Angel on the Inside

by Mike Ripley

  She left me hanging on for five minutes, then came back to tell me that the case file had gone to the Crown Prosecution Service but all the evidence bags were in their secure evidence room, which was routine where a firearm was involved. She would go down and have a look and ring me back. I told her she was very, very kind, and only if she could spare the time. She probably could, she said. It was fairly quiet in Suffolk.

  In case she rang back when I was out, I rehearsed what I would say if Amy took the call or heard a recorded message. No problem. I was filling in an insurance form, sensibly this time. She hadn’t shown any interest in the wrecked BMW so far and would probably blank it again.

  I couldn’t think why one of the younger Turners had asked me what sort of gun Keith Flowers had used. At the time, in the dark, being shot at, I hadn’t been paying much attention. My first impression had been that it was big and shiny and perhaps an automatic, but I hadn’t been sure then and I certainly wasn’t now. I hadn’t seen it close up, as I’d had no intention of getting up close, and afterwards the police had kept us well away whilst Flowers was cut out of the BMW. Then they’d taken Flowers, the gun and the wreck into custody.

  I had Radio 5 on for the football results when DC Priestley rang back.

  ‘You’re in luck, Mr Angel,’ she said.

  ‘I’d like to think I was,’ I said. ‘Any particular reason why?’

  ‘Your weapon is quite famous.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I could almost hear her blush down the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry ... I mean the weapon in your case ... I mean the case against Flowers ... It was quite unusual. First one we’ve had in Suffolk.’

  ‘First one what?’

  ‘It was a Brocock,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Really? I’d never have guessed. That’s quite interesting.’

  I toned down the sarcasm. It was never a good move with policemen.

  ‘Can I ask what the devil a Brocock is?’

  ‘It’s an air pistol,’ she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Amy. ‘What you looking for?’

  I clicked the mouse and moved on to another window before she got near enough to see the screen.

  ‘Band parts,’ I said, smiling at her.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘For Dod’s band. I’m trying to make this thing do some basic arrangements of some of the old standards, for trumpet, piano and sax, and print them out so we’ve got something to rehearse with.’

  ‘We have a programme that does that?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘As a matter of fact, we do. It’s called Sibelius II, but I’m buggered if I can get it to work. Dod’s lot probably can’t read music anyway, so we’ll wing it.’

  ‘I thought that was what you were supposed to do with jazz.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I ain’t winging anything unless I put in some serious lip practice. I don’t suppose ...’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘You know the rules. No trumpet playing here, it’ll annoy the neighbours.’

  ‘This is a detached house,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I’ve heard you play,’ she said, like it was a threat.

  ‘Then I’ll just have to go over to Hackney and annoy the neighbours there.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you will,’ she flounced, turning on her heel.

  It had worked like a charm.

  I got out of the Sibelius programme, which I had been using for cover, then logged into three or four more sites on the internet connection just in case Amy checked the history file to see what I’d been surfing. Buried among them would be the search I’d done for ‘Brocock’, which may or may not mean anything to her.

  It certainly meant more to me now.

  I had another cup of coffee while Amy was in the shower – again. What was wrong with her? Then I grabbed my jacket and Armstrong’s keys and yelled that I was going.

  ‘I’ll look in on Springsteen while I’m there,’ I added. ‘Give Fenella some money for cat food.’

  ‘Whatever you’re paying her isn’t enough!’ she yelled back from the bathroom.

  ‘Why? What’s he done to you lately?’

  I listened carefully for her response. I knew she hadn’t seen Springsteen for months, or so I thought. But then she did have a limp ...

  ‘Nothing to me,’ she answered innocently. ‘But he is on the RSPCA’s Most Wanted list.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

  I shook my head at my own stupidity for ever suspecting her. I knew who had kicked seven bells out Springsteen; and, just to be perverse, Springsteen actually liked Amy and had never attacked her, even in fun. Plus, there was no way Amy would ever wear a shade of tights called Chiffon and especially not if Lisabeth did.

  Having worked all that out, I was feeling quite pleased with myself, and I was nearly at the door when I heard her yell:

  ‘If you won’t come with me to Madrid, can you at least give me a lift to Heathrow tomorrow lunchtime?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. No problemo,’ I shouted back.

  Idiot.

  In St Chad’s Park, I for once wore sunglasses for the purpose Ray-Bans had intended, as it was a beautiful bright sunny morning. So did Spider. In fact, his aviator style shades were probably real Ray-Bans, but they didn’t do much for him. They would have looked cooler on Warden Roberts’ ancient golden Labrador, who wheezed along behind Spider at the end of an extendible lead.

  ‘You got it, then?’ Spider whispered, glancing furtively around. Apart from half a dozen kids in the nearby playground, there was nobody for miles.

  ‘The visiting order?’ I said loudly, and he automatically flapped his hands to shush me, jerking the dog lead and the dog as he did so. ‘Don’t spread it around, they’ll all want one. Come on, let’s walk. Got to keep old Fang here moving ‘til he vacates his bowels. We sit down somewhere, he’ll nod off and not do the business, but if that daft old sod Roberts thinks I’m using the pooper-scooper, he’s got another think coming. Nobody followed you did they?’

