by GB Williams
He must have misheard. She had to have said anything he wanted. The problem was that the only thing he ever wanted to do was the one thing he’d thrown away when he’d killed a man. She was expecting a response, he shrugged.
‘Have you given any thought to where you’ll go when you leave here?’
He hadn’t really. His house and furniture had been sold to pay for his defence lawyer. The only living relatives he had were his parents, and his father had made it very clear that he was persona non-grata there. All his old friends were coppers, and he could hardly turn to them after what he’d done. ‘Not really.’
‘I’m sure I could find you a bed.’
He flinched, feeling her foot on his calf. She shifted on her chair, looking through his papers. There really wasn’t that much to look through. It was a narrow desk, so their knees were close together, he wasn’t surprised when she shifted and he felt the heat of her foot against his leg again.
‘A halfway house you mean?’
‘Probably,’ she acknowledged. ‘I know it’s not a great prospect, but I will do what I can. I’ll do whatever I can to ensure your comfort.’
He nodded vaguely. The phrases these parole officers used. There was probably a directive somewhere about ‘ensuring ex-prisoner comfort on return to civilian life,’ or something. He figured it was safer not to respond this time.
He frowned, noticing her feet were outside his. His legs weren’t closed, which meant hers would be wide open – a flash of fantasy zipped down his spine. The images he’d conjured of Teddington replayed across his mind. Played havoc with his breathing and blood flow.
‘Charlie?’ Fry leant forward again.
Focus. Jesus. Cold shower time.
‘Is there anything I can do to improve your comfort here, Charlie?’
Someone probably could, but it wouldn’t be Fry and it wouldn’t be whatever she was offering. He thought of Teddington again as sweat rolled down his spine. Definitely time for a cold shower.
‘Everything’s fine as it is. We done here?’
Her lips pursed, her eyes taking on a surprisingly hard glare. ‘Apparently.’
The inmates were back in their cells by nine, and Teddington was ready to call it a day. One of their last jobs was to ensure every cell door was locked. It wasn’t difficult; the men were free to continue to socialise, if they wished, but the presence of the police, the questions many had been asked, had left the place in a more sombre mood. It was a state of affairs Teddington recognised as unusual. If she wasn’t too exhausted to think from nights of limited sleep, she’d be more worried. Who was she kidding, she was worried. She was just too tired to do anything about it.
A couple of the hardier lags joked about having her locked in with them, but it was at best half-hearted.
‘Can I have a word?’ Holden was talking to Robbins; his bunkmate was already on his bed, immersed in his latest comic book.
‘What is it?’ Robbins asked.
The mechanic with a talent for liberating top-end cars looked meaningfully at Teddington. ‘It’s kinda personal.’
As Robbins turned to her, Teddington took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, and moved along. The next three cells were already closed. She checked they were locked. She paused at the fourth door. Partridge lay on the bottom bunk, his hand down his pyjama bottoms, and the tent pole effect obvious. As Teddington appeared, he smiled at her, working harder.
‘All for you, sweetheart.’
Stony-faced, she closed the door, as he jerked and cried out.
The next cell door was open, she looked in on Bell. He was sitting at the tiny desk. Like Gandalf in Bilbo’s hobbit hole, she thought. He was staring at an A4 sheet of paper, but his pen lay unused.
She stopped by the door and he lifted his head. A number of questions scrolled through his expression. Teddington was torn. She wanted to ask if he’d discovered anything, and she wanted to warn him about DCI Piper, but how?
‘Why do you put up with that?’ He nodded towards the wall. Towards Partridge.
She shrugged. ‘It does me no harm, and boys will be boys. You’ve been in here three years, you gonna tell me you never?’
His crooked smile and lifted brow reminded her of what he’d said in the garden.
Her own stomach tightened at that idea. ‘What are you writing?’
‘Statement for the parole board.’
She frowned, ‘Not usually necessary.’
‘No.’
The silence stretched. She tipped her head. ‘You haven’t written anything.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ For a second, she didn’t think he was going to answer.
