Carpenter read through the file. School in Manchester. Studied economics at Manchester University. Left before taking his finals and joined the army, the Paras. After two years passed selection for the SAS. Left to join the police. Currently attached to a Home Office undercover unit but his salary was still paid by the Met. A list of a dozen commendations.
Carpenter flicked through the sheets. Married. One son. Carpenter smiled. He'd take care of Daniel bloody Shepherd. Inside and on the out. He'd show him what it meant to cross Gerald Carpenter.
Moira ruffled Liam's head. 'Gran, I'm concentrating!' moaned Liam, his thumbs flicking across the controls, his eyes glued to the television set.
'Those video games are bad for your eyes,' said Moira.
'So's reading,' said Liam. On the television, a racing car was hurtling along a crowded city street.
'Oh? Who told you that?' said Moira.
'Everyone knows that if you read too much you need glasses. All my teachers have glasses.' Liam groaned as the car crashed into the side of a bus and burst into flames.
'Doesn't that have a parental-guidance warning?' asked Moira.
'It's a video game, Gran.'
'Why don't you go and help your granddad in the front garden?' she said. 'He's pruning the roses.' She looked through the sitting-room window. Tom was standing at the garden gate, talking to two men in dark coats. Moira frowned. They weren't expecting visitors. The men looked like policemen. The man talking to Tom was smiling a lot. He had very white teeth, Moira noticed, too white to be real.
As she watched, Tom and the two men walked towards the house. Moira's stomach lurched at the thought that something might have happened to Daniel. She clasped her hands together and took a deep breath. It had been two police officers who'd broken the news of Susan's death. She'd opened her front door and known from the look on their faces that something bad had happened, and as soon as they'd asked her to confirm her name she'd known it was Susan they had come to see her about. They'd wanted to step inside the house, but she made them tell her on the doorstep and collapsed in the hallway. Her heart raced, but then she saw that the man with the white teeth was smiling and Tom was chatting to him. It couldn't have been bad news.
'What's wrong, Gran?' asked Liam.
'Nothing,' said Moira. She went to the front door and opened it, just as Tom and the two men arrived on the doorstep.
'These are two policemen, love,' said Tom. 'They want to check our security.'
'Why do we need security?' asked Moira defensively. 'Has something happened?'
'Nothing's happened, Mrs Wintour,' said the man with white teeth. He had a slight lisp, Moira thought, giving credence to her impression that his teeth were false. 'Just better safe than sorry.'
'But why would we need security?' asked Moira.
'It's okay, love,' said Tom. 'They just want to look round. Check the locks, the windows, that sort of thing.'
Moira sighed. 'I suppose you'd better come in,' she said. Tom waved the men inside. They wiped their feet on the doormat before stepping into the hallway. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Moira.
'Tea would be lovely,' said the man with white teeth. 'Where's Liam, then?'
'In the sitting room, playing video games.'
Tom shut the front door.
'Kids!' said the man with white teeth. He pulled a large revolver from his coat and pointed it at Moira's face. 'Now, do as you're told, you stuck-up bitch, or I'll put a bullet in your face!'
Carpenter was sitting in his cell, reading a copy of Investor's Chronicle. Most of his investments were offshore, well away from the grasping hands of HM Customs and police asset-seizure teams, but he liked to keep an eye on the UK stock markets.
He looked up as Rathbone appeared at his doorway. The officer glanced back down the landing, then ducked into the cell. 'Special delivery,' he said, slipping a brown envelope from under his black pullover. 'Rush job, yeah?' He handed it to Carpenter, then bent down and slipped a mobile-phone battery out of his shoe.
Carpenter took the battery, and studied the envelope. 'Have you opened this, Craig?'
Rathbone smiled easily. 'Might have done,' he said.
'Have you forgotten what we agreed?'
Rathbone pointed at the envelope. 'That's Macdonald's boy in there, isn't it? Saw him visiting.'
'Why's that any concern of yours?'
'Because you're up to something. If Macdonald gets hurt, I could too.'
'Have you opened my correspondence before?'
Rathbone shook his head. 'That one felt different,' he said. 'Lucky I did.'
