Bex waited a beat. When Quinn didn’t follow, she raised an eyebrow in Idris’s direction.
“Has Quinn been held up?”
“Quinn’s not coming. He sent me to meet you.”
Bex seethed. While no longer outwardly hostile to her command, Quinn managed to thwart her authority in more subtle ways.
“Bloody hell, he’s a prima donna,” she mumbled under her breath, using her favorite British oath.
Idris grinned back at her, strong white teeth flashing against caramel skin.
“You won’t get any argument from me on that score, Boss,” he said. “You know my opinion of Quinn.”
The High Security Unit was a prison within a prison. They were led through two gated sections, removing belts, shoes and phones before being body searched. After passing through the metal detector, they were allowed through to Griffin Loughborough’s cell.
“We’ve moved Loughborough to the upper floor where he’s being kept in isolation,” said the guard leading them onwards. “We’ve been told to up the security on him in light of this morning’s events.”
“His injuries weren’t severe enough to warrant a hospital visit?” Bex asked.
“No. The prison doc patched him up, but in the end it turned out to be a flesh wound on his arm. It caused some bleeding but no lasting damage. Unlike Brian Thrussell. Poor bugger, he was just doing his job and now we’ve had to make a call to his wife to tell her that her husband’s dead. He was looking at retiring in another twelve months. His missus wanted him out of here, but he was hanging on for the benefits. Fat lot of good that’s done him.
“Myself, I’ve been assaulted six times in the last two years by prisoners. The last time I got sliced by broken glass. Twelve stitches. No one knows where the prisoner got it from.” He paused to show them a scar running in a thin pink line by his ear.
“I heard that Brian wasn’t even Kaufman’s target! I tell you, Brian’s shooting is the final straw for me. There’s got to be a job out there where my missus knows I’m going to make it home safely at the end of the day instead of leaving work in a body bag like collateral damage.”
He stopped outside a reinforced steel door, painted the conservative, unemotional gray of dirty dishwater. He cocked his head towards the door.
“You ready to go in?”
“Yes.”
Griffin Loughborough’s slight form was stretched out on an unmade cot, one hand cuffed above his head to the metal frame. The mattress beneath him was yellow with stains. Beside the bed were a metal toilet bowl and shallow sink. Above them was a sliver of barred window with an uninspiring view. Muted sounds came from the television suspended from the ceiling in the opposite corner. He was wearing prison-issue green tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt. A bandage was wrapped around his upper left arm.
The guard closed the door and stood against it, his hand resting on his pepper spray canister lodged in his belt. Bex and Idris shuffled a few steps into the room to stand side-by-side facing the bed. The feeling inside was claustrophobic.
“Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Bex turned towards the guard. She figured the three of them would be more than a match for Griffin if he attempted to escape.
“We don’t know yet whether this morning’s incident was an attempt to break him out of prison. We’re not taking any chances.” The guard’s expression remained stony.
“Then please wait outside for us.”
“What if he needs subduing?”
“It’s alright. I take full responsibility.”
Still grumbling under his breath, the guard opened the door and stepped outside the cell.
Bex settled her eyes on Griffin’s.
“Griffin, I’m Acting Superintendent Rebecca Wynter and this is Detective Sergeant Idris Carson. We’d like to talk to you about this morning’s incident. Are you feeling well enough to answer a few questions?”
Griffin closed his eyes and sighed.
“What the hell do you think? Tell Mackinley I’m not answering any questions until I get put in witness protection. Bloody fuzz! You said you’d keep me safe!”
“First, I need to ask you a few questions. Did you know the prisoner who used the firearm against you?”
Griffin strained against the cuffs, pulling forward as far as he could to glare at her. “You know they won’t stop until I’m dead, don’t you? This so-called security wing is a joke! It won’t stop them. They’ll find a way to kill me so I won’t testify.”
He dropped himself back down on the bed, turned his face into his arm.
“Who wants to kill you, Griffin?”
He gave a muffled bark of laughter.
“Bloody hell, have you been living under a rock? My dad of course! My dad, the man I’m about to put away for life with my testimony. My dad, Jack Loughborough, who would rather see me dead than turn evidence against him.”
“Have you received threats from him?”
“He’s not that daft! He’ll not leave a trail of evidence for the scum to find.”
“Why did you turn against your dad, Griffin?”
When Griffin rolled his head towards her, his eyes were flat with despair.
“Because I never asked to be born into the Loughborough family. I don’t want to be the next Jack or Morty Loughborough. Goddammit! I just want to live my own life.”
His voice broke on a strangled sob.
The sincerity of his words punched Bex in the gut. She stepped closer to the bed, hunkering down so her face was level with his.
“What kind of life do you want, Griffin?”
Griffin shook his head without meeting her eyes. Bex let the silence draw out for a full minute.
“Griffin, you’re going to have to trust me if you want my help. Please tell me what kind of life you want for yourself.”
His eyes were still dull-eyed with desolation.
“I want to go to art school and be a painter. So go ahead and laugh.”
As he stated the simple wish his voice was filled with a mix of frustration, defiance and shame.
“What kind of painting?” Bex asked gently to draw the boy out.
