Hard Landing (18 page)

‘Is he okay?’

‘They cut him. Threatened his wife. Threatened him. He’s on sick leave, saying he’s going to resign. Blames us for not protecting him.’

‘He’s got a point, don’t you think?’

Hargrove sighed mournfully. ‘We can’t put every person involved on this case under twenty-four-hour guard, Spider. Nelson was just one of a dozen technical experts who’ve been lined up. There’s probably fifty police, Customs, CPS and forensics people working on this case. Round-the-clock protection for them all would mean five hundred men; the Met just doesn’t have the resources.’

‘Have you told Roper?’

‘About Nelson?’ Hargrove shook his head. ‘If he gets cold feet, the case will collapse. Ditto if anything should happen to Roper. You’re our best hope, Spider.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ Shepherd ran his hands through his hair. He felt dirty. He’d only had one shower since he’d arrived at Shelton and no matter how many times he brushed his teeth with the prison toothpaste his mouth never felt clean. ‘I haven’t been in role twenty-four seven before,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been able to go home – or at least somewhere where I can just be myself.’

‘Do you want me to get a psychologist in?’

Undercover agents often talked through their problems with police psychologists, but bringing one into Shelton could be Shepherd’s downfall. There was no way that a career bank robber would seek psychological help. ‘I’ll work through it.’

‘Let me know if you change your mind,’ said Hargrove. The two men sat in silence for a minute or two. ‘How much contact have you had with the prison officers?’ asked Hargrove eventually.

‘I’ve had dealings with five so far. Tony Stafford runs the block. He’s in the bubble most of the time so I don’t see how Carpenter could be using him. Lloyd-Davies is on the spur but, like you said, she’s a smart cookie and destined for higher things. Hamilton’s got a chip on his shoulder and he’d be the one I’d try to turn. The guy who brought me over is Rathbone. Seems okay. And there’s a nasty piece of work called Healey who isn’t averse to breaking the rules.’

‘Is he your main suspect?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Too early to tell. Carpenter’s hardly been out of his cell, at least when I’m around. He’s on the cleaning crew, apparently, which means he can move around the spur pretty much as he wants, but when he’s out and about I’m banged up.’

‘So what’s your plan?’

‘I’m going to try to get on the cleaning crew.’

‘Do you want me to talk to the governor?’

‘Hell, no,’ saidShepherd. ‘Carpenter will see that coming a mile off. Let me see what I can do. Macdonald’s a hard man so it wouldn’t be out of character for me to start throwing my weight around.’

‘Just as long as you don’t end up in solitary,’ said Hargrove. ‘Is there anything you need?’

‘My watch – or
a
watch, anyway. It’s a pain not being able to keep track of time. And get me some decent clothes. There aren’t many status symbols in here and clothing separates the faces from the muppets. Designer jeans. Polo shirts. And trainers – Nikes, whatever the latest model is.’

‘I’ll get them sent in,’ said Hargrove, scribbling in a small black notebook.

‘On second thoughts, make the watch a bit flash. And I want to see Sue and Liam.’

‘I’m on it.’

‘I have to see them,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I’d be happier talking to Sue without you there. No offence.’

‘You’ll have to put in an application. Angie Macdonald and Harry. I’ve had them added to all the computer files on the Macdonald legend. Soon as the application arrives I’ll get her in.’

‘I was in to see Gosden and he let me talk to her. On the phone.’

Hargrove looked pained but didn’t say anything.

‘It was a direct line, and if we can’t trust Gosden I’m dead in the water anyway.’

Hargrove still looked unhappy.

‘Gosden has put it around that I’m having marital problems and that my wife wants a divorce. I’ll ask for a visit. Have her driven here by someone you know.’

‘I’ll make sure she’s okay, don’t worry.’ Hargrove stood up and put away his notebook. ‘You’re doing a hell of a job, Spider. Don’t think it’s not appreciated.’

Shepherd stood up and rang the bell. ‘Just remember the overtime, that’s all.’

The bald officer came for Hargrove, then Rathbone escorted Shepherd to the remand block. ‘How did it go?’ asked Rathbone, as they walked along the secure corridor.

