Death By Dangerous (22 page)

The journey across the Pennines, crammed into a sweatbox, had taken forever. Anderson could hardly move his bad leg, but it was worth it – he felt sure the answer was there.

Securing a transfer had been easier than expected. Shouting about his European Convention right to be near his family and threats of judicial review soon did the trick. The governor was more than happy to offload a problem-causer with legal training. And as a vulnerable, there was only one place for him – E wing.

John Anderson had a plan and it gave him strength.

Hussain and Adey first saw Anderson sitting in a glass booth on legal visits. He looked so gaunt, they hardly recognised him. Both hid their shock, just relieved to be back in contact. Hussain gave Anderson a hearty handshake. Adey was a little more reserved, unaware of Anderson's current feelings towards her.

Anderson spoke first: ‘Tahir, I know you did everything you could, and I'm grateful you took over the case and that we fought it. OK?'

‘Thank you, John.' Hussain felt a burden lifted. Holding back the tears, he nodded his appreciation.

Unaware of why Anderson's remarks were of such importance to Hussain, Adey got straight to the point: ‘Why the transfer?'

Anderson began: ‘I've got to work on the basis that our mystery caller is responsible. We've got nothing else. And he's here, probably on E wing. I reckon he must've been controlling Butt. Find him and we uncover the truth about her. So I need to smoke him out.'

‘That's a dangerous strategy, John,' said Hussain.

Anderson shrugged. ‘We haven't got much choice. And I've been thinking, this psycho has one massive weakness – he wants me to know it was him that put me here. He can't help himself. That's why he rang and texted me. With me here, he won't be able to resist it.'

‘Please be careful, John.' Hussain had never seen Anderson so determined.

‘My brother is here on E wing,' said Adey.

‘Your brother?' Why had she never mentioned him?

‘Bahdoon Tuur. He's doing life for murder. Gang violence.' She tried to say it matter-of-factly, but her embarrassment showed through. ‘I asked him to find out if anyone you prosecuted was here.' She took a sheet out of the file and showed it to Anderson.

He pored over the list. ‘This is great.'

‘He had to stop after people started asking questions, but he managed to get a look at a list of everyone on E wing.' She pointed to some names. ‘There are seven people you prosecuted on the wing right now.'

Anderson drew breath. A sobering thought.

‘Two of them are still serving the same sentence. Four of them were released and were out for years before committing new offences.'

‘So you're saying discount them, either because they could have come after me years ago or they were inside at the time of the crash?'

‘I guess so,' Adey replied.

‘Unless it was organised from inside, that's why he used Butt?'

‘Maybe. I'm checking them all out. The only one that was out at the time of the crash for a short time was Peter Almond, but the profile is all wrong – mortgage fraud.'

‘I remember, on his mother?'

‘That's right. He's back in on a confidence fraud.'

‘Please keep digging, Adey. He's in here.'

‘OK,' Adey replied. ‘But you need to watch your back, John.'

Anderson appreciated the concern etched into her face. It had been a while since he'd experienced that kind of connection with someone.

‘John, there's something else,' said Hussain. ‘Sam Connor came to the office, full of remorse. He's made a new statement, saying he made a mistake.'

‘Really? Does he mean it?'

‘I think so, Adey's not so sure. He wants to help with the appeal.'

‘Good, let him, but forget the statement. That's not what this case is about.'

‘That's what we thought you'd say. He's read the file now and he recognises Butt.'

‘Jesus! From where?'

‘He can't remember.'

Anderson's excitement subsided. ‘She must be an ex-client. Get him to check the chambers computer.'

‘He has. Nothing under that name.'

Anderson mulled over all the new information. ‘What made Connor change his mind?'

‘Mainly guilt about stabbing you in the back, but here's the thing. He tried to put it on Orlando West.'

‘West?'

‘Yeah. Said West drove the whole thing, out of some kind of higher duty to the administration of justice.'

Anderson was astounded. ‘West told him to lie?'

‘He didn't quite go that far. West nudged him in the right direction. Certainly didn't talk him out of it.'

‘But West's evidence was brilliant!'

