'Yeah?'
'Yeah. Four blocks, all linked by a secure corridor. The only way in and out of each block is through the corridor. Every time a prisoner's in the secure corridor, there's an officer with him. And the corridor's covered by CCTV. The officers can open all the doors in the blocks, and all the doors in the secure corridor, but the door out of the corridor is monitored by the control room at the main entrance. If they don't press the button, the door won't open. And they won't press the button until they've checked the CCTV.'
That meant that there was no way of breaking out of the secure corridor, Shepherd thought. Which meant there was no way of getting to the wall. Even if a prison officer was being held hostage and his keys taken, the ones at the gate would simply refuse to open the door.
'That's the way it works in a Cat A,' said Davenport. 'In a Cat A you're escorted everywhere, in a Cat B you're watched everywhere, in a Cat C you have freedom within the walls, and by the time you get to a Cat D, you're practically on the out. You want to know the best way to get out? Keep your nose clean and play the system. Go from here to a Cat B and then a Cat C and by the time you're Cat D you'll be going home one day every fortnight.'
'I was hoping you'd be more creative, Justin.'
'This place was built to be escape-proof,' he said. 'You know I'm on the twos, right?'
Shepherd had seen him coming out of a cell on the other side of the landing from his own.
'All escape-risk prisoners are put in the twos in Shelton- so that we can't dig up or down. Now, how stupid is that? We're observed through the spyglass every hour, right? So how can anyone dig in here? And what would you dig with? We're searched everywhere we go, right? And even if I was to dig my way out, where would I be? I'd be in the secure corridor, which means I'm under CCTV surveillance. And, like I said, you can't go over the wall or under it.' He turned away and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Hamilton's watching us. Careful, everyone I speak to gets written up.'
Davenport walked away. Shepherd touched his toes and sneaked a look between his legs at the entrance to the exercise yard. The officer watched Davenport for a few seconds, then began patting someone down.
Shepherd swung his arms round, then jogged on the spot. Bill Barnes walked over, grinning. 'You're full of beans,' he said, took out a packet of Silk Cut and lit a cigarette with a disposable lighter.
Shepherd stopped jogging. He wanted to be on his own. He wanted to think. He wanted to be able to let out all the anger that was building up inside him, but he couldn't. He had to stay in his role. He was Bob Macdonald, armed robber and hard man. He couldn't show any emotion, any weakness. 'You told me you sold stolen watches, but I heard you were a cat burglar,' he said.
'Never stole a pussy in my life,' said Barnes.
'But you climb through windows, yeah?'
'It's been known.'
'Could you climb out of here?'
Barnes looked at him. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'
'This is my first time inside. I'm just putting out a few feelers.'
Barnes thrust his head closer to Shepherd's. 'You're talking about getting out?'
'I'm just considering my options.'
Barnes grunted. 'You're wasting your time.' He gestured up at the four CCTV cameras covering the exercise yard. 'Big Brother's watching you everywhere you go,' he said. 'You're escorted every move you make. Don't bother looking for a way out. There isn't one.'
'Escape-proof?'
'This place and Belmarsh were built to hold the most dangerous criminals in the country.' Barnes grinned. 'That's you and me, Bob.'
'And no one has ever got out?'
'Not from here.' Barnes started walking round the perimeter of the yard and Shepherd followed him. 'Guy got out of Belmarsh once.'
'Yeah? How?'
'Swapped identities with a prisoner who was being released,' said Barnes. He took another drag on his cigarette. 'The guards don't know every inmate's face and most of the file photographs are out of date by the time a guy's let out. So if you can find someone who's going to be released and persuade him to change places with you, you might get out.' Barnes grinned. 'Thing is, he's going to get another ten years for helping you. You either pay him off or threaten his family. If he's under duress, maybe he won't get sent down for it.'
Shepherd cracked his knuckles. Finding someone to change places with Carpenter was out of the question. He didn't have time and, besides, he had to escape with Carpenter. If they didn't go out together he had no guarantee that Liam would be released.
'There's always transit,' said Barnes.
'Transit?'
