Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  Macdonald took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was stale and the bacon was fatty and cold but it was the first thing he'd eaten in twelve hours so he wolfed it down. The tea was lukewarm and sweet.

  The next time the cell door opened a uniformed female sergeant came in, a thick-set woman with tightly permed hair. She was holding a pair of old training shoes. 'These are elevens but they're all we could find,' she said.

  Macdonald thanked her and tried them on. There were no laces so he had to shuffle as he walked, but they were better than nothing. He sat down on the bed but the woman jerked her thumb towards corridor. 'You're to be interviewed,' she said.

  She escorted him across the reception area. Several uniformed officers stared at him with hard faces. Word must have got round that a cop had been shot. Macdonald looked straight ahead. The sergeant opened a door and gestured for him to go in.

  Kelly and O'Connor were already seated at a table with notebooks in front of them. A tape-recording deck with spaces for two tapes stood on a shelf and in the corner of the room above Kelly's shoulder there was a small CCTV camera.

  'Sit down,' said O'Connor, pointing at a chair facing the camera.

  Macdonald did as he was told. By now the detectives had probably discovered that neither his prints nor his photograph were on file. The DNA profile would take longer.

  O'Connor switched on the recording machine and identified himself. He gave the date, looked at his wristwatch and said the time, then looked at his boss. Kelly seemed tired: there were dark patches under his eyes, and the shoulders of his suit were flecked with dandruff. Kelly spoke his name, then sat back to let O'Connor do the talking.

  'So, you've had a chance to sleep on it,' said O'Connor. 'Are you ready to be a bit more co-operative today?'

  'No comment,' said Macdonald.

  'You were arrested leaving a warehouse at Gatwick airport late last night,' said O'Connor. 'Would you care to tell us what you were doing there?'

  Macdonald knew he hadn't been arrested, he'd been knocked unconscious, but maybe O'Connor was hoping for an argument over the facts that would lead Macdonald to incriminate himself. If that was his intention maybe he wasn't destined for greater things.

  'No comment,' he said.

  'At this point I'm asking you if you want to be legally represented,' said O'Connor. 'Either by a solicitor of your choosing or by the duty solicitor.'

  'I decline legal representation,' said Macdonald, folding his arms across his chest.

  'Because?'

  'No comment.'

  'We understand that the raid was planned by Edward Verity.'

  'No comment.'

  'And that you were just a hired hand on the job.'

  'No comment.'

  'We understand that you hit Mr Verity before he could take actions that would have led to the hostages being hurt.'

  'No comment.'

  'If you explained why you did that, it might make things easier for you.'

  'No comment.'

  'We discovered a shotgun in the warehouse, close to the emergency exit you ran out of. Can you confirm that it was yours?'

  'No comment.'

  O'Connor reached under the table and brought out an evidence bag containing a pair of leather gloves.

  'We removed this pair of gloves from you in hospital in the early hours of this morning.' O'Connor read out the serial number on the bag for the benefit of the tape. 'Can you confirm that you were wearing these gloves?'

  'No comment.'

  O'Connor bent down and picked up a second evidence bag, this one containing a black ski mask. 'You were wearing this mask when you broke out of the warehouse,' he said.

  'No comment.'

  'And you were wearing the overalls belonging to the employee of the pest-control company you were impersonating. All of which leaves us in no doubt that you were a member of the gang who broke into the warehouse, assaulted the employees and later shot a policeman.'

  'No comment.'

  'Refusing to answer our questions isn't going to get you anywhere,' said O'Connor.

  Macdonald shrugged.

  'The lad's right,' said Kelly. 'This isn't me playing good cop, bad cop either. You're not on file but all that means is that you haven't been caught before. You're a pro, that's as obvious as the wart on my arse. But just because it's a first offence doesn't mean you won't go down for a long time. If the Crown Prosecution Service goes for attempted murder plus kidnapping you could get life.'

  Macdonald shrugged again.

