Captives (23 page)

    'How many are there in each cell?' Clinton wanted to know.

    'Usually three,' Nicholson said.

    'Would it be possible to have a look inside one?' asked Anne Hopper.

    Nicholson stopped his slow strides and turned to look at her.

    'If you wish,' he said and nodded to Swain to unlock the nearest cell.

    The warder peered through the observation slot then selected a key from the long chain that dangled from his belt. He opened the door and walked in.

    'On your feet,' he snapped, glancing at the two occupants. They were both lying on their bunks, one reading, one scribbling a letter on a notepad.

    Mike Robinson looked down from the top bunk and saw Swain standing there.

    'Mr Swain, what a pleasure,' he said. 'What can we do for you?'

    'You can shut your mouth and get on your bloody feet,' snapped Swain.

    'Leave them, warder,' said Anne Hopper, moving past him into the cell.

    Both men eyed her approvingly as she entered.

    'Sorry to disturb you,' she said, smiling.

    'No bother, darling,' Robinson told her, grinning. He swung his legs around so that he was perched on the edge of the bunk. He put his pencil and pad aside. Rod Porter peered at her over the top of his book, glancing at the other visitors.

    'Less of your lip, Robinson,' hissed Swain. 'Show a bit of respect.'

    Robinson caught sight of Nicholson standing on the landing and his smile faded rapidly. He nodded a greeting to the other three visitors, who crowded into the cell as if they were playing some bizarre game of sardines.

    There was a table and two wooden chairs at the far end by the slop buckets. Clinton sat down beside the slop bucket and smiled at the two men. Robinson smiled back. Porter merely regarded the man indifferently, his gaze straying back to the woman.

    'These are the visitors you were told about yesterday,' Nicholson informed the two men.

    'You said there were usually three to a cell,' Clinton observed.

    'That's right,' Nicholson repeated.

    'There were three of us in here,' said Porter slowly, his gaze flicking from one visitor to the other, but always returning to Anne Hopper. 'Our cell-mate had an accident.'

    'Shut it, Porter,' Swain said under his breath.

    'No,' said Fairham, raising a hand. 'Let him speak.' He looked at the prisoner. 'What kind of accident?'

    'He forgot to test the temperature of his bath water,' Porter said cryptically.

    Robinson laughed, looked at Nicholson and then fell silent again.

    'I'm not with you,' said Fairham.

    'Neither is he, any more,' Porter said.

    'What was this man's name?' Fairham wanted to know.

    'Marsden,' Nicholson said. 'He was in here for sexual crimes against children.'

    'He was a fucking ponce,' Porter said venomously.

    'Watch your language,' snarled Swain.

    'He was. We all knew it, the screws knew it too. That's why they didn't interfere when he… hurt himself.' The vaguest hint of a smile creased Porter's lips.

    'You called him a ponce,' Clinton said. 'What is that?'

    Robinson chuckled again.

    'You must have got a few in the Houses of Parliament,' he said, smiling.

    Porter looked directly at the MP.

    'A ponce. A pimp. He lived off little kids,' the prisoner said contemptuously. 'Made them sell themselves. Girls and boys. He had kids as young as twelve in his stable when they lifted him. A ponce.' He emphasised the word with disgust.

    'I still don't understand what you mean about him having an accident,' Fairham said.

    'I told you,' Porter said. 'He didn't test his bath water. He got a bit hot.'

    'Where is this man now?' Fairham wanted to know.

    'He was taken to the hospital wing, then removed to Buxton General Hospital,' Nicholson said. 'He had been scalded. We found him at least two of my officers did, in a bath full of boiling water in the shower rooms. When they got to him ninety-eight per cent of his body had been burned. There was nothing we could do for him here, so we had him transferred.'

    'How did he get in that state?' Fairham asked, perplexed, his gaze shifting back and forth from Nicholson to Porter.

    'He slipped on the soap,' Porter said.

    Robinson laughed.

    'He always was careless,' the other man added.

    The realisation finally seemed to hit Fairham. The colour drained from his cheeks.

    'You mean someone tried to kill him?' he said, his voice low.

    'No,' Porter told him, flatly. 'He just had an accident.' He raised his book and continued reading.

    The visitors turned and filed out of the room, realising that the conversation had come to an end.

    Swain threw the two convicts an angry glance before slamming the door and locking it.

    On the landing Nicholson was leaning on the rail.

    'A man is nearly murdered in here and your officers knew about it?' snapped Fairham.

    Nicholson rounded on him, his eyes blazing.

    'My men knew nothing about what was going on,' he hissed.

    'But that man said…'

    'Are you going to take the word of a prisoner over mine?' snarled Nicholson. 'My men knew nothing about it.'

    'But you don't deny that it could have been deliberate?' Anne Hopper added.

    'Miss Hopper, the man who was injured ran a child prostitution ring,' Nicholson said, his tone a little calmer now. 'He set the children targets every day. If they didn't bring back the amount of money he'd told them to, he beat them with a baseball bat.' The Governor paused, for effect. 'A baseball bat studded with carpet tacks.'

    'Oh God,' murmured Merrick.

    'God had very little to do with it, Mr Merrick,' Nicholson added. He looked at the visitors. 'What you must understand is that even convicts have a twisted code of ethics that they live by. They have their own rules and their own hierachy. The gang members, the hit men in here are at the top of their tree. Child molesters are the lowest of the low, even to other criminals.'

    'Why?' Anne Hopper asked.

    Nicholson smiled thinly.

    'Even scum have to have someone to look down on.'

    

    

    The figures moved furtively in the darkness, glad of the protection of night.