‘He’s optimistic,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, they always say that as long as you’re paying their bills,’ said Rathbone.

‘You’re a cynical man, Craig,’ said Shepherd.

‘You get to be in this job,’ he said. ‘You never meet a guilty man in here. The excuses you hear. Framed by MI
5
– get that at least once a week.’

They walked in silence for a while, Rathbone’s thick-soled work shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor.

‘Can I ask you a question, Craig?’ asked Shepherd, as they headed towards the remand block.

‘Sure, as long as it’s not geography,’ said Rathbone. ‘I’m crap at that.’

‘Who runs the wing?’

Rathbone looked across at Shepherd. ‘You mean Tony Stafford?’

‘You know what I mean. Who’s top dog among the prisoners?’

‘You’re all equal under the sun,’ said Rathbone.

‘Yeah, that’s great in theory, but it’s not how it really works, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘You know Digger, right?’

‘Ah, the delightful Mr Tompkins. He’s got his claws into you, has he?’

‘He said he could get me sorted with the canteen until my money comes through.’

‘Yeah, well, be careful. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, is the best advice I can give you.’

‘Why do they call him Digger?’

Rathbone chuckled. ‘He was supposed to have done double murder a few years back,’ he said. ‘Got rid of two Yardies who were encroaching on his turf. Never got caught and told everyone he’d buried them with a JCB.’

‘What’s he in for now?’

‘A single murder this time. Shot another Yardie point-blank. Did a runner but got nailed by forensics. Seriously, be careful, yeah?’

‘Everyone tells me he runs the spur. If not the block.’

‘Do they, now?’

‘Said that anything I need, he can get for me.’

‘I’d like to see him get you out of here.’

‘You know what I mean, Craig. Thing is, I don’t want to start asking favours of the wrong people.’

‘You wouldn’t be trying to pull a fast one on me, would you, Macdonald?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe you see yourself as top dog and want to know who you have to take out.’

‘Furthest thing from my mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘Besides, what’s the point of being the big man on a remand wing? The population’s always changing.’

‘There’s still money to be made, though.’

‘If you know what he’s doing, why don’t you do something about it?’

Rathbone grinned sarcastically. ‘Me, you mean?’

‘The authorities. The governor.’

‘You’re not that naïve, Macdonald. You know how it works here.’

‘First time inside, remember?’

‘Yeah, I wonder about that. You might not have a record, but you’ve slotted right in.’

‘Just because I’m not sobbing into my pillow at night doesn’t mean I’m enjoying myself,’ said Shepherd.

They reached the door to the spur and Rathbone opened it. He held it so that Shepherd couldn’t walk through. ‘You seem like a nice guy, Bob, so a word to the wise, yeah? Don’t even think about going up against Digger. He’s a mad bastard. He’ll be Cat A for his whole sentence, pretty much, so he’s got nothing to lose. When he’s done his time he’ll be deported. He doesn’t have British citizenship so it’s back to sunny Jamaica when he’s an old man.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Shepherd.

Rathbone moved his arm and let Shepherd through.

‘How do I apply for a visit?’

‘Family or legal?’

‘Family. My wife. And kid.’

‘I thought your wife was divorcing you.’

Shepherd didn’t like the way that everything he said or did in the prison seemed to become common knowledge within hours. ‘Yeah, but we’ve got things to discuss,’ he said.

Rathbone frowned. ‘With your kid there?’

‘I’ve not seen my boy for weeks.’

‘You must miss him.’

‘Yeah.’ Shepherd wished Rathbone would stop talking about his family, but he thought the officer was just trying to be friendly. Cutting the conversation short might offend him.

‘Is she definite about wanting a divorce?’

‘That’s what the governor said. I’ll know more once I’ve seen her.’

‘You should ask for a compassionate visit,’ said Rathbone. ‘That way the other cons can’t hear what’s being said. I’m sure the governor’ll approve it, under the circumstances.’

Rathbone took Shepherd downstairs to the ones and showed him the visitor application forms. He helped Shepherd fill one out, put it into a box labelled ‘Outgoing Mail and Visit Applications’, then took him back up to the twos.

‘If you need a Listener, Bob, just shout,’ said Rathbone.

