“How
do they pay for it? I thought they only get pocket money inside.”
“On
flexible terms, as far as I know. Like those bloody double-glazing ads on the
telly. Easy to get hold of but you’ve got to read the small-print. If they get
their hands on smuggled-in cash, they use that. Then you’ve got your credit
options. Or they can get someone on the outside to pay. The fact is, one way or
another, the trade thrives in here.”
“All
smuggled in by visitors?”
“Some,
certainly. The dogs and the mirrors and the cameras catch some of it. But when
we have a big problem, it’s probably staff behind it. Tops up the wages nicely
for those who can justify it to themselves.”
“Murphy?”
“I
didn’t say that. I’m just giving you the lie of the land. Management is closing
the book on him and don’t want it opened again.”
“Why
are you taking this risk then? It’s not as if Murphy’s still a problem.”
“It’s
not a risk. As far as the paperwork’s concerned, Barnaby’s admitting to
offences ‘to be taken into consideration’ to help clear his form book. Just
hear him out. He used to bunk with Firth. Had plenty of time to talk to him.
Also saw plenty of what passed between Firth and Murphy.”
“Were
he and Firth close?”
“You
mean biblically? Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever they got up to, the lad’s still
loyal to his mate.”
“I
hope he doesn’t know who I am then.”
“I
read the papers, mate, and watch TV. So do our guests. They also get their
phone calls and their social time so they get the news and make the rest up just
like the rest of us.”
“Let’s
get it over with then.”
Hoskins
led Harkness around the administration block to the visitor centre which
abutted one of the prison’s spoke-like wings, inmates stacked high behind red
brick and grey iron. He bypassed the rigmarole of prisoner reception where he’d
have queued to be searched and scanned with all and sundry before even getting
through the outer wall.
“Why
are you going out of your way to help?” he asked Hoskins as they waited for the
centre’s outer gate to be unlocked.
“Professional
courtesy. Slowey helped me out once. I don’t like bent screws any more than
the cons do. Gets me out of the office. Oh, and I’m retiring in three months so
I’m not exactly chewing my fingernails over my next appraisal. Take your pick.”
The gate was unlocked and Harkness was ushered inside. “I’ll hang around for a
while to make sure it all goes smoothly.”
While
Hoskins chatted amiably with the room supervisor, a prison officer seated on a
raised dais that afforded a grandstand view of the long, open room, Harkness
was obliged to empty his pockets to be frisked and scanned. A few visitors had
moved to the tables allocated by the supervisor. Some conversed quietly with
blue-suited inmates. Others stared into space, waiting, or hissed and spat
orders at giddy or griping children. The furniture, bolted to the floor,
ensured just enough separation to highlight any physical contact for the
spherical camera modules speckling the ceiling.
The
formalities concluded, Harkness was rejoined by Hoskins who led him past the
rows of desks to a bank of interview rooms. Inside, Harkness produced his
notebook and a bulbous fountain pen he’d finally found a use for. The room reeked
of sweat and mildew as if infected by the darkness that swallowed up the feeble
wattage of the caged light bulbs.
“Can
you write, with your hands like that?”
“I
can produce a childish scrawl with this thing, which will have to do.”
A
sharp rap punctuated the gloom and the prison officer who had frisked Harkness
escorted a youth into the room and instructed him to sit opposite Harkness.
Hoskins stood and left the room, whispering to the other officer as he eased
the door shut.
The
two men studied each other. Harkness knew from Slowey’s notes that the youth
was nineteen-years old with plenty of form for commercial burglary and simple
possession of class ‘A’ drugs; which made him very much a low-ranking con. Tall
and rangy, he sat almost eye to eye with Harkness, his glaring eyes starker for
his completely shaven head and hollow cheeks. He’d placed his palms on the
scuffed and torn vinyl of the table, the index finger of his right hand
twitching as if palsied, the knuckles scraped and bloodied.
“Hello
Jake. I’m here,” offered Harkness. “Detective Sergeant Harkness. Say what you
want to say. About me or anything else. You’re not on tape. You’re a witness.
