Gosden shook his head. 'I'd have a walk-out if I did that. If nothing else they fall under the Data Protection Act.'
'No one would know,' said Shepherd.
'That's not the point. It's a breach of trust.'
'I only need background, just so I know who I'm dealing with.'
Gosden massaged the back of his neck. 'God, this is a mess.'
'Governor, it's as much in your interest as mine to find out who's helping Carpenter.'
Gosden went over to a filing cabinet, opened it and pulled out a dozen files. 'You mustn't make any notes,' he said, 'and I think you should be quick about it. Hamilton's going to wonder why you're in here so long.'
'What reason have you given him for bringing me here?'
Gosden was pacing up and down his office again. 'I told Tony Stafford that I wanted to talk to you about a family matter. I said your wife had written to me saying she was considering divorce. In view of the violent nature of the crime you've been charged with, I said I'd have a talk with you. It wouldn't be unusual, I'm pretty hands-on here.'
Shepherd sat down with the files. He scanned the pages quickly, but his eyes passed over every line. He had to read the words to memorise them. Every name, every date, every fact was recorded perfectly, and would remain in his memory for several years, then begin to fade. Shepherd had no idea how his memory functioned. He could only memorise, not understand.
He went through the files page by page, then stood up. 'There's one other thing you can do for me,' he said. 'I need some phone numbers authorised, and to be able to make calls.'
'I'll set up a pin number for you,' said Gosden, reaching for a pen and a notepad.
'I need money in my account, apparently.'
'I'll get that sorted. I'll put you on "enhanced".'
'Won't that raise eyebrows?'
'Not necessarily,' said Gosden. 'I'll simply say that after our chat I've decided that you're becoming more co-operative and that, as a gesture of good faith, I'm making you enhanced. It's happened before.'
Shepherd gave Gosden his fictitious Uncle Richard's number.
'Do you want to be able to call your wife?'
'There's no way I can risk it from the prison,' said Shepherd.
'You could call her from here,' said Gosden. 'I have a direct line.' He gestured at his desk. There were two phones, one cream, the other grey. 'The grey one doesn't go through the switchboard. The Home Office uses it and I take personal calls on it.'
It had been four days since Shepherd had spoken to his wife, and he had no idea how long it would take Hargrove to get her in as a visitor. He swallowed and realised his mouth had dried.
'It's there if you want it,' said the governor, 'but we're going to have to get a move on. You've already been in here much longer than I'd normally spend with a prisoner.'
Shepherd's mind was in turmoil. He wanted to talk to Sue, to let her know he was okay and missing her. But a call from the prison, even on the governor's direct line, was a risk. If anyone should ever trace the call from his house to the prison it would be the end of the operation. He dismissed the thought. No one knew who he was. As far as the prison population was concerned, he was Bob Macdonald, failed armed robber. No one other than the governor would know that he'd made the call. The benefits outweighed the risks. He nodded.
'I can't leave you alone,' said the governor, apologetically.
'That's okay,' said Shepherd. He picked up the receiver and tapped out Sue's number. His hand was trembling as he put the receiver to his ear. The governor busied himself at the fish tank.
Sue answered the phone on the fourth ring. 'Hello?'
Shepherd closed his eyes, picturing her. Shoulder-length blonde hair, probably tied back in a ponytail. Green eyes. Faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She hated her freckles and was forever covering them with makeup. Shepherd loved them. 'Sue. It's me.' Even with his wife, Shepherd rarely identified himself by name.
'Oh, God! Where are you?'
'Didn't Sam tell you?'
'He said you were in prison on a job, but he didn't say which prison. He said that was an operational detail and he couldn't tell me.'
'I'm sorry, love. I don't know why he didn't tell you because he's going to try to fix up for you and Liam to visit. I'm in London, not far away. Did Sam tell you why I was here?'
'Just that you were targeting someone. But he said it was important.'
'It is, love, believe me.'
'How long are you going to be away? Liam's going crazy not seeing you. And Sam said I wasn't to tell him anything, just that you were going to be away for a while.'
'Is he at school?'
