Locked Up

by GB Williams

  There was a happy family picture on his desk.

  ‘Imagine how you’d feel to lose one? Well, that’s what I live with every day, and now, Bell has to live with it, too. I have family support. Bell doesn’t. There was no one else to arrange the funerals, take care of the details, so I did it. I don’t believe that’s a crime.’

  The Governor looked to the picture of his own two sons. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘it’s not a crime, but it may be a breach of protocol. You are already on a warning.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And you know I don’t want to jeopardise my career. Which is why I’ve kept you in the loop with everything I’ve done, and why I agreed to see the service psychologist last week, and she gave me a clean bill of health. Well, she suggested I might benefit from some grief counselling, to which I’ve agreed, but that was all.’

  ‘Hey, Mum!’ Teddington called, as she stepped through the front door. ‘I got the shopping you called about!’ She was carrying two supermarket bags, which she took directly to the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks, love! We have a visitor, put the kettle on.’

  Plonking the bags on the side, Teddington checked the kettle was full and switched it on, as she started putting the shopping away. She could just about hear there were voices in the front room, but she didn’t know who the visitor was – probably just one of her mum’s friends from the various social groups she was involved in. She was only halfway through when her mother appeared.

  ‘I’ll finish that. He’s here to see you,’ her mother surprised her by saying, as she took over unloading the second bag. ‘You go talk to your caller. He’s been waiting ages for you to get back.’

  Frowning at her mother, Teddington asked who it was.

  ‘That nice Inspector who was looking for you when you were kidnapped.’

  DCI Piper here? Why? ‘I wasn’t kidnapped,’ she reminded her mother absently, as she went to the front room. ‘Chief Inspector,’ she greeted.

  ‘Mrs Teddington.’

  ‘What do you want?’ She closed her eyes, took a breath. ‘Sorry, that was rude. But, really, what do you want?’

  ‘How do you feel about going back to work with Bell?’

  Well, that’s direct. She crossed her arms, but the move was overly defensive, so she put her hands in her jeans pockets instead. ‘I don’t feel anything particular about it. I want to get back to work, but the Governor won’t allow it without a doctor’s fit-to-work note. Even then, it’ll be light duty only, off the wings. Besides, Charlie’s on the list for a parole hearing – this week, I think. He shouldn’t be there when I go back.’

  ‘The hearing’s been delayed, indefinitely.’

  She shifted, fidgeted. Piper was watching her too closely. She had the feeling he could read her all too easily. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Didn’t know that. What happened?’

  ‘I did.’ His attention shifted to her mother coming in bearing two matching mugs of steaming tea. ‘Thank you, Mrs Whittaker.’

  Teddington took the mug, finding her hands had gone colder than she had realised. As Piper thanked her mother, Teddington paced to the front window. Through the dazzlingly white nets, she could see the street where she’d done most of her growing up. Looking to her left, she could see the house on the opposite side of the road where Enzo lived. She felt colder knowing he wasn’t there yet.

  ‘I’m going over to the Sanchez’s to put on their evening meal,’ her mother was saying. ‘Will you be visiting Enzo today?’

  Teddington nodded. ‘This evening.’

  Her mother turned to Piper. ‘Mia and Dino, Enzo’s parents, are back from Italy, to be with Enzo. I put a little something in the oven for them while they’re at the hospital. It’s nice to come home to a cooked meal, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Mum?’ Teddington interrupted when she could see her mother was going to continue the conversation. ‘You don’t want the Sanchez’s coming home to a half-cooked meal.’

  ‘No, no,’ her mother fussed, busy collecting her stuff, ‘quite right.’

  When her mother went out of the door, Teddington watched her head across the street, and didn’t hold back the sigh of relief. ‘I love Mum, but right now, I’m struggling to cope with her incessant chatter.’

  ‘She’s a generous woman,’ Piper observed quietly.

