The Stolen Child

by Alex Coombs

  28

  Alastair Fordham, the governor of Wendover Prison, studied himself in the mirror in his office. As usual, not a hair out of place. Fordham was an ex-Marine and it showed. He was also Cambridge educated and no stranger to the media. If there was a news item on prisons on Newsnight or a documentary, the chances were that Fordham would be there, giving the professionals’ point of view. Fordham was held in high regard at the Home Office and strangely in the prison service, or the National Offender Management Service as it’s officially known, as well. The two bodies rarely agreed on anything else.

  Fordham had ordered his staff to extend all possible help to DI Hanlon. They’d never met but he knew of her and he admired her. He felt they were kindred spirits. Both had records of leading by example. Both had received medals for bravery. Both had been in trouble for disobeying orders.

  At the beginning of the Afghanistan conflict, Fordham’s men had come under withering fire as their patrol had crossed a river. Fordham had risked his life to rescue two young soldiers from certain death. For this action he was subsequently awarded the Military Medal. So he felt a sympathy, a resonance, with Hanlon, as he would with anyone prepared to do what they had both done. They were both prepared to lay down their lives for others. Both had been decorated for it. He had a

  great respect for bravery. His staff had been ordered to treat her with all possible consideration. He was looking forward greatly to meeting her.

  He was satisfied with his reflection. As he brushed some imagined dust from his sleeve, he thought, I wonder what she wants with Anderson?

  Hanlon waited in the interview room for Anderson to arrive. Prisons made her think of a strange mix of fortress and school. Even the way prisoners addressed the officers and visitors was archaically polite. It was like going back in time to a more mannered age.

  HMP Wendover, one of England and Wales’ hundred and thirty-one prisons, was Victorian. Like most Victorian buildings, it was designed to impress. It had massive brick walls, twenty feet high, the top few feet covered in a decorative, plain stone cladding, so it looked as if it had been capped by a stonemason dentist. The front gate was huge, panelled and studded like something from a medieval fortress. For someone arriving on foot it was a peculiar sensation to walk through the small door within the huge wooden portal. It felt like visiting a giant’s castle.

  Inside the enormous gate, in a side office off the vast, vaulted arch of the entrance, she was searched by an attractive blonde woman officer, signed a visitor’s form and was issued with a pass. The fairytale world of the prison, a fairytale from the Brothers Grimm, not Disney, was emphasized by the discrepancy between the noisy rush outside and the disturbing tranquility within. The silence was almost oppressive.

  A tough-looking, wiry, silver-haired prison guard, with the twin stars on his uniform denoting he was a principal prison officer, led her into the grounds of the prison.

  From inside you could appreciate how big the place was.

  The black, tarmacked driveway through the prison that they walked down was very wide and everywhere was immaculately clean. The only signs of life were three prisoners silently tending a flower bed. It was as peaceful and relaxing as a sanatorium out here. She knew that inside the cell blocks there would be a great deal of noise, but it was contained within their walls. Hanlon reflected that prisons were such places of extremes: it was either tranquil or a riot. There was very little in between. John, the guard who accompanied her, was a pleasant, laconic individual. Like most prison guards he seemed to have a good sense of humour. Hanlon guessed it was almost a prerequisite of the job; you had to be able to laugh or you’d

  never last.

  Any prisoner that they encountered greeted them politely. Hanlon was reminded again that prison was a strange place. There was always an atmosphere of strained civility mixed with the constant threat of violence. The last time she’d interviewed someone in a prison, the alarms had suddenly sounded and they’d found themselves in the middle of a lockdown. She found out later one of the inmates had had his throat slashed, the news of which had sparked a riot. She’d sat in a secure room while a flash flood of enraged humanity had seethed down the narrow corridor. Even for Hanlon it had been an unsettling experience. In one of the corridors today, she’d walked past a large, glass trophy cabinet mounted on the wall. In a school such a cabinet would contain trophies and cups. Here it contained a selection of home-made weapons, mainly shanks or knives, recently recovered. Razor blades set in handles, toothbrushes filed to needle-sharp points, ingenious arrangements of broken glass. There was even a wooden pistol fashioned by one of the inmates. It really didn’t do to underestimate anyone in a

  Category A prison.

