Broken Faith

by James Green

  ‘You have to have a good reason for being there so you’re going to be the photographer, but for God’s sake don’t touch anything. It’s expensive kit and I want to give it back to the bloke I borrowed it off all in one piece. Just try and look like a newspaper photographer.’

  ‘How’s a newspaper photographer supposed to look?’

  ‘Comatose.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Press photographers go comatose unless they’ve got something to shoot. They can switch off what passes for their brains over long periods of time. Just keep hold of your bag and look as if you’ve switched off your brain and you’ll look exactly like a press photographer.’

  After the brief search they were taken to an office and introduced to a neat, middle-aged woman. She gave them a formal, polite smile but her voice was distinctly on the chilly side.

  ‘I have the information you asked for. I could have quite easily sent it to you so I don’t quite understand why you took the trouble to come all the way from London.’

  Rosa took over and Jimmy tried to look comatose.

  ‘Because we need more than just the information we asked for, although thank you for that.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yes. May we sit down?’

  Mrs Morrissey unbent a little.

  ‘Of course.’

  They all sat, Mrs Morrissey behind her desk, Rosa and Jimmy opposite.

  ‘My editor wants me to do a piece on modern prison methods. He feels, and I agree with him, that the public are pretty fed up with horror stories about our public services. Not that they aren’t true, but he feels the balance has swung too far, that it’s time to look at where public money is being well spent, where the public is getting good value.’

  ‘I see.’

  But obviously she didn’t.

  ‘The trouble is we need to find a good focus for the thing, not just cold facts and figures. The reading public wouldn’t be interested in statistics, what we need is something human. That’s why we came, to look for some human angle to deliver the story of your success here.’

  ‘Our success?’

  ‘Yes. But bear with me, Mrs Morrissey, it’ll all become clear, I promise.’ Jimmy was impressed. Rosa was winning her over with her charm offensive and what she was saying sounded good even to him, and he knew it was bullshit. ‘Could we perhaps start with the information we asked for?’

  Mrs Morrissey turned to her computer screen and did what she had to on the keyboard.

  ‘Here he is. Harold Reginald Mercer had been here four years when Arthur William Jarvis arrived. Jarvis served two years of a three-year sentence. He got full remission.’

  ‘So they served two years together?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Mercer served how long after Jarvis was released?’

  She turned back to the screen and fiddled with the keyboard again.

  ‘He served another eighteen months.’

  Jimmy did a quick calculation and the words were out before he could stop them.

  ‘Harry got remission!’

  Rosa looked angrily at him. Jimmy shut up and Rosa took over again.

  ‘So Mercer got remission, Mrs Morrissey?’

  ‘Parole.’

  Jimmy heard it, so it had to be right, but it didn’t make sense. Harry wasn’t the sort who got parole. He always had been, and was always going to be, a danger to society. Rosa went on.

  ‘Would any of the current warders remember either man?’

  ‘Yes, several.’

  ‘You see, what we need is a picture of this man Mercer’s life in prison.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Harry Mercer came into prison a hardened criminal, but left a reformed character. How did that happen? How, after a life of crime, did Leicester gaol turn him round? That’s our story, Mrs Morrissey. That’s the success I mentioned earlier.

  ‘I see. Then perhaps you should talk to the Governor.’

  She said it like it would be a treat.

  ‘No, not the Governor, although I’m sure he does an excellent job. What we need is someone who was close to the day-to-day routine, who knew the prisoners and all the little things that never get into reports but make prison life what it is for those serving a sentence. What I think we need is a warder who could not only fill in the facts but what lay behind the facts.’

  Mrs Morrissey leaned forward slightly and her manner became confidential. She was definitely on board now.

  ‘You can talk to one of the warders if you like but the person I recommend you speak to is an ex-warder, John Carter. He retired two years ago. He knew what went on in the jail almost as well as the prisoners did, certainly more than the other warders.’

  Rosa leaned forward and became confidential as well.

  ‘Do you mean he was being paid off?’

  It was a mistake. Mrs Morrissey sat back with a flush of anger on her face.

  ‘Absolutely not. John was never involved in anything like that. I merely meant that his long service gave him an excellent understanding of what went on. He was respected by prisoners and staff alike.’ St Screw of Leicester, thought Jimmy, feast-day the thirty-first of February. Mrs Morrissey continued obviously still very huffy. ‘I would never have mentioned his name if I thought you would …’

  ‘Quite, quite, Mrs Morrissey, I apologise. I’m afraid that as a journalist I don’t often get to see the best side of people and, like the police, it can sometimes warp your view of the world. I’m sure it would be most helpful to talk to Mr Carter if he has the knowledge and experience you say he has.’

  Mrs Morrissey was prepared to be mollified.

  ‘What exactly is your story going to be about?’

  ‘Like I said, Harry Mercer came into Leicester a career villain, violent, dishonest and dangerous. When he left he had changed his life around. He is now a successful writer and lives in Spain. If you go on to Amazon you can see his books there. That’s our story, if we can get it – how the gangster turned crime writer. What I have to do is gather background info, make the inside of the prison come alive and show how it can help as well as punish. Your Mr Carter sounds as if he would be an excellent source to fill me in on how Leicester gaol helped turn round a hardened criminal so that he used his past experiences in a way that brought him success and gave pleasure to his readers.’

