The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Well it’s down to you, then. You have to make Cunningham talk. So work round it.’

  ‘It’s not about Cunningham.’

  ‘What then?’ Sheridan couldn’t have sounded more bored and irritated if he tried.

  Tom put his mouth even closer to the phone. Covered the side of his face with his hand. ‘Dean Foley.’

  ‘Can’t hear you.’

  ‘Then listen closer. Because I’m not going to speak any louder. Dean Foley. He’s in here. And he’s made me.’

  ‘So?’

  Tom tried to keep the anger and desperation out of his voice. Struggled to keep calm. ‘Read your fucking case files, Sheridan. Find out why him and me don’t get on. Then you’ll see why we have a problem. A bloody big one.’

  Silence. When Sheridan eventually spoke there was no hint of his earlier irritation. ‘You sure about this?’

  ‘Why have I got a new name? Why did I go into hiding? Dean Foley.’

  Another sigh from Sheridan. Tonally different. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  ‘You sure he’s made you?’

  ‘Definitely. And you need to get me out of here. Now. Otherwise I won’t be coming out. Ever.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Tom felt that anger, that desperation rise within him once more. ‘That’s it? That’s your answer?’ He grasped the receiver so hard his knuckles turned white. ‘My cover’s blown and I’m in danger. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to abort. Now. Get me out.’

  Tom became aware of someone standing next to him. He looked up. One of the inmates from the art room was standing next to him. Staring at him. Tom stared back.

  ‘You goin’ to be long?’

  ‘Solicitor,’ said Tom, mouth suddenly dry.

  The inmate gave him an intimidating, unblinking stare.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can be,’ said Tom, not backing down but not wanting trouble.

  ‘I’m waitin’ as well. Don’t be a cunt.’

  Tom turned. There were several people behind him. All watching to see what he would do next. He turned back to the receiver. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘Get me out.’

  Without waiting for a reply he put the phone down, broke the connection. Turned to the inmate. ‘All yours.’

  He walked slowly back to his cell. Aware all the time of the others around him.

  He needed to get out. He needed to find a way to speed up his job, gain Cunningham’s trust, get out. He needed—

  ‘Alright, mate?’ Dreadlocked Darren.

  Tom looked up, reverie broken. ‘Yeah, fine.’

  Darren scrutinised his face. ‘Look tired, mate. Myrtle keeping you awake?’

  ‘No it’s . . .’ Tom looked at the cell, knowing Cunningham would be in it. Looked back at Darren. ‘Yeah. He is.’

  Darren smiled. ‘Want me to do something about it? Cost you, mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty Marlboro. Going rate.’

  Tom looked round, checked no one was listening. ‘Come over here. Let’s talk.’

  15

  Dean Foley wasn’t, by his own admission, a subtle man. Or an overly cautious man. That wasn’t to say he was an unintelligent man. Quite the opposite.

  Many of his enemies had thought that, given his temperament and proclivities, he was some ignorant Neanderthal who only knew to strike out. How to hurt, not to think. They had used that assumption against him, underestimated him. They were no longer around to rue that mistake.

  He preferred to think of himself as Alexander the Great faced with the Gordian knot. Taking a sword to the most complex puzzle, splitting it down the middle, moving forwards. He knew that some would be surprised he even knew who Alexander the Great was, let alone what he had achieved. He had been to school once. And seen Hollywood films. A couple of people had laughed and pointed out to him that Alexander the Great had been gay. They too were no longer around to contemplate their error of judgement.

  So when he saw the man who was now calling himself Tom Killgannon in the art room, he did not confront him. Foley was, in his own mind, responding the best way he knew. Injuries came later. Thinking came first.

  He sat slumped in his armchair, watching daytime TV. Endless property programmes, shows about moving abroad or to the country. He would have dismissed them as care home viewing before but now he was inside. If he was honest with himself, he was becoming hooked. Colour images of long white beaches or rolling, bucolic countryside. He even liked the interiors. The freedom to walk from the living room to the kitchen then out onto the patio. Imagining himself taking a long, leisurely stroll round spacious interiors with the presenters, sometimes thinking of stopping off in one of those bedrooms too. Those presenters were tasty. Young, fit, enthusiastic. But that was secondary. It was the homes he’d grown to love. He’d gone as far as to paint them, hang them on his cell wall.