'Luck doesn't come into it,' said Carpenter. He sighed. 'Look, there's nothing for you to worry about. You've brought in other stuff for me, and you've been well paid for it. I gave you ten big ones for the phone. You get a grand for every letter you take in and out.'
'Yeah, but that's not a letter, is it?' said Rathbone.
'So, you want more?'
'I want five big ones for that. And I want five for any other envelope that's got more than a sheet of paper in it. Agreed?'
'Agreed.'
Rathbone turned to go.
'One more thing, Craig. I don't want you opening any more of my mail. Five grand pays for confidentiality, right?'
'Don't worry, Gerry.'
Rathbone left. Carpenter glared after him. He wasn't worried in the least.
Shepherd was doing press-ups in the corner of the exercise yard when a pair of white Nike trainers appeared in front of him. He looked up, holding his weight on his fingertips. It was Gilly Gilchrist, the prisoner who fetched and carried for Carpenter.
'What's up, Gilly?' asked Shepherd.
'The boss wants a word.'
'Okay. Tell him I'll be up when exercise is over.'
'He says now.'
'Yeah, well, I only get an hour a day in the fresh air, Gilly, and I want to take advantage of it.' He continued his press-ups.
'He says now,' repeated Gilchrist.
Shepherd stopped again. 'You're starting to piss me off, Gilly.'
'He said it was important,' said Gilchrist. 'If I go back without you, he's going to be pissed off at me. So I'm not going back without you.' He stood where he was, his hands on his hips.
Shepherd got to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans. He walked back into the spur, with Gilchrist following. Something was wrong. If it was just a friendly chat, Carpenter himself could have come out into the exercise yard. Or talked to him in the gym. Or on cleaning duty. There was no need to summon Shepherd to his cell. Unless there was a problem. He walked up the stairs with Gilchrist behind him. That was a worry, too. If it was just a chat, Gilchrist would have been friendlier. Shepherd fingered his Walkman. If Carpenter had become suspicious, it might be a good idea to leave it at his cell. But if it was a chat, it might be the sort that Shepherd should record. He ran through everything that had happened over the previous twenty-four hours but couldn't think of anything that might have raised a red flag. He forced himself to relax, then pressed the pause button. Whatever happened, it would be recorded.
He reached the threes and walked down the landing to Carpenter's cell. The door was ajar but Shepherd knocked. There was no answer so Shepherd pushed it open and stepped inside.
It wasthe first time Shepherd had seen inside Carpenter's cell. There were photographs of his wife and children on the wall - not snaps stuck on with tape, like in most of the other cells, but large prints in wooden frames. There was a carpet on the floor and a brand new Sony tape-deck and speakers on top of the wall cabinet. The room smelt of lemon, and Shepherd saw a small air-freshener under the sink.
Carpenter was sitting on the only chair and when he stood up Shepherd saw that there was a blue silk cushion on it. He had been reading a book and he put it down on his bunk. It was about opening moves in chess. Carpenter smiled, like a kindly uncle. 'Well, you've been a busy bee, haven't you?' he said.
'What's up?' said Shepherd.
'What's up? You
've got the fucking audacity to ask me what's up?' Carpenter pointed finger at him. 'I'll tell you what's fucking up, Mr Plod. Your fucking number!'
Carpenter clenched his teeth and breathed heavily. Shepherd heard a noise behind him and looked round, but it was only Gilchrist with his back to the cell door. Shepherd ran through his options: he could stand his ground and try to bluff his way out; he could rush out on to the landing, hit the alarm button and hope that the officers got to the threes before Carpenter or his men did him any real damage; he could attack Carpenter, disable him, and Gilchrist if necessary, do whatever it took to save his skin.
'What the hell are you talking about, Gerry?' he said, hands swinging loosely by his side in case Carpenter should get physical. He looked for weapons but Carpenter's hands were empty and there was nothing obvious within reach.
'It's a bit late to play the innocent, Shepherd. It's a bit bloody late for that.'
As soon as he heard his name, Shepherd knew there was no point in trying to bluff his way out. If Carpenter knew his name, he knew everything. But the fact that he hadn't simply had him knifed in the showers meant that he had other plans. And that could only be bad news.
