Once the search was over, the officer placed a yellow sash round Danny’s shoulder to identify him as a prisoner, not unlike the fluorescent one his mother made him wear when he first learnt to ride a bicycle. He was then led into the largest room he’d been in since arriving at Belmarsh. He reported to a desk that was raised on a platform about three feet above the floor. Another officer checked another list, and said, ‘Your visitor is waiting at E9.’
Seven lines of tables and chairs were set out in long rows, marked A to G. The prisoners had to sit on red chairs that were bolted to the floor. Their visitors sat on the other side of a table on green chairs, also bolted to the floor, making it easier for the security staff to carry out surveillance, assisted by several CCTV cameras whirring above them. As Danny walked down the rows, he noticed officers were keeping a close eye on both prisoners and visitors from a balcony above. He came to a halt when he reached row E and searched for Beth. At last he saw her, sitting on one of the green chairs. Despite having her photo sellotaped to the cell wall, he had forgotten quite how beautiful she was. She was carrying a parcel in her arms, which surprised him, as visitors are not allowed to bring in gifts for prisoners.
She leapt up the moment she saw him. Danny quickened his pace, although he had been warned several times not to run. He threw his arms around her, and the parcel let out a cry. Danny stepped back to see his daughter for the first time.
‘She’s beautiful,’ he said as he took Christy in his arms. He looked up at Beth. ‘I’m going to get out of here before she ever finds out her father was in jail.’
‘How are—’
‘When did—’ They both began to speak at once.
‘Sorry,’ said Danny, ‘you go first.’
Beth looked surprised. ‘Why are you speaking so slowly?’
Danny sat down on the red chair and began to tell Beth about his cellmates as he tucked into a Mars Bar and drained a can of Diet Coke which Beth had purchased from the canteen – luxuries he hadn’t experienced since he’d been locked up in Belmarsh.
‘Nick is teaching me to read and write,’ he told her. ‘And Big Al is showing me how to survive in prison.’ He waited to see how Beth would react.
‘How lucky you were to end up in that cell.’
Danny hadn’t thought about that before, and suddenly realized he ought to thank Mr Jenkins. ‘So what’s happening back in Bacon Road?’ he asked, touching Beth’s thigh.
‘Some of the locals are collecting signatures for a petition to have you released, and Danny Cartwright is innocent has been sprayed on the wall outside Bow Road tube station. No one’s tried to remove it, not even the council.’
Danny listened to all of Beth’s news while he munched his way through three Mars Bars and drank two more Diet Cokes, aware that he wouldn’t be allowed to take anything back to his cell once the visit was over.
He wanted to hold Christy, but she’d fallen asleep in Beth’s arms. The sight of his child only made him more determined to learn to read and write. He wanted to be able to answer all of Mr Redmayne’s questions so that he would be ready for his appeal and to surprise Beth by replying to her letters.
‘All visitors must now leave,’ announced a voice over the tannoy.
Danny wondered where the shortest hour in his life had gone as he looked up to check the clock on the wall. He rose slowly from his seat and took Beth in his arms, kissing her gently. He couldn’t help remembering that this was the most common way for visitors to pass drugs to their partners, and that the security staff would be watching them closely. Some prisoners even swallowed the drugs so they wouldn’t be discovered when they were searched before returning to their cells.
‘Goodbye, my darling,’ said Beth when he eventually released her.
‘Goodbye,’ said Danny, sounding desperate. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ he added, pulling a piece of paper out of a pocket in his jeans. No sooner had he passed the message to her than an officer appeared by his side and grabbed it.
‘You can’t exchange anything while you’re on a visit, Cartwright.’
‘But it’s only—’ began Danny.
‘No buts. It’s time for you to leave, Miss.’
Danny stood watching as Beth walked away, carrying his daughter. His eyes never left them until they had disappeared out of sight.
‘I must get out of here,’ he said out loud.
