He
slid a finger under the flap of the envelope in his hand and tugged out the
letter, scanning it quickly as if to minimise his exposure to something
infectious. It confirmed a connection but didn’t put much flesh on its bones.
Dated two months ago, it thanked ‘Mr Firth’ for his continuing instructions in
the matter of Firth v Murphy, regretted that a recent negotiation with the
prison authorities had yielded so little good news and asked that he make an
appointment so that next steps could be discussed. Sharon Jennings (LLB) concluded
the letter with an intricate yet flamboyant signature, long, swooping curves
for the initials, a dotted ‘i’, detailed uprights and a cheerfully upturned
line rounding everything off confidently.
The
first letter was essentially repeated in the next two, presumably a simple
matter of a computer generating further reminders. The last letter from a few
weeks ago was briefer, more personal and dated on a Saturday. Ms Jennings was
keen to win a just settlement for Nigel as his case had considerable merit. She
had tried unsuccessfully to contact him through his probation officer or on his
mobile phone number, and urged him to please get in touch as soon as he could.
The signature was more effusive and took up a third of the page. The envelope
was stamped rather than franked, and postmarked on the same Saturday. A
personal touch.
The
supermarket had brusquely enquired if Mr Firth intended to honour his work
placement. Equally impersonal letters from the Benefits Agency and Probation
Service warned of the dire, statutory consequences of failing to embrace what
was a rare opportunity to learn new skills, embrace change, earn a steady wage
and claim a stake in society. ‘YOU NEED TO SEE ME,’ his probation officer had
written and furiously underlined, as if Firth had once again failed to hand in
his homework.
A
local library politely requested the return of several educational volumes of
an adult nature in a polite, copperplate hand on a compliment slip.
Utility
bills addressed to an Alistair Bonham covered a full spectrum of colour-coded
indignation. Beyond the necessities of water and electricity, no item of mail
suggested that the occupants had any financial history in their own name or
tied to this address.
“Isn’t
that legal privilege?” asked the sergeant, prodding the envelopes with a pen.
“I’ll
worry about that,” barked Harkness, then softening his tone. “Need these. Very
relevant. I’ll bag ‘em up and take possession. Note it as you see it. It’ll be
my problem if there is one.”
Leaving
the sergeant apparently noting his words verbatim, he moved into the bathroom,
expecting little and finding it. The grey tide that had left its marks on basin
and bath had receded and not returned. A few meagre cakes of soap, ingrained
with dirt, had dried and split. A shower gel that promised by the lyricism of
its label to be a whirlpool of invigorating lime, ozone and cedar hung barely
used from a shower head caked in lime-scale.
Shaking
nearly full cans of high octane man-musk, left on display alongside new razors
with their security tags still attached, suggested to Harkness that their owner
had either done some recent unauthorised shopping or didn’t stay here that
often. Two towels hung side by side on the radiator; one tolerably clean and
bearing a designer motif, the other a patchwork of moist grime suggesting a
spectral face and hands, perhaps this cathedral city’s very own Turin shroud.
One damp rag and a shard of soap might have been enough for Firth, but weren’t
enough for his flat-mate.
“Bag
these towels,” he bellowed into the living room, repeating himself sotto voce
when the sergeant instantly appeared in the doorway. “And get SOCO to swab the
bath. Might be accelerants. Assuming he washes at all.”
“At
once, sahib.”
Sandwiched
between the bathroom and the exterior wall, an airing cupboard stood open,
framing one of the searchers squatting cross-legged and writing on an evidence
bag. In place of towels, the cupboard’s racks held mouldering porn magazines
and new library books, most of which described themselves as ‘erotic art’.
“This
is the entertainment section,” said the searcher, holding up a modest bag of
cannabis.
“What’s
he into?” He nodded towards the porn.
“Mixed
bag. Nothing scary. Housewives, MILF’s, big tits. No glamour.”
“That
all?” Harkness reached across and picked up the only book that wasn’t in the
least erotic.
“One
condom, used, probably older than me. One dead mouse.”
He
leafed through the book, a lavishly illustrated introduction to cosmology. The
fabric of the universe unfolded in breathless text and primary colours,
existence unwoven and atomised, certainty exchanged for dazzling and infinite
complexity. Someone had scrawled questions here and there, usually restricting
themselves to ‘why?’
“Hey
Sarge,” declared Harkness, wandering back into the living room, and suddenly
appreciating that rank meant not having to see every time-guzzling chore
through to the end. “I’m going to get off now. Things to do. Leave all this in
your capable hands.”
“Somewhere
better to be?”
“Than
here? Certainly. Catch up with me later with your paperwork and OT forms.”
