Murder Plot (A Sam Rader Thriller Book 3)

by Simon King

  Only when she was sure all traces of Bolton Prison were gone, did she turn the tap off and climb out. After wiping the condensation from the mirror, she stared back at herself for a moment, her mind wondering about the people behind the walls. She had come close to blowing her cover, Pam no doubt suspicious of her question. She needed to be more careful, although wasn’t sure how.

  After finishing up in the bathroom, she finally hopped into bed, her eyes feeling as heavy as the day was long. Sleep came easy for her, seamlessly letting herself sink into its depths with little resistance.

  7

  Tim was awoken by the usual rattle of the trap opening up, before an officer stuck his head through and shouted for a response. It was a routine he’d sooner leave behind, the inability of choosing one’s wake-up time one of the many annoyances of prison life. He had to remind himself each morning that this was in fact prison, a place where choice, freedom and liberty were supposed to be removed.

  One of his cell mates was a convicted drug smuggler named Trevor Thompson, an Australian who was caught with several balloons concealed inside his stomach as he tried to board a flight bound for Sydney. He’d been sentenced to fourteen years in prison, of which he’d served just two.

  While the first couple of days of Tim’s pretend incarceration had seen Trevor flamboyant and easy going, he’d had a sharp mood-swing the previous day, to the point of silently slipping into bed and rolling over before the doors had even been locked. Tim tried to strike up a conversation, but failed to reach him. The other prisoners in the cell simply ignored the foreigner.

  This morning, it appeared that Trevor’s mood remained, greeting Tim with a blunt good morning, before swinging down onto the floor from his own top bunk and heading to the corner to urinate.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help,” Tim offered, but Trevor either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore him.

  A few minutes later, the doors buzzed and swung open, signaling a new day in Bolton. Mornings were the only time the unit was allowed to access the front yard freely, while afternoons were every other day. Tim didn’t want to waste a moment. He craved the sunshine, unable to function properly if kept indoors for too long and being slammed into a cell in the middle of the day played havoc with him.

  Not bothering with breakfast, Tim put on his sneakers and headed straight outside, several other prisoners mirroring his intentions. Once out through the airlock, the morning rays streamed across the yard, despite the overnight crispness remaining in the air. The warmth hit his face and he paused momentarily to absorb the sun’s power.

  “Look like you’re making love to the morning,” a voice suddenly said from behind him. Tim opened his eyes and turned to see Bevan standing behind him.

  “Maybe I am,” Tim said.

  “How you settling in?” Bevan asked, following Tim as he headed out towards the small walking track that circled the outer edge of the yard.

  “OK, I guess. Can’t say it’s something I had on my bucket list.” Bevan laughed a little, but continued walking.

  They began to walk laps of the yard as other prisoners came and went, most heading straight to the outdoor weight training area. Bevan asked Tim about his life story, listening in earnest each time Tim began to speak.

  After an hour or so, the pair of them dropped onto the grass near the outer fence, the sun turning the morning walk into a sweaty affair. Tim looked up and saw Trevor also walking the yard, although not quite following the outside path.

  “What’s his deal?” Tim asked, nodding his head in the general direction.

  “Who? Trevor?” Tim nodded.

  “Strange fish, that one. Think he’s getting pretty homesick. Must be hard being caught up in a shit-hole like this when you come from a paradise.”

  “Paradise?” Tim asked.

  “Yeah, you know. Australia.”

  “I guess.”

  That was when the side gate opened and Lance Henderson entered the yard. He was alone, walking tall and upright, dark glasses hiding the exact direction he was looking. Despite taking the first few steps along the path, he turned when he spotted Trevor, suddenly heading straight for him instead.

  Tim watched in earnest as Bevan continued talking, barely hearing the words as he focused on the officer. Henderson called something to Trevor, then waved him over, stopping as the prisoner began to walk towards him. Once close to each other, the officer bent slightly, as if wanting to speak more intimately with the inmate. The prisoner simply listened as Henderson began to speak in earnest.

