Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  Carpenter walked down the centre aisle and sat next to an overweight man with fleshy jowls, who was constantly wiping his face with a handkerchief. He had a gold earring in his left ear and receding hair cropped close to his skull. He whispered something to Carpenter, who nodded. The two men sat with their heads close together, deep in conversation.

  Shepherd relaxed and ran through the thousands of photographs in his memory. He'd seen the man before, in a photograph, though, not in person. An arrest picture. Front and side view. Ronnie Bain. A major marijuana importer who'd been imprisoned for eight years after one of his gang turned supergrass. He was less than half-way through his sentence and had been labelled Cat A after two jurors had been offered bribes to bring in a not-guilty verdict.

  Two prisoners gave out hymn books, which were passed from hand to hand along the rows. Shepherd settled back in his seat, folded his arms and looked round the room at the murderers, drug-dealers, paedophiles and terrorists. There were huddled conversations going on everywhere, and despite the body searches Shepherd saw notes and small packages being transferred from mouth to hand and from hand to mouth.

  The elderly minister announced a hymn and the congregation shuffled to its feet. A Welsh prison officer standing at the door led the singing, his deep baritone echoing round the room. Shepherd did his best to keep up but he wasn't familiar with the hymn. Bain and Carpenter were singing. So was Lee, who was sitting among a group of men in their twenties, all wearing the England football strip and sporting a variety of tattoos, predominantly bulldogs, the cross of St George, and blood-tipped daggers. They were all singing at the tops of their voices, heads tilted back, mouths wide open. They made Shepherd think of wolves howling at the moon.

  There was no work on a Sunday but Shepherd was let out of his cell after lunch to help clean the floors on the spur. He worked with Charlie Weston and met Hamster and Ginger for the first time. Hamster was a lanky West Indian with a speech impediment that made him sound as if he was talking with his nostrils pinched together. Ginger was dressed from head to foot in Manchester United gear, including a baseball cap, team strip, wristbands and trainers with the team's logo on them. It was Ginger's sole topic of conversation as he worked. There was no sign of Carpenter.

  Shepherd spotted Lloyd-Davies walking along the spur, her head down, deep in thought. 'Ma'am?' he said.

  She looked up, frowning.

  'Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but is there any chance of me getting on the gym list this afternoon?'

  'Bit short notice,' said Lloyd-Davies.

  'I keep asking but I'm told the list is full.'

  'Everyone wants to go to the gym. You have to take your turn. Anyway, you all get three hours of association today and the exercise yard is open. Do a few laps of it.'

  'Some people don't seem to have a problem getting on the gym list every day.'

  Lloyd-Davies squinted at Shepherd. 'What are you trying to say?'

  'Just that some guys are in the gym every day but I'm having to get down on my knees for one session a week.'

  'You've only been here a few days,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'These things take time. And under prison rules you're only entitled to an hour a week in the gym. Anything above that is a privilege, not a right.'

  'Yeah, well, it looks to me as if some prisoners are getting more privileges than others.'

  'That's the whole point of the privilege system,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'Carrot and stick. Gym time is one of the carrots we offer.'

  'So, how do I go about getting more carrots from you, ma'am?' said Shepherd, grinning.

  'Stop giving me grief, for a start.' She grinned back. 'I'll see what I can do.' She pointed down at the floor. 'You've missed a bit.' When he looked down she chuckled. 'Made you look,' she said, and walked away.

  Carpenter finished his cappuccino and placed his cup and saucer on the table. The coffee was a pale imitation of what Bonnie made for him at home but, then, she had a two-grand state-of-the-art coffee-maker that Carpenter had had shipped from Italy. He'd put in a request to have a coffee-maker in his cell but the governor had turned it down as a safety risk. It was a nonsense ruling, but so many prison rules owed nothing to logic. Prisoners weren't allowed kettles, but they were allowed Thermos flasks of hot water. From an electrical point of view, a coffee-maker was no more of a danger than the television sets the prison supplied. Carpenter had applied to buy a larger model for his cell but that application had been refused - another nonsense ruling - but a DVD player had been approved. Now all he had to do was to accumulate enough money in his account to buy it. He was on enhanced status, which meant he had thirty pounds a week to spend. There was nothing he could do about his phone calls, which had to be paid for from his account, but he could reduce all the other drains by getting other people to make purchases for him. All the food and drinkin the cell came from other prisoners. Carpenter placed orders and they brought it to his cell. He reimbursed them on the out, at a rate of ten to one.

