by Colin Dexter
“That’s it. Chap called Evans. Started night classes in O-level German last September. Says he’s dead keen to get some sort of academic qualification.”
“Is he any good?”
“He was the only one in the class, so you can say he’s had individual tuition all the time, really. Would have cost him a packet if he’d been outside.”
“We-ell, let’s give him a chance, shall we?”
“That’s jolly kind of you. What exactly’s the procedure now?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll be sending you all the forms and stuff. What’s his name, you say? Evans?”
“James Roderick Evans.” It sounded rather grand.
“Just one thing, Governor. He’s not a violent: sort of fellow, is he? I don’t want to know his criminal record or anything like that, but—”
“No. There’s no record of violence. Quite a pleasant sort of chap, they tell me. Bit of a card, really. One of the stars at the Christmas concert. Imitations, you know the sort of thing: Mike Yarwood stuff. No, he’s just a congenital kleptomaniac, that’s all.” The Governor was tempted to add something else, but he thought better of it. He’d look after that particular side of things himself.
“Presumably,” said the Secretary, “you can arrange a room where—”
“No problem. He’s in a cell on his own. If you’ve no objections, he can sit the exam in there.”
“That’s fine.”
“And we could easily get one of the parsons from St. Mary Mags to invigilate, if that’s—”
“Fine, yes. They seem to have a helluva lot of parsons there, don’t they?” The two men chuckled good-naturedly, and the Secretary had a final thought. “At least there’s one thing. You shouldn’t have much trouble keeping him incommunicado, should you?”
The Governor chuckled politely once more, reiterated his thanks, and slowly cradled the phone.
Evans!
“Evans the Break” as the prison officers called him. Three times he’d escaped from prison, and but for the recent wave of unrest in the maximum-security establishments up north, he wouldn’t now be gracing the Governor’s premises in Oxford; and the Governor was going to make absolutely certain that he wouldn’t be disgracing them. Not that Evans was a real burden: just a persistent, nagging presence. He’d be all right in Oxford, though: the Governor would see to that—would see to it person ally. And besides, there was just a possibility that Evans was genuinely interested in O-level German. Just a slight possibility. Just a very slight possibility.
At 8:30 P.M. on Monday 7 June, Evans’s German teacher shook him by the hand in the heavily guarded Recreational Block, just across from D Wing.
“Guten Glück, Herr Evans.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, ‘Good luck.’ Good luck for tomorrow.”
“Oh. Thanks, er, I mean, er, Danke schön.”
“You haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting through, of course, but—”
“I may surprise everybody,” said Evans.
At 8:30 the following morning, Evans had a visitor. Two visitors, in fact. He tucked his grubby string-vest into his equally grubby trousers, and stood up from his bunk, smiling cheerfully. “Mornin’, Mr. Jackson. This is indeed an honour.”
Jackson was the senior prison officer on D Wing, and he and Evans had already become warm enemies. At Jackson’s side stood Officer Stephens, a burly, surly-looking man, only recently recruited to the profession.
Jackson nodded curtly. “And how’s our little Einstein this morning, then?”
“Wasn’t ’e a mathematician, Mr. Jackson?”
“He was a bloody Kraut,” snapped Jackson. Evans’s quiet voice always riled him, and Evans’s present insight into his own vast ignorance riled him even more.
“I think ’e was a Jew, Mr. Jackson.”
“I don’t give a monkey’s fuck what he was, you scruffy sod.”
“Scruffy” was, perhaps, the right word. Evans’s face was unshaven, and he wore a filthy-looking red-and-white bobble hat upon his head. “Give me a chance, Mr. Jackson. I was just goin’ to shave when you bust in.”
“Which reminds me.” Jackson turned his eyes on Stephens. “Make sure you take his razor out of the cell when he’s finished scraping that ugly mug of his. Clear? One of these days he’ll do us all a favour and cut his bloody throat.”
For a few seconds Evans looked thoughtfully at the man standing ramrod straight in front of him, a string of Second World War medals proudly paraded over his left breast-pocket. “Mr. Jackson? Was it you who took me nail-scissors away?” Evans had always worried about his hands.
