Locked Up

by GB Williams

  Runt stood by the door; he was the only person out of a cell on the second floor. He glowered at Charlie as he approached; a more obvious warning was hard to imagine. Still, he had to speak to Keen and couldn’t afford to let something so insignificant as a muscleman with a grudge get in his way.

  He moved to within a metre of the man before he spoke, asking to see Keen but keeping his voice low, respectful. It was all bullshit, but it all helped.

  ‘Let him in.’

  At Keen’s quiet command, Runt stepped aside, and Charlie moved into Keen’s relatively palatial room. The old man was sitting quietly, pondering a chess board.

  ‘Don’t you need two to play that game?’

  ‘Indeed. That’s why I’m awaiting a response from my opponent in B-Wing.’

  Charlie wandered briefly who the opponent was, but he didn’t know anyone in B-Wing and chess had never been his game. The only point of interest was the idea that cross-wing communication was still possible.

  ‘What game would you like to play, Mr Bell? Twenty questions, perhaps?’

  ‘Actually, I came with only one. Can I use your kettle?’

  Keen frowned up at him. ‘Only if you’re going to make me a coffee.’

  Seemed a small enough price to pay. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Wait.’ Keen’s voice stopped him, as he reached out. ‘Why should I help you? It seems people who help you get hurt.’

  That made Charlie frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Teddington tried to help you, and it nearly killed her.’

  ‘The shooting wasn’t down to me.’ He was already sick of having to explain that one.

  ‘What about her attempted murder?’

  Charlie felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All he could do was stare at Keen. ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t really think the overdose of morphine was an accident, did you?’

  Dear God … Charlie sank unbidden to sit on the foot of the bed. Accident was exactly what both Turner and Piper had told him it was. His worry had been controlled by the knowledge he dared not show that concern, but when he told Piper, Piper’s assurance he was being paranoid had helped. News sent via Towers later had been clear. Administrative error. Towers hadn’t been lying to him, but it was possible Piper had lied to Towers. His mind rebelled at the idea. Yet …

  ‘Someone tried to kill her?’ Was it possible that this was what the shooting at the cemetery was about? Was someone trying to kill her, specifically? Nothing, nothing at all to do with him? Nothing was making sense. ‘Why would they?’ He couldn’t believe anyone would want her dead.

  ‘Because they could get to you through her.’

  Charlie couldn’t assimilate that. Maybe he just didn’t want to. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose. ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re not an idiot, Bell. Who do you think?’

  Charlie considered the idea, scraping back his hair before intertwining his fingers, elbows on knees again. He’d been a cop; there were a fair few who’d want him dead, but Mansel-Jones was the most obvious. ‘Even if you’re right, how would they know I care about her?’

  ‘Every man and his bitch in here knows you want her – it’s not a huge leap from want to care,’ Keen pointed out. ‘Why do you think she was arranged as a present?’

  ‘You arranged that?’

  ‘No!’

  Keen actually looked offended, but then again, Keen had only permitted him time in the gym after he’d protected Teddington. ‘Just what is the relationship between you and Teddington?’

  Keen met his regard without expression. ‘And before you ask any more stupid questions, Winehouse had nothing to do with it, either.’

  ‘Then, who?’ Charlie’s frown only increased when Keen didn’t answer. ‘Something’s rotten in the state,’ he mused.

  ‘Indeed. Why do you want the kettle?’

  Charlie observed the man’s bruising was gone, and he got the impression Keen wasn’t so much cowed as biding his time. Keen had been in here for a decade; he’d seen people come and go, probably knew a lot more about what was going on than he let on. Keen was on a life sentence, properly institutionalised, and unlikely to even want to get out. Did that mean Charlie could trust him? It certainly meant Keen had known Teddington longer than he had, and she had told him to trust Keen over Winehouse.

  ‘It’s not real.’

  Keen frowned and glanced at the small electrical item, reaching over to waggle the very solid lead to the electrical socket. ‘It is.’