  'But if you throw in your lot with us, we could persuade the CPS to drop your case to attempted robbery. A few months behind bars. You might even get probation if you can come up with a few character witnesses and an invalid mother.'

  'No comment,' said Macdonald.

  Kelly leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. 'This is a once-only offer,' he said.

  'I can't help you,' said Macdonald.

  'If you can't, there's others that will,' said Kelly. 'You know Conrad Wilkinson? Of course you do. He was wearing the same outfit as you.'

  Macdonald said nothing.

  'Young Conrad's scared shitless about going back to Brixton. Seems he left a debt behind when he got early release. Plus his record is minor - car theft and demanding money with menaces. It's all we can do to shut him up. Trouble is, he doesn't know anything.'

  Macdonald remained silent.

  'Now Jeff Owen, he does know what time it is. All sorts of bells went off when we ran his prints through NAFIS. Owen wants to do a deal, but as he was the one splashing petrol about, the CPS isn't happy about cutting him any slack. So I'm going to ask you one last time. Do you want to help us with our enquiries, or shall we get ready to throw away the key?'

  Macdonald stared sullenly at the detective. Kelly stood up. 'This interview is over,' he said.

  O'Connor read the time off his wristwatch, then switched off the recorder. He took out the two cassettes, signed his name on them, and fixed seals over them. 'One of these is for you if you want it,' he said to Macdonald.

  'No need,' said Macdonald.

  Kelly threw open the door to the interview room and walked out. 'He's all yours,' he said, to the female sergeant. O'Connor hurried after the detective inspector.

  The female sergeant took Macdonald back to his cell. On the way he asked if he could have some shoelaces because it was difficult to walk in the oversized trainers. She told him that he was a suicide risk so shoelaces and anything else he might use to kill himself were prohibited. Macdonald smiled to himself as she closed the cell door on him. Killing himself was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Macdonald was interviewed three times over the rest of the day, but he didn't see Kelly or his sidekick again. The questioning was handled by a detective chief inspector and a detective sergeant, two men with more than fifty years of police experience between them. They tried every trick they knew but Macdonald said only, 'No comment.'

  He was fed once, in the early evening. A watery spaghetti Bolognese on a paper plate and a sickly treacle pudding with fluorescent yellow custard. Neither was especially appetising but Macdonald cleaned both plates with the same plastic fork, and washed down the food with another cup of sweet tea.

  There was no sink in the cell but he was given a washing-up bowl of warm water and a towel. His request for a razor was refused.

  He slept uneasily on the thin plastic mattress and had to drape one of the foul-smelling blankets over his head to blot out the light.

  He was woken by the uniformed male sergeant who informed him that his case had been reviewed by a superintendent and the twenty-four-hour grace period had been extended by eight hours; before the eight hours were up he would be charged and taken to Crawley magistrates' court.

  Macdonald asked for some clothing and if he could shave before his court appearance. 'If you give us the name of a relative, we can get them to bring some things in for you,' the sergeant said. Macdonald knew there was no po
int in arguing with him. Besides, even if he appeared in court wearing an Armani suit and an MCC tie he wouldn't be granted bail. A short while later he was given another bacon sandwich, this time with a congealed fried egg inside it, and a cup of instant coffee. He ate the sandwich hungrily and sipped the coffee slowly.

  He sat on the bed until they came for him. He was handcuffed to two police officers and taken into a small room where the uniformed sergeant formally charged him on one count of armed robbery. It was a holding charge, Macdonald figured, until they had finished their investigation. Kelly had seemed serious when he'd said that the gang members were all going to be charged with attempted murder and kidnapping.

  As he was led through the reception area he caught a glimpse of Jeff Owen through a half-open door. He was sitting at a table, talking quickly. Macdonald couldn't see who was interviewing him but he had the feeling it was Kelly and O'Connor. Owen looked up and saw Macdonald. He said something to the interviewing officers and the door was closed.

