by Shaun Hutson
'He might,' Morton offered.
'Oh, shut it, Terry, for fuck's sake,' Hitch said wearily.
'So what are you saying?' Plummer demanded. 'That the call was bollocks? A wind-up? If it was, I'd like to get my hands on the bastard that made it.'
'Forget about it,' Hitch advised, sipping his drink.
The phone rang.
Plummer crossed to it and picked up the receiver.
'Yeah,' he said.
'Ray Plummer.'
'Yeah, who's this?'
'We spoke a few days ago,' said the voice. 'Well, I spoke, you listened.'
Plummer, the receiver still pressed to his ear, turned to look at Hitch.
'You're calling about the cocaine shipment,' he said.
Hitch was on his feet in seconds.
'Well done,' said the voice.
Plummer put his hand over the mouthpiece and jabbed a finger towards the door to his right.
'The phone in the bedroom,' he hissed quietly.
Hitch understood and bolted for the door, picking the receiver up with infinite care so that he too could hear the voice on the other end of the line.
'Are you still interested in the shipment?' the caller wanted to know.
'Maybe,' Plummer said warily.
'What kind of fucking answer is that?'
'I'm interested if it actually exists,' he said.
'It exists all right. Ralph Connelly is going to be spending the money he earns from it pretty soon. Unless you decided you wanted it.'
'What do you get out of this?' Plummer wanted to know.
'That's my business. Now, if you're still interested, be here at this time tomorrow. I'll call then.'
The caller put down the phone.
'Fuck,' roared Plummer.
Hitch emerged from the bedroom.
'Recognise the voice?' Plummer wanted to know.
The younger man shook his head.
'If I was you, Ray,' he said. 'I'd wait for that call.'
FORTY-FIVE
'They're here, Mr Nicholson.'
The Governor of Whitely heard his secretary's voice over the intercom and glanced up at his wall clock. The delegation was punctual, if nothing else. It was exactly 10.00 A.M.
'Show them in, please,' he said, adjusting his tie and rising to his feet as the door was opened.
The first of the four visitors entered and Nicholson recognised him immediately as Bernard Clinton, the MP. He was followed by his companions. The Governor's secretary left them alone in the room, promising to return in a moment with tea and coffee.
Nicholson emerged from behind his desk slowly, almost reluctantly. He extended a hand and shook that offered by Clinton, who introduced himself then presented his colleagues.
'This is Mr Reginald Fairham,' Clinton said, motioning towards a mousy-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. He was tall and pale and when Nicholson shook his hand he found it was icy cold. 'Mr Fairham is the Chairman of the National Committee for Prison Reform,' Clinton explained.
Nicholson said how glad he was to meet him.
A second man, chubby and losing his hair, was presented by Clinton as Paul Merrick.
'Mr Merrick serves in my office in Parliament. He's been active with me in this issue for the last few years,' the MP announced.
Nicholson looked squarely into the chubby man's eyes, scarcely able to disguise the contempt he felt for such a soft, weak handshake. Merrick needed to lose a couple of stone. His hands felt smooth, like those of a woman or someone who's never done a hard day's work in their life. Nicholson gripped Merrick's hand hard and squeezed with unnecessary force, watching the flicker of pain cross the man's face.
The fourth member of the group was a woman, in her mid-thirties, Nicholson guessed. She was smartly dressed in a grey two-piece suit and posed elegantly on a pair of high heels. Her face was rather pinched, tapering to a pointed chin that gave her features a look of severity not mirrored in her voice.
'Good morning, Mr Nicholson,' she said as she shook hands.
'Miss Anne Hopper is a leading member of the Council for Civil Liberties,' Clinton said, smiling obsequiously.
Introductions over, Nicholson motioned for his guests to sit down.
'We appreciate the chance to come to Whitely, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said. 'Thank you for your cooperation.'
'Why did you choose Whitely?' the Governor asked.