  Teddington started to murmur her agreement, as she went to sip the tea, only the tea halted untouched to lips that hung loose, as her eyes widened and she turned to the DCI, struck by recognition at last. ‘You?’ She wasn’t sure she believed it. ‘You were the second man?’

  For a moment, he stared directly back. ‘Of course.’

  Teddington couldn’t focus. She leaned on the window sill, placing her tea down on the white sill so her shaking hands didn’t spill it. Her whole world was tipping. Corruption in the prison service. A prisoner had saved her – twice. A mother who let her children die. A serving police officer who gave assistance to a man on the run. Where was the nice, ordered world she’d grown up believing in?

  ‘Mrs Teddington?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, sorry, I’m fine.’ She picked up her tea and moved over to the sofa. ‘Why did you delay Charlie’s hearing?’

  ‘Because I need him where he is,’ Piper stated. ‘So do you.’

  ‘Me?’ Teddington frowned up at him. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘Thomas Walters.’

  Teddington swallowed, becoming engrossed in the swirling mists of her tea. ‘Suicide.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  His certainty unnerved her. ‘Says who?’

  ‘The fact that you asked Charlie Bell to investigate.’

  She knew she hadn’t told anyone else about that. ‘Says who?’

  ‘Charlie Bell.’ Piper rolled his eyes. ‘Look, this will be a lot easier if you just trust me.’

  ‘You were the one who pointed out it’s difficult to know who to trust.’ She glared up at him, but didn’t have the will to fight him. ‘But, then again, this Mexican Standoff isn’t doing either of us any favours. Let’s start over. How about you start with telling me what your relationship with Bell is?’

  ‘I was Charlie’s commanding officer for ten years. And a better officer I’ve rarely met.’

  Teddington watched Piper. He meant every word he said, which somehow didn’t make her feel any better. She was already doing everything she could to not like Charlie too much.

  ‘What about your relationship with him?’

  She huffed and smiled. ‘Wow, you’re the second man to ask me about that today.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Guv, when I told him I want to go back to work. But, I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell him, when it comes to Charlie Bell, I just don’t bloody know. He’s an inmate, I’m an officer.’

  ‘You said that before,’ Piper countered. ‘Didn’t exactly ring true then, either.’

  Teddington couldn’t answer immediately, but she knew Piper would wait on a response. ‘It’s an impossible situation. I think, had we met in other circumstances, that Charlie and I would probably, that is, possibly—’ she couldn’t find the words.

  ‘You fancy him.’

  ‘Are we teenagers?’

  Piper laughed, his smile surprisingly becoming. ‘You’re attracted to him.’

  ‘Of course I’m attracted to him. Six-four, great body, beautiful eyes. He’s intelligent, considerate, and he treats me with respect. I’d have to be dead from the brain down not to be attracted to him, but here’s the killer – he’s a convict, I’m a prison officer. It’s probably not real. It’s not allowed to be real. It cannot happen.’

  ‘He wants it to,’ Piper spoke lightly, and she couldn’t detect any note of censure. ‘So do you.’

  Teddington looked away. ‘Wanting and having aren’t the same thing.’ Which didn’t make any of it easier. ‘What do you know about the man he killed?’

  ‘Phillip Mansel-Jones? Nasty piece of work. We’d been looking at Mansel-Jones f
or years, but the guy was good when it came to hiding the evidence. The operation was slick. There was a fall guy at every turn. And with each year, Mansel-Jones got worse. His perversions grew, as did his cruelty. Either we’d get a witness who’d disappear or withdrew testimony, there was always a ‘water-tight’ alibi. In the end, we were both getting too damn close, almost obsessed with the bastard. It was clear we’d never get anything on him. Then, a body turned up.

  ‘I won’t tell you the details; it was horrific. But, from a professional point of view, wonderful. The body yielded DNA evidence – a definitive link to Mansel-Jones. The pathologist got his hands shattered, claimed it was an accident. The evidence disappeared. He never looked me in the eye again. Then, another little girl went missing. It wasn’t our case, but I knew what it meant. I went to the Mansel-Jones house in the early hours of a moonless night, though that was more accident than design. Charlie got there before me. He broke in, found the girl, got her out, passed her to me. I was getting her into the car, when I heard the shots.’

