Borstal Slags (11 page)

‘I needed a pretext to get you out of there, to speak to you in private without your fellow inmates becoming suspicious. Do you understand me?’

Donner was looking at him rather strangely. The boy’s face was hard to read. Perhaps his tough life and his time behind bars had given him a poker player’s skill at concealing his true feelings.

‘Well? Do you understand me?’

‘Of course I understand you,’ said Donner. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No. I can tell that. My name’s Sam. I’m a policeman.’

‘A policeman, yes, I figured that out already.’

‘Andy Coren escaped from here last Friday. He hid inside one of the old ovens being shipped out to the junkyard, but died in a crushing machine.’

Donner didn’t react.

Sam went on: ‘I’m trying to find out if his death was an accident, or if – if there was something …’

He let it hang there, unwilling to put words into the boy’s mouth.

‘What makes you think
I
know anything?’ asked Donner. ‘Is it because I wrote that letter for him, the one to his brother?’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Donner, I’m just trying to follow up what leads we’ve got. Can you tell me anything?’

Donner said nothing.

‘The letter you wrote for Coren, did he dictate it you? Or did you word it yourself?’

Still Donner remained silent.

‘There’s mention in that letter of a veterinary clinic in Lidden Street. But there
is
no veterinary clinic in Lidden Street. Why would Coren make that up?’

Sam waited for a response, but Donner’s face was motionless and impassive.

‘Please, Donner, I’m asking you to help me. Can you tell me anything about this borstal that I ought to know? Are things going on here? Have you heard anything? Rumours? Hearsay?’

‘It’s too dangerous to tell you what I know,’ said Donner in a low, level voice. ‘I’d be the next one to end up dead.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I think it’s obvious what I mean.’

‘Who would kill you if you spoke to me, Donner?’

‘Well, I can hardly tell you that, given what I’ve just said. You’re not very clever for a policeman.’

‘I’ll protect you,’ said Sam.

‘How?’

‘I’m a detective inspector with CID. I have authority.’

‘Be specific. I asked
how
?’

Sam was a little taken aback by the boy’s manner. It was cool, concentrated, self-assured.

‘I could see about getting you moved,’ Sam said.

‘Where?’

‘To another borstal. An open one. A nicer one.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as I can.’

‘Not good enough. I need to be transferred at once.’

‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ said Sam. ‘It’ll take time.’

‘Get me transferred,
then
I’ll talk,’ said Donner.

It was a manipulative move, a pressing-home of a tactical advantage. Donner had fully grasped the situation, that the information he had in his possession gave him leverage over Sam, and he was boldly exploiting it.

Sam resolved to regain the initiative. He could not afford to have his hand forced by this intelligent but devious child. He had to maintain his authority.

‘Sorry, Donner. You’ve proposed a deal I cannot accept,’ he said. ‘Give me something – a clue, a direction to look in – and I’ll see what I can do for you in return.’

‘You have to do what I say,’ Donner said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘You need me. I can see that. Get me moved to another borstal, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

‘If you won’t talk to me, then I’ll just have to walk away. Trust works both ways, Donner.’

It was a gamble. This boy wasn’t going to be easily bluffed or coerced. Sam went silent, and let Donner consider his next move.

But Donner said nothing. Was he stonewalling? Or was he just playing his cards close, seeing what he could gain from this exchange?

Sam decided to try a different approach.

‘I was recently speaking to a lad who did time here. His name’s Barton.’

‘I remember Barton,’ said Donner.

‘He said he had a hard time here.’

‘Not from me.’

‘You were friends with him?’

‘Not like
that
. Not the way you mean.’

‘I didn’t mean anything, I just asked if you were friends.’

‘He looked up to me,’ said Donner. His voice was as flat and emotionless as ever.

‘What happened to him?’ Sam asked. ‘Was he getting it pretty rough?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who from? The other inmates?’

‘One or two of them, maybe.’

‘Barton’s real trouble, it wasn’t with the
inmates
, was it?’ Sam said.

‘Maybe not.’

‘Donner, you know something. Please tell me.’ Deciding to take the plunge, Sam came right out with it. ‘Coren’s death wasn’t an accident.’

‘And Tunning didn’t commit suicide,’ Donner added calmly.

