Hard Landing (19 page)

‘I guess that’s okay,’ Ben said, and put the envelope into his blazer pocket.

‘Good lad.’ Fletcher patted his shoulder.

Ben headed down the road, towards his home. Fletcher waited until he was well on his way before he crossed the road and climbed into the BMW. Neary gunned the engine. ‘Now what?’

‘Now we see if Roper gets the message,’ said Fletcher, took off the sunglasses and slipped them inside his jacket.

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Fletcher made a gun with his hand. ‘We get ourselves another motorbike.’

Shortly after the men returned from the workshops Shepherd’s door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies, holding a white carrier-bag and a clipboard. ‘Your solicitor dropped these in for you,’ she said, giving him the bag.

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He tipped the contents out on to his bunk. There were two Ralph Lauren polo shirts, one red, one blue, two pairs of black Armani jeans and a pair of gleaming white Nike trainers, Calvin Klein underwear and Nike socks. Tucked into one of the trainers was a Rolex wristwatch and a gold neck chain. Shepherd studied the expensive timepiece. It wasn’t the one that the forensics woman had taken off him, so maybe Hargrove had requisitioned it from a drug-dealer’s confiscated property. It was gold and studded with diamonds, a real player’s watch.

Lloyd-Davies handed him the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sign here,’ she said, tapping the bottom of a form, which listed everything she’d given him.

Shepherd scrawled his Bob Macdonald signature and gave the clipboard back to her. ‘I’d be careful with that,’ she said, nodding at the watch.

Shepherd slipped it on to his wrist. ‘It’s just a watch,’ he said.

‘It’s five grand, maybe more,’ she said. ‘There’s guys in here would kill for five grand.’

Shepherd dropped the chain round his neck.

‘Bob, I have to tell you, wearing jewellery like that is just asking for trouble.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘I can take care of myself, ma’am,’ he said. He held up the shirts. ‘Which do you think?’

‘Red,’ she said. ‘It’ll go with your eyes. I’m serious. If your jewellery gets taken off you, there’s not much we can do.’

‘You could call the cops.’

Lloyd-Davies flashed him a cold smile. ‘Suit yourself. I’m only trying to help.’

Shepherd saw that he’d offended her and felt suddenly ashamed. She’d gone out of her way to be friendly and helpful, but Bob Macdonald would see that as a sign of weakness. As Dan Shepherd he wanted to apologise, but that would be out of character. He had no choice but to keep giving her a hard time. ‘Anyone tries to take my stuff, I’ll give them what for.’ He moved towards the cell door. ‘Okay if I get my tea?’

Lloyd-Davies tapped the clipboard against her black trousers, then walked out.

Shepherd took off his prison-issue sweatshirt and pulled on the red polo, then changed into the black jeans and Nikes. He went out on to the landing and along to the stairs, looking down at the ground floor where prisoners were lining up at the hotplate. Lloyd-Davies had gone into the bubble and was talking to Stafford. There were no officers on the twos. Shepherd craned his neck. He couldn’t see any on the threes either. He hurried up to the top floor and looked around. Still no officers. Three prisoners, all in T-shirts, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Adidas trainers, rushed past him and clattered down the stairs.

Shepherd took another quick look down at the ones. Hamilton was at the hotplate. Rathbone was beside the pool table. Lloyd-Davies was still talking to Stafford. He walked quickly along the landing. There was a white card in a holder to the right of each cell door and he checked the names. He found Jurczak’s cell and pushed open the door.

Jurczak was lying on his bunk, watching television. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my cell?’ he snarled.

Shepherd kicked the door shut behind him. ‘I want your job on the cleaning crew,’ he said.

‘Fuck off,’ said Jurczak, getting up from his bunk. ‘This is my cell. You don’t come into another man’s cell.’

Shepherd rushed at Jurczak, grabbed him by the throat and banged him against the wall. Jurczak’s tray clattered to the floor. Shepherd was a good three inches taller and at least ten years younger. He blocked all thoughts of Jurczak as a human being. He was no more than a problem that had to be solved. And it had to be done quickly because as soon as tea had been served the prisoners were checked before association. He had less than five minutes to do what had to be done. ‘All I want is for you to get off the cleaning crew,’ he said.

