Sam got the first cell at the front. Sitting on the cold bare seat, he peered through the mesh window into the passage dividing the two rows of cells. Great stuff. He could see the entrance. Only one screw today, though, instead of the usual two. Birthday and Christmas rolled into one.
He gazed around the small steel cell. Not much bigger than the head on the yacht he and Joe Sagoe had done their one and only drug-run on from Tangiers to Gibraltar, when you had to come out before you could get your pants back on. Still, it was better than sitting next to the nonce.
At precisely ten past five he felt the engine begin to vibrate. The concertina gates clanged open and his shoulder pressed against the cold steel as they turned left down Gartside Street. He grinned to himself. No armed escort ─ he wasn’t good enough for that ─ he wasn’t a terrorist or a prison rioter, so he didn’t qualify. What a trusting bloody shower they were.
Fucking hell, he wished he could see out. But this was the old type sweatbox, painted white to look like the new ones that had small, double-glazed windows on the outside. This thing was just a big reinforced steel box, like a giant Securicor van. Good thing he had insisted on the locomotive unit from an articulated lorry. Power, weight, nifty acceleration were essential, he’d told the boys. Christ, you needed something really solid to take on the weight of this fucking tank.
Apart from the limited view of the passageway all he could see were the four steel walls crowding in on him. Better than looking at the nonce though. Or having to touch him or smell him or see the evil look in his eyes.
He knew the route well. By now Frank would have the getaway car parked at the junction of Gartside and Quay Street. He would have spotted them coming through the gates and he’d be on his latest nicked mobile phone to Joe Sagoe now. And that fat old bugger Sagoe’d better have the loco unit in the proper position, just like he had worked it all out for them. Just like he’d instructed them to do.
A right turning now, into Quay Street. They’d be looking straight at his favourite sign in Manchester. The one opposite Granada TV Studios that said BECOME RICH OVERNIGHT, if it was still there. Exactly what he intended to do, don’t worry. Fifty grand for the escape pay-off and the rest for him. And that was just for starters if that shower had done the homework he had ordered them to do on Julia fucking Grant.
Julia Grant. No time to think of her now. Later . . .
They must be under the green railway bridge now. Into Trinity Way. In a minute they’d turn into their final approach towards Strangeways.
Come on, Sagoe. Come on.
He pressed his knuckles into the sides of the cell. His pulse raced as he waited for the bang.
Christ, Joe. Where the fuck are you?
He held his breath.
Nothing.
Maybe Joe’s had another heart attack. Fat fucker.
Maybe the prison driver had spotted the loco unit. Maybe he was wondering what it was doing in the middle of Manchester without a trailer attached.
Christ. Maybe the bugger suspected something.
And then he heard it.
The sudden roar of the loco unit.
The deafening crash, hurling him against the wall of the cell.
Good old Joe. A dream coming true.
Screeching brakes, shouts and screams, the smell of oil, adrenaline pumping through his veins and behind him the nonce yelling and bawling his head off.
Peering through the grid. The screw staggering to his feet, blood pouring from his head.
Joe Sagoe’s raucous voice. ‘Out!’
A dragging sound. Scuffling. Shouting. More screeching of brakes.
For Chrissake, Joe. Hurry.
Joe’s voice again. ‘Open up now or I’ll blow your head off.’
Stringer’s. ‘Now. Or I’ll shoot.’
The blessed noise of the chain. The brass key in the lock. The crash of metal. The door opening. The smell of Mace . . .
And then his spine slamming against the back seat of the Scorpio, squashed between Joe Sagoe and Stringer with Frank at the wheel, all four of them rocking with laughter.
A few moments later they roared past the prison, its brick façade glowing orange red in the late afternoon sun.
