Good as Dead (14 page)

‘Hey, when can I open my bloody shop?’

They all turned to see that the owner had reappeared in the doorway.

‘That’s three pounds for the chips,’ Armstrong said. He took the note and put it into the till, laid two pound coins down on the counter.

Holland pushed Kitson’s change towards her and snatched the bag. He nodded across at the conical slab of grey meat turning slowly on a spit in the corner. ‘You’re as full of shit as that is, Danny,’ he said.

*

Helen had drifted away. Her eyes closed and her head back against the cool metal of the radiator.

Alfie was laughing and Paul was there and he was laughing too. The way she had almost forgotten, because she was unable to call his face quickly and clearly to mind. The features blurring, until she was left with nothing but the shape of him. A muddy image of his mouth half open while he slept, or that thunderous scowl when he was pissed off. Each expression growing fuzzier with every week that passed, while she searched desperately for the ghosts of them in her son’s face.

It was clear enough now though.

A daydream that she wished more than anything was a memory, or better yet a vision of the future.

Jammy little bugger’s got my looks.

You reckon?

Come on, he’s bloody gorgeous!

He’s a damn sight less moody than you, that’s for sure.

‘I need a drink.’

Helen opened her eyes, astonished to hear Mitchell finally talking. She turned to look at him and saw him nodding towards Akhtar who was sitting at the desk and staring at the wall above their heads.

‘I need a drink,’ Mitchell said again. ‘Can I please have something to drink?’

Akhtar nodded and stood up. ‘Coke or something?’

‘That’s fine, thank you.’

The newsagent walked out into the shop and as soon as he was gone Mitchell leaned across to Helen. ‘We have to do something now,’ he said.

‘
What?
’

‘I can’t do this, I told you.’

‘Just calm down, Stephen, all right?’

‘I can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Who knows how long we could be stuck here and he might just kill us anyway.’

‘He won’t kill us if we do as he says.’

‘Come on, you’re a copper. You should be working out a way to get us out of this.’

‘Trust me, I am.’

‘We can’t just sit here.’

‘Yes we can,’ Helen said. ‘We don’t have to do anything.’

‘We could try and get the gun.’

‘Please, just—’

‘I’ve thought about it.’

‘
No
… ’

She leaned quickly away from him as Akhtar came back in. She hoped he would not notice that she was suddenly breathing heavily. With the gun in his right hand, Akhtar leaned down and handed Mitchell the can with his left.

‘Thanks,’ Mitchell said. He opened the can and took a drink. ‘It’s just so hot, that’s all.’ He smiled, too wide and wavering a little at the corners of his mouth. ‘We’re never happy about the weather in this country, are we?’

Akhtar went back to the desk and sat down.

Helen listened to Mitchell gulping down the drink. She could not look at him. She kept her eyes on the gun that Akhtar had once again laid down on the desk, praying that Mitchell had listened to her. That he would not do anything stupid.

‘Sorry,’ Mitchell said. ‘Now I need the toilet.’

Helen turned and looked hard at him, but Mitchell would not meet her eye. She said his name quietly, but he ignored her.

Akhtar thought about Mitchell’s request for a few seconds, then nodded. He stood up slowly and reached for the gun. Then he picked up the key to the handcuffs.

‘Thanks,’ Mitchell said. ‘Bursting … ’

Akhtar tossed the key across to Helen, then pointed the revolver at her. ‘Please do it slowly,’ he said.

She picked up the key, inched over to her right and gradually leaned across Mitchell’s lap. She could smell the sweat as she pressed against him. He kept his eyes on Akhtar, refusing to engage with her though their faces were only inches apart.

Her hand shook as she struggled to fit the tiny key into the lock.

‘OK, now stand up slowly, please.’

Mitchell climbed to his feet, rolling his wrist around and groaning as he stretched his legs. He let out a long breath and pointed towards the toilet door. ‘OK?’

Akhtar nodded. The hand that was holding the gun shifted to track Mitchell’s movements as he took the few steps across and opened the toilet door. Helen caught a glimpse of the grubby-looking bowl and black plastic seat just before Mitchell turned to pull the door closed behind him. He finally looked at her, only for a second or two, but she could not read the expression.