'Of course. Life doesn't stop because you're away.' There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. Shepherd wasn't surprised she was upset. She'd expected him home two days ago and now she'd been told that he was on an open-ended assignment that would keep him away twenty-four hours a day.
'I'm sorry.'
'Why didn't they tell us you were going away?'
'They didn't know until the last minute. I was as surprised as you, love. I was in here for a day before they told me what was happening.'
Sue sighed. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to moan. Sam told me how important it was. And what happened to that other policeman.' Jonathon Elliott, she meant. 'Be careful, won't you?'
'Of course,' said Shepherd.
'Is it horrible?'
'It's not that bad, actually.'
'Really?'
'TV in the cells, food's reasonable, there's a gym and we get out in the fresh air every day. I might bring you and Liam for a week some time.'
'After this you owe us a fortnight in Mallorca, minimum.'
She went quiet. Shepherd couldn't think what to say. He wanted to hold her and kiss her, to smell her perfume and stroke her hair. The phone was a poor substitute. 'I really am sorry about all this,' he said eventually.
'It's your job,' she said. 'It's what you do.'
'Tell Liam I phoned, yeah? Tell him I love him and I'll be home soon.'
'How soon?'
It was a good question. 'I don't know, love.'
'Days rather than weeks?' she asked hopefully.
'If I get lucky, yeah,' he said.
'I love you.' She said it quietly, and he was suddenly ashamed. His place was at home with her and their son.
'I love you, too,' he said. 'I'll make this up to you when I get home. I promise.'
'You'd better.'
'I will.'
'Okay.'
'I've got to go.' The governor had straightened and was looking at a clock on the wall.
'I know.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Stop saying you're sorry. I've been married to you long enough to know how it works.'
'I don't deserve you.'
'That is so true.' She laughed.
'I do love you, Sue. I wish you were here with me now.'
'In prison with a hundred men who haven't had sex for years?'
'You know what I mean.'
'I know.'
'I have to go.'
'I know.'
'I love you.'
'I love you.'
Shepherd closed his eyes. He knew he was behaving like a lovesick teenager, but he couldn't bring himself to hang up on her, not knowing when he was going to have the chance to talk to her again.
'You're going to have to hang up first,' she said, as if reading his mind.
'I don't want to.'
'Can you call later, when Liam's here?'
'I can't, love.' He had no idea when he'd be able to talk to her again.
'Please try.'
'I will.' He hated lying to her but didn't have time to explain why contact was going to be impossible. He didn't know whom he could trust within the prison. Anyone, inmate or officer, could be on Carpenter's payroll. He was taking a big enough risk using the governor's personal phone. 'I've got to go, love. Sorry.'
He put down the receiver and immediately cursed himself for not ending on
a better note. 'Sorry,' he'd said. He should have told her he loved her again. If it was the last thing he ever said to her he wanted it to be 'I love you' and not 'Sorry.'
'You're going to have to go,' said Gosden.
Shepherd stuck out his hand. 'Thanks for that,' he said.
'The worst thing about prison is the lack of contact with family,' said Gosden, shaking Shepherd's hand. He had a strong grip with thick fingers and calloused skin. 'They forget that, the people who complain about televisions in cells and education programmes. Being away from your family is the punishment. And it's got to be a hell of a lot worse for you.'
'Yeah, but at least I'll be walking out soon,' said Shepherd. 'Hopefully.'
Hamilton escorted Shepherd back to the remand block. 'So, what did he want?' Hamilton asked, as he unlocked the door to the secure corridor.
'To know what I thought of the prison officers,' said Shepherd.
'What?'
'Home Office is compiling a list of officers who can't do their jobs. The governor's supposed to get the opinions of a random group of inmates. My number came up.'
He stood to the side so that Hamilton could relock the door.
'A survey?' said Hamilton, frowning.
'Home Office.'
Shepherd started to walk down the corridor towards the remand block.
'What did you say?' asked Hamilton. 'To the governor?'
'It's confidential,' said Shepherd. 'Sorry.'
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Hamilton unlocked the door to the remand block. 'You're winding me up, you prick,' he said, as Shepherd walked into the spur.
Two prisoners were cleaning the ground floor with mops. They worked slowly and methodically, their heads down. Hamilton took Shepherd up to his cell. It was empty. 'I have to stay banged up?'