‘Here,’ Joe said, handing Sam a big plastic carrier bag, ‘change of clothes, extra shirts, razor and blades, gloves, money, water. Dark glasses, screw-driver, paper clip. Jemmy. Map. Cloned number plates And all the extra dope you wanted ‘bout the Grant family. Address. Phone number. Husband’s family tree. Figures on estate agency chain before they flogged it ─ gonna blow you away when you see how filthy rich the pigs were. Everythin’ you asked for. The lot, includin’ the passport which cost a fuckin’ packet. And by the way, there’s an empty house opposite the mansion in Wilmslow. Bad state of repair. Might be handy. But watch it. Could be handy for the Dibble too. Oh yes, and there’s a park behind her house, called The Carrs. Lots of handy trees. And you’ll need this.’ Joe passed him a nine-millimetre Beretta. ‘Silencer too,’ he added with a grin. ‘And, of course, a knife. Wouldn’t be Smart Sam without your precious flick-knife, now would it.’
‘Nice one.’ Sam took the plastic bag and put the knife and the gun into his pocket. The bulge felt good, though he had no intention of using the firearm. Not now anyway. No sense in drawing attention to himself. It was just a precaution. In case things went wrong later.
He gave Joe his most winning smile. Joe was a real mate. Frank and Stringer had proved useful too and still had plenty of work to do to earn their pay-off.
His excitement mounted as the reality began to sink in. He was free. Not only of Strangeways, but free of having to behave like a ridiculously docile reformed character for the last eight months.
Yes, Julia. No, Julia. If you say so, Julia . . .
If he hadn’t, he’d have got nowhere.
Leaning over Joe’s bloated stomach he buzzed open the car window and took a long, slow, deep breath, savouring the delicious feeling that enveloped him like a shroud of silk in a whore’s bedroom.
Free too of the uncertainty, because now, no matter what, he was committed to only one way forward.
- 6 -
Julia hurried past the law courts towards the multi-storey car park in Gartside Street. The media crowd had dispersed. Paul was nowhere in sight. He must have gone back to Chester House or to the Mark Addy for a quick celebratory drink with his mates. Well, it didn’t matter. It was still too soon to see him.
In spite of the stiff breeze it was reasonably warm for May. With luck she would still be home in time to take Nicky and Duke for a walk in The Carrs. And for a change she would read her daughter a bedtime story instead of Wendy.
She slid a crisp new note into the pay machine, still thinking about Smith. She would never admit to anyone how much his look, even more than his threatening words as he was taken down, had unnerved her. After all they’d been through together in the preparation of his defence, it didn’t make sense.
She hurried towards her red Mercedes SLK. Not your average transport for a legal aid lawyer - even a good one - but it was possible because of the inheritance from Simon’s estate. She was conservative in her tastes generally, but she had her weaknesses.
With tyres shrieking she manoeuvred to the exit, Paul’s final words on the phone just before she had left for work this morning echoing in her ears:
‘Tell Nicky I’m really sorry I can’t see her this evening,’ he had said.
Nicky loved those Friday visits when Wendy left early for her hairdo. Julia loved them too. Especially when he stayed for supper and after Nicky went to bed they'd have a drink together and a chat. ‘She’ll be disappointed,’ she had answered lamely, a feeling of emptiness flooding through her. And he had said, ‘I hope you’ll go home early for a change. Sometimes I think that kid doesn’t even know she has a mother.’ All day his words had haunted her. Haunted her and hurt her because she knew they were true.
She zoomed down the ramp, Paul still on her mind. It was an odd
friendship, the policeman and the six-year old girl. But Paul and Nicky had hit it off from the first day they met. That had been a Friday too, just before his promotion to Detective Chief Superintendent and not long after Sam Smith had been arrested for the murder of Joanne Perkins. Julia had taken on the case. Met Smith. Almost had one of her panic attacks. She had been served with the original bundle of statements for the Prosecution. But not prepared to sit around for six weeks waiting for the depositions before she could start preparing her client’s defence, she had demanded a courtesy bundle of prosecution papers. Paul had unexpectedly called on her at home with two boxes of statements, exhibits and interview transcripts.
He stood on the doorstep. ‘Courtesy bundle as requested,’ he said, giving her a lop-sided grin and another one for Nicky, who'd sidled up to Julia when she heard the deep male voice. And even more unexpectedly he had said, ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Cheeky bastard, she had thought, suppressing a smile.
