by Rob Ashman
But there was one piece missing. One gaping hole. In many ways, it was the most important part, but I kept telling myself not to worry – it would come, eventually. After all, I was not exactly short of time in which to work it out. But it bothered me that the most significant part was missing.
My cell mate’s name was Irvine. The rest of the wing called him Berlin. He didn’t seem to care. They called me Pablo Escobar because I refused to do drugs. Enduring prison humour was a deep joy.
Irvine was a black monster of a man from Birmingham. He was a bloke of few words and those he did manage to utter were mangled beyond recognition by a chronic speech impediment. Chatting with Irvine was like predictive text in reverse. I had to figure out what he was trying to say, because on most occasions, he never got to the end. I got pretty good at it but like the real predictive text, sometimes I got it very wrong.
Irvine had the same outlook to doing time as I did, except his priorities were different. His priorities were lifting weights, lifting more weights, lifting heavier weights. He didn’t have to worry with the “keep himself to himself” priority, because no one went near him. His reluctance to speak was seen as a smouldering attitude of “fuck off or I’ll rip your head from your neck”, which people did without ever being told.
He occupied the bottom bunk, which was fine. At least that way I rested easy knowing that twenty-two stones of prime beef would not come crashing down on me in the night. In fact, Irvine was as meek a man as I have ever met, kind and generous. Which was completely at odds with the horror stories another inmate told me about my new best friend.
In a previous life, Irvine had been a gangland enforcer, capable of the most ferocious violence which could be inflicted at the flick of a switch. He had a close call when a punishment beating went too far, and the man died. Irvine had an alibi that held up, however the other guy alongside him dishing out the kicking hadn’t fared as well and was banged up for nine years. Irvine saw the writing on the wall and left Birmingham to settle in Manchester. He worked security for pubs and clubs in the city centre and kept away from trouble. That was until a disastrous stop and search resulted in him throwing a police officer through a shop front window.
Irvine did try once to explain to me what had happened, but it took so long I forgot most of it by the time he reached the end of the story. I simply patted him on the shoulder when he was done and smiled in a sympathetic manner. It was like patting one of those American style fridges. His release date was two weeks after mine. We said we would stay in touch. Well…I said we should and he nodded.
I was banged-up for eleven months, two weeks and three days, and during all that time I shared a cell with Irvine. It suited me fine. He didn’t speak, which means I didn’t have to either. We ate together, trained together, showered together – in a manner of speaking – and lived together. In one way, we were like an intense married couple minus the requirement to converse. In another way, it was like having your big brother around for your first day at school. The combined result was no one bothered Irvine and no one bothered me. This comfort allowed me all the time I needed to plan what I was going to do when I got out.
That was until I had served two months, one week and one day. I was called to the warden’s office to be told I was being placed on a work experience programme at a local farm. What I knew about farming I could write on a postage stamp, so it was a bit of a surprise. Irvine said it would be good for me to get out and do something different. At least I think that’s what he said.
So, one wet Friday morning, I was marched into a converted transit van after breakfast and ferried to a farm, along with three other inmates and a guard. It was like going on a school trip but without the happy faces and packed lunch. We drove for around forty-five minutes and pulled off the road, through a set of iron gates into a farmstead.
A man came out to meet us and chatted to the prison officer through the side window of the van. Once they had finished their chat the officer turned around in his seat, throwing his arm across the back.
‘Now, listen up,’ he bellowed. ‘Working on this farm is a privilege and as such, it can be taken away from you at any time. You shovel shit from the time you get here to the time you climb back into the van. Is that clear?’
We looked at each other, not sure how to respond.
‘I said is that clear?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, sir,’ we said in unison.
‘What do you do here?’
‘Shovel shit.’
The guard turned, slid from his seat, and seconds later the back doors flung open, and we piled out into the damp cold of the morning. The sky seemed to bear down on us with the clouds scraping at the slate tiles on the roofs. The place stunk of the product we were going to shovel.
Over to the left was a cavernous barn, big enough to hide an ocean liner with five smaller outbuildings dotted around it. We were ushered across the muddy expanse into the barn. The stench was eye-watering and a shrieking, squealing sound pierced my ears. Pigs, fucking hundreds of them.
I looked out beyond the confines of the barn to see a whole city of pigs stretched out across acre upon acre of land. They were milling around their houses made from galvanised corrugated sheeting, each house looking like a mini air raid shelter. The expression “happy as a pig in shit” played over in my head. These pigs were very happy and there was a lot of shit.
We were briefed by the man who had come out to meet us. I assumed he was the owner or at least the head guy around here. He spoke with a soft west country accent which was quite at odds with his northern surroundings. He looked the part with his Burberry flat cap, green overalls and Wellington boots.
We changed into much the same gear, minus the hat, and followed him to a newer building. It had a red roof and white walls with no windows.
‘This is where the money is made. We process the pigs in here,’ he announced as we walked inside.