The officer unfolded the note and read the first words Danny Cartwright had ever written to Beth. ‘It won’t be long before we’re together again.’ The officer looked worried.
‘Short back and sides?’ asked Louis as the next customer took his place in the barber’s chair.
‘No,’ whispered Danny. ‘I want you to make my hair look more like your last customer’s.’
‘It’ll cost you,’ said Louis.
‘How much?’
‘Same as Nick, ten fags a month.’
Danny removed a packet of unopened Marlboro from his jeans. ‘Today, and a month in advance,’ said Danny, ‘if you do the job properly.’
The barber smiled as Danny placed the cigarettes back in his pocket.
Louis walked slowly around the chair, occasionally stopping to take a closer look before he offered an opinion. ‘First thing you’ll have to do is let your hair grow and wash it two or three times a week,’ he said. ‘Nick never has a hair out of place, and his curls slightly at the nape of his neck,’ he added, as he came to a halt behind him. ‘You’ll also need to shave every day. And cut your sideboards a lot higher if you want to look like a gent.’ After another perambulation, he added, ‘Nick parts his hair on the left, not the right, so that’s the first change I’ll have to make. And his hair’s a shade lighter than yours, but nothing a little lemon juice won’t take care of.’
‘How long will all this take?’ asked Danny.
‘Six months, no longer. But I’ll need to see you at least once a month,’ he added.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Danny. ‘So book me in for the first Monday of every month, because the job has to be finished by the time my appeal comes up. My lawyer seems to think that it matters what you look like when you’re in the dock, and I want to look like an officer, not a criminal.’
‘Shrewd fellow, your lawyer,’ said Louis, throwing a green sheet round Danny before picking up his clippers. Twenty minutes later an almost imperceptible change had begun to take place. ‘Don’t forget,’ said Louis as he held up the mirror for his valued customer before brushing a few hairs from his shoulders. ‘You’ll need to shave every morning. And shampoo your hair at least twice a week if you hope to pass muster, to use one of Nick’s expressions.’
‘Back to your cells,’ shouted Mr Hagen. The officer looked surprised when he saw an unopened packet of twenty cigarettes pass between the two prisoners. ‘Found another customer for the alternative service you offer, have you, Louis?’ he asked with a grin.
Danny and Louis remained silent.
‘Funny that, Cartwright,’ said Hagen. ‘I’d never have put you down for a queer.’
23
MINUTES TURNED INTO HOURS, hours became days, days ended up being weeks in the longest year of Danny’s life. Though, as Beth regularly reminded him, it hadn’t been entirely wasted. In a couple of months’ time Danny would take – sit, Nick’s word – six GCSEs, and his mentor seemed confident that he would pass them all with flying colours. Beth had asked him which A levels he had signed up for.
‘I’ll have been released long before then,’ he promised her.
‘But I still want you to take them,’ she insisted.
Beth and Christy had visited Danny on the first Sunday of every month, and lately she could talk of little else but his upcoming appeal, even though a date hadn’t yet been posted in the court calendar. Mr Redmayne was still searching for fresh evidence, because without it, he admitted, they didn’t stand much of a chance. Danny had recently read a Home Office report which said that 97 per cent of lifers’ appeals were rejected, and the rem
aining 3 per cent ended up with no more than a minor reduction in their sentence. He tried not to think about the consequences of failing to win his appeal. What would happen to Beth and Christy if he had to serve another twenty-one years? Beth never raised the subject, but Danny had already accepted that he couldn’t expect all three of them to serve a life sentence.
In Danny’s experience, lifers fell into two categories: those who completely cut themselves off from the outside world – no letters, no calls, no visits – and those who, like a bedridden invalid, remain a burden to their families for the rest of their lives. He had already decided which course he would take if his appeal was turned down.