I’m not even going to bug you for a formal statement. I couldn’t write it out
anyway.” He raised his hands to illustrate his point, hoping that he appeared
conciliatory, fearing that he looked like a maniac brandishing stigmata.
“I
know who you are,” said Barnaby, in a thick, guttural Nottinghamshire accent.
“He told me all about you. And I know how he died. You’ve got some neck, you
murdering prick.”
“Is
that it? That all you’ve got? Try harder, Jake. Come on. Now’s your chance.
Easy, isn’t it, chuntering to yourself in that cell like a schoolgirl? Not so
easy in the…..”
“Fuck
you, you murdering pig,” Barnaby intoned, sotto voce, too smart to shout,
needing to finish the dialogue without summoning the gaolers. “I hope you burn
like he did. I hope you fucking roast with an apple in your stupid, fat, lying
pig face. Prick!”
“That’s
more like it. My turn now,” began Harkness in his own low growl, ticking off
the points on his split and flaking fingers. “I nicked your mate Nigel because
I thought he was guilty of…..”
“You
know nowt….”
“Shut
you mouth when it’s my turn or I’ll have you back in your box before you can
say ‘basic courtesy’.”
Harkness
bunched his shoulders and fists and leaned across the desk until he could smell
Barnaby’s stale sweat, staring into his eyes, willing him to submit, almost
toppling his chair, wondering if he was about to get his nose broken. Cornered,
confused, Barnaby blinked first. Harkness uncoiled by a notch, allowing the
youth a few more inches of personal space.
“Better.
Now, you know and I know he had form for it and a real taste for it. He also
had a motive which is why you summoned me here, Jake, before you forget. He
ran. I asked him some questions. Politely. I bailed him out. I drove him home.
He sneaked out, got some petrol and flash-fried himself because he had a broken
mind. I tried to save his life and got myself some scars to remember him by.
The End.”
“Drugs.”
“What
about ‘em?”
“It
were always about drugs. Always is.”
Harkness
opened his notebook, slid the cap off his pen and reclined in the chair which
groaned under his bulk.
“He
were bent.”
“Help
me out a bit, Jake. First, tell me exactly why you want to talk to the cops and
let’s just take it as read that I’m a black-hearted bastard.”
“’Cause
Nigel were my mate. ‘Cause that bent screw Murphy sold drugs on the wing.
‘Cause Nigel took a beating and got killed ‘cause of Murphy. ‘Cause no bugger
wants the truth. ‘Cause I need to set the record straight. ‘Cause when I’m done
with the buggers who killed my mate, I’m going to sue the prison ‘til I’m
minted. ‘Cause mates look out for each other. ‘Cause Nigel asked me to do it if
owt happened to him.”
“Good
enough. So, let’s break it down. How long have you been inside now?”
“Sixteen
months and five days. I’m out end of next month.”
“How
did you meet Firth?”
“Nigel!”
“Nigel
then.”
“I
got knocked about. Didn’t mind coming in here too much. Eighteen months is nowt
considering what I got away with. And I thought I could get off the gear. But
plenty of people selling that shite in here. I kept telling ‘em where to stick
it. Got myself a few good kickings. Screws re-housed me with Nigel. Another
victim.”
“You
two hit it off?”
“He
were a bright lad. Didn’t touch the gear, not the hard stuff anyway. He read
books. Understood stuff. Talked a lot of cosmic bollocks though. Astrology and
all that shite. He weren’t a murderer or a maniac like you made him out to be.”
“Told
you that, did he?”
“And
more besides. Lucky, I was. Bunking with someone honest in here. Someone who
wasn’t smacked up or looking to nick your stuff or clucking all night. I’m a
thief so I know.”
“How
close were you?”
“Mates.
Good mates. What else you want? You think I’m queer?”
“No,
Jake, I don’t. Couldn’t give a monkey’s either. So, what about Murphy?”
“Thought
he was king of the wing. He’d been around since I came in here. Didn’t have
much to do with him. Nobody talked back to him, except the hard cases. Used to
make small-talk on his rounds. Talk a load of old bollocks about the news and
sport. Then he’d always get round to drugs. Wanted to know if we’d had a
problem. What we’d been using. Whether we’d knocked it on the head. Never got
beyond that with me.