  Looking away from the screen and the paintings around the rest of his cell, and that familiar depression would hit once more. The weight of where he was. Yes, he had everything he could possibly get in here but he was paying for it. And the money wouldn’t last for ever. He knew that. He just hoped it would be there for as long as he was here. He was never going to be released. He just had to make everything as enjoyable as he possibly could. But he knew he would never be able to walk round some spacious country house and call it his own. He’d never drink wine in the kitchen or lounge, potter around in the garden, feel the sun on his face. Not anymore. And that hurt. Those feelings could curdle into anger. Well now he had someone to take it out on.

  Tom Killgannon.

  The beard had been a surprise. And the long hair. He had always been close cropped, ex-army. Now he looked as though he’d been living in the wild since they last met. But the eyes were the same. He couldn’t hide them. That green. Overly sensitive for a muscle-bound thug, showing a depth of intelligence that was rare in the people Foley dealt with. That was why he had recruited him. Knew him to be more than just a physical threat. And he had been right. Tom Killgannon quickly rose up the ranks of Foley’s empire until he was one of his most trusted advisors.

  Tom Killgannon – ridiculous name – Mick Eccleston was the name Foley knew him by. And the fact that Foley’s empire went down so hard and so fast, was all down to Eccleston’s testimony. After the trial, Mick had disappeared. He had tried to look for him, spent money and manpower on it, used every contact on any side of the law, but Mick Eccleston was nowhere to be found. The man was a ghost. Then he discovered Mick had a sister. And that Mick wasn’t his real name. He kept the sister under surveillance for months, thinking he might contact her, but no. Nothing. Eventually Foley began to believe he was dead, so successfully had he vanished.

  He remembered the conversation they had the night Mick betrayed him. About crossing Foley, about running. About revenge. About digging more than two graves. Foley smiled at the memory. This was more than just revenge though. He believed Mick had taken something belonging to him. And now he had the perfect opportunity to ask him where it was. And yes. Revenge. He smiled. Too good. Too good.

  He deliberately hadn’t said anything in the art room. He knew Mick had recognised him. He had watched him surreptitiously, taking great pleasure as his expression changed from near boredom to abject fear. Mick had even walked past Foley while he was painting and Foley, so good, hadn’t even looked up, acknowledged his presence. Perfect. So now he would be back on his wing, terrified of what Foley was going to do next.

  A knock at his cell door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Baz.’

  ‘Come in, then.’

  Foley flicked the remote at the TV, turning the screen to black. The young man with the wrecked face entered. Foley looked up at him from his easy chair. ‘What you got for me?’

  Baz began to empty his pockets on the table, taking out crumpled notes, coins. He smoothed out the notes, stacked up the coins. Stood back, waiting for his handiwork to be
admired. Foley looked at it.

  ‘Jesus, that it? New shipment not arrived yet?’

  ‘Any time now. We’re making do with what we’ve got, stretching it as far as it’ll go.’

  Foley took the money, pocketed it. Sat back, regarded Baz once more. ‘Got a job for you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Foley.’ A statement, not a question. Baz would do whatever was asked of him, he was a good, loyal soldier.

  ‘Is Kim on today? Can’t remember.’ Before Baz could answer Foley continued. ‘Doesn’t matter. If not her, one of the other ones. Skippy’ll do.’ He leaned forwards, wrote something in a notebook, tore out the page, passed it to Baz. ‘I want him to find out everything he can about this bloke here. What wing he’s on, what he’s in for, where he comes from, everything. In fact just tell him to print off his file and bring it along to me. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah, Mr Foley. Course.’

  ‘Good lad. Oh, and be subtle. Know what that means?’

  Baz nodded. Face impassive. ‘Yes, Mr Foley.’

  ‘Good. Then tell him to come straight back to me when he’s got everything, yeah? Soon as.’

  ‘Right, Mr Foley.’