‘I know. Maybe he was just covering his tracks?'

A prison officer banged on the door of their booth. ‘Five minutes, please.'

Conscious of Adey's presence, Anderson had one more matter to raise: ‘Mia has served divorce papers on me.' Careful not to show any emotion: ‘Did we ever find out who that man was?'

Adey answered: ‘No. I went back a few more times but never saw him again. Either it ended or they started being more careful.'

The officer knocked again and broke up the conference.

Anderson had a lot to think about. He also had seven potential enemies waiting for him on the wing.

DI Taylor had been summoned to Armstrong's office. What had he done now? Taylor couldn't stomach the man. This DCI was all about the career, not the policing. Not the victims of crime. Taylor had watched him sucking up to the right people over the years, hence his meteoric rise. Many believed he'd make chief constable of GMP. After all, he had a golf handicap of three.

‘You wanted to see me, gov?' Taylor hovered in the doorway of Armstrong's office.

‘Yes, come in, Taylor. Heard Anderson's been transferred to Strangeways?'

‘You're joking? Poor sod. He'll have a lot of enemies in there.'

‘His request apparently.'

‘What?'

The chief wanted to know more: ‘Had anything from the defence about an appeal?'

‘No, nothing, gov. They're out of time now.'

‘Unless they go on fresh evidence?' Armstrong's landline rang. He answered it. ‘OK, thanks.' Turning his attention back to Taylor: ‘Right, that'll be all. Got a car waiting, off to London for a meeting.' Had to show off. He rushed out, leaving Taylor standing there.

Taylor noticed the DCI's diary was open on his desk. Something made him gaze down at the page for a moment. The entry for that afternoon read: ‘Anderson', with an address in London underneath. Taylor castigated himself, not wishing to be the kind of copper that spied on his colleagues. He tried to put it out of his mind.

But it was too late – he'd seen it now.

Anderson's cell was similar to the one in Armley; he was again the only occupant. Drained and disorientated, he'd not slept well on his first night. Still recovering from the journey in the sweatbox, compounded by nightmares of past cases. His first waking thought was of Orlando West. Had he really tried to get him convicted, or was Connor up to something? He ate the breakfast pack, delivered the night before, and tried to remember the case details of those who were on his wing.

6.30pm. The jangle of keys. Anderson's door was being unlocked. Association. A rush of anxiety. If he was going to advertise his presence, he had to leave the sanctuary of his pad and mix with other prisoners. He touched Angus's drawing one last time, steeled himself and headed out onto the landing. Almost frozen with fear, telling himself this was what he wanted, he took a few steps along the spur of E wing. Too afraid to make eye contact, he didn't recognise anyone, but felt everyone staring and nudging him as he passed.

‘Hey, my learned friend,' echoed off the walls from the landing above. ‘How's it going?' The voice broke into laughter with others joining in. News travelled fast.

A fat man with ginger hair blocked Anderson's path then held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,' he said jovially.

Anderson took it gratefully. Had he made a friend already?

The man didn't release his grip. He squeezed tighter. ‘Terry Sykes.' In a more sinister tone: ‘Hello, Mr Anderson. You put me in this shithole for a stabbing I never done. Remember?' Anderson tried to pull his hand away but didn't succeed, until the man whispered in his ear, ‘Watch your back.'

Heart racing at a hundred miles an hour, Anderson did an about-turn and walked back to his cell. Everyone knew he was here.

He spent the rest of association sitting on his bunk, eyes fixed on the door. A few prisoners walked past, or peered in and chuckled.

At last, 8.45pm. Breakfast pack and lock up. Once the cell door was secured, he breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could think. He remembered prosecuting Sykes. More than five years ago, Sykes had put a knife into a prostitute's eye in a row over money. Definitely sick enough to bear a grudge, but Anderson's instincts told him this guy didn't have the wherewithal to arrange a hit. Not this sophisticated, anyway.

The dangerous monotony of prison life went on. The constant expectation of violence made time drag and pushed Anderson's mental strength to the limit.

