* * * *
Chief Inspector Hood received a message just before 6pm that Hanlon was safely behind bars in Mansfield Shirebrook Prison. He heaved a sigh of relief. The week-end would be his own, subject only to his checking with Detective Sergeant Hooper on the progress made in the examination of property uplifted from Grayling’s home. It was Saturday afternoon when Hooper contacted him. Two postcards had been found. Both had Dublin postmarks. One had a black and white photograph of the Four Courts in Dublin on the reverse. It had a postmark dated 20 February 1999. The only writing that appeared was in the form of a large question mark. The other postcard bore a photograph of an exhibit in the National Museum of Ireland – pieces of Samian pottery discovered in County Meath in the 1930s. On the reverse were written four well-spaced out letters ‘I. D. E. S.’ The card bore a March post date but the day on which it was franked could not be discerned. Hood looked at it carefully.
‘What do you think, Andrew?’ he asked.
‘Could the letters stand for something? A sort of code?’
‘I think it’s more obvious than that,’ replied Hood. ‘If you put them together, it spells “IDES”. It’s also a March franking. The Ides of March is, if I recall correctly, the fifteenth. And we have the Roman context in the photograph on the back just to make it obvious. This is Hanlon telling Grayling he’ll be arriving on the fifteenth of March, which just happens to be the day he was caught on CCTV leaving Hastings railway station!’
Hooper nodded. ‘Seems a lot of trouble to go to. Why not just ring him?’
‘Because Grayling’s phone was being tapped, and they knew it just like Hanlon said.’
‘Doesn’t reflect well on the Met, does it? No wonder they never got anywhere on that investigation.’
‘Never mind the Met. This is now our problem.’
‘Hanlon had never mentioned the phone tapping before, had he?’ said Hooper.
‘No, he hadn’t. And I specifically asked him about the phone call as I was taking his witness statement and he said he knew nothing about it. If he knew Grayling’s phone was being tapped, he must have known about that call. He’s kept it from us. I would like to know why?’
‘Can’t he be asked?’
‘Not by us he can’t. Not until he’s finished his evidence. We’re in Mr Cronshaw’s hands until then.’
‘What about the other card?’
‘It has a Dublin postmark, so it must have been sent from there, but what it means I simply don’t know.’
‘It’s dated before Kelly Maguire visited Judge Campion’s home.’
‘So I see. I suppose it could refer to Hanlon being undecided about joining in the kidnapping plot, but it’s far too vague to be certain what it means. But well done, Andrew. I’ll show these to counsel on Monday morning. I’m sure Edwin Everdene will want to ask Hanlon about them.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was 7.30 on Sunday morning when a prison officer brought in Joseph Hanlon’s breakfast. He had spent a comfortable night in his new cell which was a great improvement on the accommodation provided at Whitemoor. He had been escorted to the single cell on Saturday morning and had noted that the cells on either side of his were unoccupied. The authorities were obviously determined to keep him isolated until he had completed his evidence. Not that he had any intention of enjoying the improved facilities for very long. He yawned and stretched his arms as the officer eyed him suspiciously.
‘Don’t think this will continue after tomorrow,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Waiter service finishes after breakfast on Monday. You’ll queue up with others after you return from court.’
Hanlon said nothing. He took the tray and placed it on the table fixed to the wall opposite a bookcase. The officer turned and left the cell without further comment, locking the door behind him. Hanlon looked at the plate. A rasher of streaky bacon, a single sausage and a fried egg placed on top of a piece of overdone toast. A plastic mug of what he supposed was tea was the only other item on the tray. He wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, but he took the plastic knife and nudged the toast across the plate. There it was. A small scrap of paper with 11am written on it. He screwed up the paper, put it into his mouth and swallowed it, washing it down with the tea from the mug. His appetite restored, he quickly finished off the breakfast and then lay on his bed. After a few minutes, he sat up, removed his shoes and put on his trainers. He’d worn them the previous day when he’d trotted around the exercise area for about forty-five minutes and kicked a football about with a prison officer. When he kicked the ball against the temporary barrier, supposedly sealing off entry into the area still under construction, he’d calculated it would take only a few seconds for him to get over it. Half way through his time in the exercise area the police helicopter came into view swooping low over the sports field. The two officers, who were tasked to ensure he remained in their sight, looked up and waved to the pilot. He’d heard what he took to be the same helicopter hovering over the prison regularly during the rest of the day at approximately hourly intervals.