  Carpenter strolled out of his cell and leaned over the rail. Prisoners were lining up to be searched before going out into the exercise yard. Carpenter hated the yard. It reminded him of his schooldays. Turfed out of the classrooms for an hour to burn off excess energy so they'd be good little boys when lessons resumed.

  Carpenter pushed himself off the rail and walked down the stairs to the ones. Several inmates nodded at him - anyone who'd been on the spur for any length of time knew who he was. Carpenter didn't plan to be behind bars long enough to have to build relationships. He'd bought Digger, and that was all he needed.

  Hitchcock's cell was opposite the pool table. The door was open, but Carpenter knocked. 'Okay if I come in?' he asked.

  Hitchcock was lying on his bunk. 'What do you want?'

  'A chat,' said Carpenter.

  'I just want to be left alone.'

  'Difficult objective to achieve in here,' said Carpenter. He walked in and closed the door. It was a double cell and Hitchcock was on the top bunk: he rolled over so that he was facing the wall. Carpenter took the ring out of his pocket. 'I think this is yours,' he said.

  Hitchcock twisted round. His mouth opened when he saw the wedding band. He rolled over again and took the ring from Carpenter, staring at it as if he feared it might disappear at any moment. 'Where did you get it from?' he asked.

  'Thought you might want it back,' said Carpenter.

  Hitchcock slipped on the ring. 'That was the first time it's been off my finger since I got married,' he said. 'Are you married?'

  'Fourteen years,' said Carpenter.

  'Why are you in here?' asked Hitchcock.

  Carpenter wagged a finger at him. 'Prison etiquette. You never ask a man what he's done. If he tells you, that's fine. But you never ask him.'

  'I'll remember that. Sorry.'

  'There are other rules,' said Carpenter. 'Like you never step into another man's cell without being invited. And you always repay a favour. Nothing comes free in here.'

  Hitchcock looked at the ring. Realisation dawned on his face. 'How much do I owe you?' he asked.

  Carpenter smiled. 'Money isn't a currency in here, Simon.'

  'But you want something from me?'

  'You're a quick learner. Don't worry, Simon, I don't want anything major, just the FT.'

  'The FT?'

  'The Financial Times. Monday to Saturday. And The Economist every week. You place an order with the office and they'll have it delivered from the local newsagent. Soon as it arrives you bring it up to my cell. I'm on the threes. The top floor.'

  'How do I pay for it?'

  'Comes out of your allowance,' said Carpenter. 'Can't see you getting into trouble so you'll be enhanced, which means you get thirty quid a week to spend.'

  'But I need that money to call my wife.'

  'You'll have enough for that. You need anything else Digger can get it for you and you pay him on the out.'

  Tears welled in Hitchcock's eyes. Carpenter knew his demands were unfair but he felt no sympat
hy for the man. In prison you were either a sheep or a wolf. Carpenter and Digger had come in as wolves and recognised it in each other. Even the new man, Macdonald, had shown his strength within days of arriving at Shelton. But men like Hitchcock had vulnerability stamped on them. Victim. Soft target. And if Carpenter didn't take advantage of him, others would.

  'This is a nightmare,' said Hitchcock. He sat on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands.

  'You've got money outside, right?'

  Hitchcock nodded.

  'So use it. Digger's the man to help. You want a single cell, Digger can arrange it. You want a decent job, you see Digger.'

  'He's the big black guy, right? He's the one who stole my ring. And my St Christopher.'

  'He runs the spur. He can take pretty much what he wants.'

  'Why don't the prison officers do something?'

  'This isn't nursery school. You can't go running to the teachers.'

  'I spoke to one of the officers. He said he could write up a report saying what had happened, but that if he did Digger would . . .' He tailed off. 'This is a bloody nightmare.'

  'Which officer?'

  'Hamilton. The young guy.'