  Mrs Morrissey gave a small but genuine smile. Rosa had won her over. Jimmy was impressed, she was good. She lied well. Maybe it was something she got taught at Cambridge as part of her degree. Being able to lie well would be a big plus for any aspiring politician or economist, even if they finished up as journalists.

  ‘Well, that all sounds very …’

  But Mrs Morrissey couldn’t find the right word so Rosa just kept on going.

  ‘Do you have a contact number for him?’

  ‘Oh, I really couldn’t pass out that sort of information.’

  But Rosa knew better. Why tell her about Carter if she didn’t want her to make contact. She just wanted a bit of coaxing.

  ‘I’m sure he could be a big help and I may be able to use his picture in the feature. He must have had some part in setting Harry on his new life if he was as respected by everyone as you say he was. That sort of commitment and achievement deserves recognition.’

  Mrs Morrissey smiled again and folded.

  ‘I can give you his phone number but don’t say I was the one you got it from. I’m only trying to be of help. If you weren’t a reporter trying to show people that prisons aren’t always what people think I wouldn’t dream of …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rosa had her notepad out and a pen poised. Mrs Morrissey gave her the number.

  ‘Thank you. You have been a great help.’

  Rosa and Jimmy got up.

  ‘I’m glad to have been of assistance. It will be nice to get some positive news in the press about us at last. People don’t know how difficult the job of the Prison Service –’

  But Ros
a was finished and wanted to get on.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, yes, goodbye.’

  Mrs Morrissey got up and took them out of the office and walked them down to the visitors’ entrance. Jimmy’s bag got searched again. Were they putting on a special show because they were the press? What did they think he might be trying to smuggle out? One of the inmates. He got the bag back, they handed back their passes and left the gaol.

  Out on the busy main road they walked a short way until they came to a side street where a Georgian terrace stood opposite the high, blank side wall of the prison. It was a quiet street without the rush of traffic of the main road. They walked up it far enough to leave the worst of the traffic noise behind them and Rosa made a call.

  ‘Hello, my name is Rosa Sikora, I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m researching a feature on a writer who spent time in Leicester prison some years back. I understand your husband was a warder … oh, sorry, your father. I understand he was a warder there until two years ago?’ She listened for a second. ‘Do you think it would be possible to meet up with your father and ask him a few questions?’ She turned to Jimmy. ‘She’s gone to get him.’

  ‘Will he agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes, they always agree. People like to talk about themselves, so long as they don’t feel personally threatened they always … Hello, Mr Carter, my name is Rosa Sikora. I’m researching a feature on a man called Harry Mercer. Do you remember him? Good. Mrs Morrissey gave us your name and number and said we should talk to you, that you knew the prison while Mercer was there better than anyone. You will? Fine, but I’m afraid it has to be today, we have to be back in London by late this afternoon. When would you be able to … half an hour would be great. Where should we meet? The Marquis of Wellington pub. Where is that? On the right of the London Road past the station. Don’t worry, we’ll find it. Wonderful, see you at the Marquis in half an hour then.’

  She put away her mobile.

  ‘Where’s this pub?’

  ‘You heard, on the London Road.’

  ‘And this is Leicester, not Kilburn, so where the bloody hell is the London Road?’

  ‘Not far from the station. Apparently you can’t miss the pub, it’s got a very distinctive frontage. We’ll get a taxi at the main road.’

  They went back to the main road but all the traffic was heading one way, the wrong way, and there were no taxis.

  ‘Great. A one-way system. Do we walk?’

  Rosa looked at the traffic.

  ‘Looks like we do.’

  Jimmy unslung the camera bag.

  ‘Right, then you can have a go with this.’

  Rosa took it and slung it on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s not so heavy. I thought you were supposed to be a tough guy.’

  ‘Tell me it’s not heavy when we’re sitting in this Marquis pub and you’ve carried it all the way, then I’ll call you the tough guy.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The front of Marquis of Wellington pub wasn’t anything special at street level, but above the ground floor windows it was metalled black with raised silver decorations and in the centre a raised roundel containing a profile of a man’s head, obviously the Marquis himself. Above all the decoration there were attractive bow windows, all of which promised something exceptional inside. Sadly, any distinctive flourishes finished at the front door. Inside it was like most other big city pubs with the usual open-plan arrangement and one main bar. However, for those rare souls who wanted some degree of privacy there were a few partitioned booths by the windows. Rosa went and sat in one of the unoccupied booths, unslung the camera bag and put it beside her. She massaged her shoulder and made a face at Jimmy, who smiled and then went to the bar and looked at the beers. He chose one and ordered a cup of tea for Rosa. When the beer had been pulled he took it to the booth, sat down and tasted it.

  ‘It’s not a bad pint this. Everards, I’ve never heard of it, must be local.’

  Rosa looked around. There were a few people at tables, mostly on their own. ‘It looks an OK sort of place. Did you see the front as we came in? Very individual. See the roundel over the door?’

