Meerholt Prison is typical of many others in the UK. It was built over one hundred years ago, is hugely over-crowded, and is now managed and run by a private security company. Prioritizing profit over safety and security has led to a general decline in standards in the prisons run privately, but Meerholt stands out as a particularly bad example of this. It holds a mixture of Category A, B, and C prisoners, on two separate wings. Category A is the classification for the worst of the worst prisoners. It is for murderers or those who pose a high risk to the public, so I guess that must include me. ‘A’ wing is for those awaiting trial and ‘B’ wing is for those already convicted. Outside of lockup time, the two wings are able to mingle freely, so it is no wonder that crime levels and assaults inside the prison have spiraled since privatization.
My processing and kit issue takes less than half an hour and by 11 pm with my prison uniform on, two of the prison officers lead me into ‘A’ wing.
The duty officer stops me at the end of the first-floor landing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go into isolation, McMillan? Word has already got round that you are coming. Cops are the lowest of the low as far as this lot are concerned. We won’t be able to get to you quickly if anyone makes a move on you.”
He seems genuinely concerned about my welfare, but I suspect that he might just be worried about dealing with the paperwork if there’s a death on his shift.
“A normal cell will be fine, thank you.”
“Fair enough — don’t say you weren’t warned, though. This is your cell here, put your stuff over there and get your bed made up. Lights out and lockup is at midnight.”
There is a young guy on the top bunk and he looks less than pleased at my arrival.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t put him in here, Mr. Bayliss. You know there’s going to be fucking trouble. Put him in with one of the fucking new guys. Nobody gives a shit about them.”
“Shut it, Billy, ya Brummie twat. He’s coming in here, so shut your fucking whining and get used to it. Move it, McMillan, get that bed made up.”
Both officers leave and Billy watches nervously as I make up the bed. When I finish and try to introduce myself, he turns to face the wall and ignores me. I have work to do, though, and don’t have time for niceties.
“Oy, don’t fucking ignore me, boy,” I snap.
This gets his attention and he turns back around to face me. “I already know your fucking name. You might be the big man on the outside, but in here you’re just a fucking target, copper!”
My punch hits him straight in the nose, but before he can cry out my hand is across his mouth and the other is around his throat. “Listen to me, Billy, I need to find someone. His name is Frank Butler — do you know him?”
I take my hand off his mouth and wipe a smear of blood from his nose onto his bed.
“Are you fucking crazy? Butler is a fucking psycho. He will kill me if he finds out I put you onto him. Wait until the morning — he will find you soon enough.”
I pull back my fist to punch him again and I laugh as he flinches waiting for the impact, and then I lower my arm.
“How about I ask someone else where he is and then I tell him that it was you that told me? A snitch is as bad as a cop in prison.”
The poor kid is completely shitting himself — either option leaves him facing the possibility of a beating.
“Ground-floor landing, cell number 14 — now, please just fuck off and leave me alone.”
With lights out and lockup at midnight, I don’t have long to find him and make my move. Thankfully, there are very few prisoners moving around at this time of night and apart from a few dirty looks and insults, I reach Butler’s cell relatively unmolested. As soon as I step inside, the difference with my own cell is obvious — Butler is clearly a prisoner of influence. There is a rug on the floor; he has a TV, a laptop computer and many other personal items that a regular prisoner would not be allowed. More importantly, he has the cell entirely to himself. Just like Paul Donovan, he is a big guy and while he is almost ten years younger, the physical resemblance to his cousin is obvious.
Naturally, my unannounced entrance into his cell is met with hostility, but he is so confident in himself that he remains lying back on his bed.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”
But before he has even finished his own question, the answer comes to him and he jumps to his feet, brandishing a toothbrush with a razor blade secured into the end of it.
“You’ve got a fucking nerve, McMillan. What’s up? You couldn’t wait until tomorrow for me to carve you up?”
A hand shoves me further into the cell and I am conscious now that I am within striking distance of the blade. Two vicious-looking guys are blocking the doorway and I would have no chance of getting away even if I had wanted to.
“Just calm down a minute — I have a proposition for you, Butler.”
Butler laughs and looks over to his cronies in the doorway. “Did you hear that, lads? PC Pig has a proposition for me.”
Whether they get his joke or not, they both laugh and he tells them to shut it and then looks back at me.
“Well then, let’s hear your fucking proposition, McMillan. You killed my fucking cousin so it had better be fucking good. I made this beauty especially for you.”
“You’re right, your cousin is dead, but he had it coming and you will like what I have to offer.”
“Watch what you’re fucking saying, McMillan,” he growls. “Get to the point or I am going to cut out your fucking eyes and make you eat them.”
I have absolutely no doubt at all that this is no idle threat; Butler is inside for three murders and for the kidnap and torture of a bank manager. I take a deep breath and choose my words carefully.
“I need you to hold off on trying to get your revenge for one week and I also want your protection from the other prisoners.”