It was Angus's birthday. He hadn't spoken to either of the children since before conviction. However painful it would be, he had to ring. Unfortunately, the phone was on the other side of the landing. Anderson counted down the minutes until association, then as soon as his door was unlocked he set off on the journey across the landing, ignoring the whistles and insults.

‘Give him a dig,' someone shouted.

To Anderson's relief, no one did. He made it to the phone – no queue. He entered the pin that allowed him to ring his authorised numbers, and dialled.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello, is that you Angus?'

‘Daddy! It's Daddy!'

‘Happy birthday, son.' Anderson could hardly speak.

‘When am I going to see you, Daddy?'

‘I don't know, son. Not for a while. But when I do, I'll bring a big present with me, OK?'

‘OK. Will's not here.'

‘Tell him I love him very much. I love you both.'

‘OK, bye.'

Anderson wiped his nose. Composed himself. Any sign of weakness on the return journey would be disastrous. He made it back and threw himself onto the bed. He wanted to cry his eyes out, but would have to wait until lock up. Curled up, he turned towards the wall. He almost jumped out of his skin. Someone had written on it in black ink:

I GAVE YOU ENOUGH ROPE TO HANG YOURSELF

Whoever it was must have come in whilst he was on the phone to Angus. In a fit of anger, Anderson jumped off the bed and ran out onto the landing. ‘You bastard!' he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘My name is John Anderson. I'm waiting, if you've got the guts to face me.'

Someone shouted back: ‘What's eating
her
?' which caused raucous laughter.

Anderson went back into his cell, lay on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. Then, remembering his boys, he sat up. Eventually, he got off the bed and touched his drawing and Will's letter − both on the wall above his sink.

Suddenly, from behind him: ‘Long time no see?'

Anderson turned and saw him standing in the doorway. Bearded, a white man, but in traditional Muslim dress. Anderson knew many inmates converted to Islam to get better food but, despite his colour, he looked the real deal. Anderson didn't recognise his face, only the voice, from the phone calls.

Sniggering, the male held up an arm and pushed his head to the side, mimicking a hanging.

‘Who are you?' Anderson asked.

‘I did this to you. It was me.'

‘Why?'

From under his
kameez
the man produced a shiv – a makeshift knife. Two razor blades melted onto a toothbrush, the double blade designed to make stitching the wound nigh on impossible. ‘I'm going to kill you.'

It was now or never. Anderson charged forward, reaching out for the arm that held the shiv. They grappled. Anderson was no match for his sinewy opponent, fuelled by hate. Anderson reeled back, dazed from a head butt. Forced to the ground, the man was soon on top of him with the shiv now on Anderson's throat. ‘Say goodbye to your kids.'

This was the end. Anderson closed his eyes.

A shrill scream. Cracking bone.

The weight on Anderson's chest was removed. He opened his eyes. A huge black arm gripped around the attacker's neck, with the other holding him in a half nelson. The shiv lay on the cell floor.

Bahdoon Tuur released the captive whose right arm, broken, fell limp to his side. Weeping and muttering threats of revenge, he left.

Still shaken, Anderson got to his feet and offered his hand to his saviour. Bahdoon ignored it, more interested in putting the shiv in his pocket.

Anderson wasn't put off by the rebuff. ‘Thank you. Who are you?'

‘Tuur. Me sista asked me to look out for ya.'

‘Adey?'

He nodded. ‘Shouldn't you be asking
his
name?'

Anderson was still absorbing what had just happened. He dusted himself down. ‘Yes, who is he?'

‘Mohammed Mohammed. A total mental.' Bahdoon made to leave. ‘And before you ask, I didn't see nothin'.'

Anderson could hardly take it all in. Was he suffering some kind of delayed shock? He decided to go back to the phone while he was still holding it together.

It felt good to hear Adey's voice. He gave her a watered-down account.

Adey's obvious concern was tempered by her relief that Bahdoon had been there. She was heartened he'd kept his promise to look out for Anderson. Adey had the list of E wing inmates in front of her. ‘That name's on it, but you've never prosecuted him.'

‘I know it's him. Please find out all you can. Then can you and Hussain come for a visit?'

Adey was already opening up her laptop.