by Martina Cole
Nuala scanned the closely-typed figures once more in silence. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of them. It seems to me to be one of those projection tables. Maybe it’s something Georgio was working out on paper. I mean, Armageddon site - that sounds fanciful in itself. It’s probably just a projection table he made up. You know, if I build so many houses, I can double up. Treble up. Build the last thirty houses for next to nothing. Builders do this sort of thing all the time.’
Donna nodded impatiently. ‘I understand that, Nuala, but this starts with single pounds - look.’ She pointed to the first table of figures.
Nuala sighed heavily. ‘That definitely goes to show it’s only pretend then, doesn’t it? How many houses do you know get sold for a quid?’
‘Maybe it’s not houses. Maybe it’s something else?’
Nuala looked into her sister-in-law’s face and shook her head. ‘Well, whatever it is, we’ll never know about it. I’ll sling it in the bin.’
Donna took the file and put it into her large shoulder bag. ‘No, I’ll take it home with me. You never know with Georgio, he might want it one day.’
Nuala smiled sadly. ‘Yeah, you never know. You’re missing him, aren’t you? I mean, really missing him.’
Donna nodded. ‘More each day, if that’s possible.’
Nuala grasped her hand gently. ‘I know my brother wasn’t strictly on the level with a lot of things, but he wouldn’t have hurt anyone, anyone at all. Duck and dive a bit with the businesses, yeah. But nothing like they’ve accused him of. Before you know it, he’ll be home.’
‘You know what really hurts, Nuala? The way that judge said he ruled his empire with fear. What empire? It was all on the say-so of Wilson.’
‘Well, Wilson’s paid the price for his skulduggery now.’
Donna frowned. ‘In what way?’
‘Didn’t you know, Donna? He committed suicide in Camp Hill prison about two weeks ago.’
Donna’s eyes widened. ‘He killed himself?’
Nuala nodded. ‘Stephen told me. I assumed he’d told you.’
Donna shook her head. ‘He never said a word to me about it.’
‘Maybe he didn’t want you to worry, like. I mean, I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘How the hell is Georgio going to get his parole if the only person who can prove he’s innocent is dead?’ Donna’s voice was rising dangerously.
‘Calm down, love. This isn’t going to help him, is it? You getting in a state.’
‘But if Wilson’s dead . . . Did he leave a note of any kind?’
‘I don’t know. Stephen never mentioned it if he did.’
Donna put her hands up to her face, her distress visible. ‘They’ll never believe him now,’ she whispered. ‘The only chance he had - Wilson was the only chance that he had. If he had decided to tell the truth, or if we could have proved that Wilson was lying . . .’
Nuala went to her sister-in-law’s side and stroked the thick brown hair. ‘We’ll prove it. In fact, it might even be easier now he’s dead. I know that sounds hard, but he’s not around to call us liars now, is he?’
Donna saw the logic in what Nuala was saying. ‘How did he die?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Hanged himself, I think. Yeah, he was found hanging in his cell.’
Donna was running her fingers through her hair in agitation. ‘I hope you’re right. Maybe now they might believe Georgio. I’ll go and see his lawyer. I mean, he would have been informed about Wilson. He should have told me! He’ll know if Wilson left any kind of letter, won’t he?’
‘Well, if he don’t he’ll be able to find out anyway.’
‘I think you might be right, Nuala.’ Donna felt her spirits lift. ‘Maybe now this Wilson’s dead, it might be easier to prove he was lying.’
Nuala smiled. ‘We can only try, darlin’. We can only try.’
Maeve and Donna sat before Mr William Booth, QC. His pinched face was devoid of any expression whatsoever. He wiped his beaked nose with a tissue and tossed it carelessly in the direction of a bin.
‘I am quite aware that Peter Wilson committed suicide, Mrs Brunos, but it has no bearing on your husband’s appeal. It seems that it was suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. The sentence and the prison he was in contributed largely to his depression.’
‘But he only got five years.’ Maeve’s voice was loud in the small chamber.
