Hard Landing (21 page)

‘I’ll see what I can do. Still got the watch, then?’

‘No one’s tried to take it off me.’

‘That wasn’t why you had the altercation with Needles, was it?’

Shepherd feigned innocence, but his mind raced. How did she know about Needles? There had been no officers in the vicinity when Shepherd had hit him. And there was no way that a man like Needles would go running to an officer. ‘Altercation, ma’am?’

‘Butter wouldn’t melt, would it, Macdonald? You know what I’m talking about. I heard you kneed him in the balls, then kicked him to the floor.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘You’re going to have to watch your back.’

‘Not while I’ve got you looking after me, ma’am.’

‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘This is your first time inside. You don’t know how it works in here. You make waves, sometimes you get thrown out of the boat.’

Shepherd walked down the spur to the exercise yard and joined the line of inmates waiting to go out. Two officers were doing the searches. One was Rathbone, the other a middle-aged West Indian woman whom Shepherd hadn’t seen before. She had a pretty smile and seemed to know all the prisoners by name. It was clear that they preferred a pat-down from her to one from Rathbone, and several pushed their groins forward as she ran her hands down their legs. She took it all good-naturedly.

Shepherd stood in front of Rathbone with his legs apart and his arms outstretched. The officer rubbed his hands along the top of Shepherd’s arms, then underneath, around his armpits down his waist to his legs, inside and out. Then he patted his back and chest and waved him through.

As soon as he was out in the open air Shepherd took several deep breaths. He found an empty corner and stood swinging his arms, his head back so that he was looking up at the sky.

‘You okay, Bob?’ said a voice.

Shepherd turned to find Ed Harris standing behind him. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Heard you had a run-in with Needles.’

‘Word gets around fast in here.’

‘Not much else to do but gossip,’ said Harris. He handed Shepherd a sandy-coloured booklet:
Anger Management
and below, in smaller type,
Controlling Your Temper Under Pressure.
‘There are courses you can go on, too.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. He flicked through the pages. There were self-assessment quizzes, exercises, and lots of flow-charts. ‘You are taking the piss, right?’

‘Anger is an understandable reaction to what you’re going through,’ said Harris. ‘What you’ve got to learn is that it’s yourself you’re angry with. You lash out at others because you don’t want to lash out at yourself.’

‘Ed, I’m really not angry,’ said Shepherd. That was true. He hadn’t been angry when he’d hit Needles and he hadn’t been angry when he’d crippled Jurczak. Anger hadn’t come into it. He had done what he had to do. What he’d been trained to do. Even when he was with the Regiment and he’d been under fire, he hadn’t been angry with the men shooting at him. And he hadn’t been angry when he’d fired back and killed them.

‘That’s denial,’ said Harris. ‘I hear it all the time. If it’s not controlled you lash out at others, or you hurt yourself.’

‘I’m not suicidal,’ said Shepherd.

‘You were in a fight,’ said Harris. ‘You’ve only just arrived on the spur and you’re lashing out.’

There was no way Shepherd could explain why he’d hit Needles. Or Jurczak. But explaining wasn’t the issue. Shepherd knew it was vital that he reacted as Bob Macdonald, career criminal, and not as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop. That was one of the hardest parts of being undercover. He could memorise his legend and all the facts about his targets, but his emotions and reactions had to be faked. He had to filter everything he did so that he was consistent in whatever role he was playing. But it had to be done instantly because any hesitation would be spotted by someone who knew what they were looking for. That was why so many undercover agents ended up as alcoholics or basket cases. It wasn’t the danger or the risks: it was the strain of maintaining a role when the penalty for failure was a beating at best or, at worst, a bullet in the back of the neck. ‘He got what was coming to him,’ he said.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

Shepherd flashed him a sarcastic smile. ‘No, Ed, I don’t. Now, fuck off and leave me alone.’

Harris walked away. Shepherd did a few stretching exercises and then started to walk round the yard. Two middle-aged men in Nike tracksuits nodded at him and he nodded back. One was a hotplate server, but Shepherd knew neither of their names. They were just showing respect. He was making his mark.