  They were walking past a low prison outbuilding. ‘A wing,’ said John with a jerk of his head. ‘Sexual offenders.’

  Hanlon nodded. Hello, Rabbit, she thought. Enjoying life in your hutch? The sex offenders had to be rigidly separated from the other prisoners, even to a certain extent from each other. The other inmates would have attacked them on sight. They were despised and they acted like a conduit, a lightning rod for the other prisoners’ suppressed rage. There was a rigid social order in prison and the inmates took a kind of pride in their hatred of the sex offenders. It was their way of showing the world they too had morality, they too had standards. The sex offenders were good for the other prisoners’ self-esteem. Whatever they were, they weren’t nonces.

  She thought of Rabbit Bingham, intelligent, witty, entrepreneurial, charming, self-deprecating, in many ways a catalogue of virtues, and a huge risk to any child he came within reach of. He, like virtually all child abusers, was totally without remorse. She doubted if Bingham even realized he was a monster. He’d told her in all seriousness that children often quite liked sex, it was a matter of how it was done. He’d dropped famous names of other well-known sex offenders into the conversation: Oscar Wilde, André Gide, Jimmy Savile, Roman Polanski, Gary Glitter, Stuart Hall. One day, he said, it’ll be legal, like homosexuality. He also pointed out that marriage in many countries was permitted at the age of puberty, or below, and not fixed at some arbitrary figure. He told Hanlon that in some cases he knew of men who’d been led on by eight-year-olds. He himself had been broken in – his term – by a neighbour when he was ten and he’d come to love it.

  ‘I’m talking from experience, Detective Inspector,’ he’d said

  seriously. ‘Children love sex.’ Bingham, she had been reliably informed, had raped a three-year-old.

  They all knew that the moment Bingham was released, he’d re-offend. She remembered how when interviewing him, Bingham gave nothing away, betrayed no one. Well, at that time she’d been constrained by PACE regulations. I wonder how you’ll stand up to a more robust interrogation, Bingham, she thought. I know you’re a monster. You fooled the judge who gave you the lightest sentence he could, you may even have fooled yourself, but I know you’re evil and I will not regret what I’m about to do.

  Anderson was waiting for her in the interview room. It was furnished with two chairs and a table. The table was secured to the floor. Anderson was as she remembered him, tall, thin, and hollow-cheeked. He had grown his hair and it hung in rat-tails over his face. He looked ascetic and slightly crazy, like a killer monk, a clean-shaved Rasputin. John, the prison officer, looked enquiringly at Hanlon. His eyes said, are you sure about this?

  Hanlon curtly ordered, ‘You can leave us now.’

  ‘Just press the button when you want me to come and get you,’ John said.

  The metal door closed behind him and there was an emphatic noise as the key turned with finality in the lock. They were alone together. Anderson sat down without being asked, on the opposite side of the table to Hanlon, and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘And what do you want?’ he asked. He remembered Hanlon from the time before he’d been arrested. She hadn’t been able to make that charge stick. He’d found out who was testifying against him. The witness had
children. Anderson made sure he knew where they were, where they went to school. The witness withdrew his testimony and Anderson walked. No chance of

  that happening in this case – five kilos of coke weren’t going to disappear.

  ‘I’d like your assistance, please,’ Hanlon said.

  Anderson smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hanlon’s own eyes were cold but Anderson’s were dead. When he looked you up and down, it was as if he were measuring you for a coffin. There was no humanity in his bleak gaze. Both inmates and guards alike preferred the company of Andy Howe, the multiple murderer, to Anderson. At least Howe was human, even if badly flawed. Anderson would kill you or hurt you with as little compunction as a man might swat a fly, and with less compassion.

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ he replied. His accent and inflection were typically London. He spoke quietly. He didn’t need to raise his voice.

  Looking at him reminded Hanlon of how right she’d been to get him put behind bars. Anderson was a man untroubled by conscience or conventional morality. She reflected momentarily on the irony of the fact that she’d broken the law to get him in prison. Now, if he did what she wanted, and she was sure he would, she’d have to break it again to get him out.

