Captives (21 page)

    The closest town of any size to the prison was over twelve miles away, across barren land now unfit even for farming. The remains of an open-caste mine, shut down over a decade earlier, lay to the west.

    A single road, holed and pockmarked, connected the prison's main gates to a small tarmac road which wound through the hills and moors like a dry tongue in search of water.

    The wind rattled the window in its frame but Nicholson remained where he was, keeping vigil, gazing out over his empire.

    The buzzer on his intercom interrupted his thoughts.

    He turned and flipped a switch.

    'The warders you asked to see are here, Mr Nicholson,' his secretary told him.

    'Send them in,' he instructed her.

    A moment later the door opened and five men in uniforms trooped in. Nicholson motioned to them to take a seat. He leant on his desk top, waiting until the last of them was seated, then stood upright again, pulling himself up to his full six feet. He looked an imposing figure.

    'You know what this is about,' he said curtly. 'I want to be sure that everything runs smoothly when this blasted delegation gets here tomorrow. Any hint of trouble, I want it stamped on.' He looked at each man in turn.

    'Will you be showing them round yourself, sir?' asked John Niles.

    Nicholson nodded.

    'How many are there?' Raymond Douglas wanted to know.

    'Four. One woman.'

    'That should please the men,' said Niles, smiling. The other officers chuckled but Nicholson didn't see the joke.

    'If any of those bastards finds out that one of them is going to be a woman, there could be trouble,' Nicholson said flatly. 'Take care of it.' He smoothed his hair back with one hand. 'I want them in and out of here as quickly as possible. I don't like the idea of people investigating my prison.'

    'Why are they coming to Whitely, anyway?' Paul Swain enquired. 'We're not the only prison in the country that's overcrowded.'

    'That's perfectly correct. Unfortunately, however, we are the only prison where a remand prisoner was murdered by a lifer recently.' He held up his hands in a dismissive gesture.

    'I hope they're not too disappointed by what they see,' said Gareth Wart on.

    Nicholson looked at him unblinkingly.

    'Meaning what?' he said irritably.

    'You have to agree, sir, conditions are below standard.'

    'Standard for what? This is a prison, in case you'd forgotten. The men here are here because they broke the law. Most of those in Whitely are here because they're too unruly or dangerous even for other jails to cope with.' He fixed Warton in his gaze. 'We, Mr Warton, have the scum of the earth under this roof.'

    'They still deserve better conditions,' Warton persisted.

    'They deserve nothing,' Nicholson hissed. 'They're here to be punished. We're here to ensure that punishment is carried out.'

    'Isn't it our job to help them too, sir?' Warton said.

    'Yours, perhaps, if that's how you feel. I don't see it as my job to help them. It's my job to help the people on the outside and I do that by making sure the scum in here stay in here.' He fixed Warton in the unrelenting stare of his cold green eyes. 'Do you know what we are, Mr Warton? We're zoo keepers, paid to keep animals behind bars.'

    Warton coloured and lowered his gaze.

    Nicholson sucked in an angry breath and turned back to look out of his office window.

    'When the delegation arrives I want them brought here,' he said. 'I'll show them round the prison, round the recreation rooms and cells. If they want to speak to any of the prisoners they can. But I want at least two men present at all times.'

    'Will you be taking them to the maximum security wing, sir?' Swain asked.

    'Yes, and the solitary cells,' the warden told them.

    'What about the hospital wing?' asked Niles.

    'No,' snapped Nicholson, turning to face the officer. 'The infirmary, perhaps, but there's no need to show them anything else.' He looked up and down the line of faces. 'Are there any questions?'

    There weren't. Nicholson dismissed the warders, returning to the window for a moment as if searching for something out in the windswept yard.

    From where he stood he couldn't see the hospital wing.

    The thought suddenly spurred him into action.

    He turned back to his desk, picked up the phone and jabbed an extension number.

    As he waited for it to be answered he drummed lightly on the desk top. The phone was finally answered.