“And your nail-file, you poney twit.”
“Look!” For a moment Evans’s eyes smouldered dangerously, but Jackson was ready for him.
“Orders of the Governor, Evans.” He leaned forward and leered, his voice dropping to a harsh, contemptuous whisper. “You want to complain?”
Evans shrugged his shoulders lightly. The crisis was over.
“You’ve got half an hour to smarten yourself up, Evans—and take that bloody hat off!”
“Me ’at? Huh!” Evans put his right hand lovingly on top of the filthy woollen, and smiled sadly. “D’you know, Mr. Jackson, it’s the only thing that’s ever brought me any sort o’ luck in life. Kind o’ lucky charm, if you know what I mean. And today I thought—well, with me exam and all that …”
Buried somewhere in Jackson, beneath all the bluster and the bull-shit, was a tiny core of compassion; and Evans knew it.
“Just this once, then, Shirley Temple.” (If there was one thing that Jackson genuinely loathed about Evans it was his long, wavy hair.) “And get bloody shaving!”
At 8:45 the same morning the Reverend Stuart McLeery left his bachelor flat in Broad Street and stepped out briskly towards Carfax. The weatherman reported temperatures considerably below the normal for early June, and a long black overcoat and a shallow-crowned clerical hat provided welcome protection from the steady drizzle which had set in half an hour earlier and which now spattered the thick lenses of his spectacles. In his right hand he was carrying a small brown suitcase, which contained all that he would need for his morning duties, including a sealed question-paper envelope, a yellow invigilation form, a special “authentication” card from the Examinations Board, a paper-knife, a Bible (he was to speak to the Women’s Guild that afternoon on the book of Ruth), and a current copy of The Church Times.
The two-hour examination was scheduled to start at 9:15 A.M.
Evans was lathering his face vigorously when Stephens brought in two small square tables, and set them opposite each other in the narrow space between the bunk on the one side and on the other the distempered stone; wall, plastered at eye-level with a proud row of naked women, vast-breasted and voluptuous. Next, Stephens brought in two hard chairs, the slightly less battered of which he placed in front of the table which stood nearer the ceil door.
Jackson put in a brief final appearance. “Behave yourself, laddy!”
Evans turned and nodded.
“And these” (Jackson pointed to the pin-ups) “off!”
Evans turned and nodded again. “I was goin’ to take ’em down anyway. A minister, isn’t ’e? The chap comin’ to sit in, I mean.”
“And how did you know that?” asked Jackson quietly.
“Well, I ’ad to sign some forms, didn’t I? And I couldn’t ’elp—”
“You sneaky little bastard.”
Evans drew the razor carefully down his left cheek, and left a neat swath in the white lather. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Jackson? Why did they ’ave to bug me bloody cell?” He nodded his head vaguely to a point above the door.
“Not a very neat job,” conceded Jackson.
“They’re not—they don’t honestly think I’m goin’ to try to—”
“They’re taking no chances, Evans. Nobody in his bloody senses would take any chances with you.”
“Who’s goin’ to listen in?”
“I’ll tell you who’s going to listen in, laddy. It’s the Governor himself, see? He don’t trust you a bloody inch—and nor do I. I’ll be watching you like a bleedin’ hawk, Evans, so keep your nose clean. Clear?” He walked towards the door. “And while we’re on the subject of your nose, Evans, it’s about time you changed that filthy snot-rag dangling from your arse pocket. Clear?”
Evans nodded. He’d already thought of that, and Number Two Handkerchief was lying ready on the bunk—a neatly folded square of off-white linen.
“Just one more thing, Einstein.”
“Ya? Wha’s’ at?”
“Good luck, old son.”
In the little lodge just inside the prison’s main gates, the Reverend S. McLeery signed his name neatly in the visitors’ book, and thence walked side by side with a silent prison officer across the exercise yard to D Wing, where he was greeted by Jackson. The Wing’s heavy outer door was unlocked, and locked behind them, the heavy inner door the same, and McLeery was handed into Stephens’s keeping.
“Get the razor?” murmured Jackson.