He turned over on his bed and tried to get back to sleep. He needed to be ready and alert. He would get only one chance. If he blew it he knew he’d spend the rest of his life in custody.
He was awakened at 9.30 when a member of the medical team entered his cell and watched him as he injected himself in his stomach with insulin. The same prison officer stood by then locked the cell as the male nurse departed.
‘What time do I get my exercise period?’ he’d asked him as he closed the cell door.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ was all he heard in reply.
By 10.55am, Hanlon was growing slightly anxious. He looked at his watch several times. 11am came and went. By ten past, he was starting to worry. Then the door of his cell was opened. A different and much larger prison officer stepped inside.
‘Come on then. Time for your exercise. It’s been cut to forty minutes so you’d better get a move on. And it looks like rain. I’m not stopping out there if it starts.’
‘Forty minutes,’ complained Hanlon, ‘I’m supposed to get an hour. For my health, you know. I’m not a well man.’
‘Short-staffed,’ replied the obviously overweight officer. ‘And it’s Sunday. We’re several officers down. Always are on a Sunday.’
Hanlon set off at speed, walking quickly out of the cell and across the landing.
‘Hang on. We’re not all as keen on exercise as you.’ The officer followed. Hanlon who was already at the security door. The other prisoners on the landing who had been confined to their cells watched through the open hatches. The door was unlocked and Hanlon headed for the gated exercise area which was surrounded by a high metal fence. The gate was opened by another turnkey and he and his custodian passed through it. It was carefully locked behind them. Hanlon gazed for a moment at the lofty wire fencing and the barbed wire overhanging the top. It must have been at least twenty-five feet high. No prospect of climbing over that.
‘Any chance of having a go with that football I had yesterday?’
His custodian shook his head. ‘You’re a bit old for that, aren’t you? We don’t want you giving yourself a heart attack.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my heart. Anyway, it gives me something to do, seeing as I’m not allowed to be in here with anyone. Unless you want to run a race with me? I did a few laps with one of your colleagues yesterday.’
The officer was not so minded. ‘Did you? Well I’m not built for running. I’ll get you the ball.’
He walked over to a small shed at the edge of the exercise area, unlocked it, took out a plastic football and tossed it to Hanlon.
‘Right, let’s see what you can do with it.’ He stood with his hands on his hips and watched. Hanlon threw the ball up and started to head it, once, twice, three times. He then dropped it down to his right foot and kicked it into the air, ran forward and heade
d it four or five times before letting it fall to the ground. The officer observed him for a little time, shook his head and took out a newspaper. He sat down on a bench next to the entrance gate and started to read. Hanlon kicked the ball again, farther and farther towards the barrier. He then kicked it down almost to where the officer was seated. The officer looked up and smiled.
‘You’re no Jimmy Greaves,’ he said.
‘Fancy a kick around?’ asked Hanlon. He sounded serious.
The officer sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re doing fine on your own. You don’t need me.’ He turned back to his newspaper.