  ‘What’s a roundel?’

  ‘Strangely enough, a round thing. There was a picture of the Duke of Wellington in it.’

  ‘So why is it called the Marquis of Wellington, not the Duke?’

  ‘How should I know.’

  Jimmy left the business of pub names and got to the business in hand.

  ‘Now we know Jarvis and Mercer did time together.’

  ‘You guessed right.’

  ‘What we need now is the internet.’ He looked at Rosa. ‘Have you got something we can use?’

  She gave Jimmy a look of commiseration.

  ‘You’re a bloody antique, you know that?’ She took out a tiny netbook computer and switched it on. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  ‘I wanted to find out when Harry’s first book got published.’

  ‘We don’t need the internet. I saved the pages about Mercer’s books from Amazon. I thought it might come in handy.’ She found the pages and then looked up. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. It got published before Harry got his parole.’

  ‘No, but you’re close. Two months after. How did you know?’

  ‘Because Harry was muscle, never brains, and there’s no way he’d ever turn into a writer. He didn’t become one in prison or out. A fiver to a fish tail says Jarvis wrote Harry’s first book based on stuff Harry told him inside and when Harry came out Jarvis went on writing them.’ Jimmy took a thoughtful drink. ‘Which makes it all a bit of a bugger.’

  The tray with the tea things arrived. Rosa thanked the barman and started to pour.

  ‘Why? It makes sense and it makes the connection you wanted. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s hardly likely Harry would top Jarvis if he needed him to write his books. Unless, maybe …’

  But there was no easy way round it. You didn’t kill the bloke who gave you your cover unless, maybe …

  But, no, there was no easy way round it, not as it stood.

  ‘You really want Mercer to go down heavy, don’t you? Is this personal?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you call sending someone to stick a knife in you personal?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Is there another reason, other than Mercer thinking you’re poking into his porn racket?’

  ‘No. I told you, Harry and I hadn’t seen each other for years until a week ago.’

  A man in his late fifties came in and stood by the doorway looking around. Rosa got up and went over to him.

  ‘Mr Carter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘We’re over here.’ They came to the booth. ‘What will you have to drink?’

  ‘A pint of Original. Thanks.’

  ‘Get Mr Carter a pint will you, Jimmy?’ Jimmy looked at her, she gave him a smile. ‘We won’t need you to take any pictures just yet.’ She turned her attention back to Carter. ‘Good of you to come at such short notice, Mr Carter.’

  Jimmy got up, went to the bar and ordered a pint of Original. It was the same beer he had ordered for himself.

  ‘Local brewery, is it?’

  The barman nodded and carried on pulling the pint. He wasn’t the chatty type. Jimmy paid for the beer and took it back to their table. Carter was already talking. He paused when Jimmy came and took the glass.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a drink and resumed. Jimmy sat down and listened. ‘No, Jarvis never had much trouble. He wasn’t a proper paedophile, he didn’t molest little kids. He just bonked a few willing girls who weren’t quite sixteen. I mean, it goes on all the time doesn’t it? You see it on the news and in the papers. I mean, they give out condoms and the pill and stuff like that to them at school these days. Hardly worth putting knickers on for some of them, the amount of time they must have them off. I’m glad it was different when Kathy was a girl.’

  ‘K
athy?’

  ‘My daughter. I live with her. No, with Jarvis it was a technical crime, nothing nasty. And he was a nice bloke, big, good-looking, you could see how young girls would fall for him. He taught drama he said, and they let their imaginations run away sometimes. He just took what was offered. He shouldn’t have been in prison at all really but I suppose it was because he was a teacher. If he hadn’t been a teacher he wouldn’t have drawn a three-stretch but he said the papers made a fuss, blew it up, set out to crucify him. You know what the bloody papers are like?’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Oh, of course you do. I didn’t mean that you would do anything like …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Carter and, yes, I’m afraid I would do something like that. The news by itself often isn’t enough to sell papers and it is sometimes the sad duty of reporters like me to goose it up a bit. It’s a naughty old world and you can’t change it. But I don’t need to tell you that, not if you’ve spent your working life as a prison warder. So, tell me about Harry Mercer.’

  ‘Oh, Harry fitted straight in when he turned up. He hooked up with a couple of long-stretch blokes who ran things and started doing the heavy work for them. Harry the Hammer they called him. When Harry came to collect, you paid. Not that he was violent in the normal run of things, only when it was called for.’

  ‘Did he study?’

  Rosa didn’t mind Jimmy cutting in this time.

  ‘Study what?’

  ‘Did he do any courses? Open University, stuff like that?’

  That got a big grin.

  ‘Harry? Not Harry. He wasn’t the studious type. He might have read a few of the betting slips he collected but that was all.’

  ‘What about Jarvis, was he the studious type?’

  Carter thought about it.

  ‘Yes, I remember now, Jarvis was the one who did some sort of course. It may have been the Open University. English it was, I know because I helped him by getting some of the books he needed from the library service.’

  Rosa picked up the questioning again.

  ‘Did Jarvis and Harry ever share a cell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they seem friendly?’

  Carter paused.

  ‘Not friendly exactly.’