'It is one of the worst examples of overcrowding in any prison in Britain,' Fairham said. 'And it does have one of the worst disciplinary records, too.' He clasped his hands on his knees. 'My organisation has been monitoring it for some time now.'
'Monitoring?' said Nicholson. 'In what way?' He spoke slowly, his gaze never leaving Fairham, who found he could only hold that gaze for a couple of seconds at a time.
'As I said, it has a very bad disciplinary record,' he offered.
'When you have over sixteen hundred violent and dangerous men in one place twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, then the occasional problem does arise,' Nicholson said, leaning back in his seat and pressing his fingertips together.
'But the disciplinary record here is worse than at any other prison in the country. How can you explain that?' Fairham persisted.
'Because the class of prisoner is lower,' the Governor said scornfully. 'Perhaps your monitoring system didn't tell you that.'
'I think Mr Fairham means that we all share a concern over the incident that happened here not so long ago,' Clinton said.
'The death of the remand prisoner,' Fairham interjected, as if reminding Nicholson of something he might have forgotten.
'It was unfortunate, I agree,' the Governor said.
'It wouldn't have happened if the prison had been run more efficiently,' Fairham snapped.
'This prison is run more efficiently than most,' Nicholson rumbled, his eyes blazing. 'My staff are more highly trained than the majority of officers at other prisons in this country. But no matter how well-trained or well-organised warders are, they can't always anticipate the actions of these… men you represent. That killing would have happened in any gaol, not only Whitely. My men are trained to control prisoners, not to read their minds.'
Fairham swallowed hard and began drumming his fingers distractedly on his knees.
'I don't think anyone is casting aspersions on you or your officers, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton offered. 'What happened was unfortunate, we're all agreed on that.'
'It was also inevitable,' Nicholson said sharply. 'The men in here are unpredictable, violent and dangerous. To some, killing is a way of life, whether you want to face that fact or not. Mr Fairham obviously chooses to ignore it.'
'Do you feel that the killing would not have taken place had overcrowding been less intense?' asked Merrick, pulling a pair of spectacles from his top pocket. He began cleaning then with a handkerchief which, Nicholson noticed, bore his initials.
'The killing would have happened whatever the population of the prison. As I said to you, for some of the men in here it's all they understand.' Nicholson looked at Fairham. 'Most criminals are of low intelligence, as you're probably aware. The difference between right and wrong seems to escape them. Presumably you are aware of the dead man's background?'
'He'd been remanded to appear in court for a driving offence,' Fairham said.
'A driving offence which included being drunk in charge of a vehicle,' Nicholson said. 'A vehicle he lost control of, which ran into a bus queue, killing a six-year-old girl in the process. A little more serious than an expired tax disc, I think you'll agree.'
Fairham didn't speak.
'You sound as if you feel his killing was a kind of justice in itself,' said Anne Hopper.
'They say God pays back in other ways, Miss Hopper,' Nicholson said flatly.
A knock on the door broke the heavy silence and a moment later Nicholson's secretary entered with-a tray of tea and coffee, which she distributed before leaving once more.
'What attem
pts are there at segregation between remand prisoners and convicted men here?' Clinton finally asked.
Nicholson sipped his tea thoughtfully.
'Very little,' he said flatly. 'We simply don't have the facilities to cope with the number of remand prisoners sent here.'
'Does that bother you, Mr Nicholson?' Fairham wanted to know.
'They're all criminals,' the Governor said.
'No, they're not,' Fairham protested, putting down his cup. 'The men on remand are awaiting trial. Some may be acquitted. Yet you insist on placing them with men who have already been convicted of far worse crimes.'
'I don't insist on it,' snapped Nicholson. 'I have no choice. What would be your answer to overcrowding?' he said, challengingly.
'Build more prisons,' Fairham answered.
'If you empty a rubbish bin onto the ground, it doesn't mean the rubbish will disappear,' Nicholson said, smiling. 'All you do is re-distribute the rubbish over a wider area.'
'And what is that supposed to mean?' Fairham snorted indignantly.