Hanlon was beginning to make out the sound of an approaching helicopter. He glanced at his watch. It was 11.27am. He started to push the ball nearer the temporary barrier. Unlike the fencing around the perimeter, the barrier was no more than seven or eight feet high. There was a large ‘Do not Cross’ sign fixed to the side. Hanlon was quite happy it could be scaled without too much difficulty. The netting placed over it would provide the necessary footholds. As the helicopter came into view, the officer looked up for a few seconds then went back to reading his paper. Hanlon was now only a few feet from the barrier and a good twenty-five or thirty yards from the officer. As the helicopter swooped low over the sport’s field, imitating the actions of the police helicopter earlier in the day, he quickly mounted the barrier, jumped down onto the Astroturf and ran at some speed towards the now hovering helicopter. A rope ladder descended and before the wheezing officer had got as far as the barrier, Hanlon was climbing the ladder like someone twenty years’ younger. A siren started to wail. His movements had seemingly been spotted by other officers outside the fenced off area, but it was too late. Hanlon was almost at the top of the ladder when the helicopter rose into the sky and quickly disappeared from sight. The overweight officer, now standing on top of the barrier, threw down his cap in frustration. As he climbed down he looked at his watch and realised that the police helicopter was not due for another twenty minutes. A feeling of dread descended. He just knew he was going to be blamed! As he walked, dejectedly, out of the exercise area and returned to the main prison block he was already rehearsing his excuses. Was it his fault that the covering over the sports field had yet to be completed or that staff shortages forced him to monitor Hanlon without the support of another officer? And why had the contractors been permitted to provide such an inadequate barrier? Who could possibly have anticipated such a daring escape? But he knew these excuses would not avail him as he entered the ground-floor landing to the sound of jeers, catcalls and whistles from the other prisoners. Some of them had seen the helicopter from their cell windows and the news had quickly spread. The system would certainly be looking for a scapegoat and the system always won.
* * * *
Chief Inspector Hood received the news as he was leaving church following the christening of his son, Nicholas. He couldn’t quite believe it. How on earth could a category ‘A’ prisoner escape from a high security prison so easily? How could those who provided the helicopter know when he would be in the exercise area? It was supposed to be closely guarded information. Heads would certainly role!
He hoped his would not be amongst them. Then there was the trial to consider. Hanlon had not completed his evidence. It was now plain why he’d agreed to be a witness. To get himself out of Whitemoor so he could escape from the not-yet completed prison at Mansfield. But how did he or anyone else know he would be lodged at Mansfield? Hood was convinced that someone must have leaked the information. There could be no other explanation. When he got home he went straight to his study and telephoned Harold Cronshaw. There was no reply. He only had the number of his flat in Gray’s Inn. He assumed he must have gone to his house in Oxfordshire for the week-end. He rang Fiona Morrison’s mobile number. His call went straight to messaging. Increasingly frustrated, he walked into the sitting room where several guests were waiting to celebrate Nicholas’ baptism. He was expected to make a speech as the special cake was cut, but his wife could see that he was tense and distracted. His mind was obviously elsewhere.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, as she handed him a bottle of champagne and invited him to open it. He directed her into the kitchen away from the guests. Young Nicholas was burbling contentedly in the arms of his Godmother. He was, understandably, the centre of attention in the sitting room.
‘It’s Hanlon. He’s escaped from prison.’
‘But that’s not possible, surely?’
‘Well it’s happened. A helicopter flew over the exercise area while he was in it and the dozy prison officer failed to stop him climbing on to some kind of ladder lowered from it. He was gone in seconds. I’m going to have to leave and organise our response.’
Sarah was sympathetic but she knew where her priorities lay.
‘Not before we’ve cut the cake and you have made your speech. Another quarter of an hour is not going to affect things.’
Hood reluctantly agreed. But it was nearly forty minutes before he set off for the police station. He’d managed to contact Andrew Hooper who was busying himself finding Cronshaw’s address in Oxfordshire. When he got to his office at Central Police Station, the duty sergeant was waiting.
‘The shit’s hit the fan well and truly,’ he said. ‘The chief’s been contacted. He’s coming in.’
‘That’s all we need,’ sighed Hood. ‘Has a news blackout been organised? I don’t want it revealed that it was Hanlon who’s escaped before Monday morning when the judge is informed.’