‘Five years is five years too long for most people, Mrs Brunos. You have to understand, the man was suffering from clinical depression. It was an unfortunate thing to happen, granted, but unavoidable. If a man wants to kill himself he will. In fact, according to the coroner’s report, Wilson had to hold his legs up in the air until he was unconscious. He was very determined by all accounts. The ceiling of the cell had nothing which he could use for his act. He had to use the iron coat-peg on the back of his cell door. Wilson was five ten, the door a standard six-foot-six. He couldn’t actually hang, if you see what I mean, so in order to maximise his weight, he had literally to hold his legs up a foot or eighteen inches from the floor. Once unconscious, he slumped down - and this action actually finished off the strangulation. His own weight finally crushed his windpipe.’
Maeve closed her eyes in horror. ‘What did he hang himself with?’ she said faintly.
‘A child’s skipping rope of all things. Taken from the visiting room - probably when his wife and children had come to visit. As I say, he was very determined.’
‘So how will this affect my husband’s appeal?’ Donna asked breathlessly.
Booth sighed heavily. ‘Your husband’s appeal is in hand, Mrs Brunos. Once we have collated the statements again, gone into the actual robbery once more and collected more statements, we shall be ready to proceed.’
‘Do you hold out much hope for his acquittal?’ Maeve’s voice was low.
William Booth gave her a pained smile. ‘I never make promises unless I can keep them, Mrs Brunos. I can only do my utmost, nothing more.’
‘But surely with Wilson being dead and everything . . . Maybe he killed himself because he lied?’
‘With respect, Mrs Brunos, without the aid of a medium I doubt very much we could prove that. Hint at it certainly, but we could not use that as the basis for the appeal. What we need are strong hard facts. Evidence. The evidence the police have is all circumstantial, and of course the statements from Wilson. Without him, it would seem our case is stronger, I grant you. But, as I said, I don’t make promises, and I never give people false hope.’
Maeve and Donna rose from their seats.
‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Booth. By the way, are you still on a retainer?’ This time, Maeve’s voice was loud.
‘I am.’
Donna watched the man’s confusion.
‘Then I suggest you start earning it. Good day, Mr Booth.’
Maeve bustled to the door of the office. Donna, scarlet-faced, nodded at the man and followed her mother-in-law out of the room.
As she shut the door behind her, she heard the hearty sigh of a man relieved of a great burden.
Donald Lewis watched as Georgio played football. He was now on the five-a-side team and they were practising for their Saturday afternoon match against B Wing. The score was a forgone conclusion; the A grade prisoners always won, even against the screws.
‘Is it my imagination or is Brunos getting cocky?’ Wally Wagstaff spoke out of the side of his mouth; only Lewis was aware of what he was saying.
‘He is cocky, Wally. That’s his problem. It’ll always be his problem. He don’t know when to shut his great big trap.’
Wally scratched his large beer belly. ‘Want me to have a little reception committee waiting for him in his cell?’
‘Nah. That’s something I’m saving for when the time is more appropriate. Then I’m going to break his balls with my bare hands.’ Lewis’s voice became confidential. ‘You see, Wally, the thing with Brunos is, he’s big, handsome and clever. Three things guara
nteed to get on my tits, so to speak. I have a little fright lined up for his nearest and dearest. That should guarantee our Georgie boy a loosening of the tongue, because if I don’t find out what I need to know, and soon, he’s going to be in big trouble. I can afford to write off the money, easy as pie. It’s pennies and halfpennies to me. It’s the principle of the thing, see? Georgio took the piss. I don’t like people who take the piss out of me.’
Wally nodded his bald head sagely. ‘I get your drift, Mr Lewis.’
Lewis turned on the man and sneered into his face. ‘I couldn’t give two fucks whether you get it or not, mate. You’re like Georgio, you’re just another ponce.’ His tone was becoming agitated and Wally began to feel nervous.
‘Shall I fuck off, Mr Lewis?’
Donald grinned. ‘Nah! You stay put. I often get a little annoyed, you know. I don’t mean nothing by it.’
Wally relaxed in his seat. ‘I don’t mind, Mr Lewis. I know you don’t mean it.’ He smiled widely at the man beside him.
Lewis frowned. ‘Oh I meant what I said, Wally. You are a ponce. But at the moment that fact isn’t bothering me. I’ll let you know when it does.’
