Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2)

by Stephen Edger

  The cell door slammed open and the prison officer offered a cursory nod towards Green to indicate he was free to head down to the dining area for breakfast.

  ‘Hey Rosco,’ he said to the grunting corpse on the lower bunk. ‘Grubs up.’

  Ivan ‘Rosco’ Rostovic was a warm and gentle man. He was considerably overweight, and in Green’s opinion, if he were to ever die in that bed, it would probably take four guards just to lift the body. They had shared living quarters for nearly two months now and generally kept out of each other’s way. While Green enjoyed spending his time at the allotments, Rosco preferred the confines of the prison library, where he would while away the hours reading books on the mating patterns of tropical birds. Although they had never formally spoken prior to becoming cell mates, it was a union that Green had welcomed.

  Life inside for a convicted sexual offender was not a pleasant one. There were different types of inmates on this wing. There were the gang-types who were full of street-smarts, had spent the best part of their adolescence in and out of prison, and who generally ran the block: you didn’t put a move on another inmate without their prior consent. There were the fish, the recently incarcerated still trying to find which pigeonhole they fitted into. Most inmates remained a fish until at least eight weeks into their sentence, by which time they would have found their niche, or would have had a category beaten into them. Then there were the rapists, the category that Green found himself in. They were a relatively small group, on this wing, and were generally despised by most of the population, suffering the occasional beat-down when authority needed to be exerted. It could be worse, he could have been a paedo, the group, as the title suggests, of convicted sexual predators whose crimes were against children. This group was subject to all levels of victimisation in the prison’s dark corners and less frequently supervised areas. They were the group in most need, yet least deserving of, protection from the prison guards. Subjected to beating, rape, torture and theft, being known as a paedo was not something one welcomed.

  Rosco was in the group of quiets, so-called because they were largely harmless, but not to be provoked. Each of the quiets was a ticking time bomb and each had an individual trigger. Rosco’s was food. He needed his three square meals per day plus three between-meal snacks. If he received his food, he was as gentle and well-behaved as they came. Deprived of one of his meals and it was as if a switch had flipped in his head and he became a snarling and violent bear, not fussy about who he exacted his anger on. It was for this reason that Green had welcomed their sleeping arrangements. Sure, Rosco snored horrendously, but he was the best security that Green could have found for himself. Green had made a point of sharing his food with Rosco, giving him an extra slice of toast or an egg at breakfast, a bag of crisps at lunch and his dessert at supper time. Rosco had no idea that he was being slowly manipulated and, like a pusher hooking a potential customer on heroin, Green had made himself Rosco’s lifeline: he was hooked and would do anything to protect his supply line.

  ‘What time is it?’ Rosco grunted, rolling onto his back.

  ‘Eight o’clock, my friend: breakfast time.’

  Rosco’s eyes shot open as he heard his favourite words. He quickly dressed and a couple of minutes later they were heading down the gangway towards the stairs. Their cell was on the first floor of four and the dining area and general socialisation area were on the ground floor. Food was cooked and served by other inmates as part of a rehabilitation program and it was a running joke that the head chef was a convicted poisoner. He had been a head chef, running three restaurants of his own in Manchester when he had been tricked into investing in a new company by a crew of con artists. He was so skilled in the kitchen that he invited them to his biggest restaurant to show there were no hard feelings and laced the lasagne with a volatile cocktail of potions he had found on the internet. They were dead before the garlic bread had cooled down. He had pleaded guilty in court and was not considered a threat in the prison kitchen, so long as nobody tried to rip him off.

  Green kept a careful eye on the inmates in front of him, while occasionally turning to check those behind. He had heard a rumour that somebody had sanctioned a hit on him, and that meant he would need to keep his wits about him for the foreseeable future, at least until he could find out who had ordered it. Criminals used to think they were safe from retaliation once they got inside: this was not the case on this wing. For the right amount of money, nobody was safe. It was just a question of speaking to the right people.

  Green felt for the outline of the shiv in his pocket and was pleased when his fingertips danced around its edges. They were unlikely to go for him with Rosco around, so he figured he was probably safe for the time being, but once Rosco headed to the library, he would be fair game. Green had earned time in the gym today but didn’t like the thought of heading there without his cellmate and wondered whether he would be better off remaining in his cell until Rosco returned.

  The two men collected their trays and stood in line for the food. Today there was bacon and scrambled eggs available or cereal and fruit for those looking for something healthier. Green didn’t really fancy cooked food today but ordered bacon to go with his bowl of muesli and apple. Once they were seated, he passed the bacon over to Rosco who smiled gratefully.

  ‘The new governor started yesterday,’ Rosco said between mouthfuls.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Green replied. In all the stress of trying to figure out who might want to end his life, he had forgotten that a new prison governor had been appointed. ‘Hope this one’s a bit more honest,’ he added.