Stephens nodded.
“Well, keep your eyes skinned. Clear?”
Stephens nodded again; and McLeery, his feet clanging up the iron stairs, followed his new guide, and finally stood before a cell door, where Stephens opened the peep-hole and looked through.
“That’s him, sir.”
Evans, facing the door, sat quietly at the farther of the two tables, his whole attention riveted to a textbook of elementary German grammar. Stephens took the key from its ring, and the cell lock sprang back with a thudded, metallic twang.
It was 9:10 A.M. when the Governor switched on the receiver. He had instructed Jackson to tell Evans of the temporary little precaution—that was only fair. (As if Evans wouldn’t spot it!) But wasn’t it all a bit theatrical? Schoolboyish, almost? How on earth was Evans going to try anything on today? If he was so anxious to make another break, why in heaven’s name hadn’t he tried it from the Recreational Block? Much easier. But he hadn’t. And there he was now—sitting in a locked cell, all the prison officers on the alert, two more locked doors between his cell and the yard, and a yard with a wall as high as a haystack. Yes, Evans was as safe as houses …
Anyway, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to have the receiver turned on for the next couple of hours or so. It wasn’t as if there was going to be anything to listen to, was it? Amongst other things, an invigilator’s duty was to ensure that the strictest silence was observed. But … but still that little nagging doubt! Might Evans try to take advantage of McLeery? Get him to smuggle in a chisel or two, or a rope-ladder, or—
The Governor sat up sharply. It was all very well getting rid of any potential weapon that Evans could have used; but what about McLeery? What if, quite unwittingly, the innocent McLeery had brought in something himself? A jack-knife, perhaps? And what if Evans held him hostage with such a weapon? Sort of hi-jack-knifed him?
The Governor reached for the phone. It was 9:12 A.M.
The examinee and the invigilator had already been introduced by Stephens when Jackson came back and shouted to McLeery through the cell door. “Can you come outside a minute, sir? You, too, Stephens.”
Jackson quickly explained the Governor’s worries, and McLeery patiently held out his arms at shoulder-level whilst Jackson lightly frisked his clothes. “Something hard here, sir.”
“Ma reading glasses,” replied McLeery, looking down at the spectacle case.
Jackson quickly reassured him, and bending down on the landing thumb-flicked the catches on the suitcase. He picked up each envelope in turn, carefully passed his palms along their surfaces—and seemed satisfied. He riffled cursorily through a few pages of Holy Writ, and vaguely shook The Church Times. All right, so far. But one of the objects in McLeery’s suitcase was puzzling him sorely.
“Do you mind telling me why you’ve brought this, sir?” He held up a smallish semi-inflated rubber ring, such as a young child with a waist of about twelve inches might have struggled into. “You thinking of going for a swim, sir?”
McLeery’s hitherto amiable demeanour was slightly ruffled by this tasteless little pleasantry, and he answered Jackson somewhat sourly. “If ye must know, I suffer from haemorrhoids, and when I’m sitting down for any length o’ time—”
“Very sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to, er …” The embarrassment was still reddening Jackson’s cheeks when he found the paper-knife at the bottom of the case. “I think I’d better keep this though, if you don’t mind, that is, sir.”
It was 9:18 A.M. before the Governor heard their voices again, and it was clear that the examination was going to be more than a little late in getting under way.
McLeery: “Ye’ve got a watch?”
Evans: “Yes, sir.”
McLeery: “I’ll be telling ye when to start, and again when ye’ve five minutes left. A’ right?”
Silence.
McLeery: “There’s plenty more o’ this writing paper should ye need it.”
Silence.
McLeery: “Now. Write the name of the paper, 021–1, in the top left-hand corner.”
Silence.
McLeery: “In the top right-hand corner write your index number—313. And in the box just below that, write your centre number—271.
A’ right?”
Silence. 9:20 A.M.
McLeery: “I’m now going to—”
Evans: “ ’E’s not goin’ to stay ’ere, is ’e?”