  'He was giving you good advice. If he'd taken a report it would have gone to the governor and you'd have been branded a grass. Grasses don't last long in prison.'

  'So I just have to do what he says. Whatever Digger wants, he gets?'

  'You can try standing up to him, but he's big and he's got a lot of muscle. Or you pay him for what you want. You're lucky, Simon. You've got money. The guys who've got nothing still have to pay him. One way or another.'

  Carpenter headed for the door.

  'Gerry?' Carpenter stopped and turned. 'Thanks,' said Hitchcock. Tears were running down his cheeks.

  Carpenter felt a rush of contempt for the man. 'Just remember the FT,' he said.

  Shepherd was watching two prisoners, in yellow and green Jamaican football strips, play pool when he saw Carpenter come out of Hitchcock's cell and head for the stairs. He caught up with him as he reached the twos. 'Gerry, can I have a word?'

  'What's up?'

  They stood together at the railing, looking down on the ones. It was just before three thirty, which meant that tea would be served in just over an hour. Lock-up would start at five fifteen, which meant another fifteen hours stuck in their cells. Another fifteen hours with Lee, watching mindless television. Fifteen hours during which Shepherd's investigation remained in limbo.

  'What we were talking about yesterday - in the gym?'

  'What about it?'

  Shepherd looked about him to check that no one was within earshot, and lowered his voice to a whisper: 'I've got to get out of here, it's doing my head in.'

  'There's none of us in here by choice,' said Carpenter.

  'I'm going crazy. I couldn't do a year inside, never mind a ten-stretch.'

  'You adapt,' said Carpenter calmly.

  'Fuck that!' spat Shepherd.

  'Don't get pissy with me, Bob. I'm just telling you how it is.'

  Shepherd gripped the rail so tightly that his knuckles whitened. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I've just had as much as I can take, that's all.'

  'That's why we go to the gym. Burn off the excess energy.'

  'That's okay if you know you're heading out. I'm going down for a long time, Gerry. Unless I do something about it.'

  Carpenter shrugged. 'I've got problems of my own.'

  'But you're dealing with them, right?'

  Carpenter's eyes were icy. 'How do you know?'

  Shepherd looked back at him, keeping his breathing regular, suppressing all the tell-tale signs of nervousness. He looked him right in the eyes, smiling slightly. Just a regular guy, shooting the breeze, not an undercover cop interrogating a suspect. He hadn't made a mistake. Bob Macdonald didn't know for sure that Carpenter had been killing witnesses and destroying evidence, but after the conversation they'd had in the gym it was a fair assumption. 'You're too laid-back,' said Shepherd. 'You know you're out of here.'

  'Maybe I've just got a good lawyer.'

  'If you had a good lawyer, you wouldn't be on remand. No, you're making it happen, right? Like you said yesterday, you're taking care of it on the out.'

  'If I am, that's my business.'

  'You've got to help me, Gerry.'

  'I don't have to do anything.'

  Shepherd put a hand on Carpenter's arm. 'Look, I've got people on the outside who can help me, but it's getting to them that's the problem. My lawyer's as straight as they come, he won't pass on messages - not the sort I'm going to need to send - my wife wants nothing to do with me, and they listen in to all phone calls. I'm fucked, unless you can help me.'

  Down below, two men in aprons wheeled in the hotplate and plugged it into a power point. According to Lee, Sunday tea was the major meal of the week: roast beef or roast turkey and all the trimmings.

  'Why would I help you, Bob? Where's the up-side for me?'

  'I can pay.'

  'I don't need your money.'

  'But I need your help. I just need you to get a message out for me. A note to the guys who can get things sorted.'

  Carpenter rubbed his chin. 'Let me think about it,' he said.

  'You'd be doing me one hell of a favour. I'd owe you.'

  'That's for sure,' said Carpenter. He headed up the stairs to the threes and his cell.

