inmates.'
'And?'
'Well, you've got the confidence, but not the experience. You had the confidence to get stuck into two hard nuts on the landing, but you didn't know to order your meals.'
Macdonald wondered how she knew about the fight, but guessed that little happened on the wing without the officers finding out.
'So, what do you think, ma'am?'
She looked at him quizzically, swinging her key chain. 'Either (a) boarding-school or (b) the army. You're not intimidated by institutions. Public-school boys and former soldiers always do well in prison.' She smiled. 'So, which is it?'
Macdonald grinned. 'That would be telling.'
'There's always C,' she said.
'And C would be?'
Lloyd-Davies put the key into the lock and opened the door. 'That would be telling,' she said.
She let Macdonald through, then followed him and locked the door. She took him along another corridor to a central hallway. For the first time since leaving the remand wing they saw other prisoners escorted by guards.
Lloyd-Davies greeted another female prison officer and stopped to confirm a squash game, then took Macdonald up a flight of stairs. They entered a hallway in which there were four cubicles, each with windows on three sides. She took him to one. The door was unlocked. 'Wait in here,' she said.
Macdonald walked into the room. It was about eight feet square with a Formica-topped table and four plastic chairs with metal legs. Macdonald sat down and folded his arms. Lloyd-Davies closed the door.
Another officer appeared at the window to Macdonald's right. He was in his fifties, almost bald with wisps of grey hair. He looked at Macdonald, then moved away from the window. Macdonald sighed and settled back in his chair. There were no CCTV cameras in the room, and no obvious signs of listening devices. He recalled that conversations between prisoners and their legal advisers were supposed to be sacrosanct.
The door opened again and the grey-haired officer showed in a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstripe suit carrying a shiny black leather briefcase. He indicated a bell by the door. 'Ring when you're finished,' he said gruffly.
The man thanked him and sat down opposite Macdonald. He swung the briefcase up onto the table and flicked open its two brass combination locks.
The officer closed the door.
Macdonald leaned forward. 'What the fuck is going on?' he said, his voice a harsh whisper.
'Don't you mean, "What the fuck's going on, sir"?' said the man, adjusting his cuffs. He was wearing gold links in the shape of cricket bats. His hair was greying at the temples and it glistened under the overhead lights. Superintendent Sam Hargrove never spent less than forty pounds on a haircut and, whenever possible, visited an upmarket salon in Mayfair for his monthly trim.
'Why the fuck am I here?' said Macdonald.
'If you calm down, I'll tell you.'
Macdonald folded his arms again and leaned back. 'This had better be good.'
'There was a change of plan, after you went undercover.'
'And no one thought of telling me?'
'Spider, I'm as unhappy about this as you are.'
'Plans aren't supposed to be changed, not without a full briefing. Have you any idea how dangerous this is for me? There are six hundred men in here, any one of whom might know who I am. I need a legend that'll stand up to scrutiny. You can't just expect me to wing it.'
'We've run a check. No one here has crossed paths with you. No one will know you are Dan Shepherd. Your Bob Macdonald cover isn't in jeopardy. You continue with that.'
'The legend was set up so I could infiltrate a gang of armed robbers,' said Shepherd. 'We knew exactly who I was going to be pitching to. Now I'm on the remand wing and there are new arrivals every day.'
'We're watching your back, Spider. You have my word.'
Shepherd took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He had worked in Hargrove's undercover unit for the best part of five years and in all that time he had never seen the superintendent deliberately put one of his operatives in harm's way. Except, of course, that every time an undercover policeman went on duty, his life was on the line.
'I've already spoken to Sue and put her in the picture,' said Hargrove. He held up a hand before Shepherd could speak. 'She's fine - but understandably she's as thrilled about this as you are.'
Shepherd's face tightened. He would have preferred to explain the situation to his wife himself, but the fact that he was behind bars made that next to impossible.
'I'll see what I can do to arrange a visit,' said the superintendent.
'I'm staying here, then?' asked Shepherd.
'I'm hoping to convince you to,' said Hargrove, 'but it's your call.'
That was par for the course, as Shepherd knew. An undercover cop was never forced to undertake an operation. It was always his choice. It had to be because of the nature of the work.