    As they worked the sound of water slapping against the canal walls was a ceaseless accompaniment to their labours. The wind whipped down the narrow side-streets and alleys, whistling in the wide estuaries. The breezes seemed to skim off the water like stones. The surface was constantly moving, as if some unseen force were continually hurling large rocks into the water at the quayside.

    The small boat moored there rocked with each wave. The men on board looked up towards their companions on the quayside, muttering to them to be quicker.

    A pile of wooden boxes as tall as a man stood on the quay. Piles just like it had already been loaded onto the boat, carefully stowed in its hold, covered by heavy sheeting and secured.

    The last of the boxes were being transferred from the back of the truck now, carried by men who sweated under the effort despite the chill wind that had come with the onset of the night.

    Further up the quay, larger boats were anchored. Most of the crews or owners had gone ashore. Only the odd light burned, a warning to any other craft travelling the canals on the coal-black night. The churning water looked as impenetrably gloomy as the night, as if it were a liquid extension of the umbra. Pieces of rotting, wood drifted past on the flow. The odd tree branch, too. Even a torn jacket.

    When a car passed by the men gave it a cursory glance.

    The lorry was unloaded. The last two boxes were lifted on to the small boat, the men who strained under their weight cursing as they completed their task.

    One of them paused for a moment, inspecting the lid of the last box. It was loose. Several of the nails had come free. The man drew it to the attention of a companion and, together, they lifted the strut of wood clear. He reached inside, pushing his hand through the layers of packing and into something dark and pungent.

    Coffee beans.

    The aroma was strong in the chill night air but he dug deeper, finally allowing his hand to close on what he really sought.

    He pulled the small plastic box free and laid it on top of the crate, fumbling in his jacket pocket for something.

    The plastic box was about seven inches long and five across.

    He opened it and looked at the video tape cassette inside.

    In his pocket he found a screwdriver and inspected the narrow end as if he were a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation. Then, working swiftly, he undid the six screws that held the cassette together and gently eased the back off.

    Nestling between the two spools was a tiny plastic packet, smaller than a thumbnail.

    He inspected the plastic bag, satisfied that its contents had not been touched.

    The cocaine looked like talcum powder, luminescent in the darkness.

    The man quickly replaced the back of the cassette, screwed it in place and shoved it back into its box. This he returned to its position beneath the layer of coffee grounds. The grounds acted as a kind of olfactory barrier should the boat be searched and sniffer dogs be brought on. They couldn't detect the smell of cocaine through the more pungent odour of coffee.

    The crate was re-sealed and loaded. The boat was ready to leave now and two members of its small crew began casting off, one of them pushing the boat away from the quayside with a long boat-hook. The current gradually took hold. The Captain decided not to switch on his engines until they were further away; he was content to let the vessel be carried by the tide.

    The men watching from the quayside waited only a moment. Their duty was done now, their responsibility discharged. The shipment was someone else's concern. Not theirs.

    They, at least, had ensured that the cocaine shipment was safely on its way.

    The first leg of the operation was underway.

    

    

    The cleaver swung down with incredible power and accuracy, severing the leg with one clean cut.

    It sheared through bone and muscle alike, the strident snapping of the femur reverberating inside the room.

    Anne Hopper winced as she looked at the remains of the bullock lying on the large wooden worktop in the prison kitchen. As she watched, the tall thin man in the butcher's apron raised the cleaver once again and lopped off another part of the leg.

    There were other men in the chill room, all dressed in white overalls. Some of them were spattered with blood from the carcasses that hung on a row of meat-hooks nearby.

    'The man with the cleaver,' said Reginald Fairham quietly, cupping his hand conspiratorially around his mouth. 'He isn't a prisoner, is he?'

    Nicholson turned and looked at the other man contemptuously.

    'You maintain that the prisoners here are worthy of trust, don't you, Mr Fairham?' Nicholson said. 'Some of them have to work in the kitchens.'

    Fairham swallowed hard as he saw another portion of the carcass cut away by a powerful blow.

    'As a matter of fact the man with the cleaver is one of the warders here. He was a master butcher before he joined the service,' Nicholson explained.

    Fairham visibly relaxed.

    The procession moved through the kitchen, through clouds of steam from several large metal vats of food.

    Clinton inspected the contents of one of the vats, smiling amiably at the man who was stirring the mass of baked beans. The man looked at Clinton indifferently and peered down into the vat. The MP moved on, rejoining his colleagues.

    The procession moved through the prison at a leisurely pace, Nicholson answering the visitors' questions with the minimum of elaboration, constantly struggling to hide his contempt for some of the more idiotic queries they presented him with.

    What did he think the effects of overcrowding were?

    How many men took advantage of the educational courses?

    How were prisoner and warder relationships? Nicholson remained slightly ahead of his group so that they could never quite see the expression of disdain of his face. He led them along corridors and walkways until they came to a double set of metal-barred gates.

    The warder on the other side, at a signal from the Governor, pressed a button and the doors slid open with a faint electronic burr.

    Nicholson led them through to another solid steel gate. This one was unlocked by a warder with a key. As he pushed it open a powerful gust of wind swept in from outside. Led by the Governor, they stepped out into the exercise yard. It stretched around them in all four directions, empty, enclosed by high wire mesh fences.

    'How much exercise do the prisoners get?' Clinton wanted to know.

    'An hour a day,' Nicholson said, leading them across the yard.

    'It isn't long enough,' Fairham observed, looking round the empty expanse of concrete.

    Anne Hopper noticed the chapel.

    She pointed towards the graveyard beside it and the markers on the handful of graves.

    Nicholson explained what they were. How the men buried there had no families, no other place to lie.

    'It's a wonder there aren't more of them,' Fairham said.

    'It's a pity there aren't more of them,' Nicholson rasped under his breath.