by Duncan James
CHAPTER ELEVEN - A PROCESS OF ELIMINATION
Jim Farlow lived in Highgate, with his elderly mother. Or at least, he used to, until he moved into temporary accommodation on the South coast. His mother wasn’t at all pleased when he left, for a number of reasons. For one thing, it was handy having Jim around the house. Since Mr Farlow died, Jim had been the main breadwinner, and had kept the old Victorian semi at the top of the hill near the shops in pretty good order.
Not that Jim was much of a DIY expert or a handyman. He was much more interested in his books, and spent most of his time in his room upstairs playing with his computer. Or whatever he did with it. Mrs F. was never sure. But he was a good boy, really, and obviously had a good job at the Bank of England, too, until he moved, judging by the size of the allowance he used to give over every week. Even now, he still managed to make regular payments into her bank, although Mrs Farlow wasn’t at all sure where they came from. She had thought it best, just to be on the safe side when Jim moved out, to go back to her old job as a dinner lady at Highgate Secondary School. Just in case. It didn’t pay much, but at least it was regular, and provided her with a bit of company, too.
As for Jim - well, he was making the best of things. Living in Sussex was certainly better than Wandsworth, where he had lodged when he first left Highgate, but he still missed his old home and his Mum. Although he was now turned twenty-eight, he had never married, nor even really felt the urge to do so, preferring his own company to other people’s generally speaking. Even though he’d left home, his Mum was still as good as gold, really, and paid him regular visits. He always sent the fare money, of course. And because Ford was an open prison, she was allowed to bring him home made cakes and buns and things, when she remembered. And he was allowed his magazines, to keep himself up-to-date, and soon would even be allowed out to the shops, under escort. But not yet. He still had four of his eight years to do, although he hoped the Parole Board would let him home a bit early, especially as they’d got the money back after he’d told them where it all was. Or nearly all of it, anyway. There were still a couple of accounts left with considerable sums in them which they didn’t know about, which would keep him comfortable in his retirement, and give him a very handy cushion when he came out if he couldn’t get another job. He knew this was a risk, but it didn’t matter. Because they had no real idea how much he’d managed to salt away before they caught up with him, they thought he’d owned up to all of it. They must have been daft.
He was reading the latest issue of PC World when one of the warders appeared at the door of his room.
“You’re wanted,” he said. “You’ve got visitors.”
Jim looked puzzled.
“Not Thursday, is it?” he asked. “My Mum’s not due down again ‘til next week, anyway.”
“This isn’t your Mum, and it ain’t Thursday, either,” replied the warder. “Don’t sit there arguing, get a bloody move on. These blokes have come down from London specially to see you, and I expect they’ve got better things to do, if they’re honest.”
They left the room - he refused to call it a ‘cell’ - and Jim automatically turned left down the corridor towards the visitors’ centre.
“This way,” said the warder, turning right.
“Visitors’ room’s this way, isn’t it?” said Jim, pointing.
“These are no ordinary visitors,” said the warder. “They’re in the room next to the Governor’s office, and that’s this way.”
Jim was even more puzzled - even a bit alarmed - as he retraced his steps, and followed the warder. He wondered, as he had a hundred times, why they were known as ‘screws’.
Eventually, they entered the Admin. Wing, a part of the open prison Jim had not previously visited. In the office next to the Governor’s was a tall, slim man in a suit and a smart tie, with a military looking moustache, and another, rather more scruffy civil servant looking bloke.
‘Moustache’ seemed vaguely familiar, somehow.
“I’ve got a job for you, Farlow,” he said.
“And who might you be, to offer me a job?” asked Jim.
“And I thought you had a good memory,” said Alistair Vaughan, introducing himself.
“Ah!” said Jim. “Yes, I remember you now. You gave evidence against me at my trial. After what you said about me at the Old Bailey, what makes you think I’m going to do anything to help you after all this time? I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“Well, you haven’t,” said Vaughan. “And don’t blame me for the fact that you’re in here, either. You were the one hacking into computers, you were the one moving money about illegally, and you were the one who talked about it. That’s why we started recording what you were doing.”
“O.K., I know”, said Jim. “But why should I suddenly help you now? What’s in it for me if I did?”
“Freedom, that’s what,” replied Vaughan. “By the way, this is Philip Walton from the Home Office - Prison Service, actually.” Vaughan nodded towards the other man. “Show Farlow your I.D., then he’ll know we’re here officially,” ordered Vaughan.
“So now what do you want?” asked Jim for the second time.
“I want you to do legally what you were doing illegally four years ago,” replied Vaughan.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m serious.”
“And why should I? What’s all this about?”
“We know from bitter experience the sort of brain you’ve got, Farlow, and how easy you seem to find it to hack into systems with the very highest security,” replied Vaughan. “We want you to do it again, this time with our support and help. This time you'll be with us, not against us. The only difference is that you won’t be lining your own pockets, but emptying other people’s.”
“Just as a matter of interest, who would I be working for exactly?” asked Jim Farlow.
“The British Government, essentially.” replied Vaughan.
“Which is why I’m here,” chipped in Walton, suddenly seizing his chance to impress. “I represent HM Government,” he explained proudly. “Not that I know anything about what’s going on,” he added, unnecessarily, “but I am in a position to guarantee concessions in return for your full co-operation.”
“What sort of concessions?” asked Farlow.
“Play your cards right and do as you’re told, and you could be out of here in weeks rather than years.” said Vaughan.
“Tell me more,” demanded Jim Farlow.
“You’ll get a full briefing when you've agreed to co-operate, and not before,” said Vaughan. “What we want you to do should take about three weeks - bit more, bit less, who knows. You'll be working in the Bank of England, like you did once before, and as soon as you've successfully completed the job, and we’ve sorted out your paper work, you can go home, a free man.”
“With a free pardon?” asked Jim.
“Like hell,” replied Alistair Vaughan.
“What do I get paid?”
“Bugger all,” replied Vaughan. “Judging by the size of the allowance you give your Mother every month, you’ve already got more than enough stashed away somewhere, without us adding to it.”
Jim almost blushed. They weren’t so daft after all. He wondered just how much they knew, but he was impressed that they’d found out about the allowance he was paying.
“When do I start,” asked Jim.
“If that means you’ve agreed to co-operate, now.” said Vaughan. “Pack your bags Farlow, and look sharp about it. We've got better things to do than hang around for you all day.”
“I don’t need to pack, if I’m coming back here tonight,” said Farlow.
“You’re not ever coming back here,” said Vaughan. “From now on and until you've finished your little task, your home is Pentonville. Then you can go back to Highgate.”
“But Pentonville is terrible,” wailed Farlow. “I’ve heard about it from people here. Three to a cell, sometimes. I don’t want that.”
“You won’t be getti
ng it,” Walton said. “You’ll have a cell all to yourself.”
“Solitary, you’ll be in,” added Vaughan. “Just in case you feel like talking about your day at the office, like you did once before.”
“I’m not going,” said Farlow.
“You’re going,” said Vaughan, “Whether you co-operate or not. It’s up to you how long you stay there - four weeks or four years.”
“That's not fair,” wailed Farlow. “I want a Royal Pardon.”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,” said Vaughan. “Now stuff your kit in a black sack, and let’s get going.”
Farlow’s second nasty shock of the day was that he didn’t travel to London in the car with his two visitors, but in a prison van, straight to Pentonville. He had a miserable night, too.