Blank or focused, it was hard to tell, but the eyes were empty.

Helen and Akhtar looked at one another as fifteen seconds passed without any noise from inside the toilet. Helen listened for the sound of Mitchell pissing, but heard nothing until, a minute or more after he had gone inside, he began to sob.

They both turned and stared at the scarred wooden door. The noise from behind it was deep and regular. It could almost have been a laugh were it not for the high catch in the throat as Mitchell struggled to find the breath between each tattoo of sobs.

It subsided after a minute or so. There were sniffs then and a bout of coughing, until the toilet flushed and the door finally opened.

‘OK, Stephen?’ Helen asked.

Mitchell did not respond, standing perfectly still just outside the toilet door and making no attempt to conceal what had been happening inside. He stared, unblinking, at Akhtar, until the newsagent raised the gun and told him to sit down.

Mitchell did not move. Akhtar took a small step in his direction and told him again.

‘Better out than in, eh?’ Helen said, trying to laugh. ‘Stephen?’

Mitchell turned to look at her as if he had only just noticed she was there. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and began walking slowly back towards the radiator.

‘Nice and easy,’ Helen said.

Akhtar glanced at her. ‘Yes … please.’

Helen held her breath – keeping her eyes fixed on Mitchell’s, searching for the desire, the intent to make any sudden move – and did not release it until her weight was once again across him and she was leaning over to fasten the handcuff back around his wrist.

EIGHTEEN

‘He’s got someone with him.’

The secretary’s warning was somewhat half-hearted, so after giving her the nicest smile he could summon up, Thorne went ahead and knocked on the governor’s door anyway.

He walked in without waiting to be invited.

Bracewell was talking to Shakir.

They were standing close together in front of the governor’s desk and both turned to stare at Thorne when they saw him come in. Thorne said he was sorry to interrupt, that he just needed a moment. There were a few seconds of silent nodding.

Then the governor and the imam spoke at the same time.

‘It’s really not a problem … ’

‘We were just finishing up … ’

Thorne said that he was about ready to go and that he’d just come to thank the governor for all his help before he left. He looked at Shakir, thanked him too.

‘Really, there is no need,’ Shakir said. ‘It would have been nice to talk for longer.’

‘Absolutely.’ Thorne smiled and wondered which of them was being the less sincere.

The governor stepped forward to shake Thorne’s hand. ‘And if there’s anything else you need, you have my direct line?’

Thorne said that he did and gave the governor a card with his mobile number and home email address on it. ‘Oh, I do need that name before I go. The boy you thought was responsible for the attack on Amin?’

‘Yes, of course. I meant to … ’ The governor walked back to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. He handed it to Thorne. ‘Name, address and a contact at the local probation office if you need it.’

Thorne said thanks and slipped the piece of paper into one of the files. He turned to go, then stopped and turned back. ‘By the way, Dr McCarthy was going to let me know about the thefts from the Dispensary,’ he said. ‘The DDA cupboard.’

The governor nodded, said, ‘Right.’

‘I’m sure he’s busy, but I’d be grateful if you could chase that up for me. Get him to give me a call.’

‘Of course.’

‘And an address for the prison hospital officer who was suspended would be good. I’ve got her name but, you know, it would save me the trouble of finding her.’

‘I’ll get him to dig it out,’ the governor said.

‘Anything that might save a bit of time.’

‘Yes, well, I can understand now why this is such a kick-bollock scramble.’

Thorne looked at him.

‘One of my officers saw something about this siege business in the early edition of the
Standard
. Not many details, but he recognised the name and we put two and two together.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Bloody awful.’

‘Grief can do very strange things to people,’ Shakir said. ‘It can affect their … judgement.’

Thorne said nothing, but the imam was right of course. Thorne knew the way that the loss of a loved one could play havoc with the lives of those left behind. He had watched absurdly cheerful denial become uncontrollable rage and seen rage turn in on itself and fester into self-loathing. Not as quick perhaps as a blade or a bullet, but just as dangerous.