  The previous governor had been caught embezzling prison funds and was due to stand trial in the coming weeks. It had brought great shame on the prison authorities and had been a running joke on the wing since the story was leaked to the press.

  ‘I think you’ll find she is.’

  ‘You know her, do you?’

  ‘Not personally,’ said Rosco wiping grease from his grubby chin. ‘I have a mate doing time over on the mainland in a nick she used to run. Real disciplinarian, he tells me.’

  ‘Oh, great, that’s all we need.’

  ‘My mate said she had a thing for stamping her authority; to make the inmates know she was in charge, y’know. A right piece of work, so he says.’

  ‘What do you think she’ll do?’

  ‘Who knows? I imagine she’ll look to curb some of our benefits; computers in the cells, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You think she’ll take away our tellies too?’

  ‘She could do. It won’t be long-term, just until the message has been driven home.’

  Green curled his lip in disgust, ‘Why can’t they just let us be? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, my old man used to say.’

  ‘I just hope she knows what is likely to happen if she does start pissing people off. Do you remember when the last one banned advent calendars? There’s hardly a religious nut in this place, but that decision caused anarchy, until he relented and allowed them back. People ought to know not to mess with others’ dietary requirements.’

  Green noticed Rosco looking serious.

  ‘Don’t worry, big man,’ he pacified, ‘I won’t let them mess with your food. You know I’ll look out for you.’

  Rosco smiled his gratitude and started on the extra bacon rashers.

  12

  Rosco and Green returned to their cell and awaited the sound of the bell that would indicate the morning’s activities would commence. Green had spent three of the last five days at the allotment and was not permitted to go there today. The good thing about the allotments was that they were outside of the prison building, and so could only be accessed by those who had earned the right to be there. It took a lot of work to earn that right so it was probably the safest place he could be and not at risk of attack. The gym could be frequented by anyone who had passed two weeks without going on report for disobedience. It had been nearly three weeks since he had done anything to piss off one of the guards, w
hich is how he had earned the right to go there today. The problem with the gym was that he would have to walk past the shower cubicles to get there and there would only be one guard between the showers and gym room, with a second guard inside the room. The shower cubicles were open to all inmates from nine a.m. to midday and from three until six in the afternoon. If anyone was planning to jump him, a walk from his cell to the gym would be a prime opportunity. He knew he would be safe enough if he made it to the gym, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t get jumped on the way back.

  When a contract was taken out on an inmate a fee was charged. This fee was fully payable to Los Cojones, the group responsible for keeping ‘order’ on the wing, which then sub-contracted the work to any willing volunteer looking to make some quick cash. The standard rate to carry out a hit was three hundred pounds, payable weekly over the period. The amount Los Cojones actually charged the punter was considerably more, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. New fish looking to make a name for themselves desperately clamoured for the chance to carry out a job for Los Cojones, but they also liked to use established operators too: men who had killed inside before and had evaded capture. The key was to be far away when the guards found the body.

  As far as Green was concerned, if a hit had actually been sanctioned on his life, the killer could be virtually anybody, and he would not see it coming.

  ‘You got something on your mind?’ asked Rosco, who was back on his bed picking at his toe nails.

  Green was startled by the sudden noise and didn’t hear the question properly, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said you look like you’re thinking hard about something. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry.’

  Rosco was about to enquire again when a small man appeared at the door. At first Green wondered whether this was the one sent to kill him, but he quickly realised his mistake when the young man spoke.

  ‘Have you heard the news yet?’

  Rosco and Green looked at each other and then shrugged at the youth, ‘What news?’

  ‘The new governor has cancelled Christmas.’

  Green laughed, mistaking the statement for a joke. ‘What do you mean she’s cancelled Christmas? She’s not married to Santa is she?’

  The youth didn’t look impressed, ‘No, I mean she’s cancelled the usual annual festivities for this year. She has said that Christmas will be just another day for all inmates, with no special turkey dinner and no present exchange.’

  ‘What!’ shouted Rosco standing, his cheeks starting to blush.

  ‘She can’t do that,’ Green said, before Rosco unleashed his Hulk-like alter ego. ‘That’s a breach of our rights to celebrate religion.’

  ‘She reckons not,’ continued the youth. ‘Any inmates who consider themselves Christian will be permitted to attend the chapel for a Christmas Day service, but other than that, it will be just another day.’

  ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘One of the guards let slip after breakfast and now it’s all anyone is talking about.’ The youth looked around outside the cell to see if he could see anyone he hadn’t shared the news with yet. Then, spotting a couple of inmates returning to their cell he added, ‘I better go. Listen, it’s all gonna kick off in here today. Los Cojones have said a stand needs to be taken: all inmates to unite against the rotten brass. I better go.’

  With that, the youth was out of the cell, jogging along the wing to the next cell.

