Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  'I'll get them sent in,' said Hargrove, scribbling in a small black notebook.

  'On second thoughts, make the watch a bit flash. And I want to see Sue and Liam.'

  'I'm on it.'

  'I have to see them,' said Shepherd. 'And I'd be happier talking to Sue without you there. No offence.'

  'You'll have to put in an application. Angie Macdonald and Harry. I've had them added to all the computer files on the Macdonald legend. Soon as the application arrives I'll get her in.'

  'I was in to see Gosden and he let me talk to her. On the phone.'

  Hargrove looked pained but didn't say anything.

  'It was a direct line, and if we can't trust Gosden I'm dead in the water anyway.'

  Hargrove still looked unhappy.

  'Gosden has put it around that I'm having marital problems and that my wife wants a divorce. I'll ask for a visit. Have her driven here by someone you know.'

  'I'll make sure she's okay, don't worry.' Hargrove stood up and put away his notebook. 'You're doing a hell of a job, Spider. Don't think it's not appreciated.'

  Shepherd stood up and rang the bell. 'Just remember the overtime, that's all.'

  The bald officer came for Hargrove, then Rathbone escorted Shepherd to the remand block. 'How did it go?' asked Rathbone, as they walked along the secure corridor.

  'He's optimistic,' said Shepherd.

  'Yeah, well, they always say that as long as you're paying their bills,' said Rathbone.

  'You're a cynical man, Craig,' said Shepherd.

  'You get to be in this job,' he said. 'You never meet a guilty man in here. The excuses you hear. Framed by MI5 - get that at least once a week.'

  They walked in silence for a while, Rathbone's thick-soled work shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor.

  'Can I ask you a question, Craig?' asked Shepherd, as they headed towards the remand block.

  'Sure, as long as it's not geography,' said Rathbone. 'I'm crap at that.'

  'Who runs the wing?'

  Rathbone looked across at Shepherd. 'You mean Tony Stafford?'

  'You know what I mean. Who's top dog among the prisoners?'

  'You're all equal under the sun,' said Rathbone.

  'Yeah, that's great in theory, but it's not how it really works, is it?' said Shepherd. 'You know Digger, right?'

  'Ah, the delightful Mr Tompkins. He's got his claws into you, has he?'

  'He said he could get me sorted with the canteen until my money comes through.'

  'Yeah, well, be careful. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, is the best advice I can give you.'

  'Why do they call him Digger?'

  Rathbone chuckled. 'He was supposed to have done double murder a few years back,' he said. 'Got rid of two Yardies who were encroaching on his turf. Never got caught and told everyone he'd buried them with a JCB.'

  'What's he in for now?'

  'A single murder this time. Shot another Yardie point-blank. Did a runner but got nailed by forensics. Seriously, be careful, yeah?'

  'Everyone tells me he runs the spur. If not the block.'

  'Do they, now?'

  'Said that anything I need, he can get for me.'

  'I'd like to see him get you out of here.'

  'You know what I mean, Craig. Thing is, I don't want to start asking favours of the wrong people.'

  'You wouldn't be trying to pull a fast one on me, would you, Macdonald?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Maybe you see yourself as top dog and want to know who you have to take out.'

  'Furthest thing from my mind,' said Shepherd. 'Besides, what's the point of being the big man on a remand wing? The population's always changing.'

  'There's still money to be made, though.'

  'If you know what he's doing, why don't you do something about it?'

  Rathbone grinned sarcastically. 'Me, you mean?'

  'The authorities. The governor.'

  'You're not that naive, Macdonald. You know how it works here.'

  'First time inside, remember?'

  'Yeah, I wonder about that. You might not have a record, but you've slotted right in.'

  'Just because I'm not sobbing into my pillow at night doesn't mean I'm enjoying myself,' said Shepherd.

  They reached the door to the spur and Rathbone opened it. He held it so that Shepherd couldn't walk through. 'You seem like a nice guy, Bob, so a word to the wise, yeah? Don't even think about going up against Digger. He's a mad bastard. He'll be Cat A for his whole sentence, pretty much, so he's got nothing to lose. When he's done his time he'll be deported. He doesn't have British citizenship so it's back to sunny Jamaica when he's an old man.'