  “What do you think that’s about,” Tim suddenly asked.

  “Huh?” Bevan turned to see what was happening.

  “Not sure. But if anyone suspects Trevor of squealing to the CO’s, he’s as good as fucked.”

  “You really think he’s squealing?” Bevan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Who knows. But talking to an officer like that? Looks awfully suss, if you know what I mean.”

  The two men continued talking as the rest of the yard carried on as if nothing was happening. Tim knew the other prisoners were watching intently, despite none pausing even for a moment. Only after Trevor seemed to get upset did Henderson appear to back down some. The officer held his hands up, as if surrendering his position of authority. Trevor shook his head, pointed at the ground and raised his voice a little. Tim struggled to hear the words, barely making out defining sounds.

  “Doesn’t look good,” Bevan said and when Tim looked at him, saw Bevan pointing off to one side.

  As Tim followed to where Bevan was indicating, he saw Gallo and a couple of others coming out through the airlock. All three prisoners were watching Henderson and Trevor, the pair still in deep conversation. It was only when Trevor looked up and saw the trio for himself, that he finally turned and walked away from Henderson.

  Unsure of whether the officer needed the last word, or to simply give the prisoner a final bit of advice, Henderson called out, “Just think about,” before turning back and heading towards the gate.

  “Whatever that was about, I can promise you that won’t be the end.” Bevan sounded sure, shaking his head as if to emphasize the prediction.

  Trevor didn’t hesitate, turning straight for the airlock and disappearing back into the unit. Tim watched the three latest arrivals into the yard head for the weight-lifting area, eventually disappearing into the crowd. Once they were gone, Tim rose and made his way back to the airlock, intent on finding out what just happened.

  Once back in his cell, Tim found no sign of Trevor, only Mort and a guy named Billy conversing over the top of his bunk. They seemed to be discussing whether cars or bikes were the better choice for a young man and Tim decided that he didn’t want get involved in that particular subject matter.

  He turned and headed back out, taking a quick inventory of the prisoners sitting around the common area of the unit. There; sitting by one of the telephones, was Trevor, appearing to be in a very animated conversation with someone on the other end of the line.

  Without hesitating, Tim made his way to the last phone in line and reached for the handset, turning his back to Trevor who was a few feet behind him. He waited for the voice to finish its spiel, then dialed his pin, followed by the phone number. After a brief pause which he knew to be the recording announcing the origination of the call to the recipient, Mumma’s voice came through, sounding relieved.

  “Ray, is that you?” she asked and he gave her a brief greeting, followed by some random chatter. Knowing the line would be monitored, he took care not to state anything too obvious, but was also aware he needed speed. Once the brief pleasantries were out of the way, he quickly turned to the issue at hand.

  “Hey, can you please check that Scooby is still tied up to the clothes line? I know Gramps has a habit of untying him and forgetting to retie him.”

  “Sure, Sugar. Now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After a very brief farewell, the call ended and Tim turned, grateful to see Trevor stil
l arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. He knew Mumma was quick with hacking phone calls and would hopefully hear enough to at least identify who the other person on the line was.

  After hanging up the phone, Tim decided to head outdoors again, keen for a bit more fresh air. The smell of the unit was something his nasal passages still struggled with and he was grateful once back through the airlock.

  Bevan was gone, as were most of the people he’d gotten to know during the past few days. He decided to do some laps, a light run to loosen up the tension he’d been carrying. The sun was continuing to increase in temperature, but it was still low enough to remain pleasant.

  The first couple of laps were relatively quiet, with Tim’s legs working on auto-pilot as his mind headed indoors, to assess the information he’d already collected. But on his third go-around, a voice called out to him, one he instantly recognized as trying to bait him.