It was there that I learned a new skill – in fact, I learned three. From that moment on, I didn’t have to worry about the gap in my plans. It had finally been filled.
22
The Market Garden site now resembled the worst village fete in history with two white forensic tents shrouding the entrances to the freight containers. Powerful LED lamps gave the place a theatrical look, casting hard shadows across the ground while making the tents look like giant magic lanterns. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, but the mud was ankle deep.
Kray watched as they lowered the body down from the hook in the roof, laying it onto plastic sheeting. A dip test of the dark sludge in the ten-litre paint pot had confirmed that the contents were blood. The condition of the body confirmed it most likely belonged to Nigel Chapman.
High resolution cameras snapped away at the corpse but Kray already knew what the photographs would show. The victim’s eye balls would be crazed with burst blood vessels, there would be two burn marks one on each temple along with scalded skin hanging off the bones, and Chapman’s big toe would be missing.
The other forensic team were meticulously working their way around the Jag. They had obviously drawn the longer straws on their way to the crime scene.
Kray watched the proceedings with the rhyme This little piggy went to market echoing in her head. Her thoughts were interrupted by Tavener standing next to her.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘This is going to get a whole lot worse.’
‘It looks pretty fucking bad already.’
‘This is just the start.’
‘Yeah, you were right. You said there was another body.’
‘No, I mean, there is more of this to come.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘This little piggy went to market – Chapman was killed in the location of his pet project which he named Market Garden. This little piggy stayed at home – Graham was killed in the same way at his home.’
‘This little piggy had roast beef,’ Tavener joined in.
‘This little piggy
had none.’
‘And this little piggy…’ Tavener didn’t complete the rhyme, the gravity of what he was saying grinding him to a halt. ‘Do you think–’
‘There’s going to be three more murders. Whoever is doing this is following the rhyme.’
‘Fuck.’
‘The faster we bring the two cases together, the faster we can join the dots to identify who’s doing this.’
‘I’ve informed Brownlow and told him to get his guys in first thing tomorrow to a joint briefing.’
‘Good, did he say anything of interest?’
‘Umm…’ Tavener recalled the conversation in his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Sounds about right.’ Kray tore her gaze away from the body on the ground. ‘Get Walsh down to the station, I want you to interview him. I think he knows more than he’s telling us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure but when we were with him in the offices, he was on edge. I couldn’t put my finger on it but I reckon he’s hiding something.’
‘Maybe seeing his boss hanging upside down with his flesh ripped off might loosen his tongue.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. I need to prepare a press statement for Quade, they are all over us wanting a comment about the killings. Though why she can’t sort it out is beyond me.’
‘She is your best buddy now.’ Kray gave Tavener a sideways glance. ‘I’m gone,’ he said, and slid off in the direction of Walsh who was waiting in the car.
Her phone rang. She groped around in her jacket pocket.
‘Kray,’ she answered. The voice on the other end spoke in slow measured tones. When they had finished, she disconnected the call without uttering another word. She stared into the tent to see the CSI team cutting the cable ties away from Chapman’s wrists. She closed her eyes for a second and allowed an inner scream to resonate around her body.
Kray made her way to her car parked in the entrance to the site. Tavener was in the driving seat explaining to Walsh that he was needed down at the station. Walsh was in the throes of protesting when Kray arrived next to Tavener. She ducked her head inside the car.
‘Mr Walsh, we have more questions for you but for now, we’ll take you back to your office and will be in touch with you tomorrow.’
Tavener frowned and stepped out, standing next to his boss. ‘But I thought you said–’ he whispered.
The look on Kray’s face stopped him mid-sentence.
‘They’ve found another body.’
23
What the hell is wrong with me tonight? I look at the clock – fifteen minutes past midnight. I’m lucky to be working a split-shift tomorrow which means a later start. The extra sleep will do me good. My headache has subsided, and now that I’m laying down, my legs feel back to normal.
I turn over in bed to face the wall. It was my favourite position in prison. With the wall inches from my face I didn’t have to look at our thirty-two square feet of prime real-estate. I couldn’t see the wash basin or the toilet in the corner, neither could I see the heavy metal door with the spyhole carved into the top. Or the small desk and the chair. The physical reminders of my incarceration where out of sight. All that filled my field of view was white paint. I could have been anywhere.
I stare at the wall in my flat and try to imagine myself somewhere else, but it’s no use. I can’t shift the recollections of prison. I close my eyes, my mind drifts, and I’m back there, re-living the whole chapter again.
One day, Irvine appeared in the cell carrying a newspaper. It was folded under his arm. He took it out and held it in front of me. My first though was, I didn’t know you could read.
‘Y-y-you sh-should rea-read the…’ By that point, I had got the gist of what Irvine was saying and took the paper from his hand.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘P-p-pa-page t-t…’
‘Two, ten, twelve?’ Irvine raised his hand and I flipped over to page twelve. My wife’s face stared out of the two-page spread. The banner headline read: Living with Abuse and underneath was the sub-title, One Woman’s Struggle.