  Baz waited for his official dismissal then left.

  Foley sat back, looked at the black screen, not wanting to put the TV on again. Not just yet. He thought of Alexander the Great, taking his sword to the Gordian knot. Yeah, he could have done that with Mick Eccleston or Tom Killgannon. Had someone take care of him straight away. Have him bleeding out in the showers or the dinner queue by now. But that wouldn’t give him anything he wanted. Not the satisfaction he craved, and, more importantly, not the answer to his questions. And that, if he tried to look at the situation objectively, was more important. Or equally as important.

  He sat back, smiled to himself. That was the thing about knots. You couldn’t always cut through them. Sometimes the joy was in unravelling them slowly.

  16

  DS Sheridan stared at the screen on his desk. Didn’t see what was on it. Instead he thought about the phone call from Tom Killgannon.

  He looked over at Blake. She was sitting at her own desk opposite him, peering into something, reading glasses on the end of her nose. She wasn’t given to displaying much frailty, knowing how difficult it still was for a woman to be treated equally in the police force. So this admission that she couldn’t see perfectly was, Sheridan had always believed, a huge one on her part.

  He hadn’t told Blake or their superior DCI Harmer about the call. He had tried to, but couldn’t decide on the best course of action. For both the assignment and Killgannon. He needed help to reach a decision.

  He gestured to Blake. ‘You busy?’

  She turned round, closing her screen, taking her glasses off straight away. ‘Why?’

  ‘We need to talk to the boss.’

  She frowned. ‘What about?’

  He stood up, looking round the office. ‘Tell you in a minute. Come on.’

  Keeping the frown in place she followed him as he knocked on Harmer’s door, waited to be summoned, entered. DCI Harmer sat behind his desk. He looked like a squash player in a suit, or a well presented hedge fund manager, about as far away from the rank and file as it was possible to be. He also bore an unfortunate resemblance to a red-haired Muppet. Hence the nickname Beaker.

  ‘DS Sheridan. DC Blake. What can I do for you?’ He gestured for them to sit.

  The office looked like it was waiting to be featured in Middle Management Monthly magazine. Sheridan imagined Harmer standing against a filing cabinet, file open in his hands, trophies and framed certificates in shot behind him, smiling sideways at the camera. His mass of red hair untameably unruly, undercutting the confidence he tried to exude. All he needs is googly eyes, thought Sheridan.

  ‘Got a problem, sir.’ Sheridan was aware of Blake looking at him, still frowning.

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The Killgannon assignment. Operation Retrieve. He’s been compromised.’

  ‘What?’ said Blake.

  Harmer leaned forwards. His action was swift but designed not to crease his freshly laundered shirt. His voice serious. No doubting he was a copper now. ‘In what way?’

  Sheridan addressed the two of them. ‘He worked undercover in Manchester a few years ago. Infiltrated Dean Foley’s gang. Got high up, the right hand man. His testimony put Foley away.’

  ‘I know. And a shipment of money went missing, didn’t it?’ said Harmer.

  ‘It did,’ said Sheridan. ‘But the drugs that were due to hit the street were all impounded. The money was never found. Foley swore he didn’t have it. Didn’t matter. We still made the case against him. Thanks to Killgannon’s hard work. The whole network collapsed.’

  ‘Commendations all round, yes. So what does this have to do with Operation Retrieve?’

  ‘Foley’s in the same prison as Cunningham, sir. And he’s made Killgannon as the man who put him there.’

  Harmer sat back, let out a stream of air, eyes narrowed, face pinched. It was as extreme as he got in showing emotion. ‘Shit.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Blake. ‘Why didn’t I know about it?’

  ‘Phone call. Not so long ago,’ said Sheridan, covering up the fact that it wasn’t just immediate and he had been trying to decide what action to take and had not come up with anything. ‘I couldn’t tell you in the office. Sorry. Anyway, he says he thinks he was recognised, sold out to Foley.’

  ‘Is he safe?’ asked Blake.

  ‘He doesn’t think so. He wants to come out now.’

  ‘What about Cunningham?’ Harmer this time.