  “Hey, white boy. What, are you training for something?” Tim looked across and saw Gallo sitting in the shade of the weight-lifting area, surrounded by half a dozen of his own gang members. It was one of the latter that was standing a little out from the rest, leaning against the chin-up frame.

  The Latino population were known for their ruthless control over the rest of the population, particularly in Delta Unit. As he continued to jog, his mind wandered back to the advice from the boys during his first day, telling him to remain with his own crowd. He looked around and saw four other people in the yard besides those now watching him; 2 whites walking laps together, while the other two were each reading books at the far end of the yard, well away from the group.

  Tim continued to run, not wanting to show weakness by running inside. He needed to stand his ground and not let them think he was afraid.

  “You hear me, bitch?” the voice mocked again, this time followed by laughter from a couple of the others. Gallo remained stone-faced, simply watching from behind his cheap sunglasses, as Tim jogged past the group again.

  It wasn’t until he came around a fourth time that one of the hecklers decided to stand in his way. The much younger hothead walked out onto the track and waited for Tim to get near him before taking steps to ensure he blocked his path.

  “Hey, Holmes. You hear my friend there talking to you? I suggest you don’t ignore him, or he’ll give your punk ass a whoopin’. You wan’t that?” Tim tried to sidestep around the guy, but his feet betrayed him, tangling themselves up and sending him sprawling.

  The burst of laughter from the peanut gallery erupted, with the kid leaning over him. Tim felt the sting in his knees as he turned to look up.

  “Maybe stick to walking, Bitch.”

  Just then, the gate opened and several officers, including Perkins himself, entered the yard. Two of them instantly eye-balled the situation, the kid briefly pausing as he realized he had two options. Taking the wiser of the two, he looked back at Tim, nodded and said, “Later, Bitch,” before returning to where his friends were still cackling.

  Not wanting to push his luck, Tim rose back to his feet and slowly walked back to the airlock, feeling a small trickle of blood run down the front of his leg. The group of officers were still standing by the gate, Perkins speaking into his cell as the rest waited for him to finish.

  Tim returned to his cell to find Mort lying on his bunk, the rest of the cell’s inhabitants sitting out in the common area and watching the television. He grabbed a piece of toilet paper, moistened it with water and cleaned his wound, gritting his teeth as the sting rolled through him.

  “How’d you cut yourself?” Mort asked.

  “Just tripped,” Tim replied, tossing the napkin into the toilet.

  “Can I ask you something, Ray?” Tim turned and looked at his cellmate.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you get scared?”

  “Scared?” He took a seat on the lower bunk opposite Mort.

  “Being in here, I mean.” The man sounded petrified, despite trying to hide his fear.

  “Sure. This place is scary in itself. That’s not even counting the prisoners themselves.” Mort sat up, a little surprised.

  “Wait, you’ve heard them too?” Tim wasn’t following. “The voices, the ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?” He looked confused. Mort saw his expression and appeared to blush slightly. “What ghosts?”

  “Sometimes, at night, when the lights are out and the silence fills the unit, I’ve heard voices.” Now Mort appeared embarrassed.

  “What do they say?”

  “I’m not sure. They’re never loud enough to really understand. But I know I’ve heard them.”

  “Listen. It’s probably wise not to share this with anyone. You know, in case someone takes it the wrong way.” Tim watched as Mort slowly nodded, then rose and went to his bunk. After grabbing an apple, he headed back out into the common room and grabbed a seat with Bevan and Ben, both engrossed in the movie.

  Cast Away, starring Tom Hanks, was playing, half the unit watching as the man himself was trying to light a fire. A roar of laughter went up as he began talking to the volleyball, Wilson appearing for the first time.

  But laughter quickly turned to despair as the movie was interrupted by an urgent news bulletin. The scene cut to a news reporter, standing somewhere in the streets of the city, flashing police lights blinking on and off behind her.