Griffin’s deep-set eyes regarded her somberly, trying to divine if her interest was genuine.
“I like Denis Peterson’s works and Malcolm Morley’s. You’ve probably never heard of them. They paint in a field called photorealism or superrealism. It’s a mix of old techniques and new technology. A lot of people don’t get the point. They think they’re just painting literal interpretations of photographs. What I love about the style is that their works are more real than photos. Somehow they’re sharper, more attuned to the human eye. When you closely study these paintings there’s an emotional depth that you just don’t get from looking at a photo. I can feel the artist in his work. I’d love to be able to do that, to make people stop and think and feel something that they wouldn’t normally experience when looking at an everyday scene.”
When he finished speaking his cheeks were pink and his eyes gazed, unfocused and dreamy, towards the ceiling.
“Thanks for trusting me, Griffin. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you get that wish. Let’s start with today’s events. You were being taken to see DCI Mackinley and the prosecution attorney. Did you tell anyone about the meeting?”
“Do you see where I am? Who do you think I’m going to tell? It wasn’t exactly a secret around the prison. We’d been meeting at the same time once a week for the past month to go over my testimony. A guard would come and pick me up and escort me to the visitors’ section. Routine.”
“Did you usually go through the main prison?”
“Sometimes. I don’t think the guards were supposed to go that way, but it’s a short cut. The other way, walking around the wing, takes an extra fifteen minutes or so.”
“And you received no threats before the shooting happened?”
“That’s not how Jack Loughborough rolls. He doesn’t drop clangers, he just strikes. Boom. Killing people is a doddle for
him. You just don’t get it. I’m not going to make it out of Coldmarsh alive. I won’t be around next week to testify, you can bank on that. Jack Loughborough will move heaven and earth to make sure I don’t.”
She could smell the waves of fear rolling off him. He looked away from her in sullen anger. His free hand fished in his pocket and brought out a roll of Polo mints, popping two candies into his mouth and chomping down hard until she heard it cracking.
“We can protect you, Griffin.”
His laugh was bitter as black tea.
“Just like you did today? A man left here in a body bag. It’s a miracle it wasn’t me.” Metal rattled against metal as he strained against his handcuffs. His eyes blazed into Bex’s, even as silent tears streaked his cheeks. His breath was minty fresh as he leaned towards her. “Listen, the only way I’ll see the light of day in another week is if you tell the world I’m already dead. Let Jack Loughborough think his henchman did what he wanted. You can do that, can’t you?”
Chapter 6
Coldmarsh Prison, Tuesday, April 3
Bex caught her breath. Griffin’s desperate plea pierced her heart. It was the last hope of a drowning man. Yet, what he suggested was deliberately misinforming the media by providing false information. It would be a blatant lie. She exchanged a glance with Idris. The thin, expensive fabric of his jacket strained over rigid muscles as he crossed his arms and shook his head.
She let her attention fall back to Griffin.
“Listen, Griffin, we don’t have to provide any details to the media about this morning’s events. We can leave the media with speculation.”
His mouth drooped, eyelids lowered over streaming eyes.
“Then Dad will just keep trying. Don’t you understand? Unless he thinks his plan to kill me succeeded, he won’t give up. The next time, Jack Loughborough will buy out a guard, or replace one if necessary.”
“We’ll tighten security.”
“It won’t matter. But why should you worry? It’s not your life. But if I peg out, that’s the end of your case against Jack Loughborough. No one else will come forward to testify knowing that he wouldn’t even spare his son’s life.”
“Are you thinking of changing your mind about testifying?”
“You can tell Mackinley our deal is off unless you put me into witness protection and let everyone believe I died today.”
“But if you testify, Jack will be imprisoned for life. You’ll be safe. You can start a new life through witness protection.”
“If the Loughboroughs know I’m alive, they’ll never rest until they find me and kill me. What do you think? That after the trial, they’re going to welcome me back with open arms?! I’m brown bread whether I testify or not. But if I don’t testify your case is also dead.”
Bex chewed her lip. “Give me a few minutes, Griffin.”
She signaled the guard and he let them out of the cell, leading them back to the bleak reception area where the radiator wheezed out its heat.
When they were alone, Idris blurted, “You can’t seriously be considering Griffin’s blackmail?”
“You think asking to be kept alive is too much to expect?”
“I’m not sure it’s that extreme,” he muttered.
“Unless Brian Thrussell was the shooter’s real target, this morning proves police can’t protect Griffin even in the High Security Unit.”
“That’s something we won’t be able to determine until we do the investigation.”
“Damn straight. In the meantime, I won’t have Griffin’s death on my conscience! How about you, Idris?”
Idris rubbed the back of his neck and failed to meet her eyes.
“I might be able to see your point, but it’s not me you have to convince. Won’t Titus blow a gasket? And how do you plan to make people believe he’s dead? Too many insiders know he’s still alive. I don’t want his death on my conscience either, but it’s not our call.”