“Count
on it.”
Harkness
wedged the broken door open with an unmissable offer of a lifetime and exited
the flat. Somewhere above him, a policeman’s knock rapped loud and clear on
another plywood door. One door along, the other canvasser was grinning and
nodding into an open doorway as he took careful notes.
“How
do I spell that again?” he enquired.
The
door slammed and the canvasser caught Harkness’s eye with a resigned smirk.
“Apparently
chief, Mr & Mrs Gofuckyourmother What’sthatsmellofbacon live here,” he
shouted to Harkness, approaching him and consulting his notes. “Real nice
neighbours. Good community spirit.”
“Anything
useful?”
“A
handful think they’ve had intimate relations with my mum and that I should as
well, but that’s Lincolnshire for you. A few honest citizens – you know, old
people, the disabled – told us all about him. Name. Age. Description. Comings
and goings.”
“Go
on.”
“Well
it’s good stuff. He’s not a typical resident ‘cause nobody likes him and
nobody’s scared of him.”
“That’s
the good stuff?”
“This
morning, between 0730 and 0830 hours, there was all sorts of crashing and
banging from the flat. Elderly gent below and mad cat-woman above say similar
things. Funny thing is, the noise carried on after our man dropped himself out
of the side window and legged it.”
It
seemed that Firth was much in demand. Who else had felt compelled to run him to
ground and kick his door in? Could it really be just a back-firing cycle of
revenge? Despite the mortal ruin of his family home, would Murphy really choose
to slip under the radar, to forego official intervention or the embrace of
friends, family or workmates, and instead seek a private reckoning with Firth?
Wedged
into the sweltering Mondeo once again, he dialled Slowey’s mobile number and
let his gaze fall on two crystalline speckles in the windscreen, centimetres
apart, as a soothing, automated voice diverted him to voicemail. Air pellets,
he concluded. A nice grouping too. Must have had a decent sight and a bit of
elevation. Second or even the first floor of Pemberton Court. Decisions,
decisions.
“One
police coming through,” proclaimed the portly holder of a dozen keys as Slowey
stooped through the hatch set into the twenty foot, iron-studded gates of HMP
Lincoln. Had the doorway been built with the under-nourished Victorian
underclass in mind, he wondered, or had it aimed to ensure that those who
passed within did so stooping and abased.
Out
of habit, he had already switched off his mobile and stuck it in his backpack
along with his keys and the lunchbox Diane had insisted he take when he called
in at home to make it plain that he was still alive.
“DC
Slowey from Beaumont Fee to see the Governor,” he said to the mesh screen set
into the scratched, shatter-proof glass of the reception desk. Six feet away
and a few feet above him, another portly, ageing gent, leaking sweat from every
pink pore while inexplicably clad in his thick, uniform jumper, reached down
from his dais and slid a clipboard into a hatch.
“Fill
this in, stick anything on the list into that locker, come back for your
credentials, I’ll tell someone you’re here, read the code of conduct an’ all.”
Slowey
ticked all the boxes, promising not to spring anyone or sell drugs while he was
here, and locked away his valuables. The mirror on the roof of the truck-sized
reception bay showed him a bald patch he was sure he hadn’t had the last time
he visited clink.
“Purpose
of visit needs filling in,” barked the mesh screen as the gatekeeper scanned
Slowey’s paperwork.
“Confidential,”
shouted Slowey back, as if to a senile aunt. “My gaffer’s squared it with
yours. Private. Personal staff issues.”
“Don’t
matter. Need something in the box.”
“Shall
I make something up then?”
“Need
something in the box.”
Slowey
scrawled, ‘enquiries pertaining to the apprehension of a vicious felon and
ne’er-do-well as discussed in confidence between persons of stature who may not
be named without endangering the sanctity of the realm,’ and was told to wait
some more.
Perching
on a plastic chair, Slowey stared at the questions he’d sketched out, mentally
rehearsing the interview, yawned, closed his eyes in a bid to blink away
crushing fatigue and was roused seconds or minutes later by the clatter of his
notebook hitting the floor.
“Ken,”
a familiar voice hailed him from the inner gate.
He
stumbled to his feet and stooped to untie and tie a shoelace while he collected
his thoughts.
“Alright
there, Ken?” Brian Hoskins regarded him with sympathetic eyes, too
well-mannered to be amused.
“Can’t
complain, Brian.”
“You
should. You fall down the stairs?”
“Yep.
Then the stairs fell down on me. Long story. How’s the boss?”
“Feisty
mood, today. Don’t be too bolshie. And don’t dribble.”
“Sorry.”