  The two police officers took Macdonald out through the rear entrance where a large white truck was waiting. A dark blue saloon car was parked behind it: four armed police officers were sitting in it wearing bullet-proof vests. Behind them two police motorcyclists were revving their engines.

  The officers took Macdonald inside the van. There were separate stalls, each with its own door. They pushed him into one, attached one of his cuffs to a chrome rail and removed the other, then locked the door.

  Macdonald sat down on the moulded plastic seat and stared out of a square window of reinforced glass. He heard more prisoners being brought into the truck, and doors slamming. Then the engine started and the truck edged out of the car park into the street. The two motorcycles roared round it and took the lead; the car of armed police followed behind.

  Through the window, Macdonald saw mothers pushing prams, young men in suits striding along purposefully with briefcases, old people standing at bus stops. Normal people leading normal lives. Civilians. Several turned to stare at the truck as it rumbled along the road - wondering, no doubt, which hardened criminals were being taken to get the retribution they deserved. Rapists? Child molesters? Murderers? Only twenty-four hours earlier he'd been on the outside, leading a normal life. Macdonald smiled tightly. No, that was wrong. His life was far from normal. It had been a long time since his life had been anything other than extraordinary.

  He saw a young couple embracing, kissing each other full on the lips, then parting and waving goodbye. His stomach lurched. He'd been trying not to think of his wife and son and how they'd be feeling, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. But there was nothing he could do about that just now. There was no way he could contact them - not until he'd figured out what was going on and why his life had been turned upside-down.

  The magistrate was a man in his fifties with unfashionably long hair that Macdonald felt was probably tied back in a ponytail when he wasn't on the bench.

  Macdonald sat in the dock, a uniformed policeman at each shoulder. He had no idea if anyone else from the gang had already appeared, or if anyone else would follow him. When he'd been taken out of the truck the doors to the rest of the stalls had been locked and there was no one else in the waiting room where he'd been kept for half an hour before his court appearance. Two armed policemen stood guard while he was in the waiting room and two more were in the court. The magistrate read a file through half-moon reading glasses, then looked over the top of them at Macdonald. 'You're refusing to give your name?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Macdonald.

  'That's a little pointless, isn't it?' He had the vestiges of a Scottish accent, as if he'd been born north of the border but had spent most of his life in London.

  'It's my decision, sir,' said Macdonald.

  'They'll put you on Crimewatch,' said the magistrate, and chuckled at his joke. 'And you're refusing legal representation?'

  'I am, sir.'

  'Equally pointless,' said the magistrate. 'Your case will be heard at the Crown Court, possibly the Old Bailey, and you will not be allowed to represent yourself there. Unless you have formal legal training.' He smiled patronisingly at Macdonald. 'Do you have any formal legal training?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Then I suggest you hire yourself a solicitor immediately and, in view of the charges, get yourself a decent barrister. From the look of the evidence against you, you're going to need all the help you can get.' The magistrate glanced at the two CPS lawyers who were sitting at a desk on the opposite side of the court. One was in his late forties, with a tan so perfect it could only have come from a sunbed or a bottle; the other was two decades younger, with an eager-to-please demeanour that suggested he hadn't long been in the job. Behind the lawyers were the two detectives who had taken over Macdonald's questioning. The younger CPS lawyer had done most of the talking while the older one had occasionally turned in his chair to whisper to the detectives. 'Do we have any idea when the further charges you mentioned might be laid?' the magistrate asked the lawyers.

  The younger lawyer got to his feet. 'Investigations are continuing, sir,' he said. 'Statements are being taken from employees of the pest-control company who were held prisoner and we would expect charges of kidnapping and assault to be filed shortly. We are awaiting the results of forensic tests before charging the defendant with grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.'

  The magistrate looked back to Macdonald. 'In view of the seriousness of the charges, compounded by your refusal to co-operate with the police, I have no alternative but to remand you in custody. And because of the nature of the crime and the fact that firearms were involved, you are to be held in a Category A facility.'

  Macdonald stared stonily at the magistrate. It was what he had expected.