McLeery: “I don’t know about that. I—”
Stephens: “Mr. Jackson’s given me strict instructions to—”
Evans: “ ’Ow the ’ell am I supposed to concentrate on me exam with a bleedin’ screw breathin’ down me neck? Christ! Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”
The Governor reached for the phone. “Jackson? Ah, good. Get Stephens out of that cell, will you? I think we’re perhaps overdoing things.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The Governor heard the exchanges in the cell, heard the door clang to once more, and heard McLeery announce that the examination had begun at last.
It was 9:25 A.M.; and there was a great calm.
At 9:40 A.M. die Examinations Board rang through, and the Assistant Secretary with special responsibility for modern languages asked to speak to the Governor. The examination had already started, no doubt? Ah, a quarter of an hour ago. Yes. Well, there was a correction slip which some fool had forgotten to place in the examination package. Very brief. Could the Governor please …?
“Yes, of course. I’ll put you straight through to Mr. Jackson in D Wing. Hold the line a minute.”
Was this the sort of thing the Governor had feared? Was the phone call a fake? Some signal? Some secret message …? But he could check on that immediately. He dialled the number of the Examinations Board, but heard only the staccato bleeps of a line engaged. But then the line was engaged, wasn’t it? Yes. Not very intelligent, that …
Two minutes later he heard some whispered communications in the cell, and then McLeery’s broad Scots voice:
“Will ye please stop writing a wee while, Mir. Evans, and listen carefully. Candidates offering German, 021–1, should note the following correction. On page three, line fifteen, the fourth word should read goldenen, not goldene; and the whole phrase will therefore read zum goldenen Löwen, not zum goldene Löwen.’ I will repeat that …”
The Governor listened and smiled. He had taken German in the sixth form himself, and he remembered all about the agreements of adjectives. And so did McLeery, by the sound of things, for the minister’s pronunciation was most impressive. But what about Evans? He probably didn’t know what an adjective was.
The phone rang again. The Magistrates’ Court. They needed a prison van and a couple of prison officers. Remand case. And within two minutes the Governor was wondering whether that could be a hoax. He told himself not to be so silly. His imagination was beginning to run riot.
Evans!
* * *
For the first quarter of an hour Stephens had dutifully peered through the peep-hole at intervals of one minute or so; and after that, every two minutes. At 10:45 A.M. he nipped off to the gents’, and was in such a hurry to get back that he found he’d dribbled down his trousers. But everything was still all right as he looked through the peep-hole once more. It took four or five seconds—no more. What was the point? It was always more or less the same. Evans, his pen between his lips, sat staring straight in front of him towards the door, seeking—it seemed—some sorely needed inspiration from somewhere. And opposite him McLeery, seated slightly askew from the table now: his face in semi-profile; his hair (as Stephens had noticed earlier) amateurishly clipped pretty closely to the scalp; his eyes behind the pebble lenses peering short-sightedly at The Church Times; his right index finger hooked beneath the narrow clerical collar; and the fingers of the left hand, the nails meticulously manicured, slowly stroking the short black beard.
At 10:50 A.M. the receiver crackled to life and the Governor realized he’d almost forgotten Evans for a few minutes.
Evans: “Please, sir!” (A whisper)
Evans: “Please, sir!” (Louder)
Evans: “Would you mind if I put a blanket round me shoulders, sir? It’s a bit parky in ’ere, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Evans: “There’s one on me bunk ’ere, sir.”
McLeery: “Be quick about it.”
Silence.
At 10:51 A.M. Stephens was more than a little surprised to see a grey regulation blanket draped round Evans’s shoulders, and he frowned slightly and looked at the examinee more closely. But Evans, the pen still between his teeth, was staring just as vacamtly as before. Blankly beneath a blanket … Should Stephens report the slight irregularity? Anything at all fishy, hadn’t Jackson said? Mm. He looked through the peephole once again, and even as he did so Evans pulled the dirty blanket more closely to himself. Was he planning a sudden batman leap to suffocate McLeery in the blanket? Don’t be daft! There was never any sun on this side of the prison; no heating, either, during the summer months, and it could be quite chilly in some of the cells. Mm. Stephens decided to revert to his earlier every-minute observation.