    'We have to talk,' said Nicholson. 'Come over to my office. It's important.'

    

    

    Ray Plummer filled the Waterford crystal tumbler with soda and ice and handed it to John Hitch, and then repeated the procedure, passing the other brandy and soda to Terry Morton.

    Morton thanked him, interrupted in his appraisal of a pair of Armani statues.

    'And this stuff is worth money, is it, Ray?' Morton said, motioning towards the figurines.

    'Of course it's worth money, you prat. Why do you think I bought it?' Plummer said. 'Fuck me, I'm surrounded by Philistines.'

    He took a sip of his own drink and sat down in the leather chair closest to the fireplace, looking into the authentic fake gas flames as he sipped his drink. He touched his hair self-consciously, worried that the high wind outside might have disturbed it.

    Morton remained on his feet, swaying backwards and forwards from the balls to the heels of his shoes. The delicate tumbler was out of place in his heavy hand; he looked as if he would have been more comfortable carrying a bottle of beer. Or a cosh.

    'Sit down, Terry, you make the place look untidy,' Plummer told him, smiling at Hitch, who grinned back as his companion sat down hurriedly.

    Both Hitch and Morton had worked for Plummer for more than ten years and he trusted them as much as anyone in his organisation. Hence their privileged presence in his penthouse flat. They were two of only a handful of his employees allowed to enter this most private of havens.

    Hitch was a couple of years younger than his boss but his long blond hair and perpetual sun tan (the product of a solarium) made him look closer to thirty than thirty-six. Morton was the opposite, dark-haired, squat, almost brutish in appearance. He'd been a successful amateur boxer before he joined Plummer's organisation. The flat nose was a testament to his habit of fighting with his guard down. Hitch maintained he could stop buses with his head (and frequently did).

    'So, tell me what you found out about Connelly,' said Plummer. 'Is it right he's moving into drugs?'

    'As far as we could find out, he's got no plans to expand in that area, Ray,' Hitch said, sipping his drink.

    'He's making bundles out of the money business, isn't he?' Morton added. 'Why should he try that other shit?'

    'Because that other shit is worth a damned sight more,' Plummer said scornfully.

    'Well, we spoke to at least half a dozen members of his firm and none of them knows anything about a shipment of cocaine,' Hitch announced. 'That call must have been someone winding you up.'

    'But why?' Plummer wanted to know.

    Hitch could only shrug.

    'The bit about the warehouse was right,' Plummer continued. 'Connelly's just bought himself a warehouse down by the docks.'

    'Maybe his boats unload there, the ones that bring his mags in,' Hitch offered.

    Plummer remained unconvinced.

    'You spoke to members of his firm,' he said. 'They're hardly likely to tell you what the cunt's planning, are they? Especially if he's planning to take over London with the money he makes from selling that fucking cocaine.' Plummer got to his feet and walked across to the fireplace, staring into the flames.

    'There's no reason why he should want to try and "take over",' Hitch said. 'It doesn't make sense, Ray. There's been peace for over three years now. Connelly's not going to fuck it up by starting a drugs war, is he?'

    'He might,' Morton offered.

    'Oh, shut it, Terry, for fuck's sake,' Hitch said wearily.

    'So what are you saying?' Plummer demanded. 'That the call was bollocks? A wind-up? If it was, I'd like to get my hands on the bastard that made it.'

    'Forget about it,' Hitch advised, sipping his drink.

    The phone rang.

    Plummer crossed to it and picked up the receiver.

    'Yeah,' he said.

    'Ray Plummer.'

    'Yeah, who's this?'

    'We spoke a few days ago,' said the voice. 'Well, I spoke, you listened.'

    Plummer, the receiver still pressed to his ear, turned to look at Hitch.

    'You're calling about the cocaine shipment,' he said.

    Hitch was on his feet in seconds.

    'Well done,' said the voice.

    Plummer put his hand over the mouthpiece and jabbed a finger towards the door to his right.