  ‘Bitch can’t do that!’ said Rosco between gritted teeth. He couldn’t care less about the present exchange but the thought of turkey, stuffing, Yorkshire puddings, gravy and all the trimmings was what got him through three hundred and sixty four days. To be told that it would be another year’s wait was more than he was prepared to take.

  ‘Listen, Rosco, let’s not overreact. Remember, we said this morning that she would look to stamp her authority. We don’t even know how true the rumour is. You know what this place is like, it’s Chinese whispers half the time: the message starts as one thing but then gets misinterpreted so many times that the final message is quite different.’

  Green knew it would take more to calm Rosco down, and the growing rumble of noise outside of the cell was suggesting that the rumour was spreading like wildfire.

  ‘I’m gonna go and see what I can find out,’ said Rosco heading out the door.

  Green was worried about being left alone in the cell. If anyone learned that Rosco had left him alone, out of sight of the guards, he would be a sitting duck. The alternative was to go with Rosco and potentially end up in a riot situation with other unhinged inmates. It was hardly much of a choice.

  He knew that fundamentally, the majority of the residents on the wing deserved to be there for the violent crimes they had committed, and in this way, their human rights could be perceived as less relevant than a law abiding citizen. That said, Christmas was probably the loneliest time for inmates, because on the one day of the year when they would choose to be with their families, they were not permitted to see anyone from the outside world. It was the peak season for prisoner attempted suicides. Some years ago it had been decided that Christmas Day would be made to feel as ‘normal’ as possible for inmates, including a full roast dinner, the Queen’s speech on the television and the exchange of a few presents. The decision had reduced the suicide attempts so had been deemed a success. Of course, there was no written rule that said Christmas had to be held in such a way, so the new governor was within her rights to limit festivities. What worried Green was how much she had underestimated the reaction of the inmates. The rumble of noise outside of the cell continued to grow.

  He poked his head out the door to see where the noise was coming from. On the floor below, where breakfast was still being served, a group of inmates had gathered and were now in deep discussion. On closer inspection he identified it was Los Cojones. Every now and then one of the men in the group would rush off, as if on some kind of errand. The throng was growing, with more leaving their cells to see what was going on. At the opposite end of the corridor a group of prison officers were also in deep discussion, clearly trying to work out how to contain the growing unease. Green looked around at the other cells on his floor and was alarmed to find a pair of eyes staring straight back at him.

  Garcia had been brought in three weeks earlier, convicted of manslaughter for supplying a consignment of chemically-enhanced ecstasy to the gathered masses at a music festival the year before. The batch had not been produced properly, and whilst causing an almighty high to takers, also caused the heart to increase its pumping so rapidly, that six in ten hearts burst. There had been outrage in the media, as at first it was suspected that the dreaded Ebola virus had landed on UK shores. When symptoms did not seem to spread to those treating the victims, that was quickly ruled out and the cause discovered to be the poisonous pills. The drugs had been eventually traced back to Garcia who had denied the charges but had been convicted by a jury of his peers. The police had been keen to turn him, as clearly he was just a middle man, but he had refused to roll over on those who had supplied him with the dope, which had helped his reputation when he had arrived on the wing. He was known as somebody who could turn his hand to anything and, given his Latin roots, Los Cojones had quickly welcomed him into the fold.

  The worry for Green was the reason Garcia seemed so focused on him. Garcia was just the sort who would be chosen to carry out an execution, assuming the rumours of the contract were true. The two men continued to stare at each other, until eventually Green decided to move back into his cell. Where is Rosco? he thought to himself.

  As if his prayers had been answered, a knock at the door caught his attention. It was one of the prison officers, a gentle man in his sixties, known as Mr Reed. He was probably the more approachable of the officers on the wing, known for lending a friendly ear to prisoners going through crisis. He was the kind of man who always looked for the best in others, and had been warned by previous governors
that he was too soft. He disagreed and embraced the thought that most inmates were remorseful for their crimes and looking for the chance to change, a somewhat naïve philosophy that often saw inmates take advantage of his good nature. He seemed unusually troubled this morning.

  ‘Everything okay in here, Green?’ he asked, stepping into the cell.

  ‘Fine, Mr Reed,’ he replied, placing a hand in his pocket to hide any outline the shiv might create.

  ‘Good, good,’ replied Reed, ready to depart.

  ‘Mr Reed,’ began Green, keen to keep the guard here until Rosco’s return, ‘I was wondering if you caught Match of the Day at the weekend. Your boys did alright, didn’t they?’

  Reed was a well-known supporter of West Bromwich Albion, and generally could be kept talking about them for hours given the chance.

  ‘Yes they did,’ Reed replied, still moving towards the door.

  No, don’t go.

  ‘Mr Reed, is everything okay? You seem unusually distracted this morning.’