  ‘Not the kettle.’ Charlie smiled, half laughing. ‘Whatever it was between me and Teddington. It’s not real.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Charlie admitted. ‘She does.’

  ‘Stockholm Syndrome.’

  ‘That was what she called it,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Me, I don’t know what it is. Feels real to me, but there’s nothing to it for her. Seems somewhat unfair she’s being targeted for something she doesn’t have any involvement in.’

  ‘We all chose to cross the line, Charlie, which means we drag anyone we know down with us, no matter how hard we try not to.’ Keen narrowed his eyes. ‘And you didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘It’s not the kettle I want,’ Charlie told him, coming to an unexpected decision about trust. ‘It’s the steam.’ He twisted and took the envelope from his pocket. When Keen reached out, he placed the paper in the old man’s hands.

  He watched as Keen unfolded it and turned the letter over in his hands.

  ‘May I?’

  Charlie nodded his consent. If there was anything hidden in there, he hadn’t seen it.

  ‘It’s Teddington’s handwriting,’ Keen observed before he’d even taken the letter out. The older man clocked the curious look Charlie couldn’t keep from his face. ‘I’ve known her a lot longer than you have.’

  Only a year, two at most, Charlie figured. That’s how long Teddington had been working the Whitewalk, but it was longer than Charlie had known her. He watched Keen open the letter, read it.

  ‘The books she sent you,’ Keen mused, as he refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope, ‘was one Anne Frank’s Diary?’

  Charlie frowned. ‘How did you know?’

  Keen stood, carefully moved to the kettle, and switched it on. ‘Do you know what to do?’

  ‘You got there a lot quicker than I did.’

  ‘Been around the block a few times more than you.’

  They waited in silence, as the kettle boiled. When steam started to show, Keen held the letter in the flow. When it was ready, Keen removed the stamp and handed the envelope back to Charlie. Thanking him, Charlie looked at the letter. There, hidden under the stamp, in tiny capitals, was the message ‘MJ ACTIVE WATCH BACK’. A warning. There was little else to say, or do. Charlie returned the letter to his pocket. ‘Thanks.’

  Keen surprised him, stepping into his way. ‘Whatever may, or may not, be real, be careful … for Teddington’s sake. She’s tough, but she’s vulnerable.’

  Try harder.

  That phrase damned her for days, still hanging around her head, when she headed back to the prison and handed in the doctor’s note clearing her for light duties.

  The Governor wasn’t around, but Vera took the note and confirmed all details for the upcoming training course.

  Teddington wanted to speak to Charlie, but she wasn’t sure if her motivation was to solve a murder or just to see him again.

  Try harder.

  She’d already sent him a message, assuming he’d got it. There wasn’t anything else she could do. Yet. She couldn’t risk another move until she was back in work. Still, she wasn’t ready to leave, so she headed to the staff canteen. No one was there. She made a mug of coffee and slipped onto one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, staring into the distance, sipping.

  Try harder.

  Those were the words of an annoying teacher, and Teddington had known plenty of those. She was trying – she didn�
�t know what else to do. Since she had time and quiet, she delved into her handbag, pulled out her small pad, and started making notes.

  Weapon:

  Metal

  Hollow

  Possibly quite blunt

  A lot of force used

  Dirty

  * * *

  That was what the pathologist had concluded, but what did it mean in practical terms? ‘Quite blunt’ made sense; there weren’t that many sharps allowed in the prison. And very few ‘sharps’ opportunities were allowed within the prison environment. There were tools and knives in the workshops and kitchens. But if inmates were in there multi-dutied officers hovered like vultures. The public might not want the gangs inside prisons to ‘tool up,’ but they’d probably be horrified at the expense that the government had to to go to to avoid that. The officer: prisoner ratio in such situations was so high, days off were often interrupted to cover the number requirements. She’d often welcomed the overtime, but sometimes missed the R&R.