  'I hear what you're saying,' said Shepherd.

  Rathbone moved his arm and let Shepherd through.

  'How do I apply for a visit?'

  'Family or legal?'

  'Family. My wife. And kid.'

  'I thought your wife was divorcing you.'

  Shepherd didn't like the way that everything he said or did in the prison seemed to become common knowledge within hours. 'Yeah, but we've got things to discuss,' he said.

  Rathbone frowned. 'With your kid there?'

  'I've not seen my boy for weeks.'

  'You must miss him.'

  'Yeah.' Shepherd wished Rathbone would stop talking about his family, but he thought the officer was just trying to be friendly. Cutting the conversation short might offend him.

  'Is she definite about wanting a divorce?'

  'That's what the governor said. I'll know more once I've seen her.'

  'You should ask for a compassionate visit,' said Rathbone. 'That way the other cons can't hear what's being said. I'm sure the governor'll approve it, under the circumstances.'

  Rathbone took Shepherd downstairs to the ones and showed him the visitor application forms. He helped Shepherd fill one out, put it into a box labelled 'Outgoing Mail and Visit Applications', then took him back up to the twos.

  'If you need a Listener, Bob, just shout,' said Rathbone.

  'Thanks, but I'm not suicidal,' said Shepherd.

  'The Listeners aren't just for suicides,' said Rathbone. 'They're there to talk through any problems you have. Any time, night or day.'

  'Even when we're banged up?'

  'If we think it's serious, we can get you a Listener any time one's needed. It's at our discretion.' Rathbone unlocked the cell door.

  'Thanks,' said Shepherd, and he meant it.

  Rathbone locked the door and Shepherd climbed up on to his bunk. He was looking forward to seeing Sue and Liam, but what he really wanted was to be on the outside with them, twenty-four hours a day. And the quickest way of achieving that was to put paid to Gerald Carpenter. The sooner the better.

  Kim Fletcher looked at the photograph for the twentieth time. 'They all look the bloody same in those uniforms,' he muttered.

  Pat Neary tapped his fingers on the BMW's steering-wheel. 'Is that him?' he said. A boy was walking out of the school gates, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  Fletcher screwed up his eyes. 'I don't think so.'

  'Do you need glasses?'

  'Fuck off,' said Fletcher, looking at the photograph again.

  'We should have waited nearer the house,' said Neary.

  'Right, and get picked up by the filth.'

  'I said nearer the house. Not near. Sitting outside a school we look like a couple of nonces on the prowl.'

  'Speak for yourself,' snarled Fletcher. A black Range Rover driven by a middle-aged blonde pulled up in front of the gates and three boys piled into the back. Fletcher ignored them. The boy they were looking for always walked home.

  The Range Rover roared off. A boy with a blue Nike backpack was standing at the school gate, talking to a taller boy with black-framed glasses.

  'That's him,' said Fletcher.

  Neary put the BMW into gear. Fletcher twisted in his seat as they drove away from the school. There was no mistake. The boy with the backpack waved goodb
ye to the taller boy and headed away from the gates, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His tie was at half-mast, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

  They drove a couple of hundred yards down the road, then Neary stopped the car in front of a row of small shops. Fletcher got out, and slipped on a pair of impenetrable Ray-Bans. Neary pulled a tight U-turn, parked on the other side of the road and sat there with the engine running.

  Fletcher looked into the window of a cake shop while he waited for the boy. What he was about to do had to be handled right. If he spooked the boy, Fletcher knew he wouldn't be able to run after him: he had just turned forty-five and it was a long time since he'd jogged, never mind sprinted.

  He looked to his left. The boy was about fifty feet away, his head down and his shoulders hunched, hands still in his trouser pockets. He was twelve years old.

  Fletcher walked slowly towards him, his right hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. The boy looked up and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. He saw that Fletcher was in his way and moved to the side, nearer to the road. His forehead was creased into a deep frown, as if he had something on his mind, but he wasn't looking at Fletcher.

  'Ben Roper?' said Fletcher, not because there was any doubt but because he knew that the boy was less likely to run if he was addressed by name.

  'Yes?' said the boy, the frown deepening.

  Fletcher's hand emerged from his overcoat holding a gleaming white envelope. 'Can you give this to your dad, please?' He held it out.