The prison officer sighed with relief as he saw that the metal detector wasn’t manned. He’d arrived for his shift ten minutes early, assuming he’d be able to slip in without being scanned, but it had still been a risk. The mobile phone was a tiny Nokia tucked into the side of his left shoe.

He let himself into the secure corridor and walked to the remand block. The Nokia was a pay-as-you-go model and he’d put a hundred pounds’ credit into its account. Carpenter was paying him ten grand for the phone. And he’d promised a further two grand for each battery and a hundred pounds for every ten pounds’ worth of credit. He was a good earner, was Carpenter. It was just a pity that he was a remand prisoner. Within the next month or so he’d be either walking out a free man or off to serve his sentence in a dispersal prison. The gravy train would be over, as far as Carpenter was concerned. The officer smiled to himself. But there’d be other Carpenters. There always had been and there always would be. Men with the means to pay for the little extras that made their time behind bars just that little bit more bearable.

The prison officer had earned more than thirty thousand pounds from Carpenter over the past month. The money was paid in cash on the outside by a man he’d never seen. There was a small park close to the officer’s house in Finchley and he took his dog there for a walk every evening when he wasn’t working nights. If he had a message from Carpenter he’d tuck it into a copy of the
Sun
and drop it into a waste-bin near the park’s entrance. He’d do a circuit with his spaniel and by the time he got back to the bin the
Sun
had been replaced with a copy of the
Evening Standard
with an envelope full of used banknotes inside it. The officer kept the money in a safety-deposit box in west London under an assumed name. He wasn’t stupid: he knew that the Home Office ran regular checks on prison employees to ensure that they weren’t living beyond their means. He had no intention of touching it until long after he’d left the service.

He had no qualms about taking money from Carpenter or prisoners like him. It was one of the perks of the job. Like the unquestioned sick days. And the regular overtime. Backhanders from prisoners were just another way to boost his income. And if it meant that Carpenter was causing trouble on the outside, then it was the fault of the cops for not doing their job in the first place.

Shepherd had booked a shower so as soon as he heard the doors being unlocked he picked up his towel. Lee was sitting at the table, eating cornflakes and drinking tea.

An eye was pressed to the spyglass, then a key jangled. Rathbone pushed open the door. Shepherd started down the landing towards the showers but Rathbone called his name.

Shepherd stopped. Rathbone went over to him, swinging his key chain. ‘You’re on the cleaning crew as of today,’ he said.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not for Jurczak it’s not.’

‘Yeah, terrible what happened to him, wasn’t it?’

‘He was barely off the spur before your application for the job hit the bubble,’ said Rathbone.

‘I needed work,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was going stir-crazy locked in all day.’

‘It was working its way through the system,’ said Rathbone. ‘I was pushing to get you into one of the workshops.’

‘No need now,’ said Shepherd.

Rathbone’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hear you gave Needles a going-over, too.’

‘He’s a big boy, I’m sure he won’t go crying to the governor.’

‘You putting in an application to be the hard man on the spur, Macdonald?’

‘Didn’t know there was a vacancy,’ said Shepherd.

‘I thought you were better than this.’

‘Better than what?’

‘Throwing your weight around. Playing the hard man.’

‘Do I look hard to you, Mr Rathbone?’ Shepherd smiled amiably.

‘All I know is that one prisoner’s in hospital, another’s limping around the ones, and you’ve got one of the prime jobs on the spur.’ Rathbone jerked his head towards the shower room. ‘Off you go, then.’

When Shepherd got there three prisoners were already showering and another half-dozen waiting. He joined the queue. He was surprised at the speed with which he’d been given the cleaning job. It had taken less than twenty-four hours for Digger to get fixed him up as Jurczak’s replacement. Tony Stafford ran the block, which presumably meant that he must have approved the placement. Did that mean Stafford was taking backhanders from Digger? And if Digger could get jobs approved through Stafford, what else could he do? Maybe Carpenter wasn’t bribing an officer, maybe he had just plugged into Digger’s contact. Carpenter paid Digger, and Digger paid his man. But did that mean Stafford was also passing messages to Carpenter’s men on the outside? If so, he was an accessory in the murder of Jonathon Elliott.

