by Dawson, Mark
“I was looking through the evidence again. There are some things that don’t make sense.”
“Like?”
She glanced around the room. She knew that she was taking a risk coming here. The guards were watching, and if any of them recognised her, it might provoke questions for her that would prove awkward to answer.
She said, “Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
He paused. “I don’t think so. I’ve tried to remember what happened, but I can’t.”
She paused, unsure whether she should continue. Discussing her concerns about the investigation with the man who was likely to be charged was the kind of foolishness that could kill a career. Yet, she reminded herself, she had already ignored a direct order from her commanding officer and then driven all the way down here to speak to Smith. It was too late for qualms now.
“All right,” she said. “I went back to the bar where you met Miss Sanchez. I spoke to the man who served you.”
“Mid-thirties? Long hair?”
“And tattoos. That was the owner. He said he didn’t remember you or her. So I asked for the video from the security camera.”
“And?”
“And my senior officer turned up and said that he’d handle it for me. But when I checked the evidence, there was no tape. So I went back. I was going to speak to the owner again, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s dead. He was shot the night I spoke to him. It looks like a drug killing.”
“But you don’t think it was?”
She lowered her voice. “I don’t know.”
“Did you mention any of this to your boss?”
“No. Because—” She stopped.
“Because you think he might have done it,” Smith finished for her.
“I don’t know,” she said, unable to hide her confusion. “He’s been telling me I need to stop looking into your case. And then I went to Quezon City to find you. That’s where you should be—everyone awaiting trial goes there. But you weren’t at Quezon. They brought you here. They showed me the transfer papers. He signed them.”
“You have any idea why he’d do that?”
“I don’t. You haven’t even been charged yet. It doesn’t make sense.”
Smith was quiet for a moment; the silence made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t know why I came here,” she said. “I was hoping you might have remembered something.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve tried, but I can’t remember anything. Everything after I got to the bar is gone.”
Smith looked as if he was about to say something, but then changed his mind and looked down at his hands.
“This is ridiculous,” Josie said, overcome with frustration. She stood. “Look around, Mr. Smith. You’re in prison. The way it stands now, you won’t be getting out of here for a very long time, and that’s if you’re lucky. You’ve got to give me more than this. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
“There is something you could do,” he said, “to help me.”
“What?”
“Make a phone call.”
“Not until you tell me everything.”
He gave a gentle shake of his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve told you all I can.”
“Then I can’t help,” she said.
She pushed the chair back beneath the table and signalled to the guard that she was ready to leave.
“Can I make a suggestion?” Smith said.
“Sure.”
“Be careful.”
30
MILTON WAS returned to his cell after his meeting with the policewoman. He had only been there for a few minutes when he heard the sound of a guard’s footsteps echoing on the metal catwalk.
The man stopped outside his cell. “You have visitor.”
“Who?”
“Come,” the guard snapped.
Milton thought of the policewoman again. Had she had second thoughts and come back?
The guard unlocked the door and stepped back, his hand on the handle of his billy club.
“You come now,” he said.
* * *
MILTON CONCLUDED that he wasn’t being summoned to see a visitor.
The guard was behind him, and, with sharp jabs from the tip of his club, he prompted him in the opposite direction to the visiting room, taking him instead back toward the canteen. A second guard joined them as they continued on their way. They continued until they reached an open archway. And then the guard told him to stop.
Milton had been past the room this morning and he remembered it. It was a shower room. He looked inside: it was filthy. A row of shower heads had been arranged along the left-hand side of the wall. They dripped, leaking a stream of dirty water onto a sloped floor that deposited the run-off in a gulley that, in turn, led to a clogged drain. The showers faced a series of chipped china sinks and there was an open archway in one corner of the room through which emanated the unmistakable stink of an open latrine.
The guard jabbed him in the back again and Milton stepped inside.
He turned. The guards had stayed in the corridor, and, as he stepped back, they stepped up to block the way out.
Milton clenched his fists. “What do you want?” he said.
The men stepped back and then stood aside.
A big Filipino came between them.
Milton’s stomach dropped.
The man filled the doorway. Milton guessed that he gave up at least a hundred pounds to him. The big man was much taller than he was, too, with an advantage of at least four inches. The top of his head was only an inch or two from the top of the doorway. His shoulders were broad, his arms were thick with muscle and his body, while fat, was dense and solid. He looked like a pro wrestler or an NFL lineman.
Milton backed away and looked around the room. The windows were barred and there were no other exits. The only way out was through the door he had used to come inside, and now that way was blocked.
If he was going to get out, he was going to have to fight.
The big man rolled his shoulders, laced his fingers together and then cracked his knuckles. He grinned, revealing a mouth full of vulgar gold caps. He didn’t speak, but, instead, he stepped all the way inside the room.