  Sheridan shrugged. ‘We’ll have to try again later. Use someone else. Or get Cunningham transferred, take Killgannon with him.’ He stopped talking, realising how ridiculous that sounded.

  Harmer stared at the desk. ‘All that work, all that planning . . .’ He looked up. ‘Why didn’t we know this? Wasn’t there a risk assessment done? Surely this should have been looked into. Rule one stuff.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Blake. ‘It was done thoroughly. Then I went through the whole thing myself. Double checked. Nothing, no one was flagged.’

  ‘I checked since I got the call,’ said Sheridan. ‘Current prison population for Blackmoor. Foley’s been there a while.’

  Blake looked between the two of them. ‘I don’t know how that happened. It shouldn’t have happened. Seriously, there’s no way that could have happened. No way.’ Incredulity was giving way to anger.

  Harmer sighed, shook his head.

  ‘Look, I know this is all cloak and dagger and stuff,’ said Blake, ‘And we have a strict set of guidelines to comply with before putting an operation like this into motion. But could someone have hidden Foley’s name from us?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Harmer.

  ‘I don’t know. Is there some reason he wouldn’t show up? Is he some kind of asset? Something going on above our pay grade, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Harmer. ‘There shouldn’t be. We’d have been told about it before we launched this operation. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘What do we do in the meantime, sir?’ asked Sheridan.

  ‘We’ve got to get him out,’ said Blake.

  Another sigh from Harmer. ‘Let’s see. How close has Killgannon got to Cunningham?’

  ‘Physically very close. They’re sharing a cell.’

  ‘Brilliant. Perfect.’

  ‘But Killgannon’s in fear for his life now. Foley’s recognised him. He’s just waiting to see what he does next.’

  ‘Who in the prison knows that he’s one of ours?’ asked Harmer.

  ‘No one,’ cut in Blake. ‘We didn’t want his cover blown or for him to be compromised in any way.’

  ‘So you two are his only line to the outside world?’

  ‘It’s the way he’s always operated, sir,’ said Sheridan. ‘He insisted we didn’t change that. He’s always got results in the past doing it this way.’
<
br />   ‘So if we got him out, how long would it take to get someone in the same position with Cunningham again?’

  ‘Killgannon is a perfect asset,’ said Blake. ‘Might take us months to find a replacement as good. But he’s compromised.’

  ‘And he might only have a small time to live if Foley gets to him. ‘I’ve just called a couple of detective mates who know more about Blackmoor than me. Apparently Foley pretty much runs the place. He’s still in charge of what’s left of his empire, runs it from his cell. And no doubt he’s got everything inside sewn up as well. It’s his caged city. Killgannon’s just a tenant.’

  Harmer almost smiled. ‘You should have been a writer, Nick.’

  Sheridan felt himself redden.

  Harmer steepled his fingertips. Thought. ‘I say we keep him where he is,’ he said eventually.

  Sheridan and Blake exchanged glances. ‘What?’ said Sheridan.

  ‘We may never get a chance as good as this again,’ said Harmer. ‘Not this close. Not without a lot of work. Let’s see what Killgannon can get for us. If he gets what we need and we get those locations sooner rather than later, great. We get him out.’

  ‘And if Foley gets him first?’ asked Sheridan.

  Harmer sighed. ‘It’s regrettable, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He knew the risks. He’s deniable. Like you said, Nick, no one but us knows he’s in there. And Blackmoor’s one of the privately run prisons. At arm’s length from the Home Office if there should be a death. They could take the blame, not us. I’m thinking operationally here.’

  ‘Or we get him out,’ said Sheridan. ‘Start again with someone else. Keep an asset intact to be used again.’

  Harmer stared at the desk. ‘No, we keep him in.’

  Sheridan frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Monitor the situation, get regular status reports, updates. If it looks like Foley’s getting too close then we’ll pull him out. Straight away. But we have to weigh everything up.’

  ‘So what do I tell him?’

  ‘To stay where he is for the time being. We appreciate his situation, but we’re at too crucial a juncture to jeopardise the operation. If he does his job efficiently, he’ll be out in no time.’