‘We’ll not be able to keep this under wraps,’ replied the sergeant. ‘We’re already fielding calls at the Press Office. But as things stand they don’t know the identity of the prisoner who escaped. Otherwise they wouldn’t be calling. Oh, and the governor’s put the prison in lockdown – a bit late as always.’
‘But on no account is Hanlon’s name to be released,’ insisted Hood. ‘As you say, we won’t be able to kill the story, but we have to keep Hanlon’s name out of it.’
Hood looked at his watch. It was just before 2.30pm. He switched on the TV and went to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. Nothing. That was a relief but he knew it wouldn’t last.
‘Anything heard from the patrols in the immediate area?’ he asked
‘Nothing. He’ll be well gone by now. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s out of the country.’
‘Anything from air traffic control?’
‘No. Whoever the pilot was, he’s made no contact with them. This was not an authorised flight. They reckon he must have landed nearby. We’re checking all the airfields in the area, but with a helicopter they could have put down literally anywhere.’
‘What about the police helicopter? That must have been due over the prison shortly afterwards?’
‘Yes it was. About 15 minutes later. But it was diverted up to Worksop. There was a major accident on the M1 just before 11.30. Several casualties apparently. It’s in the air now combing the area.’
‘I wouldn’t mind betting that Hanlon organised that too, as a diversion. Keep me informed and get the rest of my team in here. No excuses. I’ve had to leave my son’s christening party, so I won’t be minded to accept any excuses from anyone who fails to turn up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hood could not contain his frustration. He switched off the television.
‘I want that helicopter found, and quickly.’ He sighed and tried to sound more in control. ‘We’ll find it eventually, no doubt. This was obviously well organised and it’s been in the offing for some time. Probably since I saw Hanlon at Whitemoor. Where’s Inspector Bullock?’
‘He’s gone to the prison. He said he’d ring when he’d spoken to the governor, always assuming he still is the governor. He’s the one who’ll be landed with the responsibility, I shouldn’t wonder. There should be some CCTV, and the inspector will be picking it up. By the way, sir, the chief has already spoken with the Ho
me Secretary. Neither of them is very happy.’
‘You think I am? This could de-rail the trial. And after Bullock’s hard work with security.’
Hood’s telephone rang. It was Harold Cronshaw. Hood indicated for the sergeant to leave and settled in his chair as he revealed what he knew of Hanlon’s escape to the very disgruntled barrister.
* * * *
It was almost midnight before Hood arrived home. His wife had waited up for him. Happily, all their children were sleeping soundly.
‘It’s been on Channel Four news,’ Sarah told her husband.
‘So I hear,’ replied Hood. ‘but I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘I recorded it for you.’
She switched on the television and the video recorder and fast-forwarded to the relevant item.
‘Channel Four news can exclusively reveal that a prisoner escaped from Mansfield Shirebrook Prison at lunchtime today in a daring helicopter breakout,’ enthused the news reader. ‘Authorities have refused to name the prisoner but Channel Four news understands it was Joseph Hanlon, suspected of being a former IRA commander, who was involved in the kidnapping of a judge’s wife and son in April last year. He was serving a thirty-nine year prison sentence.’
Some library footage was then shown of the prison together with moving footage of a helicopter, just in case there were any viewers who didn’t know what a helicopter looked like.
‘Authorities have so far refused to comment, but Geoffrey Donaldson, a local Conservative Member of Parliament, has stated he will be raising the matter in the House of Commons later this week. The Chief Constable of Mid- Shires Constabulary, Kevin Langley, has issued a statement saying that the prisoner’s name will be released tomorrow, Monday. Channel Four sources state that if the escaped prisoner is Joseph Hanlon, it could have serious repercussions on the trial of Julia Hamilton which is due to resume on Monday morning at Nottingham Crown Court.’
A Private and Convenient Place Page 27