  I put my hand over my glasses and swivelled my head, pretending to scan the horizon.

  ‘Did you say St Chad’s Park or Gorky Park? Who would’ve followed me?’

  ‘You tell me. I’m just being careful, like I was told to be. Pays to be careful where Mr Creosote is concerned.’

  He yanked on the lead, and the dog started off down the footpath. Spider gave him about ten feet of lead, then we followed.

  ‘So who is this Malcolm Fisher, then?’

  Spider’s head snapped round.

  ‘How did ...? It was on the VO, right?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I sneered. ‘The visiting order said I could go and visit Mr Creosote and then Captain Blood, Frank “the Enforcer” Nitti, Hannibal the Cannibal, Ming the Merciless, Slasher Carmichael, Minnesota Fats, Deptford Eddy, Barking Brian, Mad Dog Cockfosters Colin ...’

  ‘You know Slasher Carmichael?’ he asked. Then it dawned that I was winding him up.

  Or maybe he was winding me up.

  ‘Come on, Spider, why the meet? If it’s got nothing to do with Prisoner 8281 Fisher, M, then I’m not really interested, and there’s an elsewhere I could be.’

  ‘Hey, I’m here ‘cos I was told to be. Got to run through things with you.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The procedures, the ett-ee-ket, how not to get on the tits of the screws, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be useful, but I really would like to know who the hell it is I’m going to see before I get the rough guide to prison visiting.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Spider. ‘Got a smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  It was true. My throat still rasped from Friday night. Spider sighed loudly and dug a packet of Dunhill from his trouser pocket, followed by what
looked suspiciously like a gold-plated Dunhill lighter. Automatically, I checked to see if my watch was still on my wrist.

  ‘So you’ve never heard of Malcolm Fisher, right?’ he said through a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then I suppose you’ve been lucky so far.’

  Somebody else had said something very similar recently.

  ‘Let me take a wild guess. He’s a mate of Keith Flowers and – shot in the dark here – he’s Welsh.’

  ‘Right twice, Sherlock. He’s a Taffy from Cardiff, and that’s where he did some business with Flowers in the past. Fast-forward to last year and he ends up sharing a cell in Belmarsh with Flowers. Luck of the draw. Malcolm’s waiting for a transfer to Maidstone, Flowers is relocated to London to start his downscaling to release day.’

  ‘How come they got put together?’ I asked during a temporary halt whilst Fang thought about the state of his bowels.

  ‘Pure chance. Flowers had asked for a move to London to see out the arse-end of his sentence.’

  So he could be nearer Amy, I thought.

  ‘Malcolm was moved from Cardiff because of certain things what happened down there, and they reckoned Maidstone was far enough away, but you know, Maidstone’s really popular with the old London lags, who’ve all got family down in Kent, so, like, there’s a waiting list. Malcolm was still waiting when Flowers turned up. He’s still waiting, as it happens.’

  ‘So they had a reunion and talked about the good old days in Cardiff. So what? Where the fuck do I come into this picture?’

  ‘That’s for Mr Cre ... Fisher to tell you. I don’t know any more, and I don’t want to know any more. All I have to do is make sure you get there for two o’clock tomorrow. I tell you, this being outside is doing my head in. I’ll be chucked out of St Chad’s in a month’s time, and what does the future hold for me, eh? Know any Big Issue pitches going spare?’

  ‘You done a lot of ... time … bird?’

  I wasn’t sure what the correct term was.

  ‘Made a career of it. Used to it now. Tell the truth, I’m not looking forward to Christmas on the outside one bit. It’s warm inside, the food’s free and I’m too old to appeal to anybody in the showers now, so that’s not a problem. I reckon, come October, I’ll be looking for a nice bit of burglary. No violence, nothing like that, just enough to pull a six-month over Christmas. Do me fine.’

  In a heartbeat he stopped being philosophical and turned on me.

  ‘And don’t try and be clever when you’re in Belmarsh. Don’t use words like “bird” unless you know exactly what they mean. That’s what gets the bacon into trouble.’

  ‘Bacon?’

  ‘Bacon is what they call the new intake. First time prisoners they reckon are “vulnerable” – that’s the word. Mostly they’re put in Fraggle Rock for a coupla weeks to see if they can handle prison life.’

  ‘Fraggle Rock?’ I asked, happy to admit I was out of my depth here.

  ‘The hospital wing. Daft, really, ‘cos nobody’s sick in there. Place is full of bacon to keep them out the way of the old lags, but they’re mixing with the real nutters from maximum security who are not only ill, but sick, sick, sick, and that lot are all on three-man lock-downs.’

  I decided that now wasn’t the time for a translation, but Spider was ahead of me.

  ‘Anyway, don’t you worry, ‘cos I’m coming with you, for the ride anyway.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Oh yes. I got an excuse to be there, showing you the way. I’m on Mr Cre ... Fisher’s list. His phone list.’

  ‘Phone list?’

