by Linda Coles
Michael sat back fully in his chair, his handcuffed wrists out on the table in front of him. He twiddled his thumbs, searching for a place to start. Jack waited patiently; he’d got all the time in the world. When Michael had his thoughts together, he began to speak.
“It was just an accident. The car came out of nowhere and we collided. We both got out to inspect the damage. When I realised it was Chesney McAllister, I didn't think ‘This is your chance to kill him.’ We might have had our differences over the years, but killing was never on my agenda—though the prosecution would have you believe differently. There was a scuffle, he went down. Then suddenly, a couple of witnesses came forward from nowhere and here I am now. They said our known fractious relationship, and the fact that we were two warring local criminals, gave me reason to want the man dead. I’d threatened it often enough. But then so had he.” Jack let the moment of silence between them stay empty until Michael was ready to go on. “I don't think my barrister was the best. I shouldn't be in here, but I've come to terms with it now.”
“What do you think happened, Michael?”
“Well, see, I've had plenty of thinking time while I’ve been here, and as you said at the beginning, there isn’t much to do. So, to answer your question I was set up, scapegoated; call it what you wish. Yes, it sounds cliché, but it just happens to be the truth. The accident and Chesney's subsequent death—it was all too convenient to put away a man that the police had been after some time. And that's what I think happened.”
“So, you think the police fitted you up? Is that what you're saying, Michael?”
“I am, yes.”
“And how do you think it happened? Why don't you think the McAllister family were behind it all?”
“I think they had their place in it. Mac McAllister would have tightened the screw somewhere, maybe provided the last-minute witnesses, but he would have needed it to be something official to get false witness statements, and that's where I think their involvement lies. They were paying, and someone turned a blind eye.”
Jack thought for a moment. “I've been looking at the file again, and I wonder about some of those testimonies from some of the people who came forward as witness at the end. I'm sorry to say I didn't pay that much attention at the time; you were one more criminal off the street, and it wasn’t up to me what happened.” Michael grunted and Jack carried on. “A couple of them seemed a little too obvious for my liking, when I reflected back, and when I spent a little time recently cross-checking those names, I couldn't honestly say they would be what I would call a reliable witness.”
Michael grunted again. “So, tell me,” he said, “what's brought all this on? Why are you bringing this up now? What’s your interest? Has one of them confessed or something?”
“I guess you don't watch the TV much, the news?”
“Can't say as I've got TV in my cell. Why don't you enlighten me?”
“A similar incident happened on Sunday, to our detective inspector, in fact; a man called Dupin. He was off duty at the time, and he attended the scene of an accident nearby. The driver lashed out, and Dupin smacked him on the chin in retaliation. That man is dead now.”
“So now it's one of your own you figure maybe it was an accident and not murder?” Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Perhaps if I'd been a police officer, I wouldn't be sat here talking to you now, eh?”
“As you can imagine, there's a bit of grief.”
“And the family know it's a police officer and are shouting cover-up, right?” Michael had put the pieces together quickly, he wasn’t stupid.
Jack nodded. “The autopsy results from your case say there was blood inside the victim’s skull when they took the brain out, which is similar to what happened in this case. We’re investigating, though we haven't had the official autopsy report back yet. I only know about it because I attended the autopsy. It says on your file that the blow you delivered could have been the one that killed him. But it was the premeditated angle that the prosecution pushed that drove things up to another level. Your past relationship with your opponent. Had that not been the case, who knows what you'd be in for. Maybe you would have got manslaughter, be home by now.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Michael said wearily. “But nothing's going to change now. I've got two years to go on my sentence, then I’ve served my time.”
Jack knew all this but let the man have his say. He doubted Michael received many visitors other than Barbara and Cassy—if they did indeed still visit. Many families moved on with their lives when a family member was imprisoned for so many years. It was a sad fact.
Jack knew there wasn't much more Michael could tell him at that moment, so he closed the manila folder before he stood up. “I might need to come and talk to you again, Michael. Will that be okay?”
“If it helps me get out of here, yes. I have nothing better to do. But if you're just trying to help your police friend, don't bother coming back.”
Jack nodded his understanding and banged on the door to alert the officer he was ready to leave.
“I hear you, Michael. I'll be seeing you.”
As Jack made his way back down the concrete corridor and out into the fresh air, he wondered about what had gone on back then—the prosecution, the police involvement, the witnesses, all of it. And who had been behind it, if anyone.
More to the point, could he make a difference now?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The young prison officer who showed Jack out was a bit more pleasant than the Brylcreemed mountain with dandruff.
“Thanks for the chocolate biscuits, Detective. We have to buy our own around here, and no one ever wants to fork out for anything other than Rich Tea.”
Jack turned to the man. He must have been one of the youngest prison guards in the building, likely in his early 20s, and Jack wondered what had driven a youngster to choose a life working as a prison officer. It wasn't a common career choice for young men; prison work was more suited to the middle-aged, those with a bit more life experience. This young man looked like he had hardly started shaving; he still had some fresh acne across his cheeks, and scars from old acne were visible down to his jawline. Being the ‘baby’ of the unit, he’d probably get the piss taken out of him all the time by his colleagues, and was no doubt taken advantage of by the inmates. His light-heartedness hadn’t been ripped out of him just yet, but working with colleagues who'd already lost all sense of humour and seen it all, Jack knew, it wouldn't be long before the young lad would be just the same as the rest of them.