  Hanlon looked steadily in his direction. She didn’t bother trying to maintain eye contact. She wasn’t in a staring contest; she just needed Anderson to do what she wanted. Anderson had no intention of speaking first. He was in no hurry. By his own reckoning he had about ten years to go of sitting around behind prison walls. What was the rush?

  ‘This prison is Victorian, you know,’ said Hanlon conversationally. ‘It’s been here for 150 years. You’ll be here a while as well. You’ll be part of its history too. You could look into it, give yourself something to do while you’re here. Architecture is very interesting; I think so anyway.’ Anderson

  studied his fingernails with feigned indifference.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll come to like it too. Inigo Jones, Sir Christopher Wren, Norman Foster, Vanbrugh, all the greats,’ she added. Hanlon knew he must be wondering why she’d wanted to see him, but, of course, he wouldn’t ask. She carried on.

  ‘Or maybe, Mr Anderson, if architecture’s not your thing, there’s always history. Maybe you could study penal history while you’re in here, since you’re surrounded by it, so to speak.’ She tugged gently at a strand of her hair. It was thick and coarse. It was hard to do anything with it.

  ‘You’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. You’ll have to use books, not being allowed Internet.’

  ‘I know who you are, Hanlon,’ said Anderson with studied menace. He raised his eyes. It was a look that would make most people flinch.

  Hanlon leant across the table so her face was close to his. ‘Good,’ she said, very softly. He could feel her breath on his face. ‘I’m glad.’

  They held that position, staring now into each other’s eyes for a few heartbeats. Anderson broke the spell first. He moved back in his chair. He was impressed by what he’d seen in the policewoman’s eyes. It was almost like looking into a mirror. ‘The copper that nicked me. I heard he got shot.’ He smiled,

  a parody of sweetness.

  ‘That’s correct. He got shot. He got shot three times to be precise. Two to the body. One to the head. That’s why I’m here,’ said Hanlon. ‘He is a friend of mine, as well as a colleague.’

  Anderson laughed. ‘Do you think I was responsible, is that what you think? I thought you were supposed to be smart.’

  ‘If I thought that,’ said Hanlon, ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’d be talking about you, to one of the many new friends you’ve got on your wing.’ While Anderson digested this not so

  veiled threat, she said, rather thoughtfully, ‘There’s a man in here, on A wing. Rabbit Bingham, do you know him?’

  Anderson looked surprised. ‘A wing. He’s a nonce?’ Hanlon nodded. ‘He’s a nonce.’

  ‘I don’t mix with nonces,’ said Anderson. Hanlon sighed. ‘That wasn’t my question.’

  Anderson asked, ‘So what’s he got to do with your sergeant?’ Hanlon had had enough of beating around the bush. ‘He used to be partners with the man behind the shooting, Harry Conquest. Conquest is also involved in the sex trafficking of children. I want to know where he keeps them captive. I also

  want to know anything relevant to Whiteside’s shooting.’

  Anderson stretched luxuriously and flexed his powerful fingers. So that’s why she’s here. He was surprised by the request. The implication was clear. The DI was hardly likely to expect him to befriend this Bingham and gain his confidence, even if he’d been able to do so. The unstated message was, get him to talk. Beating people up for a confession or for information by the police had gone out with the ark and Bingham was safe in prison anyway, so she wouldn’t be able to do it herself. He didn’t doubt her capacity to do it, not now he had seen her eyes; he was just amazed she’d contemplate it. It would wreck any trial. He’d certainly never come across police violence in his dealings with them. Things had changed since his dad’s day, as the old man frequently reminded him. Blah, blah, Kray twins, blah, blah, Charlie Richardson, blah, blah, George Davis. Not like the old days. He suddenly wondered if this was some kind of trap to make him attack another prisoner and get his sentence increased. He looked at her and decided it probably wasn’t.

  ‘He’s a nonce, he’ll be hard to get to,’ he said. ‘Even if I

  wanted to. Why should I?’