Dr Beresford killed in car accident read the headline on the front page of the Mail on Sunday. The article went on to tell its readers that Lawrence Davenport’s star was on the wane, and the producers of The Prescription had decided to write him out of the script. Davenport was to be killed off in a tragic car accident involving a drunk-driver. He would be rushed to his own hospital where Nurse Petal, whom he had recently ditched when he discovered she was pregnant, would try to save his life, but would be unable . . . The phone rang in Spencer Craig’s study. He wasn’t surprised to find it was Gerald Payne on the other end of the line.
‘Have you seen the papers?’ Payne asked.
‘Yes,’ said Craig. ‘Frankly I’m not surprised. The show’s ratings have been going west for the past year, so they’re obviously looking for some gimmick to give them a boost.’
‘But if they ditch Larry,’ said Payne, ‘he’s not going to find it that easy to get another part. We certainly don’t want him going back on the bottle.’
‘I don’t think we should be discussing this over the phone, Gerald. Let’s meet up soon.’
Craig opened his diary, to find several days were blank. He didn’t seem to be getting quite as many briefs as he had in the past.
The arresting officer placed the prisoner’s few possessions on the counter, while the desk sergeant made a note of them in his log book: one needle, one small packet containing a white substance, one match box, one spoon, one tie and one five-pound note.
‘Do we have a name, or any ID?’ asked the desk sergeant.
‘No,’ replied the young constable, glancing at the helpless figure slumped on the bench in front of him. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said, ‘what’s the point of sending him to prison?’
‘The law’s the law, my lad. Our job is to carry it out, not to question our masters.’
‘Poor bastard,’ the constable repeated.
During the long, sleepless nights running up to the appeal, Mr Redmayne’s advice during the original trial was never far from Danny’s thoughts: if you plead guilty to manslaughter, you’ll only have to serve two years. If Danny had taken his advice, he would be free in twelve months’ time.
He tried to concentrate on the essay he was writing on The Count of Monte Cristo – his GCSE set text. Perhaps, like Edmond Dantès, he would escape. But you can’t build a tunnel when your cell is on the first floor, and he couldn’t throw himself into the sea, because Belmarsh wasn’t on an island. So, unlike Dantès, unless he won his appeal, he had little hope of gaining revenge on his four enemies. After Nick had read his last essay, he had given Danny a mark of 73 per cent, with the comment, ‘Unlike Edmond Dantès, you won’t need to escape, because they’ll have to release you.’
How well the two of them had come to know each other during the past year. In truth they had spent more hours together than he and Bernie had ever done. Some of the new prisoners even assumed they were brothers, until Danny opened his mouth. That was going to take a little longer.
‘You’re every bit as bright as I am,’ Nick kept telling him, ‘and when it comes to maths, you’ve become the teacher.’
Danny looked up from his essay when he heard the key turning in the lock. Mr Pascoe pulled the door open to allow Big Al to stroll in, regular as clockwork – you must stop using clichés, even in your thoughts, Nick had told him – and slumped down on the bed without a word. Danny continued writing.
‘Got some news fur ye, Danny boy,’ said Big Al once the door had been slammed shut.
Danny put down his pen; it was a rare event for Big Al to initiate a conversation, unless it was to ask for a match.
‘Ever come across a fucker called Mortimer?’
Danny’s heart began to race. ‘Yes,’ he eventually managed. ‘He was in the bar the night Bernie was murdered, but he never showed up in court.’
‘Well, he’s shown up here,’ said Big Al.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly whit I said, Danny boy. He reported tae the hospital this efternoon. Needed some medication.’ Danny had learnt not to interrupt Big Al when he was in full flow, otherwise he might not speak again for a week. ‘Checked his file. Possession of a class-A drug. Two years. So I’ve got a feeling he’s gonnae be a regular visitor tae the hospital.’ Danny still didn’t interrupt. His heartbeat was, if anything, even faster. ‘Now I’m no as clever as you or Nick, but it’s jist possible he might be able tae supply that new evidence you and yer lawyer have been looking fur.’
‘You’re a diamond,’ Danny said.
