by Bill Kitson
The prisoner’s smile was bitter with irony. ‘You should try it from this side of the table, Tony. On the other hand, I’m learning all sorts of useful skills and you never know when the ability to hide a packet of drugs in a condom and then swallow it might come in handy. However, I’m hopeful that you’re about to set the ball rolling to end all that for me. It might take a while, a long, long while, but not as long as the sentence they gave me.’
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘I understand that you’re a free agent at the moment?’
‘If that’s a polite way of saying I’m out of work, you’re right.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘I was working for a private security company. We’d been given the job of ferrying this lot’– he indicated the prisoners who were receiving visitors – ‘to and from court. One of them tried to escape and the management felt I was a little over-enthusiastic in the way I dealt with him. That was it. In these days of political correctness’ – Tony sneered as he delivered the phrase – ‘the prisoner’s rights come before those of the general public. So I’m now being paid a pittance by the government for doing nothing.’
‘It must be tricky making ends meet on what they dole out? How on earth they expect you to manage on the paltry sum, especially when you’ve kids to support, is beyond me.’
‘Tell me about it! But you didn’t bring me all this way to listen to your impersonation of my wife, did you?’
‘Hardly, that was a bonus for you. Listen carefully and I’ll tell you why I did ask you to come.’
The prisoner leaned forward, his voice dropped to little more than a whisper as he recounted what he’d been planning. He spoke quickly, the urgency of what he had to say somehow emphasised by the quiet tone. Although he was only conveying the outline, it was some considerable time before he sat back in his chair and asked, ‘Any questions? Anything you reckon I might have left out or got wrong?’
The temptation was to give a knee-jerk response, but that wasn’t Tony’s way. He thought about what he’d been told for several moments, running through the practical elements of what he would have to do. ‘Recruitment is going to be the big thing. I don’t need numbers, but getting the right calibre of men is the tricky bit. That might take as long as the rest of it.’
‘Maybe, but it’s crucial to get it right. More important than rushing it. It’s a long time until Christmas, but I’m rather hoping it will be the last one I spend in this place, so I need you to succeed in order to stand a chance of getting out.’
‘The other big problem that springs to mind is communication. One visit a month and a few phone calls, isn’t exactly conducive to the success of the operation.’
‘That’s why I need you to get something for me.’ He told the visitor what he had in mind.
‘How can I do that? I can get it, that’s no problem. But how do I deliver it?’
The prisoner’s voice was barely above a whisper by now. ‘You need to find someone who’s due for sentencing soon. Promise you’ll pay their wife’s rent or mortgage for six months, a year even. Tell them if, and when, I get it I’ll authorize payment.’
‘What if you don’t get it? What if they’re caught?’
‘They won’t get caught, I’ll see to that. Nor will they refuse – if they know what’s good for them.’
‘This could take some time.’
The prisoner glanced at his surroundings. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of that, haven’t I? A lifetime of it.’
‘What do I do about money? This is going to cost to set up and I’m not exactly rolling in it.’
‘Go see my accountant. He’ll be expecting someone to contact him. Mention my name.’
‘Is that all?’
‘He’ll ask you for a password.’
‘And the answer?’
‘Tell him, Kosovo 1996.’
The visitor smiled. ‘I might have guessed it would be something like that. Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Only a warning. Watch out for the police. Don’t fall into the trap of underestimating your enemy. I did, and that’s why I’m here. One sniff of their activity and I’ll want to know as a matter of urgency. Especially if it’s a bloke called Nash. He’s the bastard who put me away and crippled me into the bargain. That’s a score still to be settled.’
The rest of the hour-long visit was spent in planning. Even then, the time was too short. But then, they had lots to discuss.
Eddie Michaels was a career criminal. As such, it was hardly a prosperous career. If the police were to set up a squad to deal with disorganised crime, Eddie would have been one of their prime targets. A succession of bungled burglaries, slipshod shoplifting, luckless larceny and failed felonies had resulted in several custodial sentences.
As he stood in the dock aware that another enforced absence from hearth and home awaited him, Eddie’s main concern was for his partner Rosie and their large brood of offspring. Eddie wasn’t getting any younger and his prospects weren’t getting any brighter. He knew, sooner or later, he’d have to throw in the towel and try to earn an honest living. That looked like being later rather than sooner, given the sour-faced judge who’d been allotted his trial. From what Eddie had seen of the miserable old bastard, he reckoned he’d dish out the maximum sentence. His only cheering thought was that they’d dispensed with the death penalty.
Eddie hadn’t anything put aside for a rainy day and it looked as if it was about to start pouring down any minute. Nor would Rosie be able to supplement the meagre amount the state allowed convicts’ wives during their incarceration. In the past, she’d been able to draw a reasonable income by entertaining a select clientele who would pay handsomely to share what was Eddie’s by right. However, her looks were fading and her figure now distorted by repeated childbirth so that was no longer an option.
In the sparsely populated spectators’ gallery, one of the few attending the session studied the defendant, oblivious to the progress of the trial. The small, fat, balding felon would be ideal for his purpose, he decided. In fact, he’d already made a tentative approach to the man’s partner.
