Good as Dead (8 page)

Akhtar nodded and laughed. He opened the can and laid it down within Helen’s reach, then he raised up the other two, one in each hand. ‘Mr Mitchell?’

Mitchell said he was happy with either.

‘You can have the Coke,’ Akhtar said. He opened the drink and placed it on the floor, then sat back down at the desk. He laid the gun on the desktop and popped the ring-pull on his own can. He looked across at Helen and patted his paunch. ‘I gave up worrying about weight a long time ago,’ he said. ‘All that ghee in everything my wife cooks.’

‘I can’t afford to give up,’ Helen said. She looked at him and swallowed hard. ‘Been struggling with it ever since Alfie was born. Can’t seem to get rid of those few extra pounds, even though I spend half my life running round after the little bugger like a lunatic. Well, you’ve seen how much energy he’s got.’

Akhtar looked away and took a long swig from his can.

Helen was happy to see that Akhtar was feeling uncomfortable. Had she managed to provoke a pang of guilt, or remorse? Perhaps she had simply succeeded in reminding him of his own son. She decided that this could not be helped, that whatever she said, the man would not need to be reminded of the child he had lost.

It was the reason they were there, after all.

She finished the chocolate and started on the crisps. ‘Where did you get the gun, Javed?’

‘What?’

She asked again, kept it nice and casual, as though she were enquiring where he had bought his shoes.

Akhtar reached for the gun and picked it up, felt the weight of it as if holding it for the first time. It looked old. A revolver. ‘A man who came into the shop,’ he said.

Helen waited.

‘I knew he was involved in certain sorts of business, you know? The way he looked and some of the things he said. Same way I got to know the business
you
were in.’ He slowly turned the gun over in his hand, as though curious himself as to how it had got there. ‘I told this man some made-up stories, told him I was having real trouble with kids in the shop, all that kind of nonsense. He said there were things I could do to protect myself, that it would be easy to get what I needed if I was happy to pay for it. He said there was a pub I could go to, people I could ask. So, for several nights, when I had told my wife I was at the cash-and-carry, I sat in this pub that stank of God-knows-what, trying to look as though I had a good reason to be there, and I asked questions. Eventually I found a man who was keen to take my money and give me what I wanted.’

‘You must have been frightened,’ Helen said.

‘I was
terrified
, Miss Weeks, I don’t mind telling you. More scared than I have ever been. But in the end it was so easy, that is the terrible thing. Those boys who were in my shop this morning? They can get guns any time they want.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Like
that
.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought it would be difficult and dangerous, but it was really no different to buying anything else. No different.’ He nodded down to the floor in front of Helen. ‘Like buying crisps or bloody Coca-Cola … ’

Helen knew that Javed Akhtar was right, of course. The war on knives was all but lost, and it was hard to imagine the attempt to tackle gun crime going any other way, when you could buy one in a pub car park as easily as a box or two of dodgy fags.

He might just as well have been at the cash-and-carry.

‘Why don’t you just get rid of the gun?’ Helen asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘
Please
,’ Mitchell said. The single word was said quietly but was thick with desperation. ‘You don’t need it.’ He rattled the handcuffs against the radiator pipe. ‘We can’t go anywhere.’

‘You don’t have to do anything else,’ Helen said. ‘We can carry on just like this if you want. It’s only the gun that’s making things dangerous. For all of us.’ She nodded reassuringly. ‘You can see that, Javed, can’t you? Just put the gun away … ’

‘My son never carried a weapon in his life,’ Akhtar said, ‘and look what happened to him.’

‘I know, but isn’t one terrible incident enough? Just put—’

‘“Dangerous”.’ Akhtar spat the word out. ‘That’s what they said about Amin in court. That he demonstrated a “degree of dangerous
ness
”. What kind of word is that? What does that even mean?’

It was a legal term that Helen was well familiar with. It had been applied to many offenders she had dealt with over her years in Child Protection. It was invoked as justification for harsher sentencing, and for increasing the period an individual had to spend on licence once that sentence had been completed.

‘So what do you think, Javed? About the gun.’

Akhtar stood up and looked at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘What kind of word is that, I ask you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Helen said. ‘But it’s just a word.’

