by Nick Louth
He found the library and asked for help to use the Internet. He waited his turn, and then a librarian sat with him. He’d already been shown how to use a computer mouse at the Spring Hill computer room, but the teacher there had concentrated on word processing and getting the offenders to write job applications. There was no Internet access at Spring Hill, so using a browser was completely new to him. He looked at the blank Google box and asked her: ‘So can I just type any question I have in here?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But you can’t always trust the answer.’
Over the course of the next half-hour he managed to find his way around a bit, looking for addresses, phone numbers and so on. He got the librarian to show him how to use the printer, and took his two pages of carefully honed research with him. The information he had got was useful, but more limited than he’d hoped. He was shocked to be told that physical phone books were quite rare now, with many people not in them. He realised his task to track down his enemies might be a lot harder than he had expected.
With only half an hour left before his return bus trip, he looked for a phone box. There were hardly any. When he did see one, he found it wouldn’t accept coins. He had for weeks been screwing up the courage to ring his daughter.
Perhaps it would have to wait until he got a mobile.
He looked around until he saw a mobile phone shop. He plucked up his courage and walked in. It was a peculiar place with bright white, largely empty tables, and was full of young women. He didn’t even understand the questions they asked him about networks and payment plans. It made him dizzy, so he thought he would leave it for another time. Before he left, he asked one of the women, a blonde with ripped knees to her jeans: ‘Did you fall over, pet?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your jeans are all torn.’
She laughed. ‘I bought them like that.’
‘Didn’t you check them first!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can take them back, you know.’
They laughed a bit together, and then he asked: ‘Can I ask you a favour? Can I borrow a phone to ring my daughter?’
The woman hesitated.
‘You see, I’ve not seen her for thirty years. She wouldn’t come to visit me. You know, inside. I’ll give you a pound.’ He set down the coin.
The blonde nodded. ‘Okay, so long as it’s not international.’ She handed her own phone to him. He had no idea what to do with the sleek black glossy device. There were no obvious buttons.
‘Could you dial it for me?’ he asked.
She seated him at a small desk towards the back of the shop and tapped out the number he gave her, before passing the device to him and walking away. His heart raced as the number rang out. The phone was picked up, and a familiar voice came on the line.
‘Susan, it’s me, your dad. Susan? I just wanted—’
A few minutes later, the blond woman looked up and saw the man moving towards the door of the shop. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I left your phone on the desk. Thank you.’
‘So how is your daughter?’
‘Ah, she’s doing grand. Her job is going well, and she’s got a house on the new estate. My granddaughter’s going to big school next term. I’m looking forward to seeing her for the first time.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely. I bet you can’t wait to be back with them,’ she said.
‘Yes, it will be great.’
She watched him go, and then looked back at her phone. She checked the call to make sure he wasn’t one of those scammers who use the opportunity to ring a premium phone line. The number was a conventional landline. But her brow furrowed as she saw the call duration.
Four seconds.
* * *
On his way back to the bus station, he had a stroke of luck. He found a phone box that took coins, and took full advantage of it with three quick calls: a message left on the answerphone of Mrs Daphne Cooper, 73, a second on the mobile of Mr George Harvey, 78, and finally, a call to Mrs Rita Hollingsworth, 82, now in a hospice.
That call was picked up by her son, David. He listened, shocked, to what was said to him. ‘If this is some kind of joke, I don’t think it’s very funny,’ David said, slamming the phone down. All the families of the victims had suffered prank calls, anonymous letters and various other nuisances during the early years. News that the murderer was to be released seemed to be restarting the torment, this time on social media through a series of insensitive tweets and Facebook memes.
But this phone message was one of the old type. All the caller said, in a soft north-east accent, was: ‘Are you afraid of the Bogeyman? Because he’s coming for you. Tomorrow.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Tuesday, 2 July 2019
I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you.
Friedrich Nietzsche
The fateful day arrived. Leticia Mountjoy was up with her phone alarm at 6:45 a.m., having slept badly. Anton was snoring lightly next to her, sleepily sliding his large arm around her shoulders as she extricated herself from the bedclothes. He rarely awoke before ten. Running a restaurant meant he was a night owl, her job made her a lark. But today she didn’t feel full of the joys of spring. Neil Wright was being released from Spring Hill open prison today. In fifteen minutes in fact, and she was as nervous as hell. She would meet him later at his new house. Wearing her bathrobe, she leaned against the kitchen counter, holding a mug of coffee to her face for warmth and comfort, and listening to the early morning headlines on the radio. There was plenty going on in the world, and no mention of the prisoner who had been dropped into her care.
Verity had been off sick yesterday, an almost unprecedented event, but had phoned her in the evening. The call was terse, lacking the kind of support and empathy that Leticia felt she needed. Verity simply listed the essential documents and checks that had to be done. The only hint of human connection came right at the end. ‘It’s a big day for you, so good luck.’ Then she had hung up.