Hargrove opened his briefcase and took out a manila file. He opened it, extracted a glossy ten-by-eight colour photograph and slid it across the table. 'Gerald Carpenter,' he said, 'presently on remand here at Shelton.'
Shepherd didn't recognise the man but that was hardly surprising. There were three floors on his spur, plus two more spurs each with three floors. Out of almost a hundred and fifty men in the remand block, Shepherd doubted that he'd come across more than twenty. Then he remembered the incident at the hotplate. Gerry's sausages.
'He's on the threes,' said Shepherd. 'Gets special treatment.'
'Yeah, well, even in here money talks,' said Hargrove. 'Carpenter has been charged with bringing just over eight hundred kilos of heroin into the country. He's facing up to twenty years. The Drugs Squad have been after him for donkeys.'
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. Eight hundred kilos was worth close to eighty million pounds on the street. Even at wholesale prices, Carpenter wouldn't have got much change from twenty million. The man in the photograph was in his mid-forties, a decade or so older than Shepherd. He had deep frown lines etched into his forehead and pale blue eyes that squinted suspiciously at the camera. He had thin, almost bloodless lips and bullet-grey hair, parted on the left. Shepherd handed it back. He had photographic recall for faces and a brief glance was all he needed to commit it to memory.
'Carpenter is a millionaire many times over and is very well connected on the outside,' said Hargrove, as he put the photograph back into the file. 'He's pulling all the strings he can to make sure the case doesn't come to court. The yacht that was used to bring in the drugs went up in flames two weeks ago, although it was under the supposedly watchful eye of HM Customs. A CPS solicitor was mugged at Waterloo last week. Two assailants, both white. They ignored the woman's Breitling watch and a wallet full of credit cards, just ran off with her briefcase. Which happened to be filled with papers relating to Carpenter's case.'
Hargrove put the file back into his briefcase. 'Three days ago an undercover drugs officer, who was pivotal to the case, was murdered. Shot twice in the head by two men on a motorcycle.'
Shepherd pursed his lips. There was no need for the superintendent to spell it out. It had been a professional hit - and killing a cop wa
sn't undertaken lightly. Only a man like Carpenter could afford to have it done.
'Jonathon Elliott. I believe you knew him.'
Shepherd's eyes widened. It had been a good five years since he'd crossed paths with Elliott, but he'd known him as a probationary officer when he was pounding the beat in south London, a lifetime ago. He was a Spurs fan, a fitness fanatic and a first-rate undercover officer. 'Yeah, I knew him.'
'Elliott was one of two undercover operatives preparing to give evidence against Carpenter. The other works for Customs and we've got him under wraps.'
'I'm sure that's a great comfort to him,' said Shepherd. 'Why were the agents giving evidence anyway?' Usually undercover agents were protected at all costs. They gathered evidence and helped prepare cases but, as a rule, they didn't appear in court. Once they did, their cover was blown for all time.
'It was the only way to get Carpenter. Until this case he's been untouchable. Like you, he has a photographic memory. Nothing is written down - names, addresses, phone numbers, bank details, all in his head. And, like most of the untouchables, he keeps well away from the drugs. Never goes near the money either. His method of bringing the gear into the country was pretty much infallible.' Hargrove leaned forward. 'He dealt mainly in cocaine and heroin, bought from a Colombian cartel. They fly their drugs out into the Atlantic and drop them into the sea where they're picked up by a tanker that spends most of its life in international waters. Buyers sail out to it. Carpenter had a dozen yachts picking up gear and sailing back to the Scottish coast. It was damn near perfect.'
'Couldn't have been that perfect or he wouldn't be in here.'
'Customs spent almost two million quid,' said Hargrove, 'and they've got him on conspiracy, but for that to stick they'll need agents giving evidence.'
'And the guys are okay with that?'
'Elliott was. And so is the Cussie. Elliott's wife had been wanting him to get out of undercover work for some time and he'd said that the Carpenter job was going to be his last. And the Cussie isn't far off retirement. We'd arranged for them to give evidence via video links with their identities concealed. Best we could do.'
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