'You've got to make regular court appearances so that they can keep you on remand. Let Securicor take you through the gate. Minimum wage in uniforms, they are. The vans are heavy-duty, but they're still only armoured cars driven by monkeys. You've got mates with shooters?' Barnes made a gun with his right hand and faked shooting Shepherd in the face.
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. Yeah, he had mates with shooters.
Rathbone unclipped his spaniel's lead and let her run free, in ever-increasing circles, sniffing and growling, happy to be out in the open air. Rathbone's mother took care of the dog when he was working, but she had a bad hip and couldn't do more than let her out into the tiny back garden. She had been on an NHS waiting list for a new hip for the best part of four months, but there was no sign yet of her getting anywhere near a surgeon's knife. It wasn't fair, thought Rathbone. His father had paid a lifetime of tax and National Insurance contributions and had died of a heart-attack two weeks after he retired. Now his mum had to wait in line for medical treatment while asylum-seekers stayed in hotels and got money in their pockets. It wasn't fair, and life wasn't fair. But at least he was doing something to redress the balance. Five grand for delivering the photograph to Carpenter. Ten grand for the phone. With any luck Carpenter would stay behind bars for years. And if Carpenter got out, the prison was full of wealthy guys who could afford the service Rathbone offered: access to the little comforts that could make life inside a bit more comfortable.
The dog ran off, barking. Rathbone twirled the lead and walked after her. He'd have liked nothing more than to whisk his mother into a private hospital and have her pain taken away, but if he did that he risked losing everything. The money had to stay untouched until he left the prison service. Until then he had to live at home, drive a three-year-old car and watch his mother hobble upstairs to bed each night.
A man was walking along the path towards him. He was in the centre so Rathbone stepped to the side but the man moved the same way. Rathbone smiled an apology.
'Nice dog,' said the man. He had unnaturally white teeth and they seemed slightly too big for his mouth.
'Yeah,' said Rathbone, disinterestedly. He had no wish to get into a conversation with a stranger. He didn't mind talking to other dog-owners, but the man had no lead in his hand and there was no dog nearby. Rathbone called his dog, but the spaniel was having too much fun to respond.
'Cocker spaniel, isn't he?' said the man.
'She,' said Rathbone. 'She's a bitch.'
The man smiled. 'Yeah. So's life.' He pulled a hunting knife from his coat pocket and thrust it into Rathbone's chest. Rathbone fell back and the knife came sucking out, still in the man's hand.
Rathbone turned and tried to run but another man was in the way. He, too, was holding a knife, and he slashed it across Rathbone's throat. Rathbone tried to scream but his windpipe was full of blood and all that came out was a soft gurgle. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat, feeling the warm blood pump through his fingers.
'You shouldn't have opened the envelope, Craig,' said the man with white teeth. He kicked Rathbone in the chest and he fell backwards into the grass.
'Big mistake,' added his companion.
'Huge,' said the first man. Rathbone's eyes glazed over and his mouth fell open, bloody froth on his lips. 'Get his wallet and watch. Let's at least try to make it look like a mugging.'
/> The spaniel watched them from behind a tree, her body low to the ground.
'Do you want to kill the dog?' Rathbone heard the second man say, his voice far off in the distance.
'No, Pat, I do not want to kill the fucking dog.'
That was the last thing Rathbone heard, and he found it strangely comforting. At least his dog would be okay.
Shepherd waited until no prisoners were waiting to use the phones, then walked over and dialled Jimmy Sharpe's number. It was a mobile and when the detective answered he could hear an approaching siren in the background.
'DC Sharpe, this is Bob Macdonald.' He spoke quickly so that Sharpe would know they had to stay in character.
'How's prison food?' asked Sharpe.
'I need a favour,' said Shepherd. 'I need you to check on my boy.'
'You think there's a problem?'
'If there is, I don't want you to do anything about it,' said Shepherd. 'You've still got that number I gave you?'
'Yes.'
'If there's anything untoward at the house, call my friend and tell him what's happened. But that's all. Don't start raising red flags.'