The call just reminded Leticia that she was on her own. This morning she had opened the big fat metal briefcase, even before taking a shower. First there were the travel details. He would get the early bus into Aylesbury, then another, changing at High Wycombe for Staines, arriving if all went well shortly after ten. She would go to meet him at his house at eleven. For the umpteenth time she ran through the list: the contract for the house, letters of acceptance from the local GP surgery and a private dental practice, the application forms for a bank account, for housing benefit and for council tax benefit, all pre-filled by DI Morgan and simply awaiting Neil Wright’s signature. She also had the details of his compulsory group therapy and individual psychiatric appointments, plus a copy of his formal licence conditions and agreed sentence plan in case he had left his own behind. The licence wasn’t big, just a couple of pages, but few prisoners ever bothered to bring it with them. She wondered if there was anything else she should have. Of course – her own work phone, plus the iPad.
She breakfasted rapidly on an apple but couldn’t face the usual cereal bar or banana. She was just gathering her bags together when Anton emerged sleepily into the kitchen wearing a pair of boxers. ‘I just wanted to wish you the best of luck for today,’ he said. Delighted and a little surprised he had managed to rouse himself to see her off, she flung herself into his arms, and inhaled the warm male sleep aroma that rolled off him.
‘Anton, I am so nervous. My stomach is just full of butterflies. It’s such a responsibility.’
He held her by the shoulders and looked down into her face. ‘You are going to do a great job, Tish. Believe me. I have enormous faith in you. I’ll be right behind you every step of the way, do you understand?’ He kissed her hard and lifted her off the ground. ‘Go to it, girl.’
Pumped by such a rousing send-off, Leticia had a smile on her face as she stepped out of her front door and stared up into the wide blue sky that promised so much. If she handled this case well, then promotion was a possibility. Verity had h
inted as much.
She walked up the street feeling a few inches taller than she had felt when she first got up. As she clicked the key fob of her car and saw the welcoming orange blink she thought. I can do this. I really can.
* * *
As before, there was nowhere to park on Wexford Road or in the adjoining streets. In the end, already a couple of minutes late, she left the little car illegally, as before, on a single yellow line near the main road. After checking there was no traffic warden about, she tugged out the heavy metal briefcase, slid her leather shoulder bag on and began to march back the 300 yards to the flat. She stepped around a grey wheelie bin and walked the three steps that took her from the front gate to the front door. The curtains were drawn at the bay window, and the ornate bevelled glass in the front door gave no clear view inside. She pressed the bell, which gave a long satisfying buzz in the hallway.
There was no reply.
She pressed her face to the glass of the door and tapped.
It was beginning to rain, so she let herself in with the spare keys.
‘Neil? It’s Leticia,’ she called. Getting no reply, she made her way into the kitchen, and dumped her bag and briefcase. The place smelled of fresh paint and cleaning products and looked pristine.
Except at the sink. There were fresh-looking coffee dregs around the plughole, and a plastic stirrer on the draining board.
So he had been here. He’d probably just gone out to get groceries. She breathed a sigh of relief, but found her anxiety replaced by irritation. It was already five past. She opened the briefcase and pulled out the various documents that Wright would have to sign. She occupied the next five minutes examining everything yet again. Finally, at ten past, she rang Wright’s new phone.
It wasn’t on.
She sighed, and then realised that of course, having served thirty years inside, he probably only had the haziest idea of how to use one. She left a voicemail message asking him where he was, then for good measure sent him a text asking him to reply. She went to the lounge and looked out of the bay window into the street. She couldn’t see him, so she exited the front door and walked out onto the pavement, looking both ways. There were no pedestrians. She turned back, went inside and closed the door.
She kept busy answering her emails until she saw it was 11:25 a.m. Anxiety bubbled up. He wasn’t coming back, obviously. What if he had never had any intention of co-operating in this elaborate and expensive resettlement programme? Would they blame her? Perhaps that was why Verity gave her the job – to be the fall guy, having suspected all along that something like this would occur. Perhaps he had gone to a pub and got drunk, like so many ex-cons on their first day out. That was a much more likely story. Alternate waves of optimism and pessimism swept through her.
What if he had immediately gone out to reoffend?
At quarter to twelve, she realised she could no longer delay calling Verity. But she was terrified to do so. Even though it wasn’t her own fault, it would inevitably be seen that way. She had read enough coverage of high-profile failings in every aspect of social work to realise that there are always well-funded lawyers and officials with plenty of time after the fact to comb through the mistakes of even the most junior employees. But there were never enough people at the coalface to keep the workload to a reasonable enough level so mistakes weren’t made in the first place.
Leticia decided to make the first call to a more easy-going authority, Graham Morgan. She got through and described what had happened. The Special Branch detective inspector didn’t seem particularly worried at Wright’s failure to show. ‘You’ve got to understand, Leticia, that someone like him is always playing games with the system. I’ve seen it all before. They’ll muck you about, being late, forgetting documents, and try to get under your skin. They have developed a pathological relationship with authority that almost demands being a pain in the arse. He’s just asserting himself, particularly as you are less experienced than some.’