'Unless you're on a work detail or education.'
'Can't I go to the gym?'
Hamilton shook his head. 'Don't give me a hard time,' he said. 'Gym is in the afternoon, but you have to be on the list. And you're not.'
'It just doesn't seem fair that I have to stay locked up.'
'Yeah, well, who said life was fair? If it was fair, I wouldn't be in here jingling keys, would I?' He nodded at the cell. 'In,' he said.
'I want a copy of the Prison Rules,' said Shepherd.
'I'll get it for you.'
Shepherd stood his ground. 'I want it now.'
'I said I'd get it for you. In the cell, Macdonald.'
'I'm entitled to a copy of the Prison Rules. You're refusing to give me what I'm entitled to.'
'You're committing an offence against discipline,' said Hamilton. 'You are disobeying a lawful order. If you don't get into your cell now I'll put you on a charge.'
'In which case I'll be up before the governor and I'll be able to give him my side of the story.' Shepherd put his hands on his hips and stared at Hamilton. There was no way he was going to back down.
Hamilton continued to glare at Shepherd. He was a couple of inches shorter and Shepherd was in better condition. Hamilton couldn't physically make him go into the cell, not on his own. But calling for his colleagues would be an admission that he'd lost control. An admission to his colleagues, and to himself. Shepherd could practically see the wheels turning behind the man's eyes as he considered his options. Hamilton nodded slowly. 'Wait here,' he said.
He walked along the landing swinging his key chain. Shepherd leaned against the railing and watched him let himself out of the spur. The cleaners on the ground floor looked up at Shepherd. One grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
Hamilton went into the control office and spoke to Tony Stafford. A few minutes later he returned with a booklet and thrust it at Shepherd. On the front it said The Prison Rules 1999, and under the title was a list of dates when the rules had been amended. 'Happy now?' asked Hamilton.
'Thank you,' said Shepherd.
'I am now asking you to enter your cell,' said Hamilton. 'If you do not comply with my instruction, I will summon a control-and-restraint team.'
Shepherd smiled easily and stepped inside cell. Hamilton pulled the door shut and Shepherd heard him walk away down the landing. It was a small victory, but he was starting to appreciate how small victories counted when you were in prison. He sat down on his bunk and started to read the rules.
Gerald Carpenter squeezed the excess water out of the mop and swabbed the floor, taking care not to get soapy water on his Bally loafers. Two hundred pounds he'd paid for them and there he was, cleaning a prison floor in them. Sometimes life just didn't go according to plan.
Carpenter didn't enjoy manual work, but the cleaning job was his by choice. It meant that he was out of his cell for most of the day, and was pretty much free to roam the spur. He spent most of his time on the threes, but being on the cleaning crew meant he could go down to the lower floors whenever he wanted. Some of the cleaners worked as go-betweens, ferrying messages and contraband between cells, but the inmates knew better than to ask Carpenter to act as a messenger boy.
The spur was quiet during labour, like a university hall of residence when lectures were on. During association it was bedlam - music blaring, arguments at the pool table, raucous laughter. Even late at night the spur was never completely quiet. There was the murmur of televisions, stereos playing, sometimes prisoners crying or screaming. Constant reminders that another fifty souls were locked up there. A hundred and fifty in the houseblock. But when the men were at labour, there was a peaceful quality to it. Not like a church or cathedral, the surroundings were too ugly for that, but a monastery perhaps - if it wasn't for the barred doors and the suicide nets. But the spur wasn't populated with men seeking spiritual fulfilment, thought Carpenter, with a wry smile. They were about as far from holy men as you could get.
Carpenter's smile widened as he ran the mop from side to side. He'd received some good news that morning. The electronics expert who had been planning to testify for the prosecution had decided that appearing in the witness box wouldn't be conducive to his health. Carpenter knew that Gary Nelson could be replaced, but it would take time for another expert to be brought up to speed, and that was assuming the prosecution could find another expert willing to take his place. The world of the expert witness was small, and word would soon get around. Nelson had been beaten and scarred, a living reminder of what would happen to anyone who threatened Gerald Carpenter.
