Nightrise (26 page)

It was dark outside. The blinds were down on the skylights, and a flat-screen TV in the back room was showing BBC 24 on loop. Monday nights were quiet. Even mournful.

Senior Prison Officer Gerry Talbot arrived on time and looked for Dryden because he wasn't a member and couldn't buy a drink – and besides, if he was going to waste an hour of his spare time talking to a reporter the least he could expect was a free pint. Dryden got him one and signed him in as a guest. Talbot was out of uniform and had walked – his neat executive home was half a mile away on an estate – so Dryden bought him a glass of Old Badger at 5.8 per cent alcohol. Dryden nursed a large vodka and tonic – no ice, no lemon. And he'd bought himself a delicacy of the Fens – a packet of cheese and onion crisps with a pickled egg in the bag.

Talbot sat with his back to the wall and kept smiling while letting his eyes flit round the bar.

‘Cheers,' said Dryden, drinking, then shaking the egg around in the crisp bag.

‘Thanks,' said Talbot, taking two inches off the beer.

‘Bad day?'

‘It's all over. They're back in their cells.'

Dryden nodded. Talbot was the Prison Officers Association rep. for Whitemoor Prison: a purpose built Category-A facility with 500 inmates, including some of the nastiest people to be found behind bars in Britain, and less than ten miles north-east of the town. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Dryden had written the latest story for
The Crow
– the sit-in at the canteen over the new menu. The nationals had taken a par, but no more, because there were no details. Nothing
juicy
,
or even
savoury
.

‘The new menu?' prompted Dryden, biting into his pickled egg.

A woman passed their table offering two large aluminium foil trays loaded with the remnants of a wedding buffet which had been served up in the club's function room. Dryden took some slices of pork pie and a sandwich. Talbot declined. ‘My dinner's in an hour.' He checked his watch. The prison officer was ex-Navy. Dryden had always been fascinated by the way in which military personnel let their lives be dominated by meal times.

‘Makes you laugh,' said Talbot, without a smile. ‘A year ago the POA started pushing for a makeover on food. We've had schools – Jamie and all that. Heston What's-His-Name did the Navy. So what about us? We get the same as them – same as the inmates: OK, it's better served, its fresher, hotter. But it's the same meal. So we said we wanted something a bit healthier.'

Talbot was fourteen stone if he was an ounce. ‘It's a generation thing – the new lads are fitter. Not so many are Army, Navy. They wanted salads, pasta, fish, a choice of veg. Fresh veg – which is a fair point. The prison's surrounded by half a million acres of carrots. We never see one that isn't shaped like a little fake Christmas tree and comes out of a can.

‘So we asked. We all went along with it – 'coz it's national policy too, so you can't rock the boat.' He actually patted his stomach at that, making his own position clear.

A woman in the corner hit the jackpot on the slot machine and it began to pump out coins so loudly they had to stop talking. Momentarily Talbot was distracted by the scene: the woman using her lap to catch her winnings. Dryden didn't understand people like Talbot, people who worked in a place like Whitemoor but seemed to be able to slough it off, like a snake skin, after work. Dryden had been in to the prison once and one image – of a man in a straight jacket in a bare cell – was always with him. He couldn't have worked there, day in, day out, and enjoyed the outside world.

Talbot looked at him as if he'd forgotten what he'd been saying, then picked up the thread: ‘So they tried it about a month ago, this new menu. Just a trial – but we were up first, with Bedford. And guess what – prisoners liked it too. First day they grumbled – no chicken tikka on a Wednesday – that's a big deal if you're doing twenty-five years. That's more than 1,000 free takeaways.

‘But –
but –
thing was, the food was better. The menu was set on a two week rota so they knew what was coming – they like that. Then we get a note down from the governor's secretary. Home Office says we have to stop – revenue implications: i.e. it costs too much. They reckon an extra five pence a day per prisoner. Yesterday, when they kicked up nasty, it was supposed to be Pollack and Chips, then Fresh Fruit Salad. Fresh fish, not some bit of white cardboard.