Julia buzzed her window down and fed her ticket into the box at the bottom of the ramp. It vanished with a slurp and the barrier lifted. As she turned right into Gartside Street she glanced at the gates at the back of the Crown Court. Soon a steel van will emerge carrying Sam Smith safely back to Strangeways Prison, or perhaps it’s already gone. Out of my life forever, she mused.
Forever? Is that possible? Bloody well ought to be after that outburst.
She turned left into Quay Street and got the lights on green crossing over Deansgate onto John Dalton Street. She drove past the old Free Trade Hall, the now elderly and neglected grande dame of classical music in Manchester. She saw it every day, and every day without fail it reminded her of years ago listening to Jessie playing Mozart’s 21st piano concerto with the Hallé, the highlight of her adoptive mother's career before arthritis tragically cut it short.
Her thoughts flew back to Paul’s remark this morning. ‘I’d be with her twenty-four hours a day if I could,’ she had told him, the sudden pain of guilt eating into her. She wished she’d had a more satisfactory answer to his unusually outspoken complaint.
She thought about their relationship, if that’s what it was. Like his friendship with Nicky, theirs was also an unusual one ─ policeman and defence lawyer ─ and one that Ben was quick to frown upon. Yet in spite of operating on different sides of the law they’d become friends.
The first time they’d seen each other was four years ago at Bootle Street police station, tucked behind that maze of buildings over there on her left. Her client had been charged and the police were keen that bail should be withheld. There had been fireworks. The second time was at an identification parade. Fireworks again. The third was at the scene of a crime. Her client had been charged with bludgeoning his wife to death in the garage of their home. She had wanted to check the layout of the house, the views along the street at the back and front. All sorts of things she could get her own forensic expert to check on later, but she had needed to get a feel for the scene. Even though the blood had been pressure-hosed off the floor, nobody had paid any heed to the sprayed-on pattern of blood on the whitewashed walls. Julia had felt a sympathetic blind panic at the sight of the blood and had almost passed out. All she could think of was the terror of the victim, the excruciating pain as her cranium was shattered, blow by blow, the certain knowledge, even as the hammer came down, that she was dying . . . Paul had half carried her to the car, stayed with her until she had recovered. They hadn’t said another word to each other but something indefinable had been established.
For the next couple of years they’d rubbed along together, yet all the time he’d be trying to get something out of her, trying to get her to say: Now listen, we’re all in this together, we all want to see the truth come out, don’t we? Except that Paul’s truth and Julia’s truth were often diametrically opposed.
Then one day coming out of the Crown Court he had said, ‘I’ll buy you a coffee at the San Giorgio. Bloody awful one that, isn’t it? Terrible.’ And she had said, the tears inside, ‘Yes. It is terrible, Paul. Really terrible.’ It was a case of mutual sounding-out in those days. Cat and mouse. Behind every encounter, despite their growing friendship, they had opposing agendas. Julia was forever trying to ferret out some information about a case, something not disclosed on the face of the papers, and Paul would egg her on to disclose what her clients were saying. On opposite sides they worked on high profile cases, and the edges between social and professional contact became blurred.
It suited Julia that Paul seemed content to let their friendship remain uncomplicated, yet imperceptibly it was changing. Neither he nor Julia had put this into words, and certainly not into actions, though more and more often she was experiencing a sensual undertone.
A lucky run of green lights took her past the Town Hall and into Princess Street. Settling into the middle lane she reached over and flicked off the radio; the news would be full of the Smith verdict. Instead she slotted in Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, felt for her mobile phone and squeezed the off-button. She filled her lungs then slowly breathed out, letting the day’s tension float away on the soaring swell of the notes. On Monday she would bill the Smith file, put it in the billed cabinet. When it was paid someone else would move it on to archiving. Six years later it would be shredded. She never wanted to see it again, not because she had lost, but because she couldn’t bear to be reminded of this thing. This thing ─ this ghastly thing ─ these unbelievable snippets of memories that through Smith had been seeping back into her mind, that even now, she dared not formulate in words.