“What's your name, son?” asked Jack.
“Kyle. Kyle Greenly, but my friends call me Mino.”
Jack was perplexed. “Why Mino? That’s a freshwater fish, isn’t it?”
“No, you’re thinking of M-I-N-N-O-W.” He spelt it out for Jack. “I’m M-I-N-O, as in Kylie Minogue. I swear my mother wanted a girl, hence the Kyle. I guess she got her wish since my mates call me Mino now.”
Jack had to smile, and since the kid was smiling too, he didn't feel so bad about the lad’s name. Educated in freshwater fish too.
“Well, Mino, you don't often see a young prison officer such as yourself, and I was kind of wondering back there what made you choose this as a profession. Is your dad in here somewhere and you’re hoping to get him out? Through a back door, perhaps?” Jack was being jovial as he said it, hoping to get another officer on his side.
“No,” Mino said, smiling. “They do background checks on us, so I wouldn't have got away with that, had it been the case. My dad’s dead anyway.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Jack said.
“I just thought it would be interesting, that's all. I wanted to join the police, myself, but I didn't get the grades at school. So, this was my second choice.” They strolled slowly through the concrete corridor back towards the reception area. They were in no hurry.
“Well, I guess you meet some interesting folks in this line of work, like I do,” Jack said casually.
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“Too right you do. There’re all sorts in here. Take that Michael Hardesty that you were just visiting—he's not a bad bloke, unlike the other party in his crime.”
Jack was confused. “What do you mean, the other party in his crime?”
“I did a bit of research on him, as I do for most of the inmates, so I know what I'm dealing with. The family whose brother Hardesty killed, the McAllisters. Well, Mac McAllister is here in the same prison—over in a different wing, though.”
“Oh? Mac McAllister is here? Hardesty didn’t mention it.”
“Yes, he's been here about a year. He’ll be out soon.”
Jack remembered McAllister well enough. He’d been done for his part in an organised dogfighting ring that he and Amanda had busted. Remembering the setup in the big old shed—the filth, the suffering dogs—made Jack's stomach roll. People like McAllister deserved to be put away; it was a shame he'd be out again soon. And back to his old tricks, no doubt.
They’d reached the front door again; the main reception entrance was bathed in the mid-morning sun. The two men stood for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the warmth on their skin.
Jack had an idea. “What would you say the chances are of me seeing Mac McAllister now, while I’m here?”
“Got another tin of biscuits with you?”
“No, but I can get one.”
“Well, bring another and I'm sure your wish will be granted.”
Jack looked at the young lad approvingly. Mino had picked up some smarts working in this place already; he'd go a long way in life. They strolled slowly across the car park toward Jack's car; Jack guessed the lad was enjoying the morning sunshine a whole lot more than being cooped up inside the concrete walls. He took his car keys out of his pocket and turned to him.
“Well, Mino, it's been nice to make your acquaintance. So, you think another tin will do the trick if I come back tomorrow, then?”
“I can almost guarantee it, Detective,” Mino said with a smile.
“In that case, I'll see you tomorrow.” Jack was just about to get into his car when he had another thought.
“I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell McAllister that I was coming.”
Mino tapped the side of his nose and winked before heading back to the building.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jack's head was swimming. He’d missed the fact that McAllister was in the same prison as Michael Hardesty, but he’d had no reason to look him up. McAllister had only been there for a year, and Jack assumed that Hardesty already knew. The drums would have been beating loud and clear when the man had arrived.
Jack’s stomach was grumbling and while the screws enjoyed their morning cuppa and biscuits, he hadn’t been offered one. Since it was coming up to 12 o'clock, he decided he might as well grab lunch on the way back in to the station. He wondered if Amanda wanted something picked up too. It was all too easy to have a big meal every day in the station canteen, and since he’d had pie and chips yesterday, he’d stick to a sandwich today. He’d already put on a couple of pounds of recent, mainly because of Mrs Stewart’s cooking and all the things she left stocked in his fridge after her thrice-weekly visits. He liked her, and while she was a good deal older than Jack, she was nice to have fussing around the house when he was there. She liked to start early and finish early. When Jack didn’t have to be out with the larks, she’d cook a full breakfast for him, or a boiled egg. He figured she secretly liked to have someone to look after; her own family was now living abroad and, apart from her bridge friends and lawn bowling friends, there wasn't anyone particularly close to her. Jack enjoyed her company like he would his grandma’s, had she still been alive.
But back to needing lunch. He dialled Amanda's phone and waited for her to pick up.
“Hi, Jack,” she said breezily. “Are you on your way back?”
“I am, yes. I'm going to pick up a sandwich first, though. Do you want something, or are you eating in the canteen again?”
“I’ll have a sandwich, thanks. In fact, bring me two, please.”
