Hard Landing (28 page)

Hitchcock slipped on the ring. ‘That was the first time it’s been off my finger since I got married,’ he said. ‘Are you married?’

‘Fourteen years,’ said Carpenter.

‘Why are you in here?’ asked Hitchcock.

Carpenter wagged a finger at him. ‘Prison etiquette. You never ask a man what he’s done. If he tells you, that’s fine. But you never ask him.’

‘I’ll remember that. Sorry.’

‘There are other rules,’ said Carpenter. ‘Like you never step into another man’s cell without being invited. And you always repay a favour. Nothing comes free in here.’

Hitchcock looked at the ring. Realisation dawned on his face. ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked.

Carpenter smiled. ‘Money isn’t a currency in here, Simon.’

‘But you want something from me?’

‘You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry, Simon, I don’t want anything major, just the
FT
.’

‘The
FT
?’

‘The
Financial Times
. Monday to Saturday. And The
Economist
every week. You place an order with the office and they’ll have it delivered from the local newsagent. Soon as it arrives you bring it up to my cell. I’m on the threes. The top floor.’

‘How do I pay for it?’

‘Comes out of your allowance,’ said Carpenter. ‘Can’t see you getting into trouble so you’ll be enhanced, which means you get thirty quid a week to spend.’

‘But I need that money to call my wife.’

‘You’ll have enough for that. You need anything else Digger can get it for you and you pay him on the out.’

Tears welled in Hitchcock’s eyes. Carpenter knew his demands were unfair but he felt no sympathy for the man. In prison you were either a sheep or a wolf. Carpenter and Digger had come in as wolves and recognised it in each other. Even the new man, Macdonald, had shown his strength within days of arriving at Shelton. But men like Hitchcock had vulnerability stamped on them. Victim. Soft target. And if Carpenter didn’t take advantage of him, others would.

‘This is a nightmare,’ said Hitchcock. He sat on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands.

‘You’ve got money outside, right?’

Hitchcock nodded.

‘So use it. Digger’s the man to help. You want a single cell, Digger can arrange it. You want a decent job, you see Digger.’

‘He’s the big black guy, right? He’s the one who stole my ring. And my St Christopher.’

‘He runs the spur. He can take pretty much what he wants.’

‘Why don’t the prison officers do something?’

‘This isn’t nursery school. You can’t go running to the teachers.’

‘I spoke to one of the officers. He said he could write up a report saying what had happened, but that if he did Digger would . . .’ He tailed off. ‘This is a bloody nightmare.’

‘Which officer?’

‘Hamilton. The young guy.’

‘He was giving you good advice. If he’d taken a report it would have gone to the governor and you’d have been branded a grass. Grasses don’t last long in prison.’

‘So I just have to do what he says. Whatever Digger wants, he gets?’

‘You can try standing up to him, but he’s big and he’s got a lot of muscle. Or you pay him for what you want. You’re lucky, Simon. You’ve got money. The guys who’ve got nothing still have to pay him. One way or another.’

Carpenter headed for the door.

‘Gerry?’ Carpenter stopped and turned. ‘Thanks,’ said Hitchcock. Tears were running down his cheeks.

Carpenter felt a rush of contempt for the man. ‘Just remember the
FT
,’ he said.

Shepherd was watching two prisoners, in yellow and green Jamaican football strips, play pool when he saw Carpenter come out of Hitchcock’s cell and head for the stairs. He caught up with him as he reached the twos. ‘Gerry, can I have a word?’

‘What’s up?’

They stood together at the railing, looking down on the ones. It was just before three thirty, which meant that tea would be served in just over an hour. Lock-up would start at five fifteen, which meant another fifteen hours stuck in their cells. Another fifteen hours with Lee, watching mindless television. Fifteen hours during which Shepherd’s investigation remained in limbo.

‘What we were talking about yesterday – in the gym?’

‘What about it?’

Shepherd looked about him to check that no one was within earshot, and lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘I’ve got to get out of here, it’s doing my head in.’

‘There’s none of us in here by choice,’ said Carpenter.

‘I’m going crazy. I couldn’t do a year inside, never mind a ten-stretch.’