Yes. Switch off now, Julia. Think instead of mountain streams and your beloved Pennine hills. Switch off Smith. Put him out of your mind.
But that was easier said than done.
The question of what might have turned him into a murderer clawed at her brain, dragging her back to the brightly-lit cubicle at Strangeways where once or twice a week for eight months, closeted almost eyeball to eyeball, he had become a part of her life.
She put her foot down and slipped into the inside lane. Oh God, she thought, if only I could stop the dark, fearful past from trickling into my consciousness.
- 7 -
The phone was ringing as Paul Moxon walked into his office. This was not going to be a good night. Slinging his jacket over the back of his chair, he sat down and swivelled round to gaze through the plate glass window with its panoramic view of the domain over which he controlled the detection of crime.
Damn that phone. He picked it up. ‘Oh hi, Kevin. Yeah, just walked in this minute.’
‘Suppose you’ve heard the news, boss. Smith.’
‘Yeah. Had a call coming down Chester Road on the way back from town. Damned near hit the guy in front of me. Give me a couple of minutes, Kev, then come up. There’re things we must tie up tonight. He’ll be at it again if we don’t nab him soon.’
‘Have you spoken to Julia Grant?’ Kevin asked.
‘Been trying ever since I got the news. Not at home. Not in her office. Mobile’s switched off.’ Paul thought the question was a little close to home, but it was well intended.
He put down the phone then immediately picked it up again and dialled Ken Riding’s office at Cheshire Constabulary headquarters in Chester.
‘Hello, Ken. Paul Moxon. How are you?’
‘Fine, Paul. Been a long time. What can I do for you?’
‘Got a problem, Ken. Urgent. We’ve had a case going on against this guy Sam Smith. He’s just gone down for life. And now he’s escaped this afternoon on the way to Strangeways.’
‘I heard. Crafty bugger. Where do I come into this?’
‘His brief was Julia Grant. She probably crops up in Chester Crown Court cases from time to time. The thing is, she lives in your patch. Smith may try to make contact. Maybe worse. He came out with a load of pretty threatening stuff against her as he was taken down from the dock. I don’t want to tread on any toes, Ken, but I’d like one of my own men down there to help keep obs and liaise with your men over at Wilmslow. Cou
ld do anything, this one.’
‘Not a problem, Paul. I’ll put Bob Bennett, the senior DS at Wilmslow, onto it straightaway - ask him to contact you direct. You can make the arrangements through him.’
‘Great. Thanks, Ken.’
‘Don’t mention it. You’ll get our fullest cooperation. How are things, by the way?’
‘Fine. And you, Ken? Isn’t it about time you retired?’
‘What about you, Paul, you’re getting a bit of an old codger yourself? Forty-four if my sums are right.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Paul said, laughing as he put down the phone. Since Police College at Hendon they'd remained good friends, though they seldom met now. He knew he could count on Ken.
He punched memory recall, followed by the number one button. The automated voice told him the phone was switched off but if he left his message after the tone his call would be returned.
‘Damn.’ She’ll have that bloody Mozart blaring out. What’s the bloody point in mobile phones if you keep them switched off? He pressed re-dial and got the same message. He banged it down and immediately it began ringing with an incoming call. He picked it up, hoping it was Julia.
‘DS Bob Bennett, Sir, Wilmslow CID. Superintendent Riding asked me to give you a call regarding the Smith escape. We’ve already heard about it on the bush telegraph. What do you need from Cheshire?’
Paul filled him in. Short, sharp and to the point police-speak.
‘Does Smith have access to firearms, Sir?’
‘It’s not in his MO, but on this occasion I can’t rule it out. According to eyewitnesses, his accomplices were armed and masked.’
‘Right, Sir. I’ll ask the ACC to authorise a firearms support unit stand-by. Or, if you think it’s necessary, I could call in an armed response vehicle first. As a stopgap?’
‘Anything’s possible with Sam Smith,’ Paul said. ‘Could have been an idle threat. You know what they’re like when they first hear their sentence, but I don’t want to take any chances.’ Not where Julia Grant is concerned, Paul mouthed to himself.
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