Milton took another step back. He glanced around for a weapon, but there was nothing that he could see.
The big man took another step into the room.
The guards in the corridor watched intently, their eyes gleaming with the promise of violence.
Milton launched himself straight ahead.
He fired out a right cross, putting all of his forward momentum into it and aiming for a point six inches behind the man’s face. His fist drilled him and, for a moment, Milton thought that he was going to fall. He staggered to the side and was forced to reach out an arm to prop himself up against the wall.
The guards reached for their batons, worried, perhaps, that they might be next.
The big man shook his head and spat out a mouthful of blood.
Milton shook out the sting from his fist and started forward.
The big Filipino loomed up to his full height and grinned; the gold caps were stained red.
Milton charged. The man caught his fist in his big hand and squeezed. Milton’s progress was arrested and, as he tried to free his hand, he was unable to defend himself against a left hand that clobbered into his ribs.
He buckled, arching to his right and dropping his free arm to cover the sudden blaze of pain.
The man yanked on Milton’s arm to draw him into range and then butted him flush in the face.
Milton staggered, dazed. The man still had his hand around his fist and he yanked again, drawing Milton forward and then pounding him with a right-handed jab.
Milton saw stars and, the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the wet floor.
The light from the window was blocked out as the man lowered himself, his knees on either side of Milton’s body. Milton
saw the first blow coming, managing to cover up as a meaty right hand crashed against his forearm, deflecting its momentum so that the man’s knuckles cut into the top of his scalp. The left fist followed, cracking into the side of Milton’s temple, and then, his defences scrambled, another right and then another left.
Each fresh blow detonated a starburst of pain, flashes of bright white light that cascaded behind Milton’s closed eyes. He tried to cover his face, but the man had taken a moment to pin Milton’s right arm beneath his knee, his bulk holding it in place. Another blow—Milton had lost count of the number now—and then he felt his left arm similarly restrained.
He was helpless.
His head pounded with so much pain that each fresh impact was just an echo of the last. His ears rang, but, as the darkness became blacker and more complete, even that started to fade. The strength drained from his body and he felt his neck go limp, just dimly aware that his head was swinging left and right with every new blow.
And then even that awareness drained away, too.
31
THE GUARDS picked Milton up and dragged him down the corridor. They took him beneath the shoulders and he allowed himself to hang limply as they left the main block and went outside. He blinked, but his vision was too fuzzy for him to make out anything beyond a blurred penumbra. He caught sight of flashes of blue as other guards went on with their business, none of them stopping to intervene.
The men took him across the main yard, through a gate in a mesh fence and into a quieter part of the compound. He raised his head a little, not enough for them to know that he was conscious but enough for him to be able to see where they were taking him. There were palm trees here and far fewer men than there were on the other side of the fence. Milton looked ahead and saw several wooden buildings. They looked like small houses: two storeys, shingled roofs, two windows on each floor and verandas with outdoor seating. If it wasn’t for the fences and the machine-gun nests in the watchtowers, they might have been able to pass for large holiday chalets.
The guards changed course and aimed for one of the buildings. Milton was dragged along the ground, his toes scoring gouges through the sand. His head hung limply between his shoulders and, as he gazed down, his vision swam in and out of focus. He felt the blood running from his nose and saw the spots that fell onto the muck. His torso and shoulders ached from where he had absorbed the punches and kicks, but he didn’t feel as if anything had been broken. He had been fortunate. He had been badly beaten, and there would have been nothing he could have done had the big man wanted to inflict more damage on him.
The guards climbed the two steps to the veranda and passed through the open door into a cool interior beyond. Milton heard the whir of a ceiling fan and felt the air on his skin. He heard the sound of classical music and, in another room, the sound of muffled conversation.
The guards dumped Milton on the floor. He lay still. The men exchanged words in Filipino and one of them walked away, his feet rattling against the wooden boards. A door was opened and the sound from the next room grew clearer: the music became brighter and, beneath it, he thought he could hear English being spoken. The door was closed and the sound was muffled once again.
Milton opened his eyes. He could see the feet and lower legs of the remaining guard. He wondered whether he might be able to overpower him, but quickly disabused himself of the notion. He would still be imprisoned. There would be no way for him to get out of the compound. Struggling now would more likely make things worse for him in the short term. Far better for him to lie in wait and work out what had happened to him.
And there was no point in pretending otherwise: he wanted to know who had arranged this welcome for him.
32
HE DIDN’T have long to wait.
The conversation in the other room stopped and the door opened. It was left open this time, and Milton was able to identify the music as Mozart. He heard the sound of several pairs of feet as they came through into the room.
He opened his eyes and looked. There were three men in the room with him now. The guard who had helped to drag him across the compound was nearest to him. At the edge of the room, next to the open door to the room in which the music was playing, was the big man who had beaten him.