“Two? If you’re that hungry, you should go to the canteen. It’s lasagne today, I believe.”
“First off, how do you know it's lasagne? And second, I need two sandwiches because I’ll have one for lunch now and the other later on, because Ruth and I are going to the flat-warming tonight and we won’t get to eat anything until later. Is that okay with you?”
Jack chuckled. “Ooooooh. I was only looking after your nutritional needs. No need for the sarcasm. Anyway, whose flat are you warming again?”
“Ruth's dad's, remember? He moved out of the big house and bought a flat in Fulham. He moved in about a month ago and tonight's drinkies in the courtyard.”
“My goodness, is it a month already? It doesn't seem five minutes since she told me he'd sold up. I must've been missed off the invite list.”
“You hardly know the man. The only time you ever went to that house was when you were investigating the landscaper that went missing.”
“Yes, but I met him at your wedding, and I saw him one Christmas.”
“Well, if you really want to come, I'm sure he won't mind. Anyway, I thought you were looking Vivian up tonight.”
“I have a different hot date tonight, actually,” he said matter-of-factly. “It's lawn bowls night, and they’re putting a supper on.”
“So, there you go—you don't need to gate-crash with us after all.”
“I'm perfectly capable of sorting my own social life out, thanks very much. I have hobbies, you know.”
“Well, that's good to know, Jack. Now, I fancy chicken salad and a ham salad, if you get the choice. If not, I'll leave it up to you. And a packet of salt and vinegar.”
“Right, got it. And before you go, after I had my chat with Hardesty, I was talking to one of the younger screws on the way out and he just happened to mention another inmate in passing. You'll never guess who is in the same prison, though in a different wing.”
“Do tell.”
“Mac McAllister.” Jack let that sink in for a moment.
“The dogfighting ring mongrel,” Amanda said, and gave a low whistle. “I didn't know he was so local. So he’s in the same prison? That doesn't seem right.”
“That's what I thought, but it does happen. The offences were years apart, though, and I guess with Michael out of the picture the family feud died down a bit.”
“I guess it did. It was before my time; you’d know better than me. I was just glad to get McAllister off the street and close down that dogfighting mess. I can remember that old warehouse like it was yesterday.”
Jack shuddered again, and then indicated to turn left. “Anyway,” he said, “I'm about to pull up at the sandwich shop now, so I'll see you shortly.”
He pulled into a vacant parking space in front and sat with the engine turned off, just thinking for a moment. He'd forgotten to ask Hardesty if he was unwell, given his deterioration. Not that he could do anything about it, of course, but it he wondered about it nonetheless. And McAllister in the same building? Surely, they were aware of each other’s presence.
He watched two teenage girls stroll into the sandwich shop. By their ages, they couldn't have been out of school for long; they were probably working their first positions somewhere local. They looked smart in their blouses and skirts, and he watched them through his windscreen as they laughed and giggled with each other, waiting for their lunch order to be made. When they left, he watched them almost wistfully as they headed towards the small park area around the corner. Young and carefree. They made him feel old—maybe because he was getting old, but you had to one day.
He was just about to get out of his car when he saw a familiar, slim figure enter the shop from the opposite direction. She wore her hair in a stylish blonde bob, and she hadn't changed a bit since the last time he'd seen her about five years ago.
It was Vivian.
He debated whether to let on he'd seen her or stay in his car until she’d finish
ed her purchase in the sandwich shop. He opted to stay put, watching her through the plate glass window. It brought back memories of the lonely, empty times after Janine's death when he had occasionally sought Vivian’s personal services and companionship. He wondered why he'd stopped. Maybe it didn't seem important anymore; maybe he’d simply needed something at that time. His grief and his anger over Janine's illness and death had been unbearable at times; Vivian had been there when he’d needed somebody. Time heals, though, and Jack had eventually sorted himself out. Seeing her now, however, made him want to say hello.
“What the hell. I liked her,” he said to himself. He opened his car door and headed into the shop. He watched as she collected her order and, as she turned in the small space, she came face to face with Jack, who was smiling straight at her. Her pale green eyes lit up with delight.
“Jack!” she exclaimed.
“It's good to see you, Vivian,” he said, bending forward to plant a peck on her cheek. Her smile was as big as the chocolate eclair in the cake cabinet next to her. And to Jack, just as sweet.
“Fancy bumping into you today. I saw your friend Amanda last night; did she mention it?” Customers carried on all around them as they stood to talk, blocking a good portion of the small shop. No one seemed to mind.
“She did, actually. She said she saw you at the pizza place, and then she tried to grill me about who you were.” Their eyes caught and twinkled; the secret of how they knew one another was only for them.
“Well, if you fancy going out for a drink one night, Jack, look me up. It would be nice to catch up again and see what's been going on in your life. It’s been way too long.”
“I'll do that,” he said with a smile, and watched as she left the shop. He was just about to place his order when he realised he had no idea how to contact her. He babbled his order to the young woman behind the counter, said he’d be back in a moment and ran down the street after Vivian. For a woman in high heels, she could walk surprisingly quickly.