‘But when they turn up at the canteen it's a roast – which is a fucking euphemism if ever I heard one. That plastic sliced meat. Christ knows what animal it comes from – could be a rat for all the taste you get. Plus steamed pudding and custard.

‘That's when they kicked off. One bloke chucked a chair, then the rest started lobbing their roast and two veg into the waste bins from thirty feet away. By the time they'd finished it looked like they'd let the chimps from the zoo have a party.'

Dryden looked away, memorizing the quote. Anonymous source, an eye witness, no names.

‘When the officer on duty told 'em to get back to their cells they downed anchors. Every last bastard one of 'em. Which was a bit tricky 'coz they know we were behind the idea in the first place.'

‘But they're back in their cells now?'

‘Governor came down to the canteen and said he'd go down to Whitehall – personally – to argue for the extra cash. POA thinks he's got no chance – but that's where we are.'

Dryden thought about the story.

PRISON RIOT TO SAVE FRESH FRUIT SALAD.

It wouldn't do the POA's campaign for fresher food any harm.

‘OK,' he said. ‘Thanks. Decent tale. Very decent.'

He got Talbot another pint. He only ever had two. That was another thing Dryden had noticed about the ex-military: they only seemed to drink in quarts, although he was pretty sure this wasn't the last quart of the day.

‘One thing. Small favour,' said Dryden. He'd noted the details down on a blank report card. ‘I'm trying to find the name of a prisoner. This is all we know – it's not much, but it's very specific, so I thought it might just be possible.' He looked Talbot in his watery grey eyes – a signal that he
expected
help. Dryden didn't just give Talbot a way into the local press. Dryden could get stuff in the nationals because his copy was trusted on what used to be called Fleet Street.

‘What do we know?' asked Talbot, picking up the card.

‘Lincoln – pre-1977,' said Dryden. ‘He occupied a cell very close to the one later occupied by a man called Lionel Wraight. Very keen chess player, our man – got chummy with the governor. Well-in.'

‘Offence?'

‘No idea. I've got a morgue shot – but I don't think it would help. They never do. Dark hair, five feet eleven, green eyes. Slim. No fingerprints – victim of a fire.'

‘I'll try,' said Talbot.

‘Know anyone well at Lincoln?' asked Dryden, pushing, making it clear he wanted him to try hard.

‘Yeah – brother. Just transferred. The cell numbers will help – but it might mean you get twenty names. The chess stuff is good – governor's new, but back then they stuck around for years. So that's your best chance. Someone will remember – maybe.'

He sighed. ‘Give me a day – or two.' He let two-thirds of a pint slide down his open gullet.

Walking out the bar every pair of eyes watched him go: the slight roll to the shoulders, the unbroken gaze, the set face. That was another thing about the military – and coppers – probably anyone in authority who wore a uniform. They were like spots on dominoes. Ex-Navy stood out even more. Even in jeans and a sweatshirt you could pick them out from a nautical mile.

‘E
den,' said Laura.

The registrar took a note. ‘Eden Gaetano,' said Dryden.

They'd made the final decision over breakfast at home.
Eden
for Roger and because it was an inspiring name, and
Gaetano
for Laura's father and to remind the child of his Italian heritage.

‘Could you spell that – the middle name?' The registrar was a woman; neat and businesslike, with some charm Dryden suspected had been learnt on a training course and therefore wasn't charm at all. ‘What a wonderful name,' she added, as she laboured over the tricky AE vowels.

Dryden was surprised at the simplicity of the bureaucracy for registering the birth of a child. While the registrar shuffled the paperwork and Laura fed Eden he looked out across the open-plan office. He wondered how Kapten Kross was progressing in trying to track down the official responsible for taking death certificates from district registrars and then failing to notify the GRO in Southport. He guessed he'd start at the council HQ at Chatteris, with separate inquiries in London and Southport. Time frame? Dryden guessed they'd go for 1977 plus ten years.

The registrar added some details to an online form. Dryden had always thought of the registration system: births, deaths and marriages, as a paper system. You still needed certificates. But this must be the digital system Philip Trelaw had described. Electronic certificates flying through the Internet. He wondered then, for the first time, if that would have stopped them stealing identities from the dead. That the Internet age would make it, finally, an impossible crime.