Slowey dabbed at his lip with the clean hankie his wife had sneaked into his
pocket. For a moment, the reek of oil, disinfectant and boiled cabbage was
replaced by fabric conditioner and home cooking. “One side hurts. Other side
still a bit numb. Must get those stairs sanded down.”
“You
should work here. You’d fit in.”
“No
thanks. I like daylight. We off, then?”
Brian
had his hands in his pockets rather than on the huge key chain that swung from
his belt. He shifted his weight periodically to favour his stronger leg. His
other leg had been shattered during the riot of ’02 and he was now relegated to
escorting visitors and any other job the admin block could find for their new
factotum. His calm and judicious manner had not saved him from being flung from
a balcony by rampaging prisoners high on a cocktail of prescription drugs
pillaged from the wreckage of the dispensary.
“In
a minute, Ken. Just waiting for the fed rep.”
“The
union’s in on this? Is Murphy in touch? Has he asked?”
“No,
mate. Can’t say too much. Bureaucracy. You know how it is.” He shrugged and
looked over his shoulder as if checking for eavesdroppers. “But it’s a staff
issue so got to have the fed.”
A
blank, reinforced door sprang open within the entry bay, and was slammed shut
and locked again with equal alacrity. The sheen of the man’s light grey suit
belonged in a car showroom. Slowey shook the outstretched hand.
“DC
Slurry hi there I’m Tony Skinner Prison Officers’ Federation here to help in
any way I can hello Brian good to see you shall we crack on then?”
Skinner
didn’t seem to breathe or blink. Formalities over, Skinner transferred his
combination-locked briefcase back to his right hand and smoothed down his
jacket with his left, adjusting the enamelled crown of his lapel badge to
ensure it was upright and symmetrical.
“Two
visitors leaving reception,” shouted Hoskins, gesturing to his counterpart in
the reception bay as he selected one of his many seemingly identical keys by
touch alone, unlocked the gate, allowed the two men through and then locked it
again after them.
Skinner
led them across a driveway of cracked cement lined by patches of dying grass
and flower beds where pale, downcast men in overalls tended flowers with
exquisite care, relishing their time in the open air within earshot of the ordinary
world. He set a brisk pace and kept his head down, precluding conversation.
Hoskins
grinned, shook his head and shrugged at Slowey, who swallowed the questions on
his lips. Slowey contented himself with admiring the architecture of a living,
breathing, daunting relic of a time nobody had quite managed to consign to
history. This Victorian edifice was only a cathedral of penal servitude in the
same way that the great Norman cathedrals were monuments to devotion. Both were
more akin to fortresses, built to protect the realm and cow and awe its enemies
– and in this case to keep the barbarians inside rather than outside the gates.
Slowey
hadn’t wasted the National Trust subscription to which he’d treated his family.
He’d yet to inflict on them his scathing take on social history. Perhaps he’d
let the kids get into double figures before he educated them out of the
chocolate-box view of Lincoln’s unavoidable Roman and medieval heritage, which
was really just the bleached bones of dangerous, historical leviathans that
weren’t quite dead.
This
driveway formed the prison’s bailey, the safe killing ground between the
barbican they had just left and the central keep. The architects must have been
sensitive to their lineage, otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to make their
red-brick walls so tall, thick and smooth, or to adorn their barbican with
turrets, crenulations and mock arrow slits, all picked out in contrasting
sandstone.
The
tall, rectangular slabs of the prison wings met at a central tower, the hub of
what was meant to be an orderly system for storing miscreants and rotating them
through rehabilitation. Bellows of rage, anguish and derision were hurled from
the high, barred windows, the voice of the place. It spoke of squirming rage,
never stifled, echoing through the generations, never quite ebbing away
regardless of who breathed the stale air and endured. This old machine was
still grinding along, segregation, drug-dealing and a professional tolerance
between prisoners and gaolers – both inmates with contrasting privileges –
greasing the rusty wheels.
“Here
we are then.” Hoskins let them into the admin building, a two-storey
breeze-block afterthought wedged against the outer wall in the late afternoon
shadow of D Wing.
Reaching
the first-floor, Hoskins unlocked and locked another barred gate. As they
waited outside the governor’s office, shuffling and stifling yawns, Slowey had
time to study the local version of the same command corridor he’d seen
elsewhere. In one outsize canvas print, bright, fit and assuredly motivated
prison officers talked affably with prisoners whose guileless grins showed that
things were getting better. In another, the velvet glove came off to show an
armour-clad riot team reclaiming a barricaded cell. Everywhere the eye rested,
verbose, twenty-point mission statements and service pledges promised
miraculous improvements across a dizzying variety of key performance matrices.