  Shepherd leaned on the railing. A queue was already forming at the hotplate. One of the West Indians playing pool cheered and slapped the hand of his opponent. Shepherd realised that Needles was propped against the wall close to the pool table, staring up at him. Shepherd stared back. Needles pushed himself away from the wall and folded his arms. His lips curled back in a contemptuous snarl. Shepherd straightened, but continued to stare back at him. He wasn't worried by the show of aggression. He'd beaten the man once and he'd beat him again, if necessary. And the fact that Needles was being so up-front about his hostility meant that Shepherd could be prepared. He could feel hatred pouring out of the man and he knew that whatever Needles had planned wouldn't be long in coming.

  'Don't tease the animals,' said a voice.

  Shepherd turned to see Ed Harris behind him. 'He started it, miss,' he said, grinning.

  'You didn't bother with the anger-management booklet, I take it.'

  'This isn't about anger,' said Shepherd. 'It's about Needles down there wanting to do me harm and me not letting him.'

  'Needles works for Digger, and Digger can pull together a dozen guys on this spur alone,' said Harris.

  'Digger's not the problem,' said Shepherd.

  'He'll back up his man if he has to.'

  'We'll see.'

  'Fighting on the wing makes life difficult for everybody. We all get banged up and that causes resentment.'

  'Is that a threat, Ed?'

  Harris smiled genially. 'I don't make threats, Bob. I'm a Listener. I help where I can.'

  'I don't need help.' Shepherd gestured at Needles, who was still glaring up at him. 'You should talk to him. If anyone needs lessons in anger management, it's your man down there.'

  Harris leaned on the rail, his back to the suicide mesh. 'This isn't racial, is it?'

  'Give me a break,' said Shepherd.

  'They come down on it really heavily in here, racial attacks.'

  'You mean, has Needles got it in for me because I'm white?'

  Harris snorted. 'It doesn't work that way. They'll see it as you picking on him because he's black and you'll be back on basic, maybe even removed from association, which means twenty-three hours a day in your cell.'

  'It's nothing to do with his colour,' said Shepherd. 'It's about power and status. He wants everybody to know he's a big man.'

  'And that upsets you?'

  'Don't bother trying your amateur psychology on me, Ed,' said Shepherd. 'There's no power struggle going on. He doesn't have anything I want. He got heavy with me, I retaliated. That hurt his pride so now he wants to st
amp on me. It'll make him feel better and show everybody how hard he is.'

  'Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.' Harris headed down the stairs towards the hotplate.

  Shepherd looked back at the ones. Needles was still glaring at him. Harris was right about one thing: if his quarrel with Needles erupted into open warfare the officers might well react by locking down the whole spur. Or, even worse, they might try to transfer Shepherd to another. If that were to happen then the only way for him to stay where he was would be for the governor to intervene and that sort of special treatment would only raise eyebrows among officers and inmates. There was no way Shepherd could allow that to happen, and the only way to prevent it would be to get in his retaliation first. He smiled down at Needles and made a gun of his right hand. He pointed it at the man: 'Bang,' he whispered to himself.

  It was stifling inside the hood, and sweat was trickling down the back of Hargrove's neck. The car made a right turn and he took several small breaths, trying to quell the gag reflex.

  'Are you okay, Sam?' asked Raymond Mackie. He was sitting next to Hargrove in the back of the Rover.

  'I'll be a darn sight more okay when this bloody hood's off,' said Hargrove. The Rover made another turn and his stomach lurched. He had a throbbing headache and his mouth had filled twice with acidic vomit that he'd had to swallow. It wasn't how he'd planned to spend his Sunday afternoon.

  'I'm sorry about the cloak-and-dagger,' said Mackie. 'It's as much for Roper's peace of mind as anything.'

  'It's not a problem, Ray,' said Hargrove. 'I'd probably do the same if it was my man under siege.'

  The car accelerated suddenly and Hargrove's stomach churned. He breathed in. The hood was made of black cotton and loose at his throat but, even so, the air he took into his lungs was hot and stifling. The Customs and Excise Head of Drugs Operations had handed it to him as they drove through north London and had requested apologetically that he put it on. Hargrove hadn't had to ask for a reason: he'd already been told that Roper's life had been threatened and that the location of the safe-house was known to only a handful of men from the Church. A more sensitive man might have taken the request as an insult, but Hargrove knew that the murder of Jonathon Elliott meant the police no longer held the moral high ground. He'd put on the hood and suffered in silence.