by David Wilson
“Did you read it?” he asked.
Penny knew this was a defining moment in her life. She was on the edge of the high board being forced to dive into the deep end. It was a terribly long way down. Or she could turn her back and return to paddling the safer shallows.
“No,” she said.
“Righto. I’ll leave your money in the kitchen, cash of course. It would appear I’ve been summoned to some urgent business in that damned noisy and dangerous capital London.”
Chapter Sixteen
It didn’t take long before Greenbank was crawling with police, and a small army of forensic experts began the painstaking process of examining Ian Clark’s body for clues. Every square inch of his cell was microscopically searched for evidence, the tiniest of fibres or material disturbance an attempt to piece together the unknown. McCabe came under the same scrutiny but his case appeared cut and dried. The possibility of assisted suicide or murder by proxy was considered but who can document the myriad psychological wounds that force a victim to take their own life? All of this had to be handled with care, for police and prisoners do not mix well. For the cons, the police were “filth”. A police officer’s job is to send people to prison, and no prisoner is ever going to be grateful for that. The tension in the air was as taut as a stretched spring, and about to snap. Why was Clark picked on? Where did he step out of line? And what nightmare demons residing in McCabe’s imagination won the battle of wills? The threat was everywhere, in the mind and in the corridors, inside and outside. Fear fed on itself, gorging on a phantasmagoria of vulnerability, suspicion and violence. The prisoners were not inclined to cooperate with the police, but that only increased the paranoia.
Some prisoners had made whole careers out of giving evidence against other prisoners, usually in return for favours that could be cashed in the next time they found themselves in trouble. They were only too happy to grass up someone else; notes would be found shoved under the door of the staff office providing information about what was happening or about to happen on the wing, or which prisoner should be watched especially closely.
However, at Greenbank, as a therapeutic community, the prison code of “no grassing” was seen as belonging to the “system”, and information exchange was regarded as good “therapeutic feedback”. No one felt safe.
But Greenbank was supposed to be safe, a place where prisoners could talk about their crimes, without the usual fear that the blaggers – armed robbers, the top of the prison hierarchy – would beat up the nonces – the sex offenders, the hobbits, the lowest of the low. And now here was murder and suicide.
Munro had sensed this and it was confirmed by the administration block’s “red band”, a trusted prisoner called McDowell who was allowed to mix with the civilian staff, serving them tea and running errands around the prison.
“Guv, can I have a word?” McDowell had asked. Munro waved him into his office.
“Go ahead.” Munro said trying to size McDowell up.
“We’re scared. No one knows what to make of what’s happening. We’ve got cops all over the place. McCabe’s topped himself, Ian’s been done in…”
Munro noted that this information was clearly already common knowledge, and that McDowell had used Clark’s first name.
“…and you’ve just taken over. Word on the wing is that you hate this place, and have only taken over to close Greenbank down. So what’s going to happen to us?”
Munro was taken aback, but revealed nothing of his feelings, and then considered carefully what he should say before replying. His early career had been spent working with young offenders, and that’s exactly what McDowell reminded him of as he sat there looking for reassurance. Perhaps the same kind of reassurance that McDowell’s young victims had sought just before he had buggered them.
“Of course you are scared. Who wouldn’t be? That’s why the police are here – to help. We will find out who killed Clark but you must cooperate with the police. Tell them everything you know. As for me, I have no intention of closing Greenbank down, and you can tell everyone on the wing the same. I’m here because I want Greenbank to succeed. We’re all on the same side.”
McDowell looked down. Munro was aware his reassurances sounded like bullshit.
“Ok boss, I’ll spread the word.” McDowell left the office but not before he gave a military salute, slightly too emphatically.
Munro was aware of the heavy irony in the gesture. But prisons only functioned with the consent of the prisoners, so Munro and McDowell actually were on the “same side”. There are never enough staff to stop prisoners acting in unison should they decide to do so. It was a delicate balance of power that could blow sky-high if the heat was turned up.
Munro thought back to the Strangeways riot, which had lasted nearly four weeks. One prisoner was killed and nearly two hundred prison officers and prisoners were injured. It kicked off in the prison chapel, the flashpoint was recorded on tape and Munro had never forgotten the words of the prisoner who interrupted the service: “This man has just talked about blessing of the heart and a hardened heart can be delivered. No it cannot, not with resentment, anger and bitterness and hatred being instilled in people.” Then another prisoner shouted, “Fuck your system, fuck your rules.” And it all came tumbling down.
Munro wondered if McDowell had been trying to suss him out, and perhaps had been set up by other more powerful prisoners to test his mettle. He’d find out eventually. He called John Johnsson into his office, and asked him to arrange a full staff meeting.
There were few places in the prison large enough to hold all of the staff, but the gym would just about do. Munro had held his first and only previous staff meeting there – just after he had taken over. He had said the usual platitudes that incoming governors always say – “I am very pleased to be here, and I look forward to working with some of the best staff in the prison service.” This time he’d have to put his heart into it. There were some serious problems that needed to be worked through, and he would be looking to the staff for help. Munro knew that this might be difficult, for if the prisoners were feeling paranoid, then it was fairly certain that the staff would be feeling exactly the same.