  'What is it?' said the boy, suspiciously.

  Fletcher flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. He was proud of his teeth: they'd cost him several thousand pounds and were the finest dentures money could buy. He hated dentists and years of neglect had meant that, by his late thirties, his gums had receded and the teeth rotted. The pain had been so bad that he had had to seek treatment but his mouth was in such a state of disrepair that the man he'd been referred to had offered only two choices, both of which involved the removal of all his teeth. The surgeon said he could bolt new teeth into Fletcher's jaw or fit him with dentures. Fletcher had gone for the dentures.

  'It's a personal letter,' he said. 'It's important, so I don't want to risk posting it.'

  The boy took it, but he looked at it suspiciously.

  'Just give it to your dad, okay?' said Fletcher.

  The boy kept the letter at arm's length as if reluctant to accept ownership. 'I'm not supposed to take things from strangers,' he said.

  'It's only a letter,' said Fletcher tersely. He looked left and right but no one was paying them any attention.

  'Who shall I say gave it to me?'

  Fletcher nodded at the letter. 'It's all in there,' he said. 'Your dad will understand everything when he's read it. Just tell him I gave it to you near the school.'

  'I guess that's okay,' Ben said, and put the envelope into his blazer pocket.

  'Good lad.' Fletcher patted his shoulder.

  Ben headed down the road, towards his home. Fletcher waited until he was well on his way before he crossed the road and climbed into the BMW. Neary gunned the engine. 'Now what?'

  'Now we see if Roper gets the message,' said Fletcher, took off the sunglasses and slipped them inside his jacket.

  'And if he doesn't?'

  Fletcher made a gun with his hand. 'We get ourselves another motorbike.'

  Shortly after the men returned from the workshops Shepherd's door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies, holding a white carrier-bag and a clipboard. 'Your solicitor dropped these in for you,' she said, giving him the bag.

  'Thanks,' said Shepherd. He tipped the contents out on to his bunk. There were two Ralph Lauren polo shirts, one red, one blue, two pairs of black Armani jeans and a pair of gleaming white Nike trainers, Calvin Klein underwear and Nike socks. Tucked into one of the trainers was a Rolex wristwatch and a gold neck chain. Shepherd studied the expensive timepiece. It wasn't the one that the forensics woman had taken off him, so maybe Hargrove had requisitioned it from a drug-dealer's confiscated property. It was gold and studded with diamonds, a real player's watch.

  Lloyd-Davies handed him the clipboard and a pen. 'Sign here,' she said, tapping the bottom of a form, which listed everything she'd given him.

  Shepherd scrawled his Bob Macdonald signature and gave the clipboard back to her. 'I'd be careful with that,' she said, nodding at the watch.

  Shepherd slipped it on to his wrist. 'It's just a watch,' he said.

  'It's five grand, maybe more,' she said. 'There's guys in here would kill for five grand.'

  Shepherd dropped the chain round his neck.

  'Bob, I have to tell you, wearing jewellery like that is just asking for trouble.'

  Shepherd smiled. 'I can take care of myself, ma'am,' he said. He held up the shirts. 'Which do you think?'

  'Red,' she said. 'It'll go with your eyes. I'm serious. If your jewellery gets taken off you, there's not much we can do.'

  'You could call the cops.'

  Lloyd-Davies flashed him a cold smile. 'Suit yourself. I'm only trying to help.'

  Shepherd saw that he'd offended her and felt suddenly ashamed. She'd gone out of her way to be friendly and helpful, but Bob Macdonald would see that as a sign of weakness. As Dan Shepherd he wanted to apologise, but that would be out of character. He had no choice but to keep giving her a hard time. 'Anyone tries to take my stuff, I'll give them what for.' He moved towards the cell door. 'Okay if I get my tea?'

  Lloyd-Davies tapped the clipboard against her black trousers, then walked out.

  Shepherd took off his prison-issue sweatshirt and pulled on the red polo, then changed into the black jeans and Nikes. He went out on to the landing and along to the stairs, looking down at the ground floor where prisoners were lining up at the hotplate. Lloyd-Davies had gone into the bubble and was talking to Stafford. There were no officers on the twos. Shepherd craned his neck. He couldn't see any on the threes either. He hurried up to the top floor and looked around. Still no officers. Three prisoners, all in T-shirts, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Adidas trainers, rushed past him and clattered down the stairs.