The blade is now inches from my face and he has the same insane smile that Donovan had when he was strangling me. The only difference is the flecks of spit in the corner of his mouth as he speaks, “You want me to wait a week before I carve you up and you want me to protect you from the other cons? How about you move into my cell and I share my dinner with you? Are you off your fucking rocker? What kind of fucking proposition is that from a man that killed my fucking cousin? Fucking hold him down, lads.”
I can feel the blade touching the corner of my eye and he is just about to start slicing.
“Wait, please! I haven’t finished. Please listen, I can make sure that you are the top dog in here.”
At the last second, he pulls away the blade and tells his boys to stand me up.
“I’m already the fucking top dog but go on then. You’ve got two fucking seconds, no more fucking chances, McMillan, what is it?”
I indicate for his boys to move out of earshot and he nods his agreement, “You two, wait outside and shut the door a bit. I’m warning you, McMillan, don’t even think about trying to fuck me over, or they will be right back in.”
As soon as they are gone, I get down to business and make my offer to Butler. He clearly thinks that I am talking out of my arse, but despite believing that I am responsible for Paul’s death, even he can see the logic in waiting 24 hours and he agrees to my request.
“One way or the other, I am going to be a very happy man by tomorrow morning. Either you deliver on your promise, or I get the pleasure of going Jack the Ripper on your face. That’s the kind of odds I like. Now if you don’t mind, get the fuck out of my cell before I change my mind.”
So far, so good, though I now need to deliver on my promise. If I don’t, I will be in the shit up to my neck and I may need to request that isolation cell. I am opening the door when Butler speaks again, “Hang on, McMillan, take one of these before you go.”
He is right behind me as I turn and his skull smashes into my nose and sends me flying into the door, which crashes into my arm as it is kicked open by one of his boys outs
ide on the landing.
“I can’t have people thinking that I let you just walk in here without any kind of repercussions, Sean. Our deal still stands, though, you can think of that as a down payment on any non-delivery of your promise — now fuck off.”
Out on the landing, a burly-looking prison officer looks me up and down, but he doesn’t comment on the swelling around my eyes or the blood on my hoodie. “Move along, prisoner, get back to your cell, five minutes to lights out.”
Back inside my cell, Billy can barely hold back the smile when he sees the blood on my nose and hoodie.
“I see that you found Butler then. Glad I could help.”
Two minutes later the bolt is pulled across on the cell door and the lights go out.
I am bruised, bloody and tired. Sleep and travel should come easily tonight.
The Past – Tuesday, 26th December 1989
It might only be two days since I was last here, but Luton High Street has a completely different feel about it. The throngs of shoppers with overflowing bags have been replaced with Boxing Day revelers and, judging by the number of young men in the street proudly displaying their team colors and chanting their anthems, a football match has either just finished or will be starting shortly. Either way, the traditional Boxing Day match is a comforting reassurance that I have arrived on the right day. The afternoon is bright and sunny and after a short walk, I arrive at the wasteland behind the pub car park to retrieve the items that I had stashed underneath the burnt-out car. Thankfully, everything is exactly as I left it and with the bag of weed stuffed down the front of my sweat pants, I head inside the White Hart to get a drink.
Once again, the pub is absolutely rammed with drinkers, as you would expect for a public holiday, but this time there is no music playing. Instead, two large screens have been setup and they are now showing the highlights of the Boxing Day, London Derby. Tottenham have just beaten Millwall 3-1, so I suspect that it is unlikely that I will be seeing Darren anywhere around Luton today. We didn’t get as far as discussing his football allegiance, but almost certainly, he is a Spurs supporter. What else could he be when he is so well known in the White Hart Pub? Whichever team he supports, you can guarantee that he will be in the thick of it when the Millwall Bushwhackers go head-to-head with the Yid Army on the terraces at White Hart Lane.
I don’t really want a drink, but I need some change for the payphone so I order myself a pint of Budweiser and hand over a ten-pound note to the barman.
There is only twenty pounds left in the wallet, but I still have nearly six hundred in the roll that I took from the drug dealer. More than enough to keep me going for a few more days until I have what I need. I take my time over the pint; it’s only just before four o’clock and I don’t want to appear too keen, so I order myself a second pint and a packet of nuts.
The hand on my ass takes me by surprise and if I am in any doubt who it is, the screeching voice confirms it.
“What about a drink for me and Sarah then?”
I can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but I would swear that they are in the same clothes they were in when I left them two days ago and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had just applied fresh make-up over the old stuff. Bumping into them is not an ideal situation, but I need a contact number for Darren so I am happy to trade.
“Sure, why not? I need to get hold of Darren, though. Do you have a number for him?”
I order a couple of Double Southern Comfort and Lemonades as Sarah scribbles Darren’s number down on the back of Clive Douglas’ business card, and then I tuck it away in my pocket. After a few minutes of small talk and explaining where I had disappeared to on Christmas Eve, I excuse myself, much to Karen’s disappointment.
“Aw no, seriously? Are you going back to work?”
At first, I don’t pick up on her intimation. “Sorry, what?”