The third man was walking toward him. Milton’s vision was blurred. He couldn’t focus.
“Jesus, Tiny,” the man said to the big man. “You didn’t pull your punches.”
“You told me to—”
“I know what I said,” the man said. “I said soften him up. I didn’t say half kill him.”
“I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Never mind. Wake him up.”
The man spoke in an English accent.
Milton recognised his voice.
The big man strode across the room. Milton felt strong hands beneath his arms. He was hauled upright and dragged over to a sink. The tap squeaked as it was turned and Milton’s head was jammed down into the bowl. Water splashed onto his skin and across his scalp. It brought him around and, as he blinked his eyes, he saw that the water ran red with the blood from his wounds.
The man spoke again. “Sit him down.”
Milton was dragged back across the room to a wooden chair. He was dropped onto it; powerful hands locked onto his shoulders to stop him from sliding off it.
“You want a drink, John?”
Milton looked up.
His eyes wouldn’t focus beyond the cup that was held in front of his face. He smelled alcohol and instinctively turned his head away.
“It’s true, then? You don’t drink?”
The cup was taken away and Milton straightened his head again. His head throbbed with the start of what he knew would be a brutal migraine, but his vision cleared enough for him to look at the room more carefully. It was large. The walls were concrete, although an attempt had been made to soften them with framed pictures and drapes. The floor was composed of wooden boards. Comfortable furniture had been arranged around the space: a chaise longue, a large corner sofa, a coffee table with a bottle of vodka and two glasses, a bookcase filled with books and, on the wall, a large LCD screen. This was not a cell. It was more like a villa.
A second wooden chair was drawn up opposite his and the man who had been speaking lowered himself onto it.
“Come on, John. I was expecting a warmer welcome. I haven’t seen you for years.”
Milton glanced up. The man was sitting, but he could tell that he would have been taller than six feet when he stood. He had a leonine build that was showing the spread of a lazy middle age. He wasn’t wearing the prison uniform. Instead, he wore a pair of khaki shorts and a linen shirt. His clothes looked fresh, almost as if they had just been ironed. He might have been going on safari. His hair was neatly trimmed and he was tanned.
Milton knew him.
His name was Fitzroy de Lacey.
“Hello, Fitz,” he said.
“I’m glad you remember me.”
“Was all this necessary?” Milton managed to croak. “You could just have asked me to come and visit.”
The man allowed himself a chuckle. “You haven’t lost your sense of humour, John. That’s good to see. How are you?”
“I’ll be honest—I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry about Tiny,” de Lacey said, indicating the big man behind him. “He’s heard a lot about you, and then you put on a little show in the canteen this morning. Your reputation goes before you—not that it’ll mean too much in here. You can fuck off now,” he said to the guard, waving him away with a flip of his hand. “Wait outside. You can take John back to his cell when we’ve had our chat.”
The man bowed his head and backed out of the room.
“You did all this?”
“Did all what, John?”
“This. Setting me up.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“Why go to all this trouble? You found me… if you wanted to—”
“If I wanted to have you sh
ot?” He laughed again. “God, no, John. That would be much too easy. It wouldn’t do, letting you off the hook as easily as that. No. That wouldn’t do at all.”
Milton reached up and pressed his fingers to his temple. He felt dizzy.
“Look around, John,” de Lacey said. “Look where you put me.”
“What do you mean? This looks comfortable. You should see my cell.”
“Yes, of course. I still have money and influence. You can buy comfort in a place like this if you have enough of either. Books, a television, better food, clean clothes—all of those things are commodities that can be purchased. Loyalty is the same. Men like Tiny. The guards. All the same. Of course, I can also buy the opposite for you. A cramped cell. Dreadful food. Men who will compete to make your life as unpleasant as possible and, when the time comes—and it won’t come for months yet, John, not for months—men who will clamber over each other to kill you in the most painfully creative way.”
“This is just to make me suffer?”
“Of course. I’ve been thinking about that ever since you put me in here. I want you to suffer and I want you to know why you are suffering. Killing you was never going to be enough. I want you to have the same experience that you gave to me.”
“Logan works for you?”
“That’s right,” de Lacey said. “I’ve never actually met him. He was recommended to me. Is he very good? Must be, to have fooled you like this.”
Milton ignored that. “And Jessica?”
“Surely that’s obvious now, John? I needed a reason for you to travel here and then a reason for your conviction.”
“I haven’t had my trial yet.”
“‘Innocent until proven guilty’? You’re not that naïve, John. You know that’s a foregone conclusion. Your sentence is the only thing left to be determined. That’s something else that I can purchase. I’m going to arrange for it to be life. Well,” he corrected with a chuckle, “life for as long as I deem it. You’ll die when I say so.”
De Lacey gestured and Milton was hoisted out of the chair.