  'It seems to me that, these days, the criminal fraternity is all too keen to carry firearms in the pursuit of their activities, and I hope that the full weight of the law is brought against you when the case comes to court,' the magistrate continued. Macdonald could see that the man was enjoying his moment of glory. He would spend most of his time dealing with motoring offences and shoplifters: the appearance of an armed robber and potential police-killer in his court would give him lots to talk about at his next dinner party. But the speech meant nothing: Macdonald hadn't even applied for bail.

  He was handcuffed again, taken to the van, put back into the stall and the door locked. A few minutes later, the vehicle drove out of the court car park, escorted by the two motorcyclists and the car of armed police.

  Macdonald gazed out of the window, trying to work out where they were taking him. At some point they drove over the Thames, which meant they weren't taking him to Belmarsh, but his restricted view meant that he had no clear idea of which direction they were heading.

  Macdonald sensed they weren't taking a direct route to the prison. That, and the armed escort, suggested the police believed he was an escape risk. He craned his neck and searched the sky for a helicopter, but saw nothing.

  The sun was dropping towards the horizon so it must have been mid-afternoon when he saw the prison wall in the distance. There was no mistaking its nature: it was over thirty feet high and made of featureless brown concrete topped by a cylindrical structure like a large sewage pipe that ran its full length. There was no barbed wire, so presumably the cylinder was an anti-climbing device. If he was going to get out of the prison, Macdonald reflected, he wouldn't be climbing over the wall.

  The van slowed and Macdonald glimpsed a sign: HM Prison Shelton. Then it turned right and headed towards a gatehouse. A uniformed guard raised a barrier, and the van drove through, then stopped in front of a large gate. It rattled back and, a moment later, Macdonald saw three prison officers standing at a doorway, big men, with barrel chests and weight-lifters' forearms, in short-sleeved white shirts with black epaulets. As the vehicle came to a stop another guard appeared, holding a large Alsatian on a tight leash.

  The engine cut out. The Alsatian barked. The three
guards folded their arms across their chests and waited. Macdonald heard footsteps outside his stall. A prison officer was standing in the doorway, in full uniform with a peaked cap. He undid the handcuff, took it off the rail, then fastened it to his own wrist. 'Welcome to Shelton,' he said, deadpan.

  He nodded for Macdonald to stand up, then led him down the van and out into the courtyard. The Alsatian barked again, and struggled to get close to Macdonald, but his handler held him back. The prison officer took Macdonald through a door which led to a reception area. Off to the left there was a glass-walled holding cell lined with wooden benches, and to the right a waist-high desk of dark wood. A prison officer in shirtsleeves was standing behind a line of metal trays. He reached for a clipboard as Macdonald was brought in front of him. He took a form from one of the trays, picked up a pen and looked at Macdonald expectantly as the escorting officer removed the handcuff from his wrist. 'This is the shooter,' he said. 'Be gentle with him.'

  The officer behind the desk grunted. He was in his thirties with long sideburns and a drinker's paunch that hung over his belt, like a late pregnancy. 'Name?' he asked Macdonald.

  'I'm not giving my name.'

  The officer frowned. 'What?'

  'I'm not giving my name.'

  A uniformed policeman came in and placed a stack of files on the reception desk. 'There you go,' he said. 'Five bodies.'

  The officer kept his eyes on Macdonald. 'You can't not give your name,' he said.

  Macdonald shrugged. The prison officer waved two officers over. They took Macdonald into a side room and professionally strip-searched him. They checked his open mouth, behind his ears, and made him squat. Then they took him back to the reception desk.

  'Name?' repeated the prison officer, as if it was the first time he'd asked the question.

  Macdonald shook his head.

  'Look, it's no skin off my nose,' said the officer. 'You get a number anyway.' He tapped the form in front of him. 'This number will follow you for the rest of your sentence whether or not there's a name to go with it.'

  'I haven't been sentenced,' said Macdonald. 'I'm on remand.'