    'The phone in the bedroom,' he hissed quietly.

    Hitch understood and bolted for the door, picking the receiver up with infinite care so that he too could hear the voice on the other end of the line.

    'Are you still interested in the shipment?' the caller wanted to know.

    'Maybe,' Plummer said warily.

    'What kind of fucking answer is that?'

    'I'm interested if it actually exists,' he said.

    'It exists all right. Ralph Connelly is going to be spending the money he earns from it pretty soon. Unless you decided you wanted it.'

    'What do you get out of this?' Plummer wanted to know.

    'That's my business. Now, if you're still interested, be here at this time tomorrow. I'll call then.'

    The caller put down the phone.

    'Fuck,' roared Plummer.

    Hitch emerged from the bedroom.

    'Recognise the voice?' Plummer wanted to know.

    The younger man shook his head.

    'If I was you, Ray,' he said. 'I'd wait for that call.'

    

    

    'They're here, Mr Nicholson.'

    The Governor of Whitely heard his secretary's voice over the intercom and glanced up at his wall clock. The delegation was punctual, if nothing else. It was exactly 10.00 A.M.

    'Show them in, please,' he said, adjusting his tie and rising to his feet as the door was opened.

    The first of the four visitors entered and Nicholson recognised him immediately as Bernard Clinton, the MP. He was followed by his companions. The Governor's secretary left them alone in the room, promising to return in a moment with tea and coffee.

    Nicholson emerged from behind his desk slowly, almost reluctantly. He extended a hand and shook that offered by Clinton, who introduced himself then presented his colleagues.

    'This is Mr Reginald Fairham,' Clinton said, motioning towards a mousy-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. He was tall and pale and when Nicholson shook his hand he found it was icy cold. 'Mr Fairham is the Chairman of the National Committee for Prison Reform,' Clinton explained.

    Nicholson said how glad he was to meet him.

    A second man, chubby and losing his hair, was presented by Clinton as Paul Merrick.

    'Mr Merrick serves in my office in Parliament. He's been active with me in this issue for the last few years,' the MP announced.

    Nicholson looked squarely into the chubby man's eyes, scarcely able to disguise the contempt he felt for such a soft, weak handshake. Merrick needed to lose a couple of stone. His hands felt smooth, like those of a woman or someone who's never done a hard day's work in their life. Nicholson gripped Merrick's hand hard and squeezed with unnecessary force, watching the flicker of pain cross the man's face.

    The fourth member of the group was a woman, in her mid-thirties, Nicholson guessed. She was smartly dressed in a grey two-piece suit and posed elegantly on a pair of high heels. Her face was rather pinched, tapering to a pointed chin that gave her features a look of severity not mirrored in her voice.

    'Good morning, Mr Nicholson,' she said as she shook hands.

    'Miss Anne Hopper is a leading member of the Council for Civil Liberties,' Clinton said, smiling obsequiously.

    Introductions over, Nicholson motioned for his guests to sit down.

    'We appreciate the chance to come to Whitely, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said. 'Thank you for your cooperation.'

    'Why did you choose Whitely?' the Governor asked.

    'It is one of the worst examples of overcrowding in any prison in Britain,' Fairham said. 'And it does have one of the worst disciplinary records, too.' He clasped his hands on his knees. 'My organisation has been monitoring it for some time now.'

    'Monitoring?' said Nicholson. 'In what way?' He spoke slowly, his gaze never leaving Fairham, who found he could only hold that gaze for a couple of seconds at a time.

    'As I said, it has a very bad disciplinary record,' he offered.

    'When you have over sixteen hundred violent and dangerous men in one place twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, then the occasional problem does arise,' Nicholson said, leaning back in his seat and pressing his fingertips together.

    'But the disciplinary record here is worse than at any other prison in the country. How can you explain that?' Fairham persisted.

    'Because the class of prisoner is lower,' the Governor said scornfully. 'Perhaps your monitoring system didn't tell you that.'