'Okay,' said Sharpe, hesitantly.
'Mum's the word on this,' said Shepherd. 'Any comeback, any shit heading towards the fan, and you know nothing.'
'Understood.'
'Thanks,' said Shepherd.
'Are you okay?'
'Not really, but there's nothing you can do to help. Just check on my boy, and make that call. Then forget we spoke.' Shepherd replaced the receiver and walked up the stairs to the threes. He went along the landing to Gilly Gilchrist. 'I need to talk to him,' said Shepherd.
Gilchrist went into the cell, and reappeared a few moments later. He waved Shepherd inside.
Carpenter was sitting on his chair, a pair of headphones in his hand. 'Mozart,' he said. 'Nothing better than a bit of Mozart in the afternoon.'
'I think I've got a plan,' said Shepherd.
'I'm very glad to hear it,' said Carpenter. 'And I'm sure Liam will be, too.' He smiled.
Shepherd wanted to grab him and slam his head against the concrete wall until the back was a bloody mess. 'When's your next court appearance?' he asked.
'Next week,' said Carpenter. 'Tuesday morning.'
'That gives me enough time,' said Shepherd.
'Time for what?'
'I can get you out while you're in transit. In the van on the way to court.'
Carpenter scowled. 'Do you have any idea how they take me to court?' he asked.
'In a Securicor van. Same sort they brought me in, right? It's not a problem.'
'The problem isn't the van, Supercop. The problem is the car full of armed police front and back, and the helicopter overhead.'
Shepherd showed no reaction. 'Like I said, it's not a problem.'
'I'm going to need more than that, Shepherd.'
'I know people.'
'Yeah, well, I know people too.'
'You know what I did before I was a cop?'
'Army.'
'Not just army. SAS.'
'I know,' said Carpenter.
Shepherd filed the information for future reference. There weren't many ways that Carpenter could have discovered he had been in the SAS. 'So a few armed police and a helicopter aren't going to worry the people I know,' said Shepherd.
'And they'll do it?'
Shepherd nodded slowly.
'How much are you paying them?'
'Nothing. They're friends.'
'So, Tuesday it is.'
Shepherd stared at Carpenter. 'If you hurt my son, I'll kill you.'
'Sticks and stones,' Carpenter said laconically.
Shepherd rushed forward and thrust the heel of his left hand against Carpenter's chin, pushing him against the cell wall. He drew his right fist back, ready to smash it into Carpenter's face. Carpenter stared at Shepherd, his hands hanging at his side. There was no fear in his eyes. Shepherd was breathing hard, his left hand clamped round Carpenter's throat. 'I'll kill you now!' he hissed.
Carpenter's face reddened but he made no sound. He just stared at Shepherd.
'I'll do it here and now.'
Shepherd heard a noise at the door. Carpenter's eyes flicked towards it, then back to Shepherd.
'Stay where you are or I'll drive his nose into his skull,' said Shepherd, without looking round.
Carpenter looked over Shepherd's shoulder and nodded at Gilchrist. Shepherd tightened his grip on Carpenter's throat. It would be so easy to kill him. One punch. The cartilage would spear the soft brain tissue, severing blood vessels, and bringing about almost instantaneous death. But what then? Would killing him get Liam back? Carpenter glared at him. There was anger in his eyes now, but still no sign of fear.
Shepherd released him. Gilchrist took a step towards Shepherd but Carpenter held up his hand. 'It's okay,' he croaked. 'Leave it.'
Gilchrist backed away. 'Watch the door,' said Carpenter. He unscrewed the top of a bottle of Highland Spring water and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth. Gilchrist went back out on to the landing. Carpenter took another drink. Shepherd stood at the foot of his bed.
Carpenter put down the bottle. 'I understandyour anger, Dan. If I was in your place I'd be angry, too. I'd lash out. I'd do exactly what you're doing. But in my heart I'd know that getting angry wouldn't get my boy back.'
'You hurt him and you're dead.'
'The whole point of this is that Liam doesn't get hurt,' said Carpenter. 'You get me out of here and you get your boy back. Everyone gains. The only way Liam gets hurt is if I have to stay behind bars. If that happens we all lose. You lose your boy and I lose my freedom.'