‘Miss Fry,’ Charlie said, ‘suggested it might help if I made a statement about what I intend to do once I’m out.’
‘And what do you intend to do?’
Charlie shrugged and leaned back. ‘That’s the problem. I don’t know. I can’t exactly go back to my old job, can I?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘So, what’s the alternative for an ex-cop convicted of murder?’
‘Coding? You did well in that.’ She shrugged. ‘Bring a sense of realism to the GTA-type games?’ He didn’t look any more convinced than she felt. ‘At least, you’d be able to see your son,’ she pointed out. ‘You might not’ve been a good cop, but you could still be a good father.’
His laugh was short and bitter. ‘I was a great cop, but Cathy’s never gonna let me see Oscar now.’
‘Why not? What happened between the two of you?’ She told herself it was just professional curiosity.
‘It was good while it lasted, but when she found out I was cop …’ He shrugged. ‘She said she didn’t need that kind of pressure in her life.’
Teddington got the distinct impression there was more to it, but now wasn’t the time. ‘You’re still the boy’s father. You have a right to see him.’
‘Do you seriously see any court being willing support my claim?’
Probably not, sadly.
‘Winehouse and Keen had the same question as you.’ He sighed. ‘Which suggests neither was involved, but I can’t trust either of them.’
She checked the landing a moment. ‘Fair enough, but I’d trust Keen over Winehouse.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Known him longer.’ There was a lot more to it than that, and the way Charlie considered her suggested he was far from convinced by her nonchalance. Not such a bad cop after all.
‘In here?’
‘He was here before I was.’
His frown was deepening.
Damn it. She didn’t want him asking those kinds of questions. She needed to get away from him, before she said something she shouldn’t.
‘Who’s Leo?’
Teddington looked to the side, as she heard movement behind her. She glanced back to Charlie. The only answer she could give him was a tiny mute shrug, before she closed the metal door, her gaze clashing with his one last time, before she locked him up.
8
Sleep was elusive. Charlie lay on his bunk, flipping through the child’s drawings. They weren’t from his child, couldn’t be, but it had been good to think, even for a little while, that they might be. It was good to think of other things as well, and though he hated imitating that nonce Partridge, he closed his eyes and pictured Teddington.
His dreams were full of her. And blood. And Tommy’s death.
Waking before dawn, he knew he wouldn’t sleep again. He got up, paced, tried reading, tried exercising – nothing held him. He tried to work out who was lying about Tommy.
Maybe they all were.
Leo.
For three years, he’d watched the delicate balance of power between Keen and Winehouse, grateful he’d always managed to stay on the outside of it. What surprised him was the current lack of reprisals. Neither Keen nor Winehouse were making a move. The heightened tension was obvious, but they were both keeping their boys on a tight rein. Everyone was more afra
id of Leo than Keen or Winehouse.
While he had no idea who Leo was, he had heard the name whispered with fear and respect a few times this last year. Having reached the wall, he sighed and pivoted. Pacing barefoot to the door, he worried about his predicament. He considered yesterdays second interview, when he’d been sitting across the table from Piper and Carlisle. The chilling procedural correctness. It was worse than it had been three years ago, at least then, he had been guilty.
The few steps between one wall and the other was too few. Charlie was getting dizzy going back and forth, so he slumped down on the lower bunk. How much did Teddington know? He guessed not much, given yesterday’s conversation. Conversation; that was a joke. He knew there were places without surveillance cameras, where inmates would nip for a little ‘private time.’ Hell, some of them just went to their cells. But, that was impossible with Teddington. Everyone knew she didn’t enter the cells alone – she couldn’t risk doing so again. Still, he needed to talk to her. She’d been on for three days, so he wouldn’t see her again for another three. He had plenty of time to figure out how to engineer a meeting.
Dropping to the cold floor, he shoved the problem to the back of his mind with press ups.