  She closed the pad and picked up the Prison Service Instruction she’d noticed earlier. New internal instructions. The PSI had Blackmarch printed all over it. The tone was the Guv’s. She wasn’t really reading it. Her coffee was hardly touched, when Turner walked in ten minutes later.

  ‘Hiya, doll,’ he greeted, as he put a dirty mug in the dishwasher. While Turner’s back was to her, she tore the page from the notepad and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

  ‘You just can’t keep away, can ya?’

  She smiled at him. ‘This is what you get for not having a life.’

  ‘So, why are you in?’

  ‘Handing in my fit-to-work note. I’ve asked to come back on light duties, so you’ll have to partner me with someone other than Robbins.’ Which was something of a relief.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  She offered him a quick smile. ‘Did Peggy forgive your birthday puke-athon on the bathmat yet?’

  ‘Just about.’ He made another coffee, before coming to sit opposite her. ‘Took some grovelling, but I got there. How are you doing?’

  ‘Mostly just bored. How are things in here?’

  ‘Quiet,’ Turner grumped. ‘You know what the guys were saying that night in the pub, about things being quieter?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well … quieter’s an understatement.’

  ‘Something wrong with that?’

  ‘If it sends someone like Brett over the edge, yeah. Bell’s settled back in, by the way.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He’s been reading a lot.’

  Teddington didn’t want to be seen to be eager for the news, but she couldn’t avoid the conversation – that would just look odd. ‘He always did.’

  ‘True,’ Turner allowed.

  ‘Oh, did you hear?’ Teddington reached for another conversation. ‘Enzo’s out of the coma!’

  ‘No, really?’ Turner smiled at the news, his tone hopeful.

  ‘Yeah, you know his parents flew back in?’

  Turner indicated he did.

  ‘Well, they sit with him all day, and I tend to visit in the evening. Yesterday evening, we were all there, changing over as it were, and Enzo opened his eyes.’ She couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘That’s great news. I’ll let the rest of the team know. So …’ Now Turner was looking at her, all speculation. ‘Have you heard the rumours about you?’

  Teddington paused, the cooling coffee halfway to her lips. ‘Erm, no. And I’m not sure I want to.’ But, she could tell she was going to hear them anyway.

  ‘Rumour one, you and Sanchez are, or at least were, getting it on.’

  Given what Turner had witnessed in the pub, she could hardly speak against that.

  ‘Rumour two, you and Bell did get it on.’

  She rolled her eyes at that one. ‘Ah well.’ She smiled and shrugged. ‘If I say nothing, then I’m confirming the rumours. If I deny them, I’m confirming the rumours.’

  Turners grin was broad. ‘That’s usually how it works.’

  ‘Well, it was reported in the papers, so it must be true.’

  ‘Must be.’

  She laughed at how a man in his mid-forties could conjure up such a boyish look. ‘Ok, well, here’s the down low. Enzo and I have been friends for two-thirds of our lives. We’re very close. And no, the phrase “kissing cousins” wouldn’t be entirely inappropriate, despite the lack of blood relation. Whereas Bell is a good man, but—’

  Turner snorted. ‘He’s a murderer.’

  She started to respond, but was cut off.

  ‘Ah, Teddington, I’m glad I’ve caught you.’

  Both Teddington and Turner twisted to see Rebecca Fry walking in, all tweed and twin set again. Somehow, Teddington always got the image of a “before” when she looked at Fry, like one of those terrible seventies shows where the frumpy secretary would suddenly take off her glasses, let down her hair, and instantly turning into a sex siren.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  ‘Do you mind if I stay?’ Turner asked, checking his watch.

  Fry ignored him and shoved in at the table.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Bell.’

  Teddington couldn’t hold back a smile, as Turner covered his grin with a sip of coffee.

  ‘Popular topic,’ Teddington said.

  Fry looked momentarily confused, but apparently, decided not to ask. ‘Are you aware his parole hearing got cancelled? That DCI Piper has put an indefinite hold on it?’