  Teddington sat, stunned, as the DCI provided her with information that could ruin his career, not to mention, see him in prison as an accessory to murder. There were many ways he could have gained her trust. This struck her as the riskiest.

  ‘I dropped the girl in woods close to her house, watched her run home, saw the joy on her parents’ face when they opened the back door, and there she was.’

  He took a sip of his tea. ‘The girl never said what happened to her. It’s been assumed she just got lost in the woods, and the search failed to find her. Charlie, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide, he just went home. Though when the police arrived, he’d obviously taken quite a beating. At his trial, he told the truth, but omitted my presence, never named the girl he’d saved, said he didn’t know who she was.’

  ‘I’m amazed he was only given seven years.’

  ‘Extenuating circumstances.’

  She frowned the question at him.

  ‘He hadn’t just been beaten, he’d been shot, the bullet fired from a gun used in three robberies. A gun that was later found in the sewers a hundred feet from the Mansel-Jones house. Charlie says Mansel-Jones shot first.’

  ‘But, is it true?’

  Piper nodded. ‘There are other details that didn’t come out, but, yes, I believe so. Charlie never had access to a gun. Mansel-Jones did.’

  Teddington stared at him. ‘How am I supposed to feel about this?’

  This time, he shrugged. ‘Sometimes, heroes wear black, and good men are guilty. If you figure out how to feel about it, tell me. I haven’t worked that one out yet.’

  She forced herself to swallow over the lump in her throat. ‘It’s a screwed up world.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Piper passed her the manila file that had been resting on the arm of the chair.

  In silence, she took it and read with absorbed fascination. The case file of Thomas Walters, including autopsy report. Piper sat in silence as she poured over it, before passing it back. ‘Thanks for the nightmares.’

  ‘Still think it’s suicide?’

  She sighed. ‘I never thought it was suicide, but without a murder weapon, what hope is there?’

  ‘What about this mysterious “Leo” everyone refers to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. People I’ve never seen scared of anything, are nervous. He’s powerful, but that’s all I know. What happens if we don’t figure out who he is?’

  The tight line of Piper’s lips, the darkening of dread in his eyes all made her rather grateful to be sat down. She feared her knees had become gelatinous. ‘Tommy’s death may not be the last. And it may well not stop at inmates.’

  Fear constricted her throat. ‘You think my colleagues and I are in danger?’

  ‘Perhaps not your colleagues.’

  There was no oxygen left in the room. The world. ‘Like, in hospital?’

  Then, the left side of his mouth started to tip up. ‘Don’t worry. That investigation is on-going. Yes, there is a possibility of danger. We know tendrils of this reach beyond the tall walls of Blackmarch Prison. We’re less clear on how far, and we don’t know the ultimate plan. That’s why we need to find out who Leo is.’

  She shrugged. ‘There are no Leos in the prison. Closest I could find was a Mahatma Lyons in A-wing.’

  ‘What about your partner?’

  ‘Robbins?’ she frowned. ‘His name’s Len. I suppose I could ask him—’

  ‘No,’ Piper cut her off. ‘Don’t bring anyone else into this. You’ll have to be careful, keep your eyes and ears open, but don’t put yourself at risk.’

  ‘I don’t intend to. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been at way too much risk these last few weeks as it is, I don’t want to go there again. You know, it’s not like I haven’t been trying to find out what happened, I just can’t find any evidence.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  22

  On the third day of asking, Charlie was finally handed the books Teddington had sent. Looking through them he wondered about Teddington’s reading habits. Ian Rankin, Michael Crichton, Christopher Brookmyre, Simon Kernick … And Anne Frank.

  She’d said ‘ladies first,’ so she meant to direct him to Anne Frank. He’d checked for messages slipped inside, but if there had been one, it was gone now. It could have been found and removed before he’d received the volume, or it could be something in the volume itself. He’d have to read it.