Jerry Freeman, following instructions, had been visiting the court on and off for a few weeks before settling on Michaels to undertake the task. He had already rejected a number of candidates, whose unreliability was evident by their manner. Their unsuitability was down to a number of causes, either their offences being drug-fuelled, or down to personality disorders. Eddie Michaels was, strange though it seemed, a much more stable character, albeit a loser.
He glanced to the left, where Rosie was seated with two of the oldest of her brood. He wondered idly how many of them were Eddie’s, and if Eddie knew, or cared. Given Rosie’s former profession it seemed unlikely that Eddie could claim parentage for all of them. He smiled to himself as he recalled the opening of his conversation with Rosie. She’d been under the misapprehension that he had a totally different proposition in mind. However, once he made his intentions known, her enthusiasm was undoubted. Likewise, he felt sure of her ability to persuade Eddie to do the right thing.
For the man about to be convicted, a few hours’ discomfort was a small price to pay in return for payment of their rent for a year, together with a small allowance to secure Eddie’s silence and a bonus for the successful delivery of the mobile phone. As long as the prison authorities didn’t suspect anything and carry out a rectal examination, all would be well.
He caught Rosie’s eye and nodded. She smiled brightly at the man who’d made her the offer. She made a slight upward gesture with one thumb. That was it then: it was all systems go.
It was February, nearing the half-term break. DS Mironova entered Mike Nash’s office late on Wednesday afternoon. She stared at the floor, then at her boss. ‘You’re not bored by any chance, are you?’ She transferred her gaze back to the DI.
Nash smiled. ‘However did you guess?’
Clara indicated the dozen or so paper aeroplanes scattered ar
ound the carpet. ‘Deduction, I’m a detective, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I’ve almost forgotten I’m one myself,’ Nash grumbled. ‘I’m thinking of going out and committing a crime just so I’ve something to detect.’
‘Nothing to distract you? No eager women falling at your feet?
No little assignations to look forward to?’
Nash winced. ‘Don’t remind me. Things are that bad I nearly asked you out.’
‘Thanks for the compliment. Put so flatteringly; it would have been difficult to turn you down. You’re so out of practice you’re even losing your natural charm. No numbers in your little black book? Better buy yourself a computer and try one of those online dating agencies. I understand there are some that specialize in the over forties.’
‘Now that’s below the belt. Anyway, was there a reason for you disturbing me when I’m so busy, or have you just come in to be impertinent?’
‘I wanted to ask if you’d anything for me to do. You’re not the only one who’s bored. Viv’s been monopolizing the computer most of the day. I’ve just found out he’s playing sudoku online. That’s how slow things are.’
‘Things might get a bit busier for you from tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten I’m taking Daniel to France. We’re leaving tonight, so I’ll be away until Monday.’
Clara smiled, Nash the devoted parent was still a novel idea to her. Over the preceding months she had grown fond of Daniel, having on numerous occasions had to act as babysitter or to collect the boy from After-school club, or the registered child minder Nash had selected, as he struggled to fit in his parental duties with that of a full-time police officer. On occasion, the strain had shown, and Clara was aware that part of Nash’s concern was the imperfection of the arrangements and the effect they might have on Daniel. Although Clara had no great love for the concept of boarding schools, Nash’s plan to send Daniel to his old school as soon as the boy was old enough, seemed to her the only solution. ‘No, I’ve not forgotten. Is he looking forward to the trip?’
‘Mixed feelings, I’d say. It must be difficult for a youngster. First, his mother died, then he was brought to a strange country to live with a father he’d never met, only heard of. I think the saving grace was that Monique told Daniel before she died that she wanted him to come and live with me and get to know me. Apparently, she used to talk about me a lot. Quite honestly, I’m astonished he’s settled as well as he has. I just hope he doesn’t grow to resent me. Just as he’s settling in and getting accustomed to his new life and different surroundings, off he goes, back to France and what must be painful memories.’
Clara hid a smile. Although Nash couldn’t see it, to even a casual observer it was obvious that the boy adored his father. Clara certainly wasn’t about to tell Nash that. ‘Are you sure it’s the right thing to do?’
‘Yes and no. To be honest, Clara, I’m learning as I go along. But I promised his great aunt I’d take Daniel to stay with her for the two weeks of half-term. She’s far from well, and I think she’s scared if she doesn’t see him this time there might not be another chance. I can’t deny her that, or Daniel either. He may not be looking forward to it at present, but if he didn’t go and anything happened he’d feel rotten about it later.’
‘Have you checked the ferry sailings? In view of the weather, I mean?’
Nash grimaced. ‘They’re all right, as far as I know. The south coast seems to have escaped the brunt of the gales. The worst part might be the drive down.’
‘One good thing, this weather seems to have kept all the villains indoors. In their own doors, I mean. I’ve not known it as quiet as this for a long time. I even had Tom Pratt asking me if there was any filing to do. He’s bored stiff with no paperwork to deal with.’