‘You adapt,’ said Carpenter calmly.

‘Fuck that!’ spat Shepherd.

‘Don’t get pissy with me, Bob. I’m just telling you how it is.’

Shepherd gripped the rail so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had as much as I can take, that’s all.’

‘That’s why we go to the gym. Burn off the excess energy.’

‘That’s okay if you know you’re heading out. I’m going down for a long time, Gerry. Unless I do something about it.’

Carpenter shrugged. ‘I’ve got problems of my own.’

‘But you’re dealing with them, right?’

Carpenter’s eyes were icy. ‘How do you know?’

Shepherd looked back at him, keeping his breathing regular, suppressing all the tell-tale signs of nervousness. He looked him right in the eyes, smiling slightly. Just a regular guy, shooting the breeze, not an undercover cop interrogating a suspect. He hadn’t made a mistake. Bob Macdonald didn’t know for sure that Carpenter had been killing witnesses and destroying evidence, but after the conversation they’d had in the gym it was a fair assumption. ‘You’re too laid-back,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know you’re out of here.’

‘Maybe I’ve just got a good lawyer.’

‘If you had a good lawyer, you wouldn’t be on remand. No, you’re making it happen, right? Like you said yesterday, you’re taking care of it on the out.’

‘If I am, that’s my business.’

‘You’ve got to help me, Gerry.’

‘I don’t have to do anything.’

Shepherd put a hand on Carpenter’s arm. ‘Look, I’ve got people on the outside who can help me, but it’s getting to them that’s the problem. My lawyer’s as straight as they come, he won’t pass on messages – not the sort I’m going to need to send – my wife wants nothing to do with me, and they listen in to all phone calls. I’m fucked, unless you can help me.’

Down below, two men in aprons wheeled in the hotplate and plugged it into a power point. According to Lee, Sunday tea was the major meal of the week: roast beef or roast turkey and all the trimmings.

‘Why would I help you, Bob? Where’s the up-side for me?’

‘I can pay.’

‘I don’t need your money.’

‘But I need your help. I just need you to get a message out for me. A note to the guys who can get things sorted.’

Carpenter rubbed his chin. ‘Let me think about it,’ he said.

‘You’d be doing me one hell of a favour. I’d owe you.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Carpenter. He headed up the stairs to the threes and his cell.

Shepherd leaned on the railing. A queue was already forming at the hotplate. One of the West Indians playing pool cheered and slapped the hand of his opponent. Shepherd realised that Needles was propped against the wall close to the pool table, staring up at him. Shepherd stared back. Needles pushed himself away from the wall and folded his arms. His lips curled back in a contemptuous snarl. Shepherd straightened, but continued to stare back at him. He wasn’t worried by the show of aggression. He’d beaten the man once and he’d beat him again, if necessary. And the fact that Needles was being so up-front about his hostility meant that Shepherd could be prepared. He could feel hatred pouring out of the man and he knew that whatever Needles had planned wouldn’t be long in coming.

‘Don’t tease the animals,’ said a voice.

Shepherd turned to see Ed Harris behind him. ‘He started it, miss,’ he said, grinning.

‘You didn’t bother with the anger-management booklet, I take it.’

‘This isn’t about anger,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about Needles down there wanting to do me harm and me not letting him.’

‘Needles works for Digger, and Digger can pull together a dozen guys on this spur alone,’ said Harris.

‘Digger’s not the problem,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’ll back up his man if he has to.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Fighting on the wing makes life difficult for everybody. We all get banged up and that causes resentment.’

‘Is that a threat, Ed?’

Harris smiled genially. ‘I don’t make threats, Bob. I’m a Listener. I help where I can.’

‘I don’t need help.’ Shepherd gestured at Needles, who was still glaring up at him. ‘You should talk to him. If anyone needs lessons in anger management, it’s your man down there.’

Harris leaned on the rail, his back to the suicide mesh. ‘This isn’t racial, is it?’

‘Give me a break,’ said Shepherd.

‘They come down on it really heavily in here, racial attacks.’

‘You mean, has Needles got it in for me because I’m white?’