‘Fuck you,’ hissed Jurczak. ‘I paid five hundred for that job. Why should I give it to you?’

Shepherd head-butted him, his forehead slamming on to Jurczak’s nose. Blood streamed down the man’s chin, and Shepherd let go of his neck. Jurczak slumped to the cell floor, unconscious. Shepherd knew that a broken nose wouldn’t be a serious enough injury to get him taken off the cleaning crew so he pulled out Jurczak’s left leg and jammed the foot against the horizontal truss of the chair. Then he took a deep breath and slammed his foot on Jurczak’s knee. The joint cracked like a dry twig. Shepherd stared down at the injured man, breathing heavily. Jurczak was a drug-dealer and a murderer, so he felt no sympathy for him but he’d taken no pleasure in crippling him. It had had to be done, though: Jurczak wasn’t the type to respond to threats.

Shepherd opened the cell door a few inches and squinted down the landing. It was clear. He walked quickly to the stairs. The man with the shaved head was walking up from the twos carrying Carpenter’s tray. He frowned as Shepherd walked by but didn’t say anything.

Tony Stafford was alone in the bubble but his head was down. Lloyd-Davies was nowhere to be seen. Shepherd padded down the stairs and joined the queue at the hotplate. The mixed grill was a burnt sausage, an equally burnt beefburger and a strip of underdone bacon. The vegetable man gave him a scoop of chips and a spoonful of baked beans. Shepherd put a bread roll and a tub of raspberry yoghurt on his tray, then headed back to the cell. As he went he looked up at the threes: no officers on the landing.

Lee was sitting at the desk in the cell. He’d gone for the mixed grill, too. ‘New gear?’ he asked, as Shepherd sat on his bunk.

‘Yeah, my brief dropped them off.’

‘Watch too?’

‘Yeah. Forensics took it, but I guess there was nothing on it.’

‘Nice.’

‘Tells the time.’

Lee nodded at Shepherd’s tray. ‘You going to eat the roll?’ Shepherd tossed it to him. ‘And the yoghurt?’ Shepherd gave him that too.

Lloyd-Davies pushed open the door. ‘All right, gentlemen?’

Shepherd held out his tray. ‘Want a chip, ma’am?’

‘I forgot to tell you, Macdonald, I got you on the gym list for this evening,’ she said.

‘Thanks, ma’am,’ said Shepherd.

She was about to say more when someone shouted from the threes: ‘Stretcher! Get me a stretcher up here!’

Lloyd-Davies hurried away. Lee stood up and rushed to the cell door. Shepherd followed him. They’d found Jurczak.

An alarm sounded. Half a dozen officers hurried on to the spur and shouted for the prisoners to get into their cells.

Lee craned his neck to look up at the threes. ‘Bet someone’s topped themselves,’ he said.

Healey came along the landing, checking cells. Doors were clanging shut all over the spur. Two prison officers dashed up the stairs with a stretcher. Healey appeared at the door. ‘Inside, Lee,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you to see.’

‘What happened, Mr Healey?’

‘Prisoner hurt,’ said Healey, and closed the door.

‘Topped himself ?’

Healey didn’t answer. Lee switched on the television and sat down on the chair. ‘Shit,’ he said. He stabbed his sausage with a plastic fork.

‘What?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They’ll keep us banged up until whatever it is gets sorted,’ said Lee. ‘No association, no exercise, no nothing. Just because some wanker decides to hurt himself.’

Shepherd put his tray down on the bunk. He’d lost his appetite.

Alice Roper frowned when she saw the two cars parked in the road outside her house. As a rule there was just one, with two men from the Church. It had always seemed strange to Alice that the men of HM Customs and Excise were called the Church. The Custom House headquarters by the Thames didn’t look in the least like a house of worship and there was nothing religious about the men and women who worked there. The reason, Sandy had once told her, was because of the code used over the radio. Custom House became Charlie Hotel, CH, and then their colleagues at MI
5
had begun to use Church instead. The Customs men quite enjoyed the religious overtones of the codename; the honest and true forces of good battling against the powers of evil. They were like children sometimes, thought Alice.