'If you build more prisons you're doing the same thing,' the Governor said. 'You're not removing the problem, you're just re-distributing the rubbish.'
'I'm not sure I like your analogy,' Fairham said. 'We're speaking about men, not garbage.'
'You have your own view,' Nicholson said icily.
'Is that how you view the men in Whitely, Mr Nicholson? As garbage?' Anne Hopper wanted to know. She held his gaze as he looked at her.
'As I said, we all have our own views. Perhaps I'm the wrong one to ask about that.'
'I would have thought you were exactly the one to ask,' Fairham interrupted vehemently. 'You are, after all, in charge of over a thousand men. You are responsible for their welfare.'
'Perhaps you'd be better off asking the families of their victims how they feel,' hissed Nicholson, turning his full fury on Fairham. 'There's a man in here who kidnapped and murdered two babies. One of them was less than six months old. He beat them so badly there was hardly a bone left unbroken in either of their bodies. Why don't you speak to the mothers of those babies? Or perhaps Miss Hopper should speak to the women who've been raped by some of the men in here. Or to the husbands of those women. Speak to them.' He looked at the woman. 'Do you have any children?'
She shook her head.
'No,' he echoed. 'Then perhaps the prisoners in here who have sexually abused children won't seem quite so odious to you.'
'Clinton held up a hand to silence the Governor.
'All right, Mr Nicholson,' he said, smiling ingratiatingly. 'I think we understand your point.'
'Don't patronise me,' he snarled. 'This is my prison. Run my way. I understand the mentality of the men in here. I see them every day and familiarity doesn't breed contempt so much as disgust in me. When you've lived around men like that for as long as I have, when you've seen at first hand what they're capable of, then you can come here and tell me how to handle my affairs. But for now this is the way things will continue.'
'Mr Nicholson, we didn't come here for a battle,' said Clinton. 'And I'm sure no one doubts your knowledge and ability in this job. We came to see how the prison is run. Perhaps now might be a good time to do that.'
He got to his feet and looked first at his companions and then at Nicholson, who nodded, a slight smile creasing his lips.
'If Mr Fairham will allow me to say one more thing,' he offered, the tone of his voice even, 'we also find overcrowding a problem here but the answer isn't to build more gaols. Before you leave here today, I'll show you how overcrowding can be dealt with once and for all. Not just at Whitely, but at every prison in the country.'
FORTY-SIX
The rumbling of conversation gradually died down as DI Frank Gregson got to his feet.
'All right, keep it down,' he said, raising his voice, looking out at the twenty or so uniformed and plain clothes men seated in the room. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Beside him, his colleague DS Finn was adding to the pollution, blowing out long streams from his Marlboro.
The babble gradually subsided into near-silence.
Gregson walked across to a blackboard that had a map of the West End stuck to it. There were several red-tipped pins protruding from it and an area of Soho had been ringed in red marker pen. To the left of the map pictures of Paula Wilson, plus the remains of the two dead murderers, were tacked. On the other side of the map there were several pictures which, from a distance, looked like ink blots. They were in fact the blow-ups of the print taken from Paula Wilson's thigh.
'Nine deaths, including two suicides,' Gregson began. 'All within the space of a week. The murders, as far as we can tell, are motiveless; the killers are now dead, burned to a crisp both of them. By their own choice. Nine bodies and no leads. That is the state of play at the moment.' He prodded a picture of Paula Wilson. 'You all know about this woman, how she was killed and where. What we don't know is why and by who. Now Dean Street, where he killed her, isn't exactly a quiet area; someone somewhere must have seen or heard something. And, seeing as no one has come forward with any information about this killing, I supposed we're meant to think that no one saw anything.' He smiled humourlessly. 'That's a load of bollocks.' The smile faded rapidly. 'If they won't come to us then we'll have to go to them. I want you to talk to people.' He looked slowly around the other faces in the room. 'I want pubs, clubs, clip-joints, restaurants and anything else you can think of, checked out. Talk to the staff. Two men have committed suicide within a one-mile radius of each other within a week. We've had a fucking chase through Soho and now a woman's been murdered. Somebody has seen something. Somebody knows something. I want that somebody found and I want them talking.'