‘This is serious, though. Missing his first probation meeting. And having the phone switched off!’
Morgan laughed. ‘He’s not missed it yet. Look, he is not a stupid bloke, far from it. If he’s already shown up at the house, he’ll be around somewhere. Betting shop, pub, something like that. He’s not going to do anything so serious that we send him back. I guarantee you.’
‘What about vigilantes? I saw a pretty a frightening documentary about them on Channel 4 last night.’
He chuckled. ‘Look, most vigilantes are not the brightest sparks. It would be going some to have got hold of him on the first morning of his release, wouldn’t it? Given that only you and I and a couple of others know which prison he was in, and where he was headed. Wait it out, love. I’m sure he’ll be there.’
* * *
But Neil Wright didn’t show. Some time after midday, Leticia phoned Spring Hill and spoke to the governor, a helpful woman who confirmed that, yes, Wright had been let out that morning. He had told the gate staff that he was catching a bus.
Leticia thanked her and hung up. Next she left a message for Verity, who had her own client visit scheduled for today. She next rang the office and was put through to Jill Allsop, who seemed far more concerned about it than Morgan had been.
‘Good grief, Leticia. This is not good.’ A click. The sound of Jill’s office door, then the background noise disappeared.
‘Look, Jill. I don’t see any point in me hanging around here when he is clearly not planning to make the meeting.’
‘Yes of course. I realise that your first inclination may be to report him for breach of licence. I would caution you not to do so immediately. An enormous investment has gone into creating a false identity here and to go official on this would blow it quite quickly. I think I need to make a call to the Home Office for guidance. Anyway, I’ll see you back here as soon as you can make it.’
‘Okay.’
‘One more thing. No one is going to blame you for this, Leticia. It’s not your fault.’
‘Thank you.’ Leticia could not put into words how grateful she was to hear that the departmental boss had her back. Still, whatever the reason, the shit was really going to hit the fan now. Especially if it turned out that he had gone out to commit a crime.
Some poor teenager. She couldn’t bear it.
* * *
Gillard didn’t get to hear about it until late that afternoon. The immediate summons from the chief constable, dragging him away from Mr Fang, was a clue that something important had happened. Alison Rigby’s PA raised her eyebrows at the detective’s approach.
‘She’s going ballistic in there, Craig. Tread carefully.’
It was true. Gillard could hear some poor sod getting the mother and father of all bollockings. It was unusual for Rigby to shout. With her intimidating height, she rarely needed to. She was quite capable of reducing officers to quivering wrecks with a quiet word here and there. The slam of the phone receiver was followed by a shouted, ‘Craig, get yourself in here.’
Gillard took a deep breath and opened the door. Rigby immediately fixed him with her dazzling blue eyes. ‘I’m afraid we’re in crisis management mode here. As you know, Neville Rollason, multiple murderer, was released today under licence. It seems the bloody probation service has managed to lose him already. And as you had already guessed, he was released on our patch.’
‘He’s got a new identity, hasn’t he? Are we allowed to know it yet?’
‘No. Well, not yet. The probation service says yes, but the Home Office is dithering. They think that if the project has gone tits-up already, they’ll never again be able to create a new identity for an offender. Which in turn would mean that some high-profile offenders can never be released.’
‘I’m sure many people would applaud that,’ Gillard said.
‘Yes indeed, but it’s been obvious for years that it can’t continue. Prisons are universities of crime, turning out skilled criminals at an expense to the British taxpayer that would make an Oxbrid
ge vice chancellor blush.’
‘That’s a good summary, ma’am.’
‘So that’s why the Home Secretary is desperate to be able to create some high-profile rehabilitation success stories, so we can continue to move lifers out of the system.’
‘Ah, now I catch the drift.’
‘Yes, Craig. There are only two ways to save money from the public purse in criminal justice. Execution or release.’ She shuffled through her papers and sighed heavily before looking up. ‘I’m not advocating the former, unlike some.’
‘I can’t do anything much, ma’am, until I know a name.’
She fixed him again with the blue stare of death. ‘I’ve got the name, Craig, obviously. I’ve known from the start. But once it’s out, it’s out. Even if I mandate a total PR blackout, his new name will still leak within an hour. Look, I’m aware how the rank and file feel about people like Rollason. It wouldn’t surprise me if one or two have contacts with vigilante groups.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Gillard said cautiously.
‘It’s all right, I’m not asking for a list. Ideally as this is Special Branch’s screw-up, it should be up to them to find him, and quickly. But having just roasted Graham Morgan, I don’t have much hope they are up to it. You, however, might be.’
‘I’m touched by your faith in me, ma’am.’
She smiled. ‘I like a man who can look above him, and still admire the sharpness of the sword of Damocles.’