“Enter!”
Hoskins
and Skinner preceded Slowey into a cramped, panelled office dominated by a
venerable oak desk, its ancient varnish so dappled and scored that it might
have been as old as the prison itself. The woman sitting bolt upright with
steepled hands in the executive chair behind it seemed unassailable with or
without her ancient desk.
Slowey
picked the second of three chairs facing the desk, conscious that he’d been
given a poor choice between being flanked by prison staff or marginalised. He
felt like a prisoner under escort appearing before the beak. The woman brushed
away an errant strand of hair as she perused a blue file. Slowey couldn’t quite
age her. She had pale green eyes with traceries of lines at their margins and
high cheek bones, a keenness of features accentuated by black hair scraped back
severely and knotted behind her head. Piercings in her earlobes suggested
jewellery was worn but never at work. A plain white blouse sported crisp
creases over well-defined but lean biceps and shoulders. Inevitably, Slowey
looked for the ring finger on the left hand and found no ring and no crease where
a ring might sit. The woman glanced at the secretary to her right, who held a
notepad and pen at the ready.
“Brian.
Tony.” She nodded to Slowey’s escorts, swivelling distractedly on her chair.
“And DC Slowey. I’m Helen Betts, Governor. I’m not going to waste your time.
But to make sure we’re on the same page, tell me what our Mr Murphy has done.”
Skinner shuffled forwards and cleared his throat to speak. “Sorry, allegedly
done, subject to substantiation and prison regulations. I’m hoping you’re a little
less opaque and, well, verbose than your boss.”
“Right
then, I’ll give you the barest bones.” Slowey shuffled, sniffed and flipped
open his notebook, even though there was nothing in it not already etched in
his memory. “Dale Murphy was involved in a tavern brawl late last night with
someone who may have been a former guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure within these
walls.
“He
hasn’t been seen since. Not long after that brawl, someone staged an arson
attack on the Murphy family home and his wife and kids were killed. A former
inmate is in custody but we’re ruling nothing out, including Murphy’s
involvement in the arson attack on his own home.”
“That’s
can’t be substantiated and shouldn’t be in the notes. Prejudicial.” Skinner was
halfway to his feet and waggling a finger at the secretary.
“Tony,
settle yourself down,” urged Betts, unruffled. “Courtesy obliges me – us - to
hear what this officer’s got to say. You don’t have to like it but try to be
polite.”
Slowey
glanced to either side. Skinner’s cheeks had dappled, but he still wasn’t
blinking or breathing. Hoskins was calmly examining the parade gloss on his
shoes.
“Yes,
thanks. Well, as I said, Murphy’s a suspect. As you know, there’s some cold
logic in that. Most murders victims are done in by their nearest and dearest.
There’s also the fact that he may be a victim himself. We need to lay hands on
him to make sure he’s safe and well and able to,” Slowey groped for a better
expression but settled for the standard issue euphemism, “assist us with our enquiries.”
“I
see.” Betts leaned forward and folded her arms across the desk. “It’s
regrettable that such a tragedy has befallen a member of the Prison Service
family. When Dale is found, we will of course offer him all the support he
needs. But what, specifically do you need from me right now?”
“To
be frank, ma’am, not much. Just your say so for me to access Dale’s personnel
and disciplinary records and chat with his colleagues. Maybe a few inmates
too.”
Skinner
snorted and shook his head. Betts reclined in her chair and swivelled so that
she could watch the secretary’s note-taking. Hoskins turned his attention to
his cuticles.
“I’ll
be as honest as I’m allowed to be, which I’m sure won’t be good enough,” said
Betts. “Let me start with some basics. Dale is still employed here as a prison
officer and his service number is LI 1003. Dale isn’t at work today and hasn’t
been within these walls for more than 24 hours. He was rostered to work today
but didn’t turn up and hasn’t been in touch. His line manager tried to make
contact but got no reply. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Name,
rank and serial number, thought Slowey. “That’s absolutely fine. You’re the
boss and you’ve got a lot on. Just point me in the right direction.”
“I’m
sorry. I should have been clearer. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you without
Home Office approval.”
“Why?”
sighed Slowey, leaning forwards. “This guy’s either a murderer or he’s an
undiscovered victim of murder. We need to get him found either way.”
“I
sympathise but I’m in a bind. If it helps, I’ve reviewed Dale’s records and
there’s nothing of critical importance to your case in there.”
“With
respect, ma’am, the prosecutor, coroner and judge won’t see it that way when we
get pummelled by the defence for not checking every lead and not disclosing
every iota of evidence.”