“Then
Nige starts spliffing up at night. And he’s a good lad so he shared. I were
impressed. Proper stuff. Not just dried seeds and stuff you wouldn’t stick in
your granddad’s pipe. I want to know how he got it. Wouldn’t tell me at first,
then he does. Murphy brings it in. For a reasonable price. Offers harder stuff
too. Slips him some amphet. Few tabs of ‘e’. I won’t touch that shite but Nige
were bouncing off them walls. Don’t know how Nige paid. Maybe he never did.
“Course
that’s how it turned sour. Whatever Nige had promised, he couldn’t deliver. He
didn’t have no-one on the outside could pay. Didn’t have a pot to piss in
either. His three pound a week pocket money weren’t going to cut it. And he
loved his weed. So Murphy put the screws on. Verbals at first. Then the
beatings. I reckon Murphy wrote it up as self-defence on his clipboard.
“Knew
what he were doing too, Murphy. He were quick. Jabbing into what d’you call
‘em, pressure points. Punching away at thighs and back where it doesn’t show so
much. Sticking on the cuffs and twisting ‘em so it almost broke Nige’s wrists.
I saw it once. He told me I’d get some if I talked so I didn’t. Not interested
in me. I wasn’t a customer.
“If
his mates saw it, they did nowt. They must have heard it, ‘cause Nige just kept
screaming at Murphy one time ‘til Murphy put the pillow over his face. Thought
he were going to kill him but he were too smart for that. All about fear with
Murphy. That were in solitary too. Heard about it later.
“So
Nige does a bit of solitary. Don’t help himself by threatening to shop Murphy.
He wouldn’t have done. He’d have had to admit doing drugs and that would’ve got
him longer in here. But that just earned him more of the same. Don’t know how
much Nige owed that bastard but Murphy really had it in for him.
“Funny
thing is, Nige gets released on time. No extra porridge for all the
disciplinaries Murphy must have stuck him on for. Then Murphy disappears and
they’re both dead now.”
“You
have a theory?”
“No,
youth. I’ve said what I had to say. I ain’t got theories. Won’t bring him back
anyway. I want to get out of here on time. After that, I’ll sign anything you
shove in front of me.”
“Who
did Murphy get his gear from?”
“You
don’t listen, do you,” Barnaby snorted. “I’ve said my piece. I don’t know. If I
did, I wouldn’t tell you. Where I’m from, people get their brains blown out the
backs of their silly heads out for grassing up dealers.”
“Then
I’m obliged for your help.”
“There
is one thing though. Murphy thought he were a funny man. Used to talk about the
weed, saying it were organic, fair trade, his supplier had green fingers, shit
like that. Whether it were amphet or smack, he said it all came from the
allotment. Like he were a market gardener.”
Slowey
helped himself to another digestive biscuit, dunking it in his tea for
precisely long enough to make it deliciously soggy without having it
disintegrate into sludge at the bottom of his mug, or drip khaki blotches onto
the casual shirt and corduroy trousers that he hoped made him look as harmless
as a social worker or a children’s TV presenter.
He smiled
timidly at the hushed huddle of people in the opposite corner of the room: a
middle-aged woman who looked like her hair was greying by the second; a pretty
teenage girl effusing hormones and unsure whether to giggle or cry or sneer so
opting for all three in quick succession; and the female detective who
specialised in interviewing vulnerable witnesses on video and carried with her
an air of the confessional.
The
space imposed calmness on its occupants. Occupying the top floor of an annex to
a nondescript office building, the video suite didn’t advertise its presence.
Nobody came here other than to attest to violations of innocence, or to
patiently listen to those who did. For that reason, it was nowhere near a
police station in any sense. Both of its larger rooms were furnished with soft
and ample sofas, painted in muted pastel tones and strewn with magazines and
books with innocuous themes. The kitchen, as Slowey had discovered, was well
stocked with tea and biscuits and mugs whose randomness, chipped rims and ample
volume was comforting and informal; to Slowey at least, already on his second
brew and sixth biscuit.