“Well, I hope that they are your work clothes. You look like a right dick head, doesn’t he, Sarah?” Then she suggestively adds, “It’s all the same to me, though, when the clothes are on my bedroom floor. Darren is up at White Hart Lane kicking fuck out of the Millwall lot. Why don’t we get a couple of bottles from the off- license and go back to my place? Have you ever had two girls, Sean?”
Offers like that don’t come along every day and thank God for that. I do my best to let them down gently, but in the end, I decide that it is better to be cruel to be kind.
“That really is a lovely offer, Karen, but to be honest, I think it would be better if you both get off home for a nice bath or a shower. Have a lovely day, girls.”
As I walk away, they are both looking perplexed and the last thing I hear as I open the door is Sarah saying, “Hang on a minute, was he trying to tell us we stink?”
The first phone box on the high street is vandalized, but the second one appears to be intact and I dial the handwritten number on the front of Clive Douglas’ business card. I assume that this is his home number and this is confirmed when a woman answers.
“Hello, Douglas residence, how can I help?”
Just for a second, I think that I might have called Buckingham Palace by mistake and I have an image in my head of a maid in a stately home answering a phone in a grand hallway.
I know that I have the right number, though — it’s just Clive’s wife with delusions of grandeur and acting all ‘Hyacinth Bouquet’ from the 1990s sitcom ‘Keeping Up Appearances’.
“Yes, hello, can I speak to Clive Douglas, please?”
“Certainly, and who shall I say is calling?”
“Tell him it’s Sean Smith — we are old friends.”
I can hear her calling out to him, but it is muffled and I imagine that she has her hand across the mouthpiece, “Clive, one of your friends on the phone. Someone called Sean.”
Then it sounds like she has placed the handset down on a table and I hear her high heels on the tiled floor as she walks away. For around a minute, I can hear music and laughter, but it is faint and must be in another room and then the phone is picked up.
“Clive speaking. Who is this, please?”
“Clive, it’s Sean Smith, we met in the White Hart on Christmas Eve. You mentioned something about a get-together.”
I doubt very much whether he has forgotten me already, but even so there is a short pause before he answers, “Sean, yes, of course. I wasn’t sure if I would be hearing from you today. I class myself as being a good judge of character, though, so I knew we would be speaking again eventually. The party has started already; you’re welcome to join us.”
He gives me his address, not that I need it, and I ask him if he would like me to bring anything.
“Just yourself, Sean. Be a little bit discrete, though, when you get here. A few of the guests are not part of the inner circle, if you get my meaning.”
This is music to my ears and I can hardly believe that he is bringing me in so soon. I may be able to finish this quicker than I had hoped for.
“Understood, Clive. Thanks, I will see you soon.”
Ten minutes later, my taxi drops me off a few doors down the street from Clive’s house and I spend another twenty minutes scoping the place out before making my way to the front door. It is obvious from the collection of Mercs, BMWs, and Jaguars parked up and down the street that his guests today are a different breed from the barbecue crowd I met in 1994 and the contrast between these cars and his own relatively basic Vauxhall Cavalier is startling. The choice of car and the detached house in Luton are entirely in keeping with the salary of a lowly detective sergeant in 1989, but it does make me wonder exactly who he has visiting today and where exactly he fits into this scenario.
After a short wait, Clive’s immaculately attired wife opens the door and she makes no attempt to hide her displeasure at my prison hoodie and sweat pants.
“Yes, can I help you with something?”
Thankfully, Clive is in the hallway and invites me in before things can get any more uncomfortable, “Sean, please come in. This is m
y wife Mary. Sorry, I should have explained that it was a formal gathering. I take it that you are undercover again today?”
At the mention of my being undercover, Mary visibly relaxes and she reaches out to shake my hand, “So sorry, Sean, I thought for a minute that you might be a gypsy or one of those awful tradesman types. Please help yourself to a glass of Champagne and a prawn vol-au-vent.”
I take a glass of Champagne, but as much as I enjoy a vol-au-vent, I politely decline her tray of eighties delicacies. With her hostess duties done, Mary disappears to fuss over the rest of her guests and Clive leads me into the main living room.
Apart from Mary and one other woman, all of the other guests are male and whilst all are formally dressed in jacket and tie, it is not hard to spot which of them are senior police officers. They all have that same air of superiority and belief in their own invincibility and, without exception, as Clive introduces me, they all look me up and down as if I am something nasty that needs to be scraped off their shoes.
Within fifteen minutes, I have been introduced to police officers ranging in rank from sergeant to chief inspector, a sitting Labour councilor, a member of parliament, and a local magistrate.
Clive’s guests are a veritable who’s who of exactly the kind of people that you would need for a successful corrupt network, but as I am about to discover the best is yet to come.
After another ten minutes of mingling, Clive excuses us from the main room, ushers me into his study, and locks the door behind us, leaving Mary to entertain the remaining guests.
Inside the study, there is an antique polished oak table laid out with decanters of whisky and brandy and a box of fine-looking cigars and the walls are lined with expensive-looking bookcases that give the room the feel of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. Four of the six occupants seated at the table have already been introduced to me earlier, but the remaining two are the biggest surprise of the day.
The Network Page 5