One of the cars, a big black saloon, was empty but she recognised the two men in the other vehicle. Sandy had introduced them, but Alice couldn’t remember their names. Over the past weeks there had been more than a dozen taking it in turns to sit outside the house and Alice’s only contact with them had been to take out occasional cups of tea. One of the men smiled and waved as she drove by and turned into the flagstoned driveway. She parked the Ford Fiesta by the garage door and lugged the shopping out of the boot. Sandy had refused to go with her to the supermarket: the office was insisting that he go out as little as possible. That didn’t make any sense to Alice because Sandy had claimed from the start that no one knew who he was or that he was involved with the court case. If that was so, why was the office so worried that he might be recognised? She hadn’t argued as she was fed up being cooped up in the house with him all day and she’d quite enjoyed the time alone, even if all she was doing was pushing a trolley round Sainsbury’s.

She walked to the front door, let herself in and heaved the carrier-bags on to the kitchen table. ‘Do you want tea, Sandy?’ she called, as she switched on the kettle.

Ben and David were in the garden, kicking a football. Alice saw a man at the end of the garden, close to the small greenhouse. He was tall, gangly, in a raincoat with sleeves that were slightly too short for his spindly arms.

She heard footsteps and whirled round, but it was only her husband. ‘Who’s that in the garden?’ she asked.

‘Alice, we’ve got to talk,’ said Roper.

Lee had been right: the cell doors remained locked all night. In the morning Lee was due to shower so he was up as soon as he heard doors being unlocked down the landing. He stood at the door with his towel and washbag humming. Shepherd climbed down from the top bunk in his prison-issue sweatpants and a T-shirt. He started to shave at the washbasin. The spyglass clicked open and the door was unlocked. Lee rushed off down the landing.

Hamilton had opened the cell door.

‘What’s the story, Mr Hamilton?’ Shepherd asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The lockdown last night.’

‘A prisoner was attacked on the threes.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘Broken leg. He’s in the hospital. What’s your interest, Macdonald?’

‘I missed out on the gym because we were banged up, that’s all. How do I go about getting on today’s list?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Hamilton, but Shepherd could tell from his tone that he wouldn’t.

He finished shaving and dried his face, then went out on to the landing and down to the ground floor. Digger’s cell was in the corner opposite the door to the exercise yard. Prisoners were milling around but no one paid him any attention.

Digger’s door was ajar. Shepherd pushed it open. The cell was empty. Shepherd cursed.

‘You looking for something, man?’ said a voice.

Shepherd turned. Needles was standing behind him, his hands on his hips. ‘I’m looking for Digger.’

‘Don’t you know you never go into another man’s cell until you’re invited? Never as in ever.’

‘I wasn’t over the threshold, but I hear what you’re saying, Needles. Now, where is he?’

‘Showering,’ said Needles. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to Digger.’ Shepherd moved to get past him, but Needles put out a massive arm, blocking his way.

‘You can talk to me,’ he said.

Shepherd looked at the arm. It was the thickness of his leg. ‘You spend a lot of time in the gym, yeah?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Some.’

‘Lift weights, yeah?’

‘Some.’

Shepherd wasn’t sure how much damage he could do to a man as big as Needles. He was huge, but he wasn’t fat. It was muscle. That didn’t necessarily mean that he was hard, but it did mean that all his vital organs and nerve centres were well protected. If it came to violence Shepherd would have to aim for the unprotected areas – the throat, the temple, the sternum. But the problem with aiming for a vital area was that if he hit Needles too hard he risked killing him. Not hard enough, and Needles would have a chance to retaliate. He was capable, evidently, of inflicting a lot of damage.

‘Here he comes now,’ said Shepherd.

As Needles turned, Shepherd drove his knee into the man’s groin. The breath exploded from Needles’s mouth and he bent over, groping for his balls. His eyes were wide and staring as his mouth worked soundlessly. Shepherd stepped round him, then put his foot against the back of the man’s left knee and pushed hard. Needles toppled forward. Shepherd started to walk back along the spur. He’d taken three steps before he heard Needles hit the ground with a dull thud. Two black men in tracksuits moved to let him walk by. From the astonished looks on their faces it was clear that they’d seen what he’d done to Needles. He glared at them, then scanned the spur. No prison officers.

He went quickly back up the stairs. There were two officers in the bubble, both men in their mid-thirties whom Shepherd hadn’t seen before. He went along to the shower room. Lee was walking out, his hair still wet. ‘Is Digger in there?’ asked Shepherd.