Locked Up

by GB Williams

  ‘What was Sanchez’s message?’

  An involuntary intake of breath revealed his surprise at that question. He had assumed she knew. ‘That I’m to be more respectful to you.’

  Her brow drew together. ‘I wasn’t aware of you being disrespectful.’

  He moved closer. ‘You don’t know what I was thinking last night.’

  Her eyes dilated, and she swallowed. That slight smile appeared again.

  ‘Hate to tell you this, but sweat and manure do not make an enticing combination.’ Then, she walked casually away.

  Charlie watched her. She was trying not to swing her hips, but she couldn’t stop it entirely. He hadn’t noticed before what a good rear she had.

  Feeling he was being watched, Charlie looked down the garden to Winehouse. Talking of rear ends. Charlie grabbed the spade and sauntered over to where Winehouse lounged in his chair, surveying his kingdom. As he unofficially ran the garden, he didn’t do the hard graft, and at this time of year, it was pretty much all hard graft.

  The older man watched Charlie approach, sending his bodyguard away when Charlie neared. He stopped two steps from Winehouse; it conveyed a level of respect he wasn’t feeling, but he needed to avoid looking like a threat. This constituted sufficient distance that any attack would be seen coming, and, therefore, was the perfect compromise.

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  Winehouse shrugged. ‘I needed a strong back, you wanted a workout you couldn’t get. Much better out here in the fresh air, than that stuffy gym.’

  ‘Not a permanent arrangement, then?’

  ‘Could be.’ Winehouse looked him up and down, a critical assessment.

  Charlie fell back on his years in the force to remain impassive.

  ‘Come closer.’

  ‘I’ve been reliably informed I stink.’

  This time, Winehouse smiled. ‘The aroma of fertilizer surrounds us all. Come closer.’ Over his shoulder, Winehouse instructed Paul to fetch another chair. What arrived was a folding stool of unknown origin.

  Charlie decided to plant the spade into the nearest raised bed, before he moved closer to Winehouse. He squatted to the low stool, which creaked worryingly, and, of course, left his head much lower than Winehouse’s.

  ‘I believe you were a cop.’

  Hearing nothing but a statement, Charlie did not respond.

  ‘What was your rank?’

  Charlie took his time answering. ‘Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Were you any good?’

  Charlie’s gaze switched to the muscle man behind them. ‘Good enough to put Paul there in here.’

  Winehouse smiled, leaned slightly forward, and kept his voice low. ‘Not the sharpest tool in the box, but he has his uses.’ Then, he sat back. ‘You heard what happened to Tommy? Of course, you heard,’ Winehouse answered his own question. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’

  Charlie watched Winehouse silently.

  ‘I want you to find out how he did it.’

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘No.’ Winehouse scowled. ‘Keen.’ He looked up at one of the other men mixing the manure into the soil. ‘That’s Benny York,’ Winehouse told him needlessly. ‘He thinks I don’t know he runs to Keen with every tidbit he gleans from me.’

  Charlie had always considered York a weasel, knowing he was playing both sides. ‘So, why keep him around?’

  ‘Because he tells me anything he finds out from Keen. Naturally, most of what he passes on is misinformation, in both directions. Keen will know within five minutes you’ve been talking to me.’ Winehouse refocused his attention on Charlie. ‘You help me, and time in the garden is only one of the privileges I can bestow.’

  6

  A quick shower later, Charlie stood quietly in the dinner line. Feet at shoulder width, knees unlocked, hands relaxed at his sides, he could stand like this for hours. As a young PC, he occasionally had. Now, he just waited and kept quiet, listening to the murmur of voices, wondering if anything would be said worth homing in on. The jungle drums were oddly silent on the matter of Tommy Walters. That silence was broken by the rhythmic thunder-falls of Richard Hightower’s steps; Charlie couldn’t miss that approaching lumber.

  Ricky the Runt. The least appropriately named man Charlie had ever encountered. He was taller than Charlie, which was remarkable in itself. Charlie wasn’t used to physically looking up at other people. The man stood tall, wide and scary, like a bouncer, though his actions tended more towards breaker. He approached and leaned towards Charlie.