He’s offering me titbits. He knows what’s going on here.

In a low voice, Sam asked, ‘And what about Tulse, the lad who died in the kitchens?’

‘I was there.’

‘You worked with him?’

‘On and off.’

‘And you were with him when he died?’

‘I was ten feet away. I saw everything.’

‘What happened? Was it a faulty oven that killed him?’

Donner looked slowly about the room, but remained silent.

Sam drew closer to the boy and dropped his voice to the merest hint of a whisper: ‘Somebody’s killing inmates. Aren’t they.’

Donner’s blank face was Sam’s only reply.

‘Tell me, Donner, where should we be looking? Amongst the inmates themselves? Or – or should we be looking at the System?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Donner breathed back.

Sam nodded to himself. His instincts were proven right. He’d known, right away, where the dark heart of Friar’s Brook really lay.

‘I didn’t say a word to you,’ Donner said quietly but firmly.

‘I understand.’

‘You’d better understand. You really had.’ The boy’s manner was almost threatening. ‘And now, tell me – before I lose my temper with you – what are you going to do about getting me transferred?’

‘I want to have a snoop about this place,’ said Sam. ‘I want to see what’s going on here.’

He and Gene were together in a corridor, a few yards away from McClintock, keeping their voices low.

‘
Is
there something going on, Sam?’ asked Gene.

Sam shot a glance at McClintock, and whispered, ‘I felt from the start this place was all wrong. And McClintock, he’s all wrong too. Coren’s death wasn’t an accident. Nor was Tulse’s. And Tunning didn’t kill himself. It’s a cover-up, I’m telling you, Gene. We need to start digging around here. We’ll find skeletons in the cupboards, believe me.’

‘What did that lad say to you in private?’

Sam’s glance kept going back to McClintock. ‘We can’t talk about it here, Guv. Just trust me – we need to investigate Friar’s Brook,
and
the people who run it.’

Gene chewed this over, nodded and said, ‘Fine. We’ll haul Jock McSporran down to the station, stick his caber in a vice, and get him singing “The Thistles of Old Loch Lomond”.’

‘No, Guv, that’s
not
what we’re going to do. What we’re going to do is behave like policemen.’

‘I thought that
was
acting like a policeman,’ said Gene, without irony.

Sam got closer and dropped his voice even lower. ‘I need to be free to have a nose around without McClintock looking over my shoulder. He’ll only let us see what he
wants
us to see. Keep him busy while I head off on my own.’

‘Keep him busy? How am I supposed to do that, engage him in a spot of Highland dancing?’

‘If that’s what it takes, Guv. For God’s sake, you’re a DCI, you’re supposed to be able to handle situations like this.’

‘And, being DCI, I’m also supposed to be the one who
gives
the orders, not
takes
’em!’ Gene growled. ‘Why don’t
you
go compare bagpipes with Donald-where’s-ya-troosers while
I
have a snoop about?’

‘Because, Gene – and let’s be honest about it – you’ll blunder about, cause trouble, piss people off, and most likely get into some sort of fight. And that, Guv
,
would be unproductive.’

Gene gave him a sour look. ‘That’s a hurtful résumé of my capabilities, Tyler. I have my qualities.’

‘I know, Guv, you’re absolutely smashing with dogs. Now
please,
Guv, keep McClintock busy while I have a prowl around. It’ll be worth it. I’ll dig something up, I know it. And what’s more’ – now Sam’s voice was barely audible – ‘if McClintock’s as guilty as I’m guessing he is, you’ll have the pleasure of nicking him later on.’

Gene pulled a pinched, thoughtful expression, and then, without a word, he clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder and strode manfully towards the House Master.

Sam headed in the other direction. Behind him, he heard McClintock’s voice raised in protest, ‘Now wait just one second. Where does that lad think he’s off to unsupervised?’

Gene thrust his ID badge into McClintock’s face. ‘Wherever the chuff he pleases, Jock. We’re CID.’

‘No, no, no, no, this is something I will not allow, officers running hither and thither as they please.’

‘Hard haggises, you can’t stop us. Oh, don’t pull that face, Jimmy, we’re all on the same side. Now – why don’t you and me go to your office and have a nice cosy chat about which one of the Bond lasses we’d most like to stick it to. Me, I’m up for that one on the double-decker who tells fortunes in Jamaica.’