The staff began to file in slowly, weaving their way over badminton and padder-ball courts. They were a motley crew, of all different sizes and ages, but overwhelmingly male and white.
Jack Wright, the chairman of the Prison Officers Association (POA) – uniquely amongst the public services, the POA was still a force to be reckoned with – was fatter than most, and took a seat directly in front of Munro. Red-faced it took him a few seconds to catch his breath.
Munro was skilled at handling the POA, knowing what buttons to press. Some he cajoled; others he befriended; and occasionally he bullied them mercilessly to get his own way.
The civilian staff were there too, looking drawn and pale, but the various police who were combing the prison had not been invited, with the exception of Knight. Kate stood towards the back of the gym, with Johnsson, both of them keeping out of Munro’s line of vision.
“Thank you,” said Munro. The gym fell silent. “No one can fail to have noticed that we have serious problems on our hands. Prisoner Bobby Lomas has escaped, prisoner Ian Clark has been murdered and prisoner McCabe has committed suicide. Another death has been recorded out of town, a former inmate of this institution.” Munro hesitated, suddenly blown off course by the shit storm he was facing from which he knew would emerge the howling wolves of judgement that would rip him to shreds. He surveyed his audience, took a deep breath, and resolved to fight this one to the death. “We have to identify the source of this unrest and cut it out like a cancer. Someone, or more likely a network of malignancy is making our lives hell. I trust you all to leave no stone unturned in cleaning this place up. We have many police officers in the prison. I am certain that you will make their time here as productive as possible, and offer to DI Knight and the other police any assistance he or they might require.” Munro turned to ackn
owledge Knight, who stood unmoved.
Munro continued, “I am impressed with the way that you have handled the situation so far. There are not many prisons in the country which could have kept the lid on a nick that had just experienced what we have. We need to ensure that the therapeutic process that I have heard so much about, from Dr Crowther and others, can work to bring a sense of safety back to Greenbank.”
*
On D wing Kate as usual held her group session. Not for the first time since she had come to Greenbank, Kate was struck by how much people cared about what was happening to each other, and even if these were people who had killed and raped and maimed, most were capable of empathizing with the plight of others, and in the right circumstances creating a sense of community. She wondered if communities on the outside would have been as inclusive, or whether vigilantes would have already taken to the streets to find a culprit – any culprit – for themselves.
Kate lingered on the wing, wondering if she should stay and help out or head back to her office. She stood silently for a moment collecting her thoughts, when a hand caught her shoulder from behind.
Kate screamed, and turned to come face-to-face with Detective Inspector Knight. He stepped backwards, apologizing, but his eyes were smiling.
“Jeez police officer, did they not teach you how to treat a lady when they gave you your fancy silver buttons and cap badge? I should sue you for assault.”
“I’m really sorry, I know we’re all incredibly jumpy, that was clumsy of me.”
“You’re not kidding.”
He could smell her perfume, the scent of a faraway place, the sea gently lapping, all the bad storms a distant memory. He would never find that place.
“How’d therapy go?” he said.
“As you’d expect. They’re grieving, and they’re scared. Wouldn’t you be if the place you came to see as your home had just become a murder scene?”
“Do you think one of the prisoners did it?” said Knight.
It had crossed her mind. Perhaps someone on her group, someone who had just been shedding tears and looking for reassurance. Humankind’s ability to deceive knows no bounds.
“Perhaps,” was all that Kate would offer.
“Look, with all your skills, surely you could come up with a profile. I’m happy to give you access to what we’ve gathered about Clark. We didn’t find any useful forensics on his body – the killer was careful, a pro, there’s a clue to start you off.”
“Thanks Sherlock.”
“I’ll buy you a drink at The White Hart and we can discuss this some more.”
Pushy bastard she thought. It had been a hard day, and it seemed like she hadn’t been out for a drink with a guy in years.
Chapter Seventeen
Martin Wooldridge parked his silver Mercedes 300 SL in the station car park and caught the 17.20 South West Trains service from Axminster to Waterloo. It would take him a little under three hours, which gave him just enough time to attend the meeting. How did the message get to him? There must be a network of contacts and dead drops, no one trusting electronic communication. All very Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. He wondered which one of le Carre’s characters he should adopt now.
Munro was in the shit, up to his neck, the buffoon. Singularly unqualified to navigate the treacherous waters of a therapeutic prison like Greenbank. You need empathy, even love. All the same, he didn’t like to see a colleague go down in flames, but there was no choice. Munro’s deputy John Johnsson could be a bigger problem. He’d worked with him for many years and he was competent but unimaginative. He had drive though, his eye on the big prize of governorship. Wooldridge had seen thwarted ambition before, and there was something brittle about Johnsson; an undercurrent of twitchy mania that occasionally broke the surface.
Wooldridge dug out his iPhone and opened the Kindle app. He felt bad about reading eBooks, they were destroying bookshops and their inherent charm all over the country. But what convenience! And with his declining eyesight he could have the words any size he wanted. He clicked on Prick up Your Ears: the biography of Joe Orton by John Lahr, and didn’t look up until his train was pulling into Waterloo.