  ‘Keen’s cell, soon as you’re finished.’

  Charlie didn’t turn to face the big black man, nor verbally acknowledge the order. Without comment or inflection, he watched Runt move to the front on the line and barge in. No one was stupid enough to try stopping him. Charlie stood, waited, and when the line moved a step forward, he followed suit.

  The chatter died down. He could feel each furtive glance shot his way. The line shuffled along; people watched him. He took his tray, got served and sat to eat; most people took their trays back to their cells. Usually that was his choice, too, but if the monkeys wanted to watch, he could bear that. The weight of their observation felt different. The distrust was still there, but it had an added piquancy of curiosity. Today’s mystery meat was, well, a mystery. It swam in an inconsistent gravy that didn’t taste of anything amongst slushy lumps that might once have been vegetables. He missed al dente vegetables. A rare steak. Hell, any steak. In no hurry to enjoy such delights, he took his time eating, the wary gaze of the general population began to smother him. There was a question that wasn’t being whispered, but that he heard on every bated breath.

  Which side will he choose?

  He didn’t want to choose a side. He wanted the maintain the status quo, to continue keeping his head down, to get through his time quietly and without incident. Uncertain if the meal was tasteless because it was tasteless, or because he couldn’t taste it, he shifted it around, seeking inspiration. Six months. That was all he had to go. He sucked on a lump of something that disintegrated in his mouth. He was nearly halfway through his stretch. Reach that milestone, and he was eligible for parole. He could get out. Getting mixed up with prisoner politics was unlikely to bring freedom forward.

  No matter his reluctance to engage with prison life, there was a limit to how long any meal could be dragged out, so eventually, Charlie had to return his plate, and head back to the landing. Inclining his head, he saw Teddington patrolling, but he didn’t catch her eye. Perhaps, it’s for the best. He paced between the tables, the watching eyes burning into his back. He stopped on the first landing, went to his cell. There was an almost audible intake of breath from the men below.

  From the small cupboard, he withdrew his wash bag, noting with relief his hands were steady as a rock. The tap had its usual momentary pause on the first quarter turn, then, feebly spat a steady trickle. He squeezed a pea-sized lump of toothpaste on the brush bristles and ran it under the flow. Head down, he leaned over the sink and brushed.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Charlie forced himself not to react. Unlike Runt, Teddington had managed to creep up on him. She kept her tone low to keep their conversation private.

  ‘Why’s everyone watching your every move?’

  ‘Keen wants to see me.’ Charlie straightened, peering at her in the mirror as she stood at the cell door, and spoke around his toothbrush.

  She considered his words, and gave the slightest of nods. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘Really?’ The word bubbled through a mouthful of foam.

  ‘Winehouse spoke to you this afternoon,’ she noted. ‘Makes sense Keen wants your attention this evening.’

  ‘Makes no sense to me.’

  Again, he watched as Teddington broke one of her rules. Her breaths were too deep and slow to be normal. She was controlling her breathing, trying to make everything seem normal, when, clearly, it wasn’t. She stepped into the cell alone. This, it wasn’t just o
ne of her rules. He was pretty sure it was a general regulation for all the guards not to enter a cell alone. He kept his eyes fixed on the mirror as she bridged the distance between them. If someone had been in the cell directly across from them, they would have seen everything.

  She watched as he rinsed. ‘The note?’

  Charlie looked meaningfully at the basic metal toilet. ‘Shredded first, of course.’ Neither of them needed that kind of evidence laying around.

  When she looked back, she gave a start, apparently surprised by just how close they were. Charlie had great peripheral vision, so he knew no one was outside. Close and unobserved. How far can I push her? A small dip of his head, and he planted a quick minty kiss on her lips. It was over so swiftly, it hardly started, and they were left staring at each other.

  Teddington retreated from the cell.

  Charlie couldn’t define why he’d kissed her. He’d wanted to, so he had. Now, he wanted more. Taking a deep breath, he pushed such aberrations aside. Carefully, he expelled all the air from his lungs, steeled himself with another deep breath. Time to make a house call.