  “New York City officials have called for any eye-witnesses to come forward as another murder victim was discovered this morning. Police haven’t yet released the identity of the victim, but sources tell us this appears to be the work of the killer known as Black Death. Two other murders have already been linked to the suspect and city officials have called for calm as some believe a serial killer may be at large in the city.”

  Tim’s ears pricked, aware that Pogrom would no doubt be sending their finest to try and locate the serial killer. He wished he could go, the smell surrounding him a little more pronounced as he reminded himself of the job at hand.

  He looked back over his shoulder and saw that Trevor wasn’t in the common area, nor was he in the cell. He wondered whether he was back out in the yard, remembering what Bevan had said about snitching.

  “Hey, anyone seen Trevor?” Tim asked, looking around for dramatic effect. Bevan and Ben continued watching the TV, with Ben answering almost absently.

  “CO’s got him a while back. Think he had a visitor.”

  As if on cue, the airlock suddenly opened and Trevor walked in, flanked by an officer. The CO followed Trevor back to his cell, then stood at the door as the prisoner disappeared inside.

  “He snitched,” Bevan suddenly said.

  “Huh? How do you know?” Tim asked.

  “He’s moving units,” Ben said, sitting upright. They could see Trevor through the window of the cell, packing his belongings into a prison bag.

  “Fucken rat,” someone yelled from the top tier. Tim saw a line of prisoners standing there, all leaning forward on the handrail and watching Trevor pack his shit.

  “The only thing keeping that prick alive right now is that CO. If he leaves, Trevor’s as good as dead,” Bevan said.

  “Who would he snitch on?” Tim asked.

  “Fuck knows. Don’t really matter. Once they think you snitched, you may as well have.”

  Trevor finished packing his gear and quickly walked back out from the cell. His face looked flushed as the unit erupted into a chorus of abuse, all calling for him to die. Tim realized that regardless of whether he did in fact snitch, he was now a marked man.

  Only once the door closed again and Trevor disappeared back out through the airlock, did the noise level reduce again. Tim lost all interest in the movie and returned to the cell, where Mort was still lying on his bunk.

  “He didn’t snitch,” Mort said when he saw Tim jump on his own bunk.

  “How do you know?” Tim asked.

  “He told me someone was trying to persuade him to try and escape from the prison.” That was when Tim’s ears pricked.
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  “Why would someone want him to escape?” He sat up, watching Mort intently.

  “I don’t know. He told me that there was this officer that kept trying to convince him to get out. Saying that he should never have been sent here in the first place.”

  “Like a sympathizer?”

  “Hmm, maybe. Kept telling him about a way out. Some sort of escape tunnel.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the officer, would you?” Mort shook his head.

  “He didn’t say. Just that she was one of the regulars over in Delta.”

  Without the ability to simply speak over the phone to Mumma, the pair had arranged a simple code if Tim ever needed to speak to someone urgently. The sequence was quite simple. He would call Mumma over the phone and ask when she could come and visit him next because he needed to see a familiar face. Mumma would then phone Sam via the prison phone and remind her to pick up some milk on the way home. Sam would scold her pretend-mum for phoning her at work, before then finding a way to make her way to Sierra Unit, where Tim would be waiting in the yard.

  Tim would write what he needed to on a slip of paper and wait for Sam to appear. He would then wait until she was close enough, scrunch the paper up and toss it aside. She would scold him for it, pick it up and pretend to give him a reprimand. Once done and after sending Tim back into the unit, she would realize she was in the wrong yard and simply walk out again.

  Whilst the plan wasn’t foolproof, it was the best they could manage with the resources at hand. It was far from perfect, but given the circumstances, it was the only way. Tim did his best to write as much information as he could manage, then made the call. After waiting ten minutes, he made his way out into the yard, hoping for a clear run.

  Luck was on his side, with the yard almost completely deserted. He managed two laps of the area before he saw the one face he’d been missing the most. He grinned a little as he saw Sam walking through the gate, dressed in a uniform that didn’t suit her. It made her look almost official, something Tim could never agree with.