Nash winced. ‘I thought you’d know by now, Clara, not to tempt fate like that.’
Mironova threw up her hands. ‘I know, I know,’ she mocked him. ‘Sod’s Law and all that. Listen, why don’t you get yourself off now? Before the phone rings, I mean.’
‘I think I will. Even if it does ring, it’ll probably only be the chief. She promised to let me know when she’s heard who our new superintendent is going to be, but she thought it would be more likely next week rather than this.’
chapter two
The weather throughout February had been wilder than for many years. Heavy rain, brought sweeping in from the Atlantic by storm-to-gale force winds, lashed the north of England for much of the month.
The last Thursday in February was no exception. As night fell, the wind picked up. On the outskirts of Helmsdale in Wintersett village, close to the edge of Helm Woods, the small cottage, sturdily built though it was, received a continuous battering from the wind and lashing rain. The only occupant was watching television. At the window behind her, she could hear the leaves and branches of the ivy tapping and scraping against the glass. She felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck. She cast an involuntary glance backwards, towards the window, but could see little but the raindrops on the panes. On the TV, the forecaster was promising gales. No kidding, she thought. She began to relax, laughing a little at her fears. It had all been her imagination. She was sure of that now.
Again the tapping sound. Again the wind howling through the nearby trees. She stirred, she wished Brian were here. Normally, being alone didn’t worry her but tonight, things were different. Tonight, for some reason, she felt − not afraid − but unsettled.
She got up and went into the kitchen. She hated cooking for one. She wondered fleetingly if Brian would phone, then dismissed the idea: he was on a golfing holiday. That would be his excuse. Not that he actually made excuses. Not anymore, obviously didn’t think it was necessary. She wondered again about these frequent jaunts of his. Was he really that keen on golf? Not that she cared. She preferred it when he wasn’t there. And that said more about the state of their marriage than anything. She knew she’d leave him if she’d anywhere to go, any money of her own. But he made sure that wasn’t feasible. What was it they called people like that? A control freak − that was it. These days they were like two strangers sharing the same house.
She stopped torturing herself and tried to concentrate. Her back was to the kitchen window. That gave her no chance to see the face peering in. Nor did she hear any sound the watcher might have made. The howling wind saw to that. The figure remained, watching, impassive, until she moved. Half a turn was enough.
She wasn’t sure why she looked out of the window. There was nothing to see. The night was pitch-black. She gave a shrug that was as much mental as physical, and turned back to her ingredients. Immediately her back was turned, the face reappeared. Watching: watching and waiting.
She felt restless and decided to delay preparing her meal until after the programme she wanted to watch on television. She poured herself a glass of red wine, returned to the lounge and settled down to watch her favourite soap. The familiar theme tune was just ending when the phone rang. She muttered something impolite and got up to answer it. She was halfway across the room when the ringing stopped. Whoever had been calling had changed their mind. Either that or it was a wrong number.
The wind was picking up, getting ever stronger. Now it was collecting small bits of debris, hurling them against the cottage walls, the doors, the windows. That must account for the new sounds she could hear. Mustn’t it? Or was it something else? Something more sinister.
Stop it, she told herself severely. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Then she heard it again, a squeaking sound. It came from the back of the house. It could be the sound of ivy against the kitchen window or a hinge creaking. That was it, surely. It couldn’t be anything else. Could it? She ought to go and check, but dare not. Fear was beginning to take over: irrational, but undeniable. It held her in the chair, unwilling to move.
All her senses were at fever pitch. Her ears strained for any sound that might not be connected to the storm. Was it her imagination, or did it seem a little colder in the roo
m? Had a door been opened letting in the cooler air? There! What was that? A footstep? Something moving outside? Or inside? She became aware she was gripping the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the lounge door as fear escalated. She glanced down; saw the knuckles white with stress. This is ridiculous, she told herself.
She looked back at the door. Fear turned to terror. The handle was moving. The door opened. As she saw the figure standing in the doorway, her terror multiplied. She screamed. ‘Who are you?’ she screamed and screamed again.
Nash glanced across at his companion. The boy was small, fair, almost angelically so, with blue eyes. Anyone seeing them together couldn’t doubt their relationship. Many had commented on the fact but Nash himself couldn’t see it. To him, Daniel was so much like his mother, although time was beginning to blur Monique’s memory. When he’d mentioned this to Mironova, he’d been taken aback by her laughter. ‘Nonsense, Mike,’ she’d told him briskly. ‘Daniel is like a miniature version of you. Hair, eyes, shape of face, that’s only part of it. He’s even picking up your mannerisms.’
‘Such as?’ Nash was intrigued. Like everyone else, he wasn’t aware he had any.
‘Staring off into the distance as if you’re not listening, when in fact you’re picking up every word, is one. Tilting your head slightly when you’re puzzling something out is another.’
Nash recognized that one. Not from himself, but from his son.
He looked at the clock. ‘Time to go, Daniel,’ he told him gently.
The boy looked up from the book he’d been pretending to read. The antics of the mouse and the Gruffalo were fun, but not at the moment. ‘Must we, Papa?’