‘Thanks, but I’m not suicidal,’ said Shepherd.

‘The Listeners aren’t just for suicides,’ said Rathbone. ‘They’re there to talk through any problems you have. Any time, night or day.’

‘Even when we’re banged up?’

‘If we think it’s serious, we can get you a Listener any time one’s needed. It’s at our discretion.’ Rathbone unlocked the cell door.

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, and he meant it.

Rathbone locked the door and Shepherd climbed up on to his bunk. He was looking forward to seeing Sue and Liam, but what he really wanted was to be on the outside with them, twenty-four hours a day. And the quickest way of achieving that was to put paid to Gerald Carpenter. The sooner the better.

Kim Fletcher looked at the photograph for the twentieth time. ‘They all look the bloody same in those uniforms,’ he muttered.

Pat Neary tapped his fingers on the BMW’s steering-wheel. ‘Is that him?’ he said. A boy was walking out of the school gates, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

Fletcher screwed up his eyes. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you need glasses?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Fletcher, looking at the photograph again.

‘We should have waited nearer the house,’ said Neary.

‘Right, and get picked up by the filth.’

‘I said nearer the house. Not near. Sitting outside a school we look like a couple of nonces on the prowl.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ snarled Fletcher. A black Range Rover driven by a middle-aged blonde pulled up in front of the gates and three boys piled into the back. Fletcher ignored them. The boy they were looking for always walked home.

The Range Rover roared off. A boy with a blue Nike backpack was standing at the school gate, talking to a taller boy with black-framed glasses.

‘That’s him,’ said Fletcher.

Neary put the BMW into gear. Fletcher twisted in his seat as they drove away from the school. There was no mistake. The boy with the backpack waved goodbye to the taller boy and headed away from the gates, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His tie was at half-mast, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

They drove a couple of hundred yards down the road, then Neary stopped the car in front of a row of small shops. Fletcher got out, and slipped on a pair of impenetrable Ray-Bans. Neary pulled a tight U-turn, parked on the other side of the road and sat there with the engine running.

Fletcher looked into the window of a cake shop while he waited for the boy. What he was about to do had to be handled right. If he spooked the boy, Fletcher knew he wouldn’t be able to run after him: he had just turned forty-five and it was a long time since he’d jogged, never mind sprinted.

He looked to his left. The boy was about fifty feet away, his head down and his shoulders hunched, hands still in his trouser pockets. He was twelve years old.

Fletcher walked slowly towards him, his right hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. The boy looked up and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. He saw that Fletcher was in his way and moved to the side, nearer to the road. His forehead was creased into a deep frown, as if he had something on his mind, but he wasn’t looking at Fletcher.

‘Ben Roper?’ said Fletcher, not because there was any doubt but because he knew that the boy was less likely to run if he was addressed by name.

‘Yes?’ said the boy, the frown deepening.

Fletcher’s hand emerged from his overcoat holding a gleaming white envelope. ‘Can you give this to your dad, please?’ He held it out.

‘What is it?’ said the boy, suspiciously.

Fletcher flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. He was proud of his teeth: they’d cost him several thousand pounds and were the finest dentures money could buy. He hated dentists and years of neglect had meant that, by his late thirties, his gums had receded and the teeth rotted. The pain had been so bad that he had had to seek treatment but his mouth was in such a state of disrepair that the man he’d been referred to had offered only two choices, both of which involved the removal of all his teeth. The surgeon said he could bolt new teeth into Fletcher’s jaw or fit him with dentures. Fletcher had gone for the dentures.

‘It’s a personal letter,’ he said. ‘It’s important, so I don’t want to risk posting it.’

The boy took it, but he looked at it suspiciously.

‘Just give it to your dad, okay?’ said Fletcher.

The boy kept the letter at arm’s length as if reluctant to accept ownership. ‘I’m not supposed to take things from strangers,’ he said.

‘It’s only a letter,’ said Fletcher tersely. He looked left and right but no one was paying them any attention.

‘Who shall I say gave it to me?’

Fletcher nodded at the letter. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said. ‘Your dad will understand everything when he’s read it. Just tell him I gave it to you near the school.’