Akhtar shook his head and shouted. ‘No, no, no! Not
just
anything!’ His face was flushed suddenly and he was waving the gun about.

Next to her, Helen felt Mitchell flinch and whimper.

‘What kind of
bastard
, stupid word?’ He looked from Helen to Mitchell for an answer and, when none came, he shook his head again and stormed quickly out into the shop.

A few seconds later, the noise started, things crashing and breaking.

Helen shuffled across and, once again, dropped a hand gently on to Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be OK, Stephen,’ she said.

He turned slowly towards her. His skin was clammy and his lips looked pale.

He said, ‘I can’t do this.’

A woman approached Donnelly as he was walking back into the hall from the boys’ toilets. She introduced herself as DC Gill Bellinger. Said, ‘I work with Helen.’

‘Right,’ Donnelly said. ‘Well, we’re doing everything we can, but right now it’s a sodding big plate of wait-and-see pudding, I’m afraid.’

‘I was wondering what you were doing about Helen’s little boy.’

Donnelly said, ‘Right,’ again and nodded, as though he had just been wondering exactly the same thing.

Bellinger nodded back, but she could see that this was the first time he had so much as thought about Alfie Weeks. ‘He goes to a local childminder,’ she said. ‘I just thought we should make some arrangement to have him picked up?’

‘Yes, of course. Is there any family?’

‘There’s a sister, Jenny. Lives in Maida Vale, I think. I’m not sure they’re particularly close, but … ’

‘OK, I’ll try and get that organized, thanks, Gill.’ Donnelly looked around. ‘I’m not sure—’

‘You want me to do it?’

‘That would be great,’ Donnelly said, taking a step away. ‘Might all work out very well, seeing as you’re a friend of Helen’s, I mean.’

He was already on his way back to the monitors as Gill Bellinger was telling him that she would let him know what she’d managed to organise. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and sat back down.

‘Takes me back,’ he said.

Sue Pascoe looked up at him. ‘What?’

‘Boys’ toilets.’ Donnelly smiled. ‘I remember, we used to go charging into the girls’ toilets every so often. A big gang of us, just running in there shouting and screaming, trying to see what it was like. What the hell you got up to in there.’ He looked at Pascoe. ‘Funny that the girls never seemed particularly interested in what our toilets were like.’

‘Yeah, funny that,’ Pascoe said.

‘Anything momentous happen while I was pointing Percy at the porcelain?’

Pascoe shook her head. ‘Well, he hasn’t given himself up or shot anyone, if that’s what you mean. But it might not be too far away.’ She nodded across to where Chivers was talking to somebody on the far side of the hall. ‘He was looking for you.’

‘What does he want?’

‘Says his boys can hear a load of crashing and banging coming from inside the shop,’ Pascoe said. ‘Bottles breaking and what have you, like he’s smashing the place up.’ She stared at the monitor, let out a slow breath. ‘Sounds like he might be losing it.’

‘So what do you think?’ Donnelly asked.

‘I think we really need to talk to him.’

Donnelly watched Chivers finish his conversation and start walking quickly towards him. It was hard to be sure, as the man’s expression never changed a great deal, but even from a distance the CO19 team leader appeared rather pleased with developments.

TEN

It was as ridiculous to generalise about a group of people as diverse as prison officers as it was about anybody else – pointless and ultimately reductive – but it saved time, so Thorne did it anyway.

They were, so Thorne imagined, either no-nonsense, by-the-book types or those slightly more sensitive sorts who could easily have become teachers if they didn’t like the uniforms quite so much. ‘Old school’ or ‘reconstructed’ might have been more accurate labels, but Thorne found it easier to think of them as ‘Mackays’ or ‘Barracloughs’; the archetypes named in honour of the two very different types of screw on the sitcom
Porridge
that he had adored as a kid.

Which he still thought about sometimes, in the middle of a particularly tedious trial.

Norman Stanley Fletcher …

The PO that escorted him from Bracewell’s office to the hospital wing was a thickset and balding fifty-something named Dobson. Like all the officers, he was wearing dark trousers and a black polo shirt with his name stitched into it, but it was not until Thorne commented on what the
boys
were wearing that Dobson revealed his true colours. At other YOIs Thorne had visited, the boys had worn tracksuit bottoms, and he was surprised that those he had seen that morning were wearing cargo pants beneath their dark blue sweatshirts or Tshirts.