He took the Northern line to Leicester Square, fought his way through the crowds of early evening tourists, skirted the pungent aromas of China Town and pressed the buzzer on the door of a private members’ club in Soho. He would have preferred to meet at the RAF club or the RAC, but he had no choice in the matter. He removed his tie remembering there was a no-tie policy at this ludicrously trendy club.
Leaning against the bar on the second floor, Wooldridge sipped his Budvar, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. It was 9.05 p.m. His contact was late. The bar was crowded with beautiful people, sculpted features and outfits, jostling to reach the front of life’s queue. The atmosphere was brittle with self-regard and expectation. The night was still young.
A boy detached himself, medium height, lighthouse smile, his hair the orange of an electric bar heater.
“Do I know you?” he asked Wooldridge.
“I don’t see how,” he replied. Someone pushed past aggressively, the MacBook slung over his shoulder knocking the boy closer to him. Wooldridge noticed the hairs peering from the neck of the boy’s white T-shirt were startlingly black, his skin translucent. His eyes were sheer cliff faces, unblinking.
“I know you,” said the boy. There was a flutter of his eyelids, as if he was tasting something unfamiliar but not unpleasant before taking a greedy mouthful.
Wooldridge moved an inch forward.
“Wooldridge,” he said.
“Sweet,” said the boy. “I’ve got just the thing.” He turned and headed towards the staircase to the exit. Wooldridge followed.
Outside they crossed Old Compton Street and walked north up Greek Street as Soho erupted all around them with disconcerting noise and haste. Wooldridge wondered who was paying the boy, and if he knew what he was getting involved in. They stopped outside The Gay Hussar and the boy lit a Camel Light with a gold lighter. He didn’t offer Wooldridge a cigarette. A dark green Jaguar S-Type cruised around the corner from Soho Square and pulled up, its hazard lights blinking. The boy grabbed Wooldridge’s face and kissed him hard on the lips, lingering, hungry, his tongue foraging. Then he pushed him towards the open rear door of the Jaguar and was gone, hurrying towards Manette Street, a shower of sparks in his wake as he flicked his cigarette onto the pavement.
The man sitting next to Wooldridge in the back of the car was in his fifties, had short grey hair and was wearing a Belstaff Blouson wax cotton jacket and jeans. He nodded at Wooldridge then turned to look out of the window. The rear passenger seats were partitioned from the driver by a sheet of glass. They were heading east.
“Where are we going?” asked Wooldridge.
“Shoreditch, night club, that’s where I drop you off.” He had a strong Birmingham accent.
“Why does it take two of you to take me there?”
“One to drive, one to keep you company,” replied the man. “We hasten to our destination but we are often oblivious of the journey.”
Wooldridge’s heart sank. They were stuck in traffic. The last thing he needed was a philosopher as a travel companion.
“You’re in the prison service,” said the man.
“Not any longer,” replied Wooldridge. Who had filled him in on his background and why he wondered.
“You’ll be used to confined spaces, immobility, futility,” said the man, gesturing outside. “This city is dying on its arse; anxiety, tremors, nervous complaints, paranoia, suicides sky rocketing. Why would you live in a place like this?”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
The man turned to Wooldridge. “I’ve got a specific job to do, then I’m done. I like to do these things quick and clean, no backward glances, no goodbyes, no tears.”
They were moving slowly, a gentle hum in the soundproofed Jaguar. The driver was wearin
g a bowler hat like a character from A Clockwork Orange. They were travelling down the Euston Road, the pond-green edifice of University College Hospital a stark, alien presence as they glided past. When they stopped at traffic lights, Wooldridge tried to open his door. It was locked.
For a man who had spent most of his life locking up other people, Wooldridge was surprisingly claustrophobic.
“Where’s Lomas?” he said.
“In good time,” replied the man.
“You know who I mean?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“He’s a dangerous man you know.”
Joe Orton was battered to death at his home in Noel Road, Islington, receiving nine hammer blows to the head delivered by his friend and lover Kenneth Halliwell who then committed suicide with an overdose of twenty-two Nembutal tablets washed down with grapefruit juice. Investigators decided that Halliwell had died first, because Orton’s sheets were still warm. Wooldridge felt a lump in his throat. He couldn’t think of a worse way to die.
“Put these on,” said the man. He handed Wooldridge two black bin liners. “One on the top, one on the bottom.”
“I will do no such thing,” said Wooldridge.
“Look, you’re not a young man anymore, you’ve done your time, I’m just bringing the date forward a fraction.” The man drew a knife from a holster under his jacket. As an ex-military man Wooldridge recognized it as a black Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife popular in the seventies as a fighting weapon. Part of his instruction to become a prison governor meant he was well trained in the lethal effects of weapons and there was no more deadly weapon at close quarters than a knife. The sharp blade will cut cleanly and a wounded man will quickly lose consciousness and die through prolific blood loss, whereas an artery torn bluntly by another method of assault, rather than cleanly cut, will contract and stop the bleeding, prolonging the death agony.
“How much are they paying you?” asked Wooldridge.