  Hanlon ignored his question. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy,’ she said. ‘How you do it is up to you. And you will do it. There is another problem. One of time. Conquest has taken a twelve-year-old boy. He’s diabetic with a limited supply of insulin. I don’t think he’ll last much beyond the weekend. You’ve only got four days.’

  Anderson stood up slowly and leant on the table over Hanlon. ‘And what do I get out of it? Unlimited access to Sky TV?’ He spoke quietly, his voice low with sarcastic overtones. ‘What could the Metropolitan Police possibly offer me in return for my help?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hanlon. He sat down again, surprised at the answer. He started to speak and Hanlon held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘The police don’t do deals like that. I, however, can get you out of here.’

  Anderson looked around him theatrically and made an actor’s sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in the barred windows, the iron door, the brickwork.

  ‘How would you do that?’ he asked her sceptically. ‘Magic?’ ‘I’d tamper with the evidence that put you away,’ said Hanlon simply. She looked at her fingernails, cut short and covered with clear varnish. She studied them, then put her head back and looked

  at Anderson. She could see she had his undivided attention.

  ‘I would break the seals on two of the evidence bags. We’ve got five kilograms of what we claim is your coke in our evidence room, on a shelf, in a box. All neatly secured and labelled. Possession of that coke is the evidence against you. QED. It’s what you’ve been charged with, possession with intent to supply. You know that.’

  Anderson was paying attention now, that was for sure.

  ‘If there is any suggestion that this evidence is not what it seems, then the case against you has a massive flaw. Your brief

  will demand a further examination of the evidence, claiming that you were fitted up. We’ve got nothing to hide, we’ll say yes. An independent examiner will determine that the evidence

  – the drugs seized – has been tampered with, and this will come out in court. Some of the alleged cocaine will turn out to be, oh, I don’t know, icing sugar, say. Dextrose. It hardly matters. It’ll look as if you’ve been framed by an over-eager drug squad. I think that should be more than enough to have the case thrown out.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘It could be argued that what you were nicked with never was cocaine, that our analysis was fraudulent from the start. Any lawyer, no matter how incompetent, would get you off on that. At the very least, reasonable doubt would exist. We
’ll be completely wrong-footed; no one will know what’s happened. It’ll be a shambles.’

  Anderson was silent. She was certainly right. Evidence tam

  pering would raise all kinds of issues: planting of evidence by the police, perjury, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and certainly reasonable doubt would be established. He’d walk. But could he trust her? He looked at the woman opposite. He knew he could. Hanlon was the real deal.

  ‘You might even get some form of compensation,’ she said helpfully.

  But could he get to this Bingham? His mind was working furiously fast. Could he do it? He wondered. It was, as the DI had said, a problem of time. Yes, he could get to Bingham, but in such a short time? Usually time was in huge supply in prison; not in this case. Then that created the problem of bribing at least one of the screws, almost certainly more than one, to create a situation where he could get hold of Bingham for an hour. Half an hour would do, but Anderson hated being rushed and there’d be cleaning up to be done. It’d be ridiculous

  to have Hanlon make good on her part of the bargain only to be charged with, and end up doing time for, assaulting Rabbit Bingham. But this was running ahead of things; let’s deal now with the present, and with the most obvious question: ‘This isn’t official, is it? If any of this goes wrong, all bets are off, aren’t they?’ he said.

  Hanlon was conducting a vendetta, that much was obvious. Whatever she was planning to do with the information it wouldn’t stand up in court. Tampering with evidence would get her jailed. She must really have a thing about her colleague Whiteside, or really hate this character Conquest. Hate is a powerful emotion; he could sympathize with that.

  Hanlon’s mouth performed a smile of genuine sweetness and warmth for Anderson. Her eyes remained cold and hard. ‘Yes, of course it’s unofficial. If either of us gets caught, well, it’s goodnight Vienna. But, Mr Anderson, let’s not dwell on that unpleasant possibility, shall we? I’m sure we’re both optimists at heart. You do your job and I’ll do mine. If all goes to plan, and why shouldn’t it, you’ll be out in a few weeks, and