He turned his attention back to the pitch. Georgio scored a goal and everyone cheered. Lewis bit his lip in consternation. Trust Brunos to be the one to do that.
Lewis’s posse was silent at the goal and that pleased him. He liked being in control of things. At the moment he wasn’t in control of Georgio Brunos, and that fact dismayed and aggrieved him. But after his little wife had had a visit from a mutual friend, he was sure Georgio would open up. Once he told Lewis where the money was, and once the money had been recovered, it would be goodbye Georgio.
Lewis smiled at the thought.
Timmy Lambert watched the conversation between Lewis and Wally with interest. He sat across the football pitch from them, but could see them both clearly. Beside him sat Sadie Gold, real name Albert Moore. Sadie was wearing blue eyeshadow, brown mascara and bright red lipstick. His prison shirt was tied under his chest and his jeans were decorated with embroidered flowers. His dark hair was showing an inch of white roots, but it was backcombed out and lacquered.
Timmy and Sadie were an item in the prison. Sadie kept herself to herself and didn’t run around on Timmy, and everyone kept out of their way. Lewis had countenanced the relationship. Being homosexual himself, he wasn’t shocked by it. Some of the younger men were disgusted, shocked, or found it highly amusing. In different circumstances they might have taken pleasure in baiting Sadie. But this was Lewis’s wing and so it was accepted and the two were left in peace. Not many would have taken on Timmy Lambert anyway; Sadie, however, was a different ballgame. They might have approached her for oral or anal sex when the need grew strong, but as it was she was left in relative peace.
Sadie enjoyed being looked after by Timmy; it helped her to do her time, allowed her a modicum of respect and guaranteed her a bit of peace. Sadie had murdered a customer while under the influence of barbiturates and alcohol. Her plea of self-defence might have been taken seriously had not the punter been a famous playwright noted for stunning dialogue and lovingly crafted screen-plays about heterosexual relationships and the trials of adolescent first love. Sadie had been sentenced amid a blaze of public outcry and media attention.
What no one knew about Sadie though was that until the age of sixteen she had been deaf. After an operation that gave her back fifty per cent of her hearing, Sadie still lipread when talking to people. She was now taking in Lewis’s conversation with Wally and relaying it back to Timmy, word for word.
Timmy’s attitude was that Lewis was a man you’d best be a jump ahead of - two jumps if possible. He had no intention of warning Brunos about the attack intended for his wife - that was between him and Lewis - but if the latter had any intention of firing the cell, smoking it, or leaving a welcoming committee, then Timmy wanted to know. It was hard enough doing your time without the added hag of someone else’s troubles landing on your doorstep, so to speak.
He gently put his arm across Sadie’s shoulders. ‘Well done, Sadie, me old meat pie. You keep your eye out and about for any titbits you think might be of interest to me.’
She smiled up into Timmy’s moon face. ‘Fancy going back to my cell for a while? We’ll have a bit of time to ourselves before the others come in.’
Timmy nodded and the two strolled back inside arm in arm. The screws watched them with amusement. In all truth they should cell them up together, but it was much more fun watching their furtive attempts at sex in odd places and at odd times.
It took the monotony out of the days, and God knew, that in itself was enough of a reason to keep the lovers apart for a while longer.
Georgio was reading a letter from Donna. He smiled to himself as she filled him in on her days. He felt much more relaxed now that Davey and Stephen had taken over the running of the main businesses. He was amazed, though, at how effectively Donna had slipped on the mantle of boss on the sites. Davey had told him how well she was doing. Even Big Paddy Donovon had been impressed with how quickly she had caught on. Georgio looked once more at the photographs Donna had sent in. They were from a holiday they had taken in Barbados a few years previously. Donna, tanned and lithe in a yellow bikini, looked good enough to eat. Another taken in St Tropez showed her topless, eating a large French gâteau. He had expressly asked for that photo. It had really turned him on that day, watching the fresh cream melting on her little breasts. He felt a stirring inside himself and put the photographs on the table.
Timmy laughed. ‘Got the horn, Brunos? Tell them to put more bromide in your tea, mate!’