Harris snorted. ‘It doesn’t work that way. They’ll see it as you picking on him because he’s black and you’ll be back on basic, maybe even removed from association, which means twenty-three hours a day in your cell.’

‘It’s nothing to do with his colour,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about power and status. He wants everybody to know he’s a big man.’

‘And that upsets you?’

‘Don’t bother trying your amateur psychology on me, Ed,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no power struggle going on. He doesn’t have anything I want. He got heavy with me, I retaliated. That hurt his pride so now he wants to stamp on me. It’ll make him feel better and show everybody how hard he is.’

‘Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying.’ Harris headed down the stairs towards the hotplate.

Shepherd looked back at the ones. Needles was still glaring at him. Harris was right about one thing: if his quarrel with Needles erupted into open warfare the officers might well react by locking down the whole spur. Or, even worse, they might try to transfer Shepherd to another. If that were to happen then the only way for him to stay where he was would be for the governor to intervene and that sort of special treatment would only raise eyebrows among officers and inmates. There was no way Shepherd could allow that to happen, and the only way to prevent it would be to get in his retaliation first. He smiled down at Needles and made a gun of his right hand. He pointed it at the man: ‘Bang,’ he whispered to himself.

It was stifling inside the hood, and sweat was trickling down the back of Hargrove’s neck. The car made a right turn and he took several small breaths, trying to quell the gag reflex.

‘Are you okay, Sam?’ asked Raymond Mackie. He was sitting next to Hargrove in the back of the Rover.

‘I’ll be a darn sight more okay when this bloody hood’s off,’ said Hargrove. The Rover made another turn and his stomach lurched. He had a throbbing headache and his mouth had filled twice with acidic vomit that he’d had to swallow. It wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his Sunday afternoon.

‘I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger,’ said Mackie. ‘It’s as much for Roper’s peace of mind as anything.’

‘It’s not a problem, Ray,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’d probably do the same if it was my man under siege.’

The car accelerated suddenly and Hargrove’s stomach churned. He breathed in. The hood was made of black cotton and loose at his throat but, even so, the air he took into his lungs was hot and stifling. The Customs and Excise Head of Drugs Operations had handed it to him as they drove through north London and had requested apologetically that he put it on. Hargrove hadn’t had to ask for a reason: he’d already been told that Roper’s life had been threatened and that the location of the safe-house was known to only a handful of men from the Church. A more sensitive man might have taken the request as an insult, but Hargrove knew that the murder of Jonathon Elliott meant the police no longer held the moral high ground. He’d put on the hood and suffered in silence.

The Rover slowed and turned again, then braked and came to a halt. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d keep the hood on for a little longer,’ said Mackie. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Hargrove understood exactly. The procedure wasn’t so much to keep him from seeing the safe-house, it was more to reassure Roper that all precautions were being taken to ensure his safety. Hargrove smiled, despite his discomfort. If there was ever a case of rushing to shut stable doors after horses had bolted, this was it.

The car moved as the driver climbed out, then the rear passenger door opened and Hargrove felt a light touch on his arm. ‘Mind your head,’ said the driver, and helped the superintendent out of the car.

Mackie walked with Hargrove to the front door, knocked, then guided him over the threshold. As soon as the door was closed, he removed the superintendent’s hood.

Hargrove blinked in the hall light, then ran his hand over his hair. A man in his fifties was standing in a doorway, a woman with a tear-stained face behind him.

Mackie smiled amiably. ‘Sandy, Alice, can I introduce Superintendent Sam Hargrove? I hope he will able to allay some of your fears.’

‘Are you with the Drugs Squad?’ asked Roper.

Hargrove shook his head. ‘No, Sandy, I’m not.’ He smiled at Alice. ‘I don’t suppose I could have a cup of tea, could I, Mrs Roper? I’ve been wearing that hood for the best part of an hour and I’m parched.’

Alice hurried off to the kitchen. Roper went back into the sitting room. A small colour television was on in the corner, the sound muted. Mackie and Hargrove followed him and sat down on the cheap red plastic sofa. Roper stood with his back to the television, his arms folded across his chest. ‘With all due respect, I’m not happy about police involvement, not after what happened to Jonathon Elliott,’ Roper said to Mackie.