Shepherd washed quickly, then headed back to his cell. A prison officer he hadn’t seen before stopped him, a man in his early fifties with greying hair. ‘You’ve got visitors this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Your wife and boy.’

‘What time?’

‘Two o’clock.’

‘Where do I go?’

‘Wait at the spur entrance just before two. Prisoners move to labour at one thirty, then you’ll be taken to the visitors’ centre.’

Shepherd thanked him, then went back to his cell.

Lee had dressed and was cleaning his teeth. He rinsed his mouth and spat as Shepherd laid his towel over the end of his bunk. ‘How did you get the cleaning job, then?’ asked Lee.

‘Paid Digger on the out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Like you said.’

‘How much?’

‘A monkey.’

‘Five hundred quid? Bloody hell.’ Lee grinned. ‘Still, you rob banks so I guess cash isn’t a problem, right?’

‘I’d have paid anything to get out of this bloody cell,’ said Shepherd. ‘No offence.’

Lee threw on an England football shirt to go with his Adidas tracksuit bottoms, and Shepherd went with him to the bubble where the prisoners were assembling to go to the workshops. Craig Rathbone was there with a clipboard, ticking off names. ‘Macdonald, down on the ones. Mr Healey’ll show you where the cleaning supplies are.’

Shepherd went downstairs.

Healey glowered at him. ‘I knew you’d be trouble, Macdonald,’ he said. ‘You step out of line and you’ll be straight off the crew and back in your cell.’

Another prisoner walked up to Healey and nodded. Then held out his hand to Shepherd. ‘Charlie Weston,’ he said.

They shook hands. ‘Bob Macdonald,’ said Shepherd.

Weston was in his sixties with white skin and bloodless lips. His receding hair was almost white and he looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in years. Healey unlocked a cupboard containing mops, metal buckets and bottles of cleaning fluid. Plastic baskets of cloths and brushes stood on a shelf. ‘Start down here,’ said Healey. ‘Someone was sick by the pool table yesterday evening.’ He walked up the stairs to the bubble.

‘That’s it?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We’re left pretty much to ourselves,’ said Weston.

‘There’s six on the cleaning crew?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why are only you and me doing any work?’

Weston laughed drily. ‘Sledge is in the showers. Hamster’s cleaning the kitchen with Ginger.’

‘There’s a guy up on the threes supposed to be helping us, right?’

‘Don’t know, mate.’

‘Carpenter, right?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Why isn’t he here, then?’

Weston moved over to Shepherd and put his head close. ‘Gerry Carpenter does what he wants,’ he said, out of the side of his mouth.

‘He bought his job, right? Same as you and me.’

‘Him and Digger have got an arrangement.’

‘Like what?’

‘Hear no, see no, mate,’ said Weston, tapping the side of his nose.

‘You’ve lost me, Charlie. Does he work with us or not?’

‘Sometimes he cleans up on the threes. Sometimes he’s down here. He chooses where he works. None of my business. I just do as I’m told. If I were you, I’d do the same.’

Shepherd and Weston cleaned the floor of the ones, then went up and did the twos. There was no sign of the other cleaners. At eleven forty-five they heard the buzz of returning prisoners and by midday the ground floor was packed again. The floor that Shepherd and Weston had cleaned was soon scuffed and dirty.

Shepherd picked up his dinner – a tired lamb chop, mashed potatoes and carrots, with an orange – and ate it in his cell. Lee came in with his food.

The cell doors were locked and the roll-call was taken, then the doors were unlocked again.

Shepherd and Lee went down the landing to the bubble. Craig Rathbone shouted for all those expecting a visit to go over to him and checked names against a list on his clipboard. One prisoner was missing. Carpenter. He looked up at the stairs. Carpenter was walking down slowly. He was wearing a white linen shirt and pressed chinos, and his hair was neatly combed. Bill Barnes was there and nodded at Carpenter. Carpenter nodded back, but said nothing as he joined the group.

Rathbone unlocked the barred door leading out of the spur and held it open. The prisoners filed through. There were more prisoners in the secure corridor, escorted by officers, men from the other two spurs on the block.

Shepherd fell into step beside Carpenter. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.