“We’ll see about that! Cole Mackinley told me he’d registered Griffin with the National Crimes Authority witness protection scheme to disappear as soon as the trial is over. If the NCA already has plans in place, then our best chance to keep Griffin safe is for him to vanish from public view now. We don’t have to lie outright to reporters, just omit the truth. Griffin’s already paying a high price to break the Loughboroughs, I’m not going to let him pay the ultimate price while he’s in my care.”
Bex paced, mulling ideas. Dreams unfulfilled. That was Griffin Loughborough’s life. Griffin didn’t want to be a career criminal. Leaving his family was a brave choice. What path would his life have taken had he been born to law-abiding parents?
We can’t choose our families but we can choose what we do with our lives, she thought. It’s my job to make sure he lives long enough to pursue his dreams.
She stopped pacing and pulled out her phone.
“Sheryl? I need to speak to the Chief Superintendent urgently.”
“I’m sorry, Superintendent, but he’s prepping for the Loughborough press conference in half an hour. Your matter will just have to wait.”
“The press conference is the reason I’m calling. He needs to hear this before he talks to the media.”
“The chief super will have my guts for garters if I interrupt him!”
Bex paused for a moment as she interpreted Sheryl’s slang expression. Taking a risk that she understood it correctly, she responded, “Titus will have your guts for garters if I don’t get through to him right now.”
Sheryl connected her without another word.
Chapter 7
Coldmarsh Prison, Tuesday, April 3
“I can’t officially condone you telling porkies to the media. That’s treading a very fine line, Wynter, one that’s likely to drop the department in real trouble. As superintendent of this case, it’s your responsibility to ensure that Griffin Loughborough stays alive long enough to turn Queen’s evidence. What I will do is delay the press conference till this afternoon and let you address the media.”
When Titus hung up, Bex chewed her lip. Had she still been working homicide in New York she would have understood those words from her lieutenant as clear as day: Don’t bother me with details, just get me results! She was used to him using nickel and dime words loaded with five buck meanings. But how could she be expected to translate the nuances in what a virtual stranger told her? Especially when they were essentially speaking two different languages!
If she was going to read between the lines of Titus’s words, she rationalized that he hadn’t expressly forbidden her to carry out her plan to protect Griffin. He had said he couldn’t officially condone any lies, so did that mean off the record he did condone it? Was it simply a devious way of hinting she should go ahead with her idea while leaving him blameless if it fell to pieces?
All she really knew for sure was: the only one flying without a safety net would be her. But she refused to let that consideration weigh on her decision.
“What did Titus say?” Idris asked after several minutes of silence had elapsed.
“He talked about porkies. What’re they?”
“Porkie pies? It’s cockney rhyming slang for lies.” Idris gave her a suspicious look. “What exactly did the chief super tell you?”
Bex returned his gaze with a steady look.
“He told me to do whatever I needed to do to keep Griffin alive.”
She discovered the advantage of her new role was having the authority to mobilize services without waiting for official sanction. As a superintendent she had enough clout to arrange for Griffin to enter the NCA’s Protected Persons Service immediately.
NCA sent a doctor and two agents dressed as paramedic officers to Coldmarsh in an ambulance. Idris stood guard outside the cell with one agent, while the other agent, who introduced himself simply as Hunter, the doctor and Bex attended to Griffin. When the doctor opened his bag and prepared a syringe, Griffin’s complexion turned the color of fine bone china. He licked his dry lips.
“What’s he going to do?” he whispered, his eyes rolling between Bex and the needle.
“Doctor?” Bex prompted.
The doctor had delicate hands with manicured nails. She noted they seemed almost too effeminate for a man. He glanced in her direction as he approached Griffin’s bed.
“I’m going to sedate him.”
“Is that necessary?” She hated seeing the terror in Griffin’s eyes.
“We can’t have the prisoner use this exercise as an escape mechanism,” Hunter responded. “Don’t worry, we’ve pulled this stunt before. We use a porous body bag that allows for breathing, but it’s easier on the client if they’re sedated. Some people react badly to claustrophobic situations.”
A few minutes later Griffin left the prison on a gurney, his body concealed in a white bag, headed for a safe house.
Bex and Idris accompanied them through reception. Bex used her authority to browbeat the prison warden to officially discharge Griffin, bluffing him into believing that Griffin’s injuries had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. She relied on that rumor making the prison rounds. The next hurdle was to put the media off the scent at the press conference and for that she was going to need to convince Idris to help.
* * *
By the time they returned to Bex’s office, the Victoria Embankment frontage of the neoclassical building was streaming with reporters and Idris’s anxiety levels were sky high. On their return trip to New Scotland Yard, she had outlined her strategy to him, working diligently to overcome his reluctance.
“Consider it good training if you ever want to become a covert officer,” she told him.
Idris’s nervous heart thudded. He had no desire to be anything other than his conservative self.
Rows of chairs set out in the ground floor pressroom were crammed with television personalities, radio and print journalists holding up smart phones. In the aisles, camera operators jostled and jockeyed for the best positions for their microphones and long-range lenses.
“Dammit, it looks like I’m going to be fielding questions from every news agency in the country,” Bex groaned to Idris as they waited outside the pressroom door. “Dresden used to relish preening in front of the cameras but I’m afraid they’re just waiting to eat me alive.”
Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 22