  The weight of expectation wasn’t just from the other prisoners. Charlie felt it in his gut. It dragged him down like concrete boots. He reached the second floor. Was it too late to turn back? Why would he turn back?

  The Runt stood outside the open cell door.

  ‘Let him in,’ Keen’s voice came from within.

  Runt shifted aside and Charlie stepped in. Never having been in Keens cell before, he took a moment to catalogue the space. In construction, it was the same as his own cell, yet it was still a world away. Keen had a mattress; not like the ancient lumpy thing Charlie slept on, but a proper mattress, or at least a foam overlay. He had sheets of quality cotton and a proper wool blanket with wide ribbon edges.

  Keen sat back in his padded leather chair, appraising Charlie. Charlie envied that; so much better than the rickety plastic thing he had to sit on. ‘You don’t look much like a cop.’

  ‘It’s the bars. We all look different behind them.’ He stepped forward. The rug on the floor felt odd beneath his feet. He looked up at the window to underline his point and spotted the potted plants, each in a brightly coloured pot.

  He watched Keen dab his mouth with a proper napkin. It matched the table cloth. Table linen. Until this moment, Charlie hadn’t realised how much he missed that either.

  ‘Indeed.’

  With a click, Keen drew Runt’s attention, pointing to the plate indicated to the big man to come and collect it, another flick of the wrist and he was dismissed. Outside Runt literally grabbed another inmate and jammed the tray in his hands, the smaller man slumped and headed away. Charlie concentrated on the real power of the play. Keen always dressed sharply. Even now he was in light chinos with a crisp crease and his shirt was pressed with precision ― the collar wouldn’t dare fray. The outfit needed a tie, and it was known Keen missed those strips of fabric. Under the table, Keen shifted. Charlie glanced down, saw the polished penny loafers. Where did you even get those things these days?

  ‘You were told to come directly after you’d eaten.’

  Charlie didn’t move, didn’t speak, simply regarded the old man. In his late sixties, Keen had a full head of hair the same steely grey as his eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I needed to brush my teeth.’

  ‘And speak to Teddington?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘She’s a screw, but she’s not stupid. She saw people were watching me after your message was delivered. She wanted to know what was going on.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That I didn’t know what you wanted,’ Charlie returned easily. ‘I couldn’t very well just kick her out of my cell.’

  ‘There’s plenty of men in here feel the same way about private time with her,’ Keen observed calmly. ‘That’s why she doesn’t go into cells alone. Until now.’

  There was a query implied in the tone of that statement, but without an explicit question, Charlie wasn’t going to respond.

  ‘Why is that?’

  Charlie shrugged again.

  ‘I thought you were a smart boy, Charlie. I’m disappointed in you.’

  Charlie figured he’d survive, but there were no guarantees.

  ‘Word has it, you’re working for Winehouse now.’

  ‘Does it? I was offered time on a gardening detail. It was a reasonable alternative to the gym time I never get.’

  Charlie watched Keen’s developing smile and thought about crocodiles.

  ‘If you wanted gym time, you only had to ask.’

  ‘I went through the official channels.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Keen’s look was almost hurt, ‘haven’t you learned yet, boy? I am the official channels.’

  ‘And I don’t take sides.’ Charlie looked back, unashamed and undaunted. ‘Now, if you had a reason to pull me up here, do you want to get to it, or shall I just go back to my book?’

  ‘What did Winehouse want?’

  ‘Didn’t York tell you?’

  This time, there was something more genuine in Keen’s smile. ‘Yes, but I can’t believe Winehouse would ask you to look into who killed Tommy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Now, there was a much darker tone to Keen’s look. ‘Because Tommy was one of mine,’ Keen said. ‘He was a good boy, and I liked him. Winehouse had him killed. I want proof. And I want you to get it.’