  ‘Since they did away with phone cards – pity, really, ‘cos they was like currency inside. Anyways, since they went, you get your own personal PIN number. You know: personal identification number.’ I nodded as if I was being shown a You-Are-Here map to the Holy Grail. ‘Well, you put all the numbers you’re likely to want to ring on a list, right? And you get your wages, such as they are, and any bits of dosh that come in from outside – it’s only pennies, like – and you make your phone calls during association on your PIN number and they, like, discredit your account; but only if the numbers are on the list.’

  ‘I think I get that. What’s “association”?’

  ‘That’s when they open the doors and you can go out on the wing or the block, wherever, and mix with the other lags. That’s when you do your canteen.’ He titled his sunglasses on one side. ‘Your sort probably know it as the tuck shop or something posh. It’s when you put your order in for life’s little luxuries.’

  His voice tailed off towards the end, as if he was remembering something he really missed.

  ‘All this is fascinating, Spider, but what’s the point?’

  ‘Just giving you a bit of background, that’s all.’ He walked on, pulling a reluctant Fang behind him. ‘Serious part of the briefing is as follows.

  ‘One: do not draw attention to yourself. Two: do not talk to anyone except a prison officer, and only if they talk to you first. Three: do not be cheeky, or pretend to know what you’re talking about. So you do not say “porridge”, “banged up”, “screw” or anything like that.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I’m allowed. I’m a known face; that’s why I’ll just be taking you as far as the Visitor Centre, show you the ropes. After that, you’re on your own. That’s why you’ve got to remember Rule One.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself!’ Then he realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. ‘Anyway. Number four: make sure you’ve got some genuine ID with you, with a photo for preference. Five: don’t take more than six quid in with you. That’s all that’s allowed, but you’ll need it to buy tea or coffee and you can leave the change in Malcolm’s account. Six: do not take anything to write with. No paper, no pens. Prisoners aren’t allowed to write anything or sign anything during visiting. And for Christ’s sake don’t go in there with a mobile phone. That’s asking for it. Seven: don’t bother taking any fags in there; they’re trying to make it a healthier environment. And eight: do not carry any sort of drugs in with you, and to be safe, don’t wear any clothes that have been near any drugs lately. Don’t laugh; those sniffer dogs are good, and if they pick you out, the next sound you hear is the smack of a rubber glove, and it’s bend over and spread ‘em for the anal search. If you’re lucky, they’ll remember the Vaseline.’

  ‘I’m rapidly going off this whole idea,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’m still no clearer as to why I’m visiting this guy Fisher anyway.’

  ‘Bit late to start worrying about that, innit? You pick me up outside the hostel at 12.00, eh? That should do it. Be a nice run round by Dartford in that taxi of yours. Don’t forget some cash for the toll bridge, though.’

  ‘Now wait a minute.’ I caught his arm and pulled him up short. Fang took the opportunity of the unscheduled stop to squat down and finally do what he was supposed to do, right in the middle of the footpath. ‘You haven’t given me one good reason why I should take up this Mr Fisher’s nice offer of an afternoon in one of Her Majesty’s prisons. What if I just don’t show?’

  ‘That’s up to you, son.’ Spider looked around him, anywhere but at me. Just an old man waiting for his dog to finish fouling the walkway. ‘But I’d always bear in the back of my mind how Mr Creosote got that name.’

  ‘Do you know, I’ve been meaning to ask that.’

  ‘Well, put it this way, the last person who crossed him – it was down in Cardiff, and when he was in Cardiff nick – the next day, they comes home to find their living room has been creosoted. You know what I’m talking about? Creosote. The stuff like tar, that you use outside on your roof or on your garden shed that you just don’t ever, ever, get on your clothes? Imagine coming home to find your walls, the carpet, the three-piece suite from Ikea, the television, even your fucking dog, all done
out in creosote. And not just a bucket of it thrown slapdash like some young hooligan would, but a proper job. Three men in there for most of the day, applying two coats and not a drop spilt on the front doorstep to tell you they’d called.

  ‘He can make that happen from inside his cell. That’s why he got the name.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re scared of him?’

  ‘That’s why you should be scared of him. You’ve got a fucking living room, I haven’t.’

  I called in at the Stuart Street flat on my way back to Hampstead, to collect my old B-flat trumpet to bolster my alibi.

  I told Springsteen he was looking well and it wouldn’t be long before the plaster came off. Then I made a chainsaw sound. He lashed out at me, but he was slow, far too slow.

  For a moment, I seriously considered joining Amy on that flight to Madrid, but the prospect of coming home to a weatherproof lounge worried me.

  Then I realised I was picking Spider up for the jaunt to Belmarsh at roughly the same time I had agreed to take Amy to Heathrow, and that worried me as well.

  On my way out, I stopped at Flat 2 and gave Fenella some dosh for Springsteen’s food and nursing. I also told her that if three men in overalls turned up with tins of what looked like paint, she was on no account to let them in. They had not been hired to repaint my flat, it was all a cruel practical joke, but the guys in overalls wouldn’t know that and they might turn ugly if they thought they were losing a job.

  If they turned violent, there was only one thing Fenella could and should do.

  Shout for Lisabeth.

  In an odd sort of way, I was curious to see if Mr Creosote could top that.