The door was unlocked at 8:30. He finished the set he was on, stood, washed himself, brushed his teeth, dressed, and went down to collect breakfast. He was vaguely aware of the two officers on the ground floor as he paced down the stairs, but he paid no attention.
‘Hey, Officer Teddington!’
Charlie lifted his head at hearing the shout from one of his fellow inmates. This time he looked at the officers; Teddington, and some new guy.
‘You must love it ’ere,’ the heckler called. ‘You’re ’ere as much as the rest of us.’
‘Thankfully not, Holden,’ she returned with ease. ‘Just covering while Richmond takes some time.’
‘Not at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I ’ope.’
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Lucky sod’s just on holiday in Bermuda.’
‘What bank did he rob?’ This time, the call came from the other side of the hall, from another body further down the breakfast line than Charlie.
‘Unlike you, Fellows,’ Teddington laughed back to the inmate, ‘he didn’t. He just worked and saved.’
‘Who’s the newbie?’ Holden asked.
Charlie had been wondering the same thing. The new officer trailed behind Teddington on her circuit. He looked young to Charlie, not much taller than Teddington, fit but not overly muscular. Wet behind the ears. He sighed. Everyone was a new guy sometime in their lives; he shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
‘This is Officer Dyer,’ Teddington announced. ‘And, yes, he’s new, but behave. Show him what good little innocents you all really are.’
‘Innocents?’ Dyer asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Teddington assured him, light-heartedly. ‘They’re all innocent men, wrongly accused. Didn’t you know?’
She didn’t laugh, but her smile suggested she could, as various cat calls backed up the claim.
Charlie had made it to the head of the line to be served shrivelled bacon and rubbery eggs. With Teddington here, he’d have to find a way to talk to her.
Eating alone in his cell, Charlie couldn’t think of either a reason or place he could get her alone. He took his breakfast things back down and checked the garden rota. He wasn’t on it. He checked the gym rota. He wasn’t on it. He lingered, but no one was willing to talk to him. Baker was slouching in his doorway, they made eye contact, then Baker tipped his head. A mute and minor invitation. Taking his time, Charlie moved over.
‘You get questioned yesterday?’
‘Course.’ Charlie kept his voice low, as he put a shoulder to the wall and looked down at Baker.
‘They weren’t interested, were they? It was cursory. They don’t wanna know who did in Tommy.’
Charlie watched Baker; the man was simply stating his own impression. ‘Maybe. At this stage, it’ll all be procedural. For all either of us know, they got something from someone else, following other leads.’
‘I don’t see anyone missing, either, do you?’
Charlie considered who he had or hadn’t seen. ‘Partridge?’
Baker shook his head. ‘In with that Fry woman.’
‘He can’t be up for parole yet, surely?’
This time, Baker shrugged. ‘Dunno, don’t care. I’m just sick of the little wanker’s stories about who he fucked and how. He reckons he could fuck Fry and Teddington and still have enough left over for a cock sucker. Even claims to be halfway to proving it.’
‘The bloke’s a delusional twat,’ Charlie muttered, but he pushed off the wall. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to maintain.
Heading for his own room, he glanced up a landing. Keen, hair darkened from washing, was as nattily dressed as ever, and flanked by Runt, as he returned to his room. No one would ever get the chance to accost Keen in the shower. Keen briefly met Charlie’s eye. There was no signal, inflection, or acknowledgement. Then, the older man was gone.
‘You not in the garden today?’ Charlie asked Teddington, as she allowed him out into the exercise yard.
‘Not my shift, remember? It’s Richmond’s. I’m just covering.’
Charlie nodded and walked on. This was too public. He took long, deep breaths. With the exercise yard on the other side of the building from the garden, this air was fresh. The sun was warm on his face, and he stopped, tipped his head up, closing his eyes. All the better to enjoy the moment of peace.
‘Perkins is up to something.’
Charlie let his lungs and shoulders deflate. So much for peace. When he opened his eyes, Baker, whose mutter had shattered the moment, had moved on. Charlie stepped forward. It was no more than he’d been doing in his room, but at least, he wasn’t having to reverse direction every few steps out here. Running his eyes around the men, he was on the second pass before he spotted Jack Perkins.