'Who exactly are we looking for?' asked a plain clothes man in the front row. 'A suspicious character?'
A ripple of laughter ran around the room.
'In fucking Soho?' grunted Gregson. 'You might as well pull in every bastard who works there.'
More laughter.
'Just talk to them, find out what they've seen,and heard over the last couple of weeks,' the DI said.
'Do you think there's a link between the two killers?' a tall ginger-haired officer asked from near the back of the room.
'It's possible,' the DI said quietly, his gaze still roving around the other men in the room. 'We know it isn't a gang-related thing. Not unless London's been invaded by a bunch of fucking fireaters who haven't quite mastered the trick yet.'
Another ripple of laughter greeted this remark.
'Maybe it's the Irish Fire Brigade,' a voice added and the men laughed even louder.
'All right, all right, enough of the joviality,' said Gregson. He turned towards the map and jabbed at the red-ringed area. 'This area is to be gone over with a fine tooth-comb. You'll each be designated one particular area. We don't want to be tripping over each other. As it is, there'll be more policemen than punters on that patch.' He looked round the room. 'You'll report back to me on a daily basis. I don't care if you think you've got nothing, I want to hear what you know, what you found out.'
'Have either of the dead men been identified yet?' another man asked, puffing on his cigarette.
Gregson shook his head.
'We got a print off the second one from Paula Wilson's body, though.' He pointed to the photo of the print. 'It would seem to be just a matter of time before the man's identified.'
'You seem very sure, Frank,' Finn observed.
'Humour me, eh?' Gregson said wearily.
Should he mention the possible copy-cat overtones of the killings? He decided not to.
'Right,' he continued. 'Let's go. If you move through into the next room you'll find the area you're to work. And, like I said, I want to know everything you hear, what anyone's got to say, from the pimps to the tarts through to the doormen at the clip-joints and the managers of restaurants. Got it?'
The men got to their feet and began filing through the door on Gregson's left, muttering to themselves and each o
ther as they went.
'What are you expecting us to find, Frank?' Finn wanted to know.
'Some answers?' he mused, none too convincingly.
'The way you talk, Frank, I'm beginning to wonder if you know something I don't,' Finn said.
Gregson didn't answer.
FORTY-SEVEN
'What are the nets for?'
Anne Hopper paused beside the rail of landing three and looked over, running her gaze over the wire mesh strung from one catwalk to the other.
'To prevent suicides,' Nicholson explained, standing beside her.
'Are there many attempts at suicide, Mr Nicholson?' Paul Merrick asked.
'No more than usual in a prison this size,' the Governor answered without looking at the other man.
'And how many would be usual?' Reginald Fairham wanted to know.
'There are three or four attempted suicides every week,' Nicholson said, his tone emotionless.
'And how many are successful?' Merrick wanted to know.
'Two or three. It's a good ratio for a gaol with a population this size.' Nicholson began walking again, satisfied that his visitors were following him. Behind them Warders Niles and Swain walked slowly and purposefully, occasionally stopping to peer through the observation slots in the cell doors.
The small procession moved on towards a set of metal stairs that led them down to the second landing. Their footsteps echoed on the metal catwalks.
'The nets aren't that successful, then?' Fairham said, if you have three suicides a week.'
Nicholson caught the note of sarcasm in the other man's voice but he did not turn, did not look at the visitor.
'It wouldn't matter if we welded steel sheets across the landings,' he said. 'They'd still try and kill themselves. There are plenty of other ways than throwing yourself from a walkway.'
The tone of his voice hardened slightly. 'You might be interested to know, Mr Fairham, that the last prisoner who committed suicide by jumping from a landing also took a prison officer with him.'
Fairham didn't answer.
They continued along the walkway, the members of the delegation peering towards the cells or over the rails every so often.