'I thought you were my fucking friend,' said Carpenter. 'I trusted you.'
'What can I tell you?' said Shepherd. 'A man's got to do what a man's got to do, right?'
'A man doesn't sneak around lying and cheating. Crawling around on his belly in the shit. That's not what a man does.'
'What do you want, Gerry?'
Carpenter continued to glare at him, then he smiled slowly. 'I suppose you think you've been pretty clever, don't you?'
Shepherd said nothing. He was still wondering why Carpenter had summoned him to the cell. If the man knew he was an undercover cop then he knew, too, that his plan to kill Roper would come to nothing and that he was going to prison for life. The drugs charges plus conspiracy to murder a Customs officer meant he'd be behind bars for ever.
'Did you think I wouldn't spot you? Do you think I can't smell an undercover cop a mile off ?'
It was over, Shepherd realised. First, Carpenter wouldn't say anything incriminating. Second, by tomorrow everyone on the block would know he was an undercover cop. Within two days everyone in the prison. He was blown. But he doubted he'd done anything to show out. Someone must have grassed him up, and Shepherd wanted to know who. That was the only reason he was still in the cell.
Carpenter handed Shepherd an envelope. It had already been opened. 'What's this? My P45?' he asked.
'Open it and find out,' said Carpenter. 'It should knock that self-satisfied grin off your face.'
Shepherd slid back the flap. His stomach lurched. There was a Polaroid photograph inside. Even before he took it out he knew what had happened and that his life was about to change for ever.
He stared at the picture in horror. Liam was sitting on a wooden chair, staring at the camera, tight-lipped, his hands on his knees. Moira and Tom were behind him, their faces fearful.
'They weren't hard to find, not once I knew who you were,' said Carpenter. 'You marry a girl from Hereford, she kicks the bucket, it makes sense that your lad would go and stay with her parents.'
'You hurt him - you hurt any of them - and you're dead,' said Shepherd.
'Nothing's going to happen to them, not if you're a good little piggy.'
'What do you want?' asked Shepherd.
'I want you to get me out of here,' said Carpenter.
'What?'
'You heard me. You've fucked up my plans well and good, so now you're going to get me out of here. That, or your kid dies.'
'You're not making any sense,' Shepherd said, confused.
'I'm making perfect sense,' said Carpenter. 'You've just got to listen to what I'm telling you. I have your son. You've stitched me up on the outside, you've had the Church spirit Roper away, you've been trying to put together a case against me in here. The way I see it, it's up to you to get me out.'
'Do I look like I've got a set of keys?'
Carpenter rushed at Shepherd and grabbed the front of his shirt. The Polaroid slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. 'Don't get smart, Shepherd. Smart is what got you into the shit you're in.'
'How am I supposed to get you out, Gerry?' asked Shepherd calmly. He made no move to defend himself. There was no point: Carpenter held all the cards.
'That's up to you,' said Carpenter. 'But I'm telling you, here and now, if you don't get me the hell out of here, your boy dies.'
Shepherd held his hands out to his side while Hamilton patted him down. Then he went into the exercise yard. He took deep breaths of fresh air, then swung his arms and jogged on the spot. He wanted to run until he was exhausted, until he couldn't run any more. He wanted to get a gun and put it to Carpenter's head and pull the trigger. He wanted to grab the man by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.
Shepherd bent down and touched his toes, then arched his back, feeling his spine click into place. He wanted to kill Carpenter, but that wasn't an option. He couldn't kill him and he couldn't tell anyone. The fact that Carpenter knew who Shepherd was meant he still had a mole on the outside, someone who was passing information to him. If Shepherd told Hargrove or anyone else in the police, Carpenter might find out. And if that happened, Liam would be dead.
The strength went from his legs at the thought that his son might die because of what he'd done. He went down on one knee and put his hands on the Tarmac. His heart pounded and he fought to stop himself passing out.
A hand touched his shoulder. 'Are you all right, mate?' It was Ed Harris. 'You look like shit.'
'Stomach ache.'
'You want me to tell Hamilton that you've got to go to the medical centre?'