Georgio laughed back good-naturedly. ‘You’re a dirty-minded swine, Timmy. Not everyone’s got your taste in women so some of us have to do without.’
‘Gissa look at the photos then. I promise I won’t get the horn. I’m interested to see what your old woman looks like.’
Georgio sorted through the photos and found one of Donna in a sundress in their garden, her face glowing with good health and happiness. He passed it to Timmy who took it in his meaty paw and smiled widely.
‘Crikey, she’s a lovely little thing, ain’t she?’ His voice held genuine admiration.
Georgio was pleased at the other man’s reaction. ‘Yes she is, Timmy, and I’m not just saying that either. She’s a decent type of woman, you know. Respectable. Well-spoken, well-educated and everything. She took an Open University degree, got it and all. In Sociology.’
Timmy was doubly impressed. ‘Brains as well as beauty, eh? Lucky bastard. My wife looks like the back of a number nine bus. Her arse is so big she wouldn’t get in the cell door! Mind you, she’s never done the dirty on me to my knowledge, and even though she’s ugly as sin there’s blokes out there who’d fuck their own grand-mothers if it was dark enough.’
Georgio nodded at the truth of the statement. Most men’s biggest fear in prison was who was in their bed at home. A majority of them knew that someone was keeping the old woman company. It was whether or not the wife would want that man permanently that bothered them. If you lost the wife, you lost access to the kids. A love poem in a prison was eagerly bought for precious cigarettes and lovingly copied out in the next letter home. Most of the prisoners’ wives were courted only when their husbands were inside. Their idea of romance was a poem, a promise of love everlasting, and an oath that the old man was reformed. Most took this for what it was worth; others lived their whole married life in hope.
‘My Donna’s a quiet type, you know. Not one of these chatty women. She was an asset to me, in my business and that. She could arrange a dinner party as good as anything you’d get in Kensington Palace. Knew what to wear, what to say, how to conduct herself. An all-rounder, was my Donna.’
Timmy studied the photograph again as Sadie walked into the cell.
‘I just came to say goodnight, lads. Oh, photos! Let’s have a butchers.’
Timmy handed her the photograph and she smiled happily.
/>
‘Now that’s what I call a beautiful woman.’ This was spoken with a friendly envy. ‘Look at that hair and those eyes! Who is it?’
‘That’s Georgio’s little wife,’ Timmy muttered.
‘I thought it was your daughter, Georgio - no offence meant, like.’
Georgio grinned. ‘None taken, Sadie. She looks young in that one. I’d better get meself down to the bathroom and clean me teeth before lockup. Do me a favour, Sadie, talk this bloke of yours into having a bath, would you? He don’t half pen and ink.’
Sadie chuckled. ‘Tell me about it!’
Timmy laughed good-naturedly. ‘I smell like a man, you cheeky beggars.’
‘Yeah, a man that’s been dead a fortnight.’ Sadie rolled her eyes.
Georgio was still laughing as he entered the shower-room. As he turned on the tap Sadie sidled up to him.
‘Listen, Georgio, don’t ask me how I know this, and don’t repeat it to a living soul or we’ll all live to regret it, but I heard a whisper today that your wife has a little surprise waiting for her, courtesy of Lewis. Warn her well.’
Georgio felt faint at the words. He grabbed at Sadie’s nightdress. ‘You what? How do you know this?’
Sadie looked into his worried eyes and shook her head. ‘I heard it through the grapevine. She looks a nice little body and I don’t want to see her get hurt. Just remember to warn her, or get someone to watch out for her. But whatever you do, don’t let on I told you or I won’t be able to get any more information on anything. Most of all, don’t tell Timmy I said anything, OK?’
‘When is this surprise?’
Sadie shrugged. ‘That I don’t know, mate, I swear. I’m only telling you because, for all my faults, I like people to play fair, know what I mean?’ She left the shower room as quietly as she had entered it.
Georgio stood under the freezing shower and felt the prickle of tears. The surprise could be tonight. As he stood under the shower his Donna could be getting a hiding, being raped or tortured. He felt panic welling up inside and he willed it to subside, leave him in peace. But the pictures in his head grew stronger and more vivid.