‘Tha-tha-that’s y-y-’
‘Yes, that’s my wife,’ I added, my brain not able to take in what my eyes were telling it.
‘N-n-no, i-it’s you.’ Irvine’s thick black finger pointed to the second paragraph. There in black and white was printed the name Kevin Palmer.
‘What the fuck is this?’ I stood and marched around the confines of the cell holding the paper out in front of me, which meant I couldn’t read the bloody thing, but my body needed to respond to the fight of flight response coursing through it. In the absence of being able to fight with Sadie, it chose flight. I stomped around swearing and cursing, eventually sitting down on my bed to read the damned thing properly.
As I processed the words on the page, the same question spun round and round in my head: What the fuck is this?
The article told the story of a man who was abusive to his wife, both mentally and physically. Who would not allow her to go out on her own, so strong was his jealously-driven rage. It told of a woman trying to protect her young children from a drunk who squandered their money on booze and whores, while she scrimped and saved every penny to put food on the table. It depicted a man who had let his livelihood go to rack and ruin, choosing instead to pursue three-day alcoholic benders instead of work. And worst of all – that man it depicted was me.
I hurried out of the cell to book an emergency call home.
I spent my allotted three minutes talking to the answer phone, either Sadie wasn’t there or she wasn’t picking up. I called twice on the house phone and twice on her mobile, leaving the same message each time. The summary of which was straight forward: What the fuck are you doing?
Over the next few days I sank into a bleak pit of despair. I spent the time cooped up in my cell pouring over the article until I could recite it in my sleep. Which, of course, I did, causing me to be sleep deprived on top of everything else. I punctuated my day with frequent emergency calls home, speaking to her voicemail so many times before eventually giving up.
The journalist’s name was Teresa Franklin. She wrote a shock-column for the Blackpool Telegraph, a weekly rag with red-top aspirations way above its circulation of twenty-one thousand. I ventured out of my cell in search of any back copies I could lay my hands on. I wanted to learn more about Teresa-fucking-Franklin. I found six copies.
From her photograph, I would say she was early thirties with thick rimmed glasses and had her hair cropped into a pixie cut. Her articles were all two-page spreads, and on every one, I found a head and shoulder shot of her in the top corner, posing with a stern look. Two of the photos showed her sporting a different hair colour – one was red and the other was blue. Every article was prefixed with an introductory paragraph saying how Teresa Franklin was a woman who was going to shake things up with punchy local news and untold stories that were guaranteed to shock.
I tried to contact her by calling the paper but got bounced around and ended up back where I started. I tried to reach the editor to vent my opinion about the defamatory article only to be told he would ring me back. Day after day, it was the same. My blood boiled.
Irvine was a rock. I ranted at the man and he sat there and took every bit of venom I spat at him. If I couldn’t rave at my wife and couldn’t rant at Teresa-fucking-Franklin, then at least I had Irvine to yell at.
‘I-it’s o-okay, you kn-kn-kn–’
‘I know,’ I said to him, placing my hand on his massive arm. ‘I know.’
One rainy afternoon, I chose not to call the newspaper. Instead, I sat in my cell penning a complaint letter. It was three pages long. I wrote it out twice, sending one copy to the editor and one to Franklin. I knew it would be read by the prison stasi and redacted accordingly, but I didn’t care. The article was a pack of lies and I wanted a full retraction.
A week later, and with still no word from my loving wife, I waited for the newspaper to be delivered to the re
creation area. There it was at the top of the pile – the Blackpool Telegraph.
I scanned through the pages. There, on page twelve, was their response. On the left-hand page was extracts from my redacted letter, beneath it were suggestions as to what the blacked-out words might be. On the opposite page was an article penned by Teresa-fucking-Franklin with the heading – Even Prison Doesn’t Halt the Abuse. The sub heading read: Now, It’s My Turn. I threw the paper onto the floor and sunk my head into my hands.
What the hell is happening?
I later read the article with both fists clenched. My letter had presented her with the ideal opportunity to replay the previous piece using excerpts to justify her claims, or more accurately, the claims of my wife. Teresa-fucking-Franklin was not only a vindictive, lying bitch, she was also lazy.
I stopped calling my wife. I stopped calling the newspaper. In fact, I stopped doing anything. Irvine would tap me on the shoulder when it was gym time.
‘C-c-c’mon m-man.’ He said. ‘I-it w-will do y–’
‘You go on,’ I would say. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
He asked me that every day for a week. Then, on the eighth day, everything fell into place. I received a large padded envelope, thick with documents. I tipped the wad of papers onto my bed, reading the first page in detail. I speed-read the rest, I had plenty of time to pour over the details later. I got up, changed into shorts and trainers and went to the gym.
On the bed was a fat wad of misery, otherwise known as divorce papers. I dealt with it in the only way I knew how. I formulated another plan. That made three.