‘That was the governor’s idea,’ Dobson said, nodding towards one of the boys. ‘Bloody good one, as well. They used to strut about with their hands shoved down the front of their tracksuit bottoms, grabbing their bollocks like wannabe gangsters. These days, we have to shake hands with the little bastards a hundred times a day.’ He pulled a face. ‘So … ’

To the likes of Dobson, the boys they banged up every night were no more than adult prisoners waiting to happen, whether they had started shaving or not and whatever he and his colleagues were required to wear as part of a more casual and caring regime. Thorne knew that there were those within the Prison Service who requested the posting to a YOI. Officers who enjoyed working with young offenders, because they felt there was a chance to make a real difference. There were others, however – a small minority, thankfully – who were unhappy to find themselves assigned to kids and saw no reason to treat the prisoners in their charge any differently to those who might previously have been subject to their less than tender mercies in Long Lartin or the Scrubs.

It was not hard to work out which category Dobson belonged to.

Ian McCarthy was waiting for them outside the doors when they arrived at the hospital wing. Dobson said, ‘Here you go,’ then turned and walked away.

‘He’s a charmer,’ Thorne said.

McCarthy opened the door for Thorne and ushered him through. ‘Bark’s worse than his bite,’ he said. ‘Like a lot of them.’

Thorne had naively imagined that Barndale’s chief medical officer would be older. That he might possibly be wearing a white coat. As it turned out, the man who showed him into his large, bright office and dropped into a chair behind a cluttered desk was, like the governor, a few years younger than Thorne himself and considerably better dressed. He was stocky with thick, dark hair and a well-trimmed goatee. There was a trace of a northern accent.

‘Roger said you’re looking into Amin Akhtar’s suicide.’

Thorne nodded and held up the stack of files he’d brought with him from Bracewell’s office. ‘Got to work my way through this lot as soon as I can, but I wanted to have a quick look around in here first.’

‘That’s fine—’

‘Just get my bearings, you know?’

‘Not a problem.’

‘You found Amin, right?’

McCarthy stood up, removed his jacket and hung it across the back of his chair before sitting down again. A heavy sigh made it clear that he was going to find talking about Amin Akhtar’s death hard work.

‘I’ve not been here that long,’ he said. ‘Only a year or so, and this is like the worst nightmare. There was a kid who cut his wrists in his cell a few months before I got the job, and I know this kind of stuff goes on in prisons, but Amin was
here
.’ He held out his arms. ‘On my watch, so … ’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I got here about seven-thirty,’ McCarthy said. ‘A bit earlier than usual because the governor had called a senior management meeting for eight o’clock and I needed to get a few things dictated in the office. I decided to do a quick round before the meeting and Amin’s was the first room I checked.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I always check the private rooms first,’ McCarthy said. ‘And his was the only one that was occupied.’ He looked down and straightened some papers on his desk. ‘Well, you know what I found.’

Thorne was thinking: clean slate. ‘I haven’t had an opportunity to see the police report yet,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Or the post-mortem. So I’d be grateful if you could tell me.’

McCarthy cleared his throat. ‘Amin had taken an overdose of Tramadol, which is the same drug he was being treated with. It’s related to morphine … ’

Thorne nodded.

‘He’d been checked twice on the rounds between six-thirty and seven a.m. and although the hospital officer on duty was rightly suspended, I don’t think we can really blame her for not noticing that anything was wrong. I mean, I can’t honestly say I’d have done anything different. He was just lying there in bed, so anyone looking in through the window for a few seconds could easily have thought he was asleep and that everything was OK.’ He held up his hands. ‘She didn’t notice the plastic cup and the few spilled tablets lying on the floor by his bed. Simple as that.’ He shook his head, looked to see if Thorne needed any more detail.

Thorne waited.

‘There was some blood where he’d bitten through his tongue and he’d … soiled himself, though obviously that couldn’t be seen from outside the room.’ He looked at Thorne again. ‘Yes, we
might
have been able to save him if the officer on duty had been a little more observant, but as it was, Amin was dead by the time I went into his room. He was still … warm, but I checked and there was clearly no hope of resuscitation. So—’