  ‘No,’ Teddington worried herself at how easily she could lie, ‘but I’m not surprised. What of it?’

  ‘I want to get a new date set, soon, and I was hoping you could help me with that.’

  Now, she frowned. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I need a statement from you that when he abducted you, he treated you well, didn’t hurt, harm, or force himself on you. And he readily agreed to give himself up at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Firstly, he didn’t “abduct” me, anyway. Secondly, I’ve already made that statement,’ Teddington pointed out, ‘to the police. To DCI Piper himself, in fact.’

  ‘Then you won’t help?’

  ‘I don’t think I can actively do any more. See, here’s the thing … Regardless of anything I say, I was alone with Bell for two days and two nights and people believe, however wrongly, that we became lovers. My statement to the police made it clear nothing happened, but if I start pushing for his release, people will say it’s because I have feelings for the guy.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘No,’ Teddington said. ‘Well … yes. I do have some feelings about him. I mean, he did save my life, after all, got me out of the line of fire, and got me decent medical care, when a delay could have cost me the use of my arm, if not my life. He’s been a model prisoner in here, never causing hassle, and rumours are he’s actually squashed trouble before it escalated to us getting involved. And he got me and Dyer out of a potentially very damaging situation. If anyone deserves a reprieve for good behaviour, it’s Bell—’

  She cut off as her mobile rang.

  23

  The hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck prickled. It was like watching the first few scenes of a movie; all the tension was building, waiting for the horror to explode.

  No one moving around, conversation kept to a muted minimum, and everyone quietly queuing to be served at meal times. It was like someone had taken all the fire out of the inmates. Perhaps they were all being drugged into submission. Charlie didn’t like it. He had tried to talk to a number of other inmates, but after that trip to Keen, it seemed every time he opened his mouth, either they would run in fear, or one of the screws would stop him.

  Charlie waited in line with the other inmates, the anaesthetised sheep, to get his lunch. Running through various ways of how to get more information on Tommy, nothing stood out as likely to succeed. People shouting shocked him into paying attention. At the head of the line, not far from Charlie, two bodies were sc
uffling. He was half surprised more people weren’t bundling in. Another symptom.

  ‘Cut him! Cut him!’

  Instantly, Charlie looked closer. Brett had another inmate – a recent arrival Charlie knew by sight but not name – in a headlock under one arm, and a bloody great kitchen knife in the other. As passive as the wing had become, they were all gathering now, the murmur of surprise giving way to the chant. As the instigator of the chant was two men in front of him, Charlie stepped round and pulled him up short.

  ‘Stop!’

  The man he had by the scruff of the neck was a weasel at the best of times. He shut up instantly.

  Since Charlie was now as much of a centre of attention as Brett, he called out, ‘Everyone move back, give Brett room!’

  He was only echoing what Norman and Robbins were already shouting, as they ran down from the upper floors, but now the men obeyed. It struck Charlie as odd to realise there had been no guards on the ground floor at meal time. But, Brett was the immediate problem, so he stepped forward, carefully, slowly, his hands open and wide, showing no hidden weapons.

  ‘Come on, Richie, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Keep away!’ The voice was high and stressed.

  Charlie could see the mania in Brett’s eyes. Whatever else he needed to do, he needed to keep Brett from getting any more stressed. ‘Okay.’ He stopped where he was. ‘I won’t come any closer, just tell me what this is all—’

  ‘Drop the knife!’ Robbins had made it onto the floor, was storming across, his hand reaching for his Taser.

  ‘Keep away!’

  As Brett screamed, Charlie stepped in front of Robbins. He hoped to God the man didn’t turn the Taser on him – he didn’t want to repeat that experience.

  ‘Officer Robbins, please, don’t.’

  Robbins halted in front of Charlie, a look of pure hate on his face.

  ‘Get out of the way.’ It was a cold command. ‘This is none of your business.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Charlie kept his voice low, so as not to carry as he looked down at the officer. ‘But, one of us has had negotiation training, and it clearly wasn’t you.’