'I'll be okay.'
'Sure?'
'Sure.'
Shepherd stood up and took more deep breaths. He needed to plan, to find a way out. What he didn't need was to panic. Harris flashed him a worried look, but walked away. Shepherd gazed up through the anti-helicopter cables. What Carpenter was asking was unreasonable. How could he be expected to get him out of a Cat A prison?
He saw Justin Davenport on the opposite side of the exercise yard. It was hard to miss him in his escape-risk uniform with the patchwork of blue and yellow squares. He was walking on his own, looking through the wire mesh to the perimeter wall in the distance. Shepherd went over to him. 'How's it going?' he asked.
Davenport was in his early twenties, stick-thin and with a rash of acne across his forehead.
'I'm Bob Macdonald,' said Shepherd.
'The guy that shot the cops. Yeah, heard about you.'
'One cop, and I didn't pull the trigger. You're the guy they caught on the Eurostar.'
Davenport chuckled. 'Nah, I went round to see my girlfriend and the cops were there waiting for me. You can't believe anything you hear inside.'
'Everyone's innocent for a start,' said Shepherd. 'There's not a guilty man in here.'
Davenport giggled like a schoolboy.
'They say you escaped from Brixton,' Shepherd went on.
'Maybe.'
'Did you?'
'That's what they say.'
'Think you could get out of here?'
Davenport giggled again. 'It's escape-proof, this place. Didn't they tell you that?'
'If it's escape-proof, why do they make you wear that gear?'
Davenport looked down at his colourful clothing. 'To punish me - make me look like a twat.'
'It'd make them look like twats, if you did get out.'
Davenport snorted, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His fingernails were bitten to the quick. 'Yeah, that'd show them, wouldn't it?'
'So?'
Davenport shrugged. 'Can't be done.'
'Because?'
Davenport looked at him as if he was stupid. 'Because it's escape-proof.'
'Yeah, well, they said the Titanic was unsinkable.'
'Great movie, wasn't it? That Kate whatsername, I'd give
her one.' Davenport started to walk round the yard, his trouser hems scuffing the Tarmac.
Shepherd hurried after him. 'You got over the wall at Brixton, right?'
'They say.'
'Made a ladder in the workshops.'
Davenport giggled again. 'Made it in bits, I did. We made crutches and walkers. You know, those things old folks shuffle about on. I made two walkers that could be taken apart and reassembled with four crutches as a ladder. Went up on to the roof of the workshop, legged it to the wall, up, over and away.'
'What about CCTV?'
'They had it but nobody watched the screens during the day, not when we were working. No point, right? That was the weakness in the system. They thought that because they had cameras covering all the walls nobody would climb over in broad daylight. But the screws in the coms room spent most of their time reading the papers and nattering on about the footie. They had fifty-odd cameras but only six monitors so most of the time the section of the wall I was going over wasn't even on screen.'
'What about when you were on the other side?'
'I legged it.'
'That was it?'
They'd worked their way round the exercise yard and were back at the entrance. Davenport didn't speak until they were out of earshot of Hamilton. 'I wasn't wearing gear like this. I had regular denims on. Just walked to a phone box and called my brother. He drove to south London and picked me up.'
'Could you do it here? Get over the wall?'
'You can't get to the wall. End of story.'
'But if you did?'
'That's an anti-climbing device on the top,' said Davenport, pointing to the top of the wall. 'You can't get a grip on it.'
'Tunnelling out?'
Davenport laughed. 'You've been watching too many prisoner-of-war movies, you have. That wall's thirty feet high. But it goes down thirty feet below ground, too. You can't go over or under. But like I said, you can't even get to the wall, that's the beauty of the design.'
He pointed at a wire fence some six metres away from the wall, topped with razor wire. 'Before you get to the wall, you have to get through or over the wire fence. That's got motion sensors so sensitive that a strong wind can set them off. Between the wire fence and the wall is what they call the sterile area. Inside there are microwave detectors and motion-sensitive cameras.' He grinned. 'You know it's the same design they used in Belmarsh, where they keep all the terrorists?'
Hard Landing Page 31