So it made sense to question Javed Akhtar’s judgement. To put his accusations down to grief – pure, simple and terrible – and to dismiss the suggestions of a bereaved parent as paranoia, just as police, coroner and jury had done.

None of that helped Helen Weeks though.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Thorne said.

Behind him the governor wished him luck and Shakir said, ‘Go well.’

Thorne reached for the door. Thinking: nothing wrong with
my
judgement.

Back on the wing, there were dozens of boys engaged in afternoon association. For some, this meant the gym or table tennis, but the majority seemed to prefer hanging around doing nothing in particular. Thorne had heard their voices and those of the prison officers echoing from the landings as he had walked out of the admin block. Now, turning towards the main entrance, he saw that he would need to make his way between small groups of boys huddled in corners, drifting in twos and threes along the main corridor or gathered in larger numbers at the tops and bottoms of staircases.

Whatever the numbers, the gatherings appeared to be strictly divided.

White. Black. Asian.

As a couple of the younger ones stepped out of the way ahead of him, Thorne recognised the boy he had seen in the library. He was probably eighteen or so, with close-cropped hair and a physique that suggested he spent more time working out than he did reading. He was leaning against a wall opposite as though he’d been waiting, and looked away when Thorne spotted him.

Thorne walked across the corridor.

He remembered what Aziz had told him and guessed this was the same boy that Dawes had questioned two months earlier. The boy who had visited Amin in the hospital wing.

‘You’re Antoine Daniels, right?’

The boy was not looking at him. He sniffed and gave a small nod.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Amin.’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ The voice was deep, the accent straight out of Hackney or Harlesden.

‘Yes, you do,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s why you were waiting for me.’ He waited until it was clear that he was not going anywhere; until the boy finally turned and looked at him. ‘You were Amin’s friend. You’re the one person I should be talking to.’

Daniels carefully watched the comings and goings for another half a minute, then pushed himself from the wall. He brushed Thorne’s shoulder as he went past, and cast the smallest of backward glances as he walked away.

The invitation to follow him seemed obvious enough.

They walked for five minutes or more, Thorne ten or so steps behind, and Daniels staying close to the walls as they moved into a recreation area and through a large group gathered around a pool table. All the boys were wearing their cargos and Ts, the only badge of individuality being the training shoes each had chosen to wear. Many had these sent in by family from outside and could have them taken away for bad behaviour, but for those who kept them, the cost and style told others a great deal about the wearer.

The trainers, and how you chose to walk in them.

You strutted, you shuffled, you pimp-rolled.

I’m confident. I’m harmless. I’m a bad-man.

With the squeals of rubber soles against the vinyl floor fading behind them, they climbed up to a second-floor landing and along a corridor until, after a few minutes, Daniels calmly turned and walked into a cell.

When Thorne arrived at the doorway, Daniels was standing in the corner, urinating into the metal toilet bowl. Thorne said, ‘Sorry,’ and turned away. He waited until he heard the flush and when he turned around again and stepped inside, Daniels was sitting on the edge of his bunk.

‘Push the door to,’ he said.

Thorne did as he was asked, then leaned back against the door. The cell was the same size as the room he had seen in the hospital wing, but the bricks had been painted rather than plastered. The bed was cemented to the wall – a blue, rubberised mattress and neatly folded grey blanket – as was the desk, no bigger than a tea tray. The same ‘robust’ furnishings as could be found in all but those few rooms assigned to the orderlies or those on the Gold wing. Thorne wondered how the Polish boy he had heard about earlier could possibly have smashed up such a room without the use of a sledgehammer.

‘Antoine’s an interesting name,’ he said. ‘French?’

Daniels shrugged. ‘Only bit of French in me is fries, far as I know.’

There were a few pictures stuck to the pin-board above the bed, animals and ships, painted by numbers. Thorne noticed that along the edge of the small desk, cartons of juice and sachets of jam hoarded from breakfast grab-bags had been lined up meticulously, the labels all facing the same way. He saw the same order displayed in the rows of small shampoo bottles and squares of soap that had been arranged above the sink. It might have been pride or a simple method of telling if anyone had been inside the room. It might have been both.