Sam moved through a succession of whitewashed corridors, which all reeked of polish and bleach. Everywhere, he was confronted by those stark words stencilled in red: SILENCE – RESPECT – DUTY.

The atmosphere here,
Sam thought,
it’s stifling. I’ve seen the inside of enough prisons over the years – always rowdy, always full of backchat and course laughter and somebody singing away like a loon until a screw yells at him to shut up. But here – silence.

Silence, yes – but respect?

Gradually, Sam began to get a sense of the layout of the place. The inmates were confined within a network of buildings, all connected with corridors. There seemed to be, by and large, free access within this complex, allowing inmates and staff to move from one part of the borstal to another, but nobody could get out without unlocking the stout, bolted doors that led onto the various open-air exercise yards. Sam had to show his ID to a passing warder and get him to open up one of these doors so he could have a nose about outside. He found himself standing in an open space hemmed in by a huge, wire-topped wall. The slogan of the System glowered down oppressively from it in bright-red paint. Beneath the six-foot-high letters stood rows of inmates engaged in synchronized exercises. Every move was accompanied by a grunted word. They turned left – ‘Silence!’ – then right – ‘Respect’ – then touched their toes – ‘Duty!’

Every one of them wore a ragged patch of brown cloth.

The Stain
, thought Sam, shaking his head in incredulity. He looked at the rows of young faces, all spots and puppy fat and beardless chins.

‘Silence!’ – turn – ‘Respect!’ – turn – ‘Duty!’ – bend.

Sam turned to the warder who had opened the door for him.

‘Where do the lads play footie round here?’ he asked. ‘This yard’s too small.’

‘They don’t play footie.’

‘Course they do! They’re
lads
!’

‘House Master’s rules – no football, no games.’

‘No games? What about table tennis?’

‘Not even telly,’ said the warder. ‘Bending and stretching, that’s all the recreation they get. Rest of the time it’s chores or else they’re banged up in the their dorms.’

The boys turned left, turned right, bent over. ‘Silence! Respect! Duty!’

‘What’s McClintock doing to these kids’ heads …?’ murmured Sam. ‘No footie, no telly – little wonder this place feels like the calm before the storm.’

The warder opened another door for him, and Sam found himself back in the rabbit warren of bleached corridors and red, stencilled letters. He reached a hallway that was sealed off from the corridor by a barred gate and guarded by a fierce-looking screw in immaculate uniform. Clearly, this area was strictly off limits to the inmates.

‘What goes on here?’ Sam asked, showing his police ID.

‘Punishment block,’ said the warder. He indicated the heavy doors. ‘Isolation cells for lads who kick off.’

‘Let me see inside one.’

‘What for?’

Sam went to reply, then hesitated. What, indeed,
was
he hoping to find here? Clues that would incriminate McClintock for crimes against the inmates? The chances of that were a million to one. And yet something within him compelled him to explore, drawing him deeper and deeper into this wretched place for reasons not at all to do with police work and a criminal investigation. It was as if his own life, his own Fate, was bound up with this place and the labyrinth of rooms, corridors and cells within it.

‘Just unlock one of those doors for me,’ said Sam. ‘Let me see inside.’

The warder shrugged and rattled his keys. He opened the metal gate that sealed the punishment block off from the corridor, then opened one of the heavy cell doors and stood aside. Sam stepped through the open doorway. The cell within looked and smelt like a public toilet. The whitewashed walls were vilely stained. The single window was barred and gridded, the glass so caked in grime that it let in nothing but a sickly trickle of daylight. There was no bed, not even a cot or shelf, just the hard, filthy floor to lie on. The toilet was a stinking slop bucket sitting in the corner. It was all in sharp contrast to the bleach and carbolic soap elsewhere.

‘You lock
kids
in here?’ Sam asked.

‘Well we don’t use it for storing brooms,’ the warder replied. ‘It’s called the White Hole.’

‘It’s medieval. What do you think it does to some fifteen-year-old boy’s head to be banged up alone in a dungeon like this?’

The warder shrugged. ‘The White Hole’s better than the Black Hole.’