Outside in the corridor Dryden could see movement and then DI Friday's face appeared at the glass porthole. He held up his wrist, pointed at his watch, and indicated ‘five' with his fingers.

‘We should celebrate,' said Laura. The pupil of her left eye vibrated slightly – one of the lasting side effects of her coma – and an indication that she'd slept badly. Both of them had stayed awake, listening to the noises of the lonely fen: a door banging with maddening infrequency, the Tyler's dog barking a mile away, the swish of the wind turbine towards dawn, and finally the dull percussion of the bird-scaring canon. They hadn't talked but both knew they were sharing the same waking nightmare: the carry-cradle, empty again. Reluctantly, just before dawn, Dryden had told her what he wanted her to do. She'd argued against the plan for an hour, then turned away.

Before falling into a brief sleep she'd said one more thing: ‘This house is bringing us bad luck.'

But now the child had a name she seemed upbeat.

‘Coffee?' suggested Dryden, wondering now if they'd go through with the plan they'd agreed. In broad daylight the dangers seemed fanciful. ‘Stefano's? I'll be a moment – the police want a word. I'll see you there.'

He found DI Friday in the general reception area. He followed him out, across the car park, down the alley to the incident room in the old cinema. There were two CID men working at PCs. Kross sat at a desk on a landline.

Friday looked like he'd been sleeping in his clothes. As he led Dryden into the room his foot dragged badly. He patted his suit pockets searching for cigarettes.

‘Still fun and games then?' asked Dryden, in a whisper.

Friday just looked through him.

‘Kross seems like a nice bloke,' said Dryden. ‘Likes a pint and a fag, does he?'

‘Piss off.'

Dryden imagined what it was like working for Kross – the one-way information flow, the peremptory orders, the need-to-know rule ruthlessly imposed.

‘Thought they'd have gone home by now, left you to it. Job for the Met now surely – or the regional crime squads. Or are they all off to Blackpool's best hotels for the weekend?'

Friday turned his back so that Kross couldn't see his lips move.

‘You're joking. One of the Estonians is still knocking about, along with fifty fake IDs, and you think these fuckers are off back to wherever they came from? On their expenses? Grow up.'

Dryden turned away, shrugging, to conceal his surprise. He knew Kross and Interpol had good contacts. And he knew they'd been alerted to the sale of a large number of fake IDs – but he'd not been told the
number
. Friday had clearly presumed that Kross had given Dryden this detail. A case of bad communications.

In his turn Kross had presumed that the package Dryden had received by post held
all
the IDs. But Dryden had counted only twenty-five. Again, bad communications. Kross' dictatorial style had its limitations.

So – thanks to Friday's simple honesty, he now knew the truth: that Roger had found only half the consignment out at River Bank. Where were the rest? A question the Estonians had no doubt asked themselves, which explained why they had yet to both go home.

Dryden's mobile rang. He looked at the display screen which simply gave an Ely number, so he took the call. It was a man he called Fitz, a regular contact, who worked for the National Farmers' Union as a PR.

‘It's this story in the paper,' said Fitz. ‘The Petit Fen land sale.'

Dryden had been proud the story had made the splash in the
Ely Express
. And he'd sold it on to the
Guardian
for tomorrow's paper with 850 words of background. So the chance there was something amiss made his skin creep because the last thing he wanted was to get a reputation on Fleet Street for duff tip-offs. Selling two-dimensional stories was a short-cut to being blacklisted; becoming one of those names that every news desk shuns.

‘It's all fine and dandy,' said Fitz, who was Irish, and occupied a permanent position at the bar of The Bell on Market Square when he wasn't out on some godforsaken stretch of the Fens talking to his members.

‘But the price is wrong. Got to be. We've got members out on Petit Fen and it's some of the best seed growing soil in the county. One of 'em said a parcel got sold off to one of the big agri-companies a decade ago and that went for  400,000. Ten years ago. This one's smaller apparently but still – the number's way wrong.'