  7

  Laying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, Charlie considered his situation. He didn’t necessarily believe either Winehouse or Keen when they claimed to have no involvement with Tommy’s death. In his experience criminals were a bunch of untrustworthy liars. His gut, his knowledge as a cop, told him neither Winehouse nor Keen were lying this time. But, instinct and truth weren’t always the same thing, and believing they were could make a good cop a fool. However, if Tommy’s death was down to either Keen or Winehouse, what benefit was there in getting him to investigate? It was a puzzle. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d had to use any investigative skills. It wasn’t likely he’d need them in the future, but now was the time to brush them off. Of course, it was possible some hidden third party was pulling strings, looking to destabilise the place.

  Buoyed by a quick glance at the pictures on the wall, Charlie rolled off the bunk and grabbed an old sweatshirt, pulling it on as he stepped onto the landing.

  Breakfast was over, but there were plenty of inmates still down in the common area. When he’d gone down to get breakfast, Charlie had checked the work rota. His name wasn’t on it today.

  That was hardly surprising. Now that Winehouse and Keen had given him his orders, they wouldn’t do anything more for him, unless he did something for them. If he came up with the answer one of them wanted, that one would, or might, consider him a friend, but to the other, he would be an enemy. The third option was do nothing, but that way he’d make two enemies.

  Then there was Teddington, and the unknown ‘rotten states-man’. The rotter would eventually hear about what he’d been asked to do, and that was unlikely to go down well. If the rotter was a screw, which was likely, both he and Teddington had the power to make Charlie’s remaining prison life rather uncomfortable.

  Though, it was questionable what they could do to him. They couldn’t deny him visits, letters or works duty; he didn’t get any. His prison property was the same basics he had been issued with – part of his self-imposed penance. And he’d already worked out a self-contained exercise programme that he used in his cell. All that was left was socialisation, library and study time, and access to cash. He would like to think he wasn’t that bothered by any of these minimal luxuries, but they were humanising. He would miss them, if they were denied.

  Socialisation. It was pretty much just Baker who talked to him in here. What about Teddington? He pushed that image away. Teddington was off-limits. There were rules.

  So, there was little incentive from officialdom, and
only one stick. One bloody great stick. Piss off the screws, and they could deny him parole. The more time he spent in here, the less chance he had of Oscar remembering him. His brow creased with the knowledge Oscar was unlikely to remember him now anyway. Three years out of five was too much, and Charlie knew he’d never really make it up to the boy, but he would try.

  He looked around the prison. Three layers of cages in this wing alone. Over 150 men, who didn’t want to be here. If the inmates decided to turn against him, they could get real nasty. Knocking food from his hands, was the least of it. The food in here was hardly a la carte, but he didn’t want to starve. So far, he’d suffered no real physical abuse, but it was always possible. Even in the outside world, the nature of male urination always exposed a man’s vulnerability. In here that could lead to – things he didn’t even want to contemplate.

  He sighed. Was physical harm really his only concern? It wasn’t a huge worry. He could handle himself one-on-one easily enough. Only, if an attack came, chances were it wouldn’t be one-on-one.

  Since doing nothing was not an option, Charlie figured he’d better do something. Elbows on the landing rail, he surveyed his surroundings. Teddington wasn’t in sight, but she’d been on afternoons, so if she was on shift today at all, she would be in later. If she was on shift. He couldn’t remember if she had already worked two or three afternoons. He was fairly sure the shifts here were runs of three, then changed, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to work out the system. His policy since arrival had been head down and no getting involved – let nothing touch him.

  He no longer had that luxury.

  Resigned to an unpleasant fate, Charlie pushed away from the rail and went in search of Baker.

  Charlie chose a slow steady pace for the return journey to his cell; it wasn’t like he had anything to get back to. He projected an air of casual isolation, feigned disinterest. As he lingered, he spotted Robbins. Robbins and Teddington usually worked together. She wasn’t in view, but another woman was. Charlie recognised Rebecca Fry, a parole officer. Mousy to the point of obscurity, Fry had never made much of an impression on him, but now, something Baker had told him last year came to mind. She likes a bad boy, that one. Be good to her, and you could get out early. There had been no other rumours, at least not that he’d heard. She’d just arrived for a session with one of the inmates; the buff files she carried were probably parole applications and preparations for life beyond these high walls.