  The reading was a surprisingly harrowing experience. Like most people who studied Modern History at school, Charlie was well aware of what the Nazis had done, what Jews like Anne had had to suffer. But, the mood and the writing from the young girl showed more than literary talent. It was a journey that gave hope, that taught one should never just surrender, but always make the best of a situation. It was a wonderful and enduring message, one Charlie was grateful to Teddington for trying to tell him.

  He was still thinking about the book through his evening meal. He missed not being able to sit with the other men. He might not have taken much part in the conversation, but he would hear it, find out what was going on. He wasn’t going to make much progress if he couldn’t talk to anyone.

  As he returned his dinner plate, not a single inmate would meet his eye. They’d cower away, distinct aversion to talking to anyone. The screws would, but he got the distinct impression if he didn’t look away quick enough, he was in trouble.

  On his way back, he saw Senior Officer Turner entering the wing, he judged his pace to make sure he naturally crossed Turner’s path.

  ‘Officer Turner,’ he greeted, as they approached one another.

  ‘Bell.’

  ‘Any news of Teddington?’

  Turner stopped. ‘You got her letter.’

  ‘True, but she didn’t say anything about when she’ll be back in work.’

  Turner took a deep breath, Charlie figured he was about to get told to butt out. ‘It’s not your place to ask.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He saw the frown flicker over Turner’s forehead, as he moved away and headed back to his own cell. Standing just inside the door, he looked around the room. It was neat, minimal, tiny. Boring, restricted, cramped. Airless. This was a cage. This was the point of prison. Locked up away from the world. Away from the people who were worth something.

  His eyes slid to the child’s pictures on the wall. Though he had torn down the one, the others remained. They provided the only colour to the grey room. Every time he looked at them, he felt the loss of Oscar again, but better that than feeling nothing.

  Sighing, he moved over to the chair, which felt way too small, but he was used to it. He picked up the book again, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, before he reached for Teddington’s letter.

  It struck him, again, that inside the script was very upright, and, on the outside, slanted. No matter how many times he read the letter, it didn’t tell him anything new.

  ‘You’ve never called me “sir” before. Wh
y start now?’

  Charlie was surprised to see Turner in the doorway. He placed the envelope on the table and joined his hands over it. ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘Yes.’ Turner came into the room, closer to Charlie, towering over him.

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Since I got back, I’ve noticed changes. “Sir” seems appropriate these days.’

  ‘Want to detail those changes?’

  Charlie wondered how much he dared say. ‘It’s too quiet. The lack of socialisation isn’t helping. Particularly for Brett.’

  ‘Brett?’

  ‘Ground floor. Was on suicide watch last year.’

  ‘I know the man, but what makes you think he’s having a problem?’

  ‘I told Robbins the other day,’ Charlie reported what he had said to Robbins to Turner.

  ‘Hmm,’ Turner said. He scowled down at Charlie, then, spun on his heel, pulling the door closed behind him, the key sounding as the door was locked.

  Leaving the letter beside the book, Charlie swung up into his bunk. The writing on the outside of the letter was slanted. Towards a stamp that hadn’t been cancelled.

  For breakfast the next morning, Charlie got a large mug of steaming hot coffee and quickly returned to his cell. It was hot enough to burn his hands, but not hot enough to steam off the stamp. He needed a kettle. Only, he didn’t have one. Very few people did.

  Keen had a kettle.

  As eager as he was to speak with Keen, it was pointless until the man got back from the gym and the shower. To fill the time, he completed the routine he had devised for use in his cell. The exertion didn’t stop his mind doing twenty to the dozen. What was the message? How had it taken him so long to figure out where it was, and was there something more he should have done? Had he missed something time-sensitive?

  He checked his watch. By now, Keen would be back in his cell. Standing, Charlie grabbed the letter, tucked it into his back pocket, and headed up to the second floor.