The insignificant nonentity was an annoying thug, a bully, in for the attempted murder of his young wife, now ex-wife. Charlie recalled what he’d heard. When they married, he’d been 19 and she’d been 16. After four years of abuse, she’d left him, and he’d gone after her with a carving knife. Rumour was, she’d finally snapped and struck back, damn near killing Perkins, and in Charlie’s opinion, the near miss was a shame. She’d have got off on a plea of self-defence.
As he watched, Perkins walked taller today, strutted. He was up to something, all right. He had tormented on his wife. He’d been known to pick on some of the weaker inmates, but he wouldn’t have attacked Tommy, knowing Keen protected Tommy. Charlie was sure Perkins wasn’t so lucky. He tended towards the Winehouse camp, but wasn’t really part of the circle. So why was Perkins talking to Mohr? Mohr was definitely one of Keen’s.
‘Didn’t you get Mohr on a stabbing?’ Baker surprised him by jogging up and asking.
If only. ‘Nah, he wasn’t one of mine,’ Charlie advised.
‘But, he’s in here for a stabbing in’t ’e?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Mohr likes to cut people, but there was never enough evidence to convict him. Witnesses suffered inexplicable amnesia before coming to court. He got caught out in a pub brawl. Grievous Bodily Harm. He’s been in seven months; he’ll be out in three.’
He let Baker move on, but stopped in the corner, watching Perkins, and wishing he could get that moment of peace back.
‘If all you’re going to do is stand around brooding, you may as well be in your cell.’
Charlie angled himself to face Teddington. She didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked tired. Her hair was, as ever, pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, he could see no makeup, but tiny red pinpricks of old acne scars, her humanity betrayed by the laughter lines starting to spread around her eyes. There were piercings for earrings she never wore; her only jewellery was a cheap sports watch. Her uniform was boxy and hid any femininity, except for the obvious fact she had breasts. He tried not
to think about her breasts, concentrating on her hazel eyes, instead. She was intelligent, and sometimes, when she regarded him, like now, her eyes completely penetrated him.
‘Even murderers are allowed fresh air.’ He kept his voice down.
‘No, really?’
He reared slightly, such narkiness was not like her. Apparently, she knew it, too. She took a moment to close her eyes and released some tension.
‘Sorry.’
His shrug was as small as her apology.
‘There are no Leos,’ she almost whispered. ‘There’s a Lyons in A-wing, but he’s in confinement.’
‘You checked for middle names?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘No, Lucas Charles Bell, I didn’t think of that.’
He winced. He hadn’t heard his full name since being processed in here. He’d never liked being called Lucas, even insisted his parents call him Charlie, much to their disgust. He should have trusted her to be thorough.
‘I also checked aliases and birth signs. Unfortunately, that gave too many to be useful.’
He really should trust her. ‘The staff?’
‘I’ve no access to the personnel records, but no Leos I know of.’
‘Murder weapon?’
Her bottom lip moved in unspoken negative. ‘I was told it’s police business now.’
Charlie nodded. Her hands were more tied than his.
‘How long did you serve with Piper?’
Charlie tightened at the sharp question. ‘Ten years. How did you know?’
‘Carlisle’s reaction. Piper’s lack of. You were a DS, right?’
He nodded.
‘His DS?’
He nodded again.
‘Carlisle a DC, then?’
‘I taught him the ropes.’
‘No wonder he feels betrayed.’ She stepped around him. ‘Keep an eye on Perkins. He’s up to something.’
The temptation to watch her walk away was strong, but instead, Charlie returned his attention to Perkins. The younger man stood alone, and Charlie went over. He saw him coming, and there was a moment of fight or flight reaction, then he puffed himself up, fight-ready. Charlie wasn’t bothered. Perkins might get gym time, but there was no real contest. He looked down at the shorter man. There might once have been something handsome in those features, but it had been sneered away.