  Shepherd took another quick look down at the ones. Hamilton was at the hotplate. Rathbone was beside the pool table. Lloyd-Davies was still talking to Stafford. He walked quickly along the landing. There was a white card in a holder to the right of each cell door and he checked the names. He found Jurczak's cell and pushed open the door.

  Jurczak was lying on his bunk, watching television. 'What the fuck are you doing in my cell?' he snarled.

  Shepherd kicked the door shut behind him. 'I want your job on the cleaning crew,' he said.

  'Fuck off,' said Jurczak, getting up from his bunk. 'This is my cell. You don't come into another man's cell.'

  Shepherd rushed at Jurczak, grabbed him by the throat and banged him against the wall. Jurczak's tray clattered to the floor. Shepherd was a good three inches taller and at least ten years younger. He blocked all thoughts of Jurczak as a human being. He was no more than a problem that had to be solved. And it had to be done quickly because as soon as tea had been served the prisoners were checked before association. He had less than five minutes to do what had to be done. 'All I want is for you to get off the cleaning crew,' he said.

  'Fuck you,' hissed Jurczak. 'I paid five hundred for that job. Why should I give it to you?'

  Shepherd head-butted him, his forehead slamming on to Jurczak's nose. Blood streamed down the man's chin, and Shepherd let go of his neck. Jurczak slumped to the cell floor, unconscious. Shepherd knew that a broken nose wouldn't be a serious enough injury to get him taken off the cleaning crew so he pulled out Jurczak's left leg and jammed the foot against the horizontal truss of the chair. Then he took a deep breath and slammed his foot on Jurczak's knee. The joint cracked like a dry twig. Shepherd stared down at the injured man, breathing heavily. Jurczak was a drug-dealer and a murderer, so he felt no sympathy for him but he'd taken no pleasure in crippling him. It had had t
o be done, though: Jurczak wasn't the type to respond to threats.

  Shepherd opened the cell door a few inches and squinted down the landing. It was clear. He walked quickly to the stairs. The man with the shaved head was walking up from the twos carrying Carpenter's tray. He frowned as Shepherd walked by but didn't say anything.

  Tony Stafford was alone in the bubble but his head was down. Lloyd-Davies was nowhere to be seen. Shepherd padded down the stairs and joined the queue at the hotplate. The mixed grill was a burnt sausage, an equally burnt beefburger and a strip of underdone bacon. The vegetable man gave him a scoop of chips and a spoonful of baked beans. Shepherd put a bread roll and a tub of raspberry yoghurt on his tray, then headed back to the cell. As he went he looked up at the threes: no officers on the landing.

  Lee was sitting at the desk in the cell. He'd gone for the mixed grill, too. 'New gear?' he asked, as Shepherd sat on his bunk.

  'Yeah, my brief dropped them off.'

  'Watch too?'

  'Yeah. Forensics took it, but I guess there was nothing on it.'

  'Nice.'

  'Tells the time.'

  Lee nodded at Shepherd's tray. 'You going to eat the roll?' Shepherd tossed it to him. 'And the yoghurt?' Shepherd gave him that too.

  Lloyd-Davies pushed open the door. 'All right, gentlemen?'

  Shepherd held out his tray. 'Want a chip, ma'am?'

  'I forgot to tell you, Macdonald, I got you on the gym list for this evening,' she said.

  'Thanks, ma'am,' said Shepherd.

  She was about to say more when someone shouted from the threes: 'Stretcher! Get me a stretcher up here!'

  Lloyd-Davies hurried away. Lee stood up and rushed to the cell door. Shepherd followed him. They'd found Jurczak.

  An alarm sounded. Half a dozen officers hurried on to the spur and shouted for the prisoners to get into their cells.

  Lee craned his neck to look up at the threes. 'Bet someone's topped themselves,' he said.

  Healey came along the landing, checking cells. Doors were clanging shut all over the spur. Two prison officers dashed up the stairs with a stretcher. Healey appeared at the door. 'Inside, Lee,' he said. 'Nothing for you to see.'