'I'll do what I can, but if it goes wrong, if I fail, then you're not to hurt him.'
Carpenter said nothing.
'Did you hear me?'
'I heard you. But you've no bargaining power here, Dan. I hold all the cards. And just so there's no misunderstanding, my men on the outside will kill Liam if anything happens to me in here.' He pointed a finger at Shepherd's face. 'I'll put down what just happened to the stress you're under, but you touch me again and I'll have your boy slapped around.'
Shepherd said nothing.
'Did you hear me, Dan?'
'Yeah,' said Shepherd. 'I understand.'
'Good man. Now, tell me exactly what you've got planned.'
There were three phones on Major Allan Gannon's desk. One was a general line that went through the switchboard at the Duke of York barracks in London, another was a direct line to SAS headquarters in Hereford, and the third connected him to the Special Boat Squadron base in Lympstone. Next to his desk, on a table of its own, was the briefcase containing the secure satellite phone they called the Almighty. It never left Gannon's side. It rarely rang, but when it did, all hell usually broke loose. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. And they didn't call Gannon for a chat about the weather.
It had been several weeks since the Almighty had rung, and Gannon felt like a caged lion. Three-quarters of the SAS personnel had gone to Iraq, and half had been in country before hostilities had officially commenced. But Gannon had been told in no uncertain terms that his services were required in the UK in case of a local terrorist incident. He and his team had waited for the expected terrorist backlash but none had been forthcoming and Gannon had spent the Iraqi war watching reporters in flak jackets describe the offensive on BBC World, Sky News and CNN.
He stood up, walked to the window and stared out through the bomb-proof blinds at the parade-ground, where a lone soldier on a discipline charge stood ramrod straight, his weapon at his side, sweating under the midday sun. He'd been standing at attention for three hours, ever since he'd been marched out by a grim-looking sergeant-major. Gannon had grinned when he'd seen the sergeant-major giving the squaddie a dressing-down. Standing still for three hours wasn't what Gannon would consider a punishment. A beating by six SAS troopers, now that was a lesson t
he young man would never forget.
A phone rang. Not the Almighty. The Almighty's commanding call to arms could never be confused with a regular telephone's half-hearted warble. It was the creamcoloured phone. The switchboard line. He picked up, knowing that, more likely than not, it would be a wrong number.
'Gannon,' he said, into the receiver.
'Major Allan Gannon?' said a voice. Scottish. Not a voice Gannon recognised.
'Yes?'
'My name's Sharpe, Jimmy Sharpe. You don't know me but I'm calling on behalf of a mutual friend who needs your help. Spider Shepherd.'
Gannon reached for a pad attached to a metal clipboard. It was stamped 'Eyes Only - Top Secret. Not For Distribution'. Strictly speaking the pad was only for official work, but Gannon doubted that anyone would mind. 'What does he need?' asked Gannon.
Shepherd's name was on the gym list again, presumably because Lloyd-Davies had been pulling strings on his behalf. His main motivation for using the gym had been to get close to Carpenter, but that had been blown out of the water. He had stopped carrying the Walkman. There was no longer any point. He'd left a message with Uncle Richard, telling him that things were progressing slowly. He just hoped Hargrove didn't decide the investigation had stalled and to pull him out.
He waited at the bubble. Amelia Heartfield was inside, talking to Tony Stafford. She was crying, brushing away tears with the back of her hand. Bill Barnes was standing at the stairs wearing his England football strip with a towel round his neck.
'What's wrong with her?' asked Shepherd, indicating Amelia.
'Rathbone's been killed,' said Barnes.
'How?'
'Mugged. Knifed.'
'What?'
'He was walking his dog. They found him stabbed. No wallet, no watch.'
'Bloody hell.'
'I tell ya, Bob, you're safer in here sometimes, the way the world is,' Barnes went on. 'He was okay, was Rathbone. Fair. Treated us like people, not numbers. That's rare in here.'
Hard Landing Page 32