‘A rougher stone, perhaps,’ said Big Al, ‘but wake me up when yer mate gets back, ’cause I have a feeling it may be me has got something tae teach you two fur a change.’
Spencer Craig sat alone nursing a glass of whisky as he watched Lawrence Davenport’s final episode of The Prescription. Nine million viewers joined him as Dr Beresford, with Nurse Petal clutching on to his hand, gasped out his final line, ‘You deserve better.’ The episode won the show’s largest audience share for over a decade. It ended with Dr Beresford’s coffin being lowered into the ground as Nurse Petal sobbed at the graveside. The producers had left no chance of a miraculous recovery, whatever the demands of Davenport’s adoring fans.
It had been a bad week for Craig: Toby being sent to the same prison as Cartwright, Larry out of work, and that morning the date for Cartwright’s appeal had been posted on the court calendar. It was still several months away, but what would Larry’s state of mind be by then? Especially if Toby cracked and in return for a fix was willing to tell anyone who would listen what had really happened that night.
Craig rose from his desk, walked across to a filing cabinet he rarely opened and thumbed through an archive of his past cases. He extracted the files of seven former clients who had ended up at Belmarsh. He studied their case histories for over an hour, but for the job he had in mind there was only one obvious candidate.
‘He’s beginning tae blab,’ said Big Al.
‘Has he mentioned that night in the Dunlop Arms?’ asked Danny.
‘No yet, but it’s early days. He wull, given time.’
‘What makes you so confident?’ asked Nick.
‘Because I have something he needs, and fair exchange is nae robbery.’
‘What have you got that he needs that badly?’ asked Danny.
‘Never ask a question that you don’t need to know the answer to,’ said Nick, jumping in.
‘Canny man, yer friend Nick,’ said Big Al.
‘So what can I do for you, Mr Craig?’
‘I believe you’ll find it’s what I can do for you.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Craig. I’ve been banged up in this shit-hole for the past eight years and during that time I haven’t heard a dicky bird out of you, so don’t fuck me about. You know I couldn’t afford even an hour of your time. Why don’t you just come to the point and tell me what you’re doin’ here?’
Craig had carefully checked the interview room for any bugs before Kevin Leach had been allowed to join him for a legal visit. Client confidentiality is sacred in English law, and if it were ever breached, any evidence would automatically be ruled inadmissible in court. Despite that fact, Craig still knew he was taking a risk – but the prospect of a long spell in prison locked up with the likes of Leach was an even less attractive proposition.
‘Got everything you need, have you?’ asked Craig, who had rehearsed each line he intended to deliver as if he was in court cross-examining a key witness.
‘I get by,’ said Leach. ‘Don’t need a lot.’
‘On twelve pounds a week as a stacker on the chain gang?’
‘As I said. I get by.’
‘But no one is sending you in any little extras,’ said Craig. ‘And you haven’t had a visit for over four years.’
‘I see you are as well informed as ever, Mr Craig.’
‘In fact, you haven’t even made a phone call during the past two years – not since your Aunt Maisie died.’
‘Where’s all this leading, Mr Craig?’
‘There’s just a possibility that Aunt Maisie might have left you something in her will.’
‘Now why would she bother to do that?’
‘Because she’s got a friend who you’re in a position to help.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Her friend has a problem – a craving, not to put too fine a point on it, and not for chocolate.’
‘Let me guess. Heroin, crack or cocaine?’
‘Right first time,’ said Craig. ‘And he’s in need of a regular supply.’
‘How regular?’
‘Daily.’
‘And how much has Aunt Maisie left me to cover this considerable outlay, not to mention the risk of being caught?’
‘Five thousand pounds,’ said Craig. ‘But just before she died, she added a codicil to her will.’
‘Let me guess. That it wasn’t to be paid all at once.’
‘Just in case you decided to spend it all at once.’
‘I’m still listenin’.’
‘She hoped that fifty pounds a week would be enough to make sure her friend wouldn’t need to look elsewhere.’
A Prisoner of Birth Page 13