Bit by bit Carpenter was dismantling the case against him. CPS files had been stolen and destroyed. Jonathon Elliott had been taken care of. The prosecution's prime piece of evidence - the yacht - had gone up in flames. But one major obstacle still had to be removed before Carpenter could be sure of winning his freedom, and that was the Customs officer, Sandy Roper.
Carpenter hated Roper. It wasn't just that the man's evidence threatened to keep him inside for the foreseeable future but because Carpenter had liked him. They'd been drinking together, gone to football matches and lap-dancing clubs, laughed and joked and told stories. They'd almost become friends, and Carpenter didn't let many people get close to him. Roper's betrayal had been personal. Pretty much every word that had left the man's mouth had been a lie. His name, his age, the school he went to, the deals he'd done. It had all been a web of deceit. And half the time Roper had been wearing a wire, recording everything Carpenter had said. Carpenter had let the man into his inner circle and Roper had betrayed him. And it wasn't even for money. Carpenter could have understood that. Sympathised, even. If Roper had been a grass and the cops had been paying him a few grand for the information, Carpenter would have hated the man for being a grass, but he'd have understood his motivation. If the cops had been pressurising him, forcing him to inform, Carpenter could have empathised. He knew that a man under duress was often more reliable than a man working for money. And he knew that cops could bring all sorts of pressure to bear to make a man betray his friends. But Roper had betrayed Carpenter for no other reason than that it was a job. A nine-to-five, dead-end, no-hope, time-serving job.
Sandy Roper had been a civil servant with five weeks paid holiday a year, waiting for the day when he got a gold watch and a piss-poor pension. That was what riled Carpenter. He'd been outwitted by a bloody civil servant.
And it wasn't just Roper who'd betrayed him. He'd allowed a copper to get one over on him, too. Jonathon Elliott had been as likeable as Roper. A good-looking guy, always with a story about his latest conquest. Then, after he'd been arrested, Carpenter had discovered that Elliott had a wife and a wall full of commendations for his undercover work. Another civil servant who was trying to put Carpenter behind bars for no other reason than it was the career he'd chosen.
Carpenter hadn't taken any pleasure in having Elliott killed. He'd have preferred to buy the man off, because a cop on the payroll was an asset. But when it became clear that Elliott wasn't corruptible, killing him had been the only way of removing him from the equation. It was a simple one: evidence plus witnesses meant prison. No evidence, no witnesses, and Carpenter was a free man. He would take whatever steps were necessary to ensure that the equation worked in his favour.
He stopped swabbing the floor, leaned on the railing and looked down at the suicide net. One of the cleaners on the ground floor waved at him and Carpenter nodded back. Anton Jurczak, a middle-aged asylum seeker from Eastern Europe, had stabbed an immigration officer in his south London apartment. Like most of the men on the spur, Jurczak's crime made no sense to Carpenter. The immigration officer was unarmed, as was his female assistant and the two uniformed policemen who'd allowed the interview to take place in Jurczak's kitchen. Jurczak had panicked, grabbed a knife and thrust it into the chest of the officer, then tried to throw himself through the kitchen window. A search of the apartment revealed three kilograms of heroin from Afghanistan and over two hundred thousand pounds in cash behind a skirting-board. If he'd kept his nerve the worst that would have happened would have been deportation, a minor inconvenience to a man with Jurczak's money. But now, barring a miracle, Jurczak would spend the rest of his life behind bars. Most men in the remand block had similar stories to tell. Not that many were honest about what they'd done to get sent inside. Everyone lied. Most claimed they were as innocent as new-born babes. Framed. Mistaken identity. A million and one excuses. Not one of the prisoners Carpenter had met had ever admitted to being arrested fairly and squarely. Carpenter knew the truth about the men with whom he shared the spur. He made it his business to know. He paid good money for the information because information was power. Jurczak hadn't told anyone that he was a major player in the drugs industry, but Carpenter knew. There were two rapists and one paedophile on the spur: they wouldn't last a minute if the general population discovered the nature of their crimes. Carpenter knew about their cases, and their secrets were safe with him, as long as they did as he asked.
Hard Landing Page 12
