My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (28 page)

More difficult to answer was how the Judge had tracked each target down once they were free. For example, Sam Philips and Matt Hayes wouldn’t even have known their new addresses until shortly before being released, although that made the public services a good, albeit broad, starting point, comprising all the
authorities that would have had a say in the specifics of each victim’s return to civilian life.

Something told Hawkins this was the key to the case. In the modern era of lightly traded personal details, where supposedly private data was more available than ever before, it became almost impossible to ascertain a particular source for the killer’s information … But now, with three separate instances to study, perhaps a process of elimination would help …

Suddenly, Hawkins was labouring her way out of the chair.

Mike stopped mid-sentence, intently watching her stand. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot your incontinence meds again.’

‘Funny,’ she fired back. ‘I know where we should be.’

Mike’s expression sharpened. ‘Where?’

She made him wait a few seconds, inhaling theatrically, as if she might yet deny him the benefit of her acumen.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘I won’t yank your chain for the rest of the day.’

Hawkins let a smile break. ‘Okay, we know Tanner’s trying to establish a link between the victims, so perhaps we should balance things out by assuming there’s no link at all.’

‘All right.’ Mike eyed her, probably wondering if she was more interested in making efficient use of resources or just in getting to the answer before Tanner did. ‘So …’

Hawkins
picked up her coat, fumbling in it for an armhole. ‘Sometimes, if the reason things happen can’t be defined, we need a more scientific approach.’

Mike raised his eyebrows.

‘So,’ she obliged, ‘this killer’s targeting ex-cons. But as we’re having no luck working out
why
he’s doing it, let’s dig a bit deeper into
how.
’

47

‘Bear with me.’ Eileen Thomas gathered up the pile of thick folders and hoisted her ample behind off the chair with an uncomfortable groan. She shuffled across and returned the latest collection of paperwork to its respective drawers, while Hawkins and Maguire sat, politely appraising the medium-sized office where their host worked at one of two large wooden desks.

Eileen, as she insisted they call her, was chief administrative assistant of forty-odd years’ service at Holloway Prison, and was clearly proud enough of her position not to mind having been summoned by the Met to attend her workplace on a Sunday afternoon. Her office occupied part of an uncomfortably cold attic conversion in the eaves of the main building, to which the detectives had been escorted forty minutes ago. They’d arrived a good half an hour prior to that, but for some reason the prison governor’s approval had been laboriously sought before access was finally allowed. An excuse was mumbled at the time about newly tightened security procedures in the wake of recent inmate leakage from nearby open jails.

All of which was probably a good thing, given that the reason for their visit was to determine ways
information such as release dates and post-discharge accommodation might escape from correctional facilities like this one. They had similar meetings set up with the institutions that had looked after Rosa Calano and Matthew Hayes.

The second workstation, diagonally opposite Eileen’s, was unoccupied and contrastingly tidy, allegedly thanks to her subordinate’s two-week holiday in Corfu. Aside from a few personal items, recycling bins and a coat stand, the room’s centre space was filled to bursting with various boxes of documents, while every wall was lined with tall filing cabinets, where hard copies of every prisoner’s case history lazed in mute denial of the increasingly digital world beyond the prison gates.

The office itself was tatty in a way that suggested constant heavy use, and even the most compulsive hoarder would have struggled to call the place organized, but their host had found every piece of information they’d asked for with swift, almost robotic ease. And their latest query, regarding correspondence between the prison and the address in Bethnal Green to which Sam Philips had been consigned, appeared to present no greater test, as the large Irish lady returned, file in hand, to her seat.

The admin assistant fished her plastic-framed glasses from the chain around her neck, wiped her nose on a crumpled tissue and adjusted her scarf. She opened the file and withdrew a couple of photocopied sheets, which she passed across the desk.

‘Thanks.’
Hawkins took them. ‘If we leave you a list, could you send us electronic copies of all the documents we’ve looked at today?’

Eileen grimaced. ‘I’ll try if you like, but that’s my colleague’s department, really.’ She nodded at the empty desk across the room. ‘Leslie’s younger than me, and a lot more au fait with this new-fangled computer lark. I prefer my documents to stay where I leave them, if you know what I mean.’

Mike eyed the stand-alone scanner-cum-printer in the corner. ‘If everything’s already scanned, what’s with all the filing cabinets?’

‘Well, I won’t bore you with the legalities,’ Eileen said, ‘but we’re still obliged to keep signed hard copies of all prisoner correspondence going back to dim and distant days, either here or in the archives. No doubt they’ll change it eventually, but I’ll thank them with a heart and a half to wait until I retire at least.’

Hawkins raised the letters. ‘So, accounting only for departments that would have been privy to information regarding Samantha Philips, who sees sensitive documentation like this?’

‘Now that depends. Usually, judicial matters are sent by secure post to the Ministry of Justice and the prisoner’s legal team. Anything to do with accommodation or court-appointed work on the outside goes to those parties, plus the affected probation service and council office. Medically related bits go through NHS Central. As often as not, we copy in Media Liaison and Offender
Safety, in some cases the local police, and of course everything goes to the prison governor, Mr Fitch. Now let me think for a minute there, ’cause I’ll have missed out loads.’

Hawkins watched Maguire noting down the extensive list, slowly realizing just how much work would be involved in unpicking the convoluted web of departments Eileen had managed to charm from memory alone. Once they added the ancillary staff involved in processing and distribution, and when you considered that three separate institutions were involved, dozens if not hundreds of people could conceivably have accessed the information necessary to trace all three targets post-release.

She was about to ask Eileen who else had access to the documentation subsequently held by each department when they were interrupted. Hawkins turned to see a short, bald man in an impeccable green suit enter from the corridor.

‘Goodness.’ Eileen shot to her feet. ‘Mr Fitch. I … I didn’t know –’

‘Sit down, Ms Thomas,’ he instructed. ‘I’m not here to appraise.’

Hawkins rose, too. ‘Mr Fitch. DCI Antonia Hawkins. And this is DI Mike Maguire.’

‘I know who you are.’ Fitch shook the hand she offered. ‘I approved your impromptu visit, so it would have been remiss of me to let you pass through without introducing myself. And, given recent events, I’m sure
you understand why we’re more protective than ever, especially of our archive. I now personally greet all visitors to confidential areas of our institution, weekend or not.’

‘Very wise,’ Hawkins accepted.

Fitch retreated slightly. ‘Still, don’t let me interrupt. We can talk afterwards.’

‘Actually, we’re finished.’ Hawkins stepped away from her chair. There was little point mining Eileen’s kingdom any more. The list Mike had already made of services with access to parolee information would keep her research team busy for days, and even then she wasn’t convinced it would lead anywhere.

She and Maguire left cards and thanked the administrator, who seemed more than happy for her visitors to depart, although Hawkins suspected that had more to do with the fact that they’d be taking her boss with them. Eileen offered to call a guard, but Fitch suggested they accompany him back to his office instead, which was on the way to the main gate, from where he’d provide further aid. They followed him out of the office and set off along the bluntly decorated corridor.

As they went, Fitch launched into unsolicited patter regarding his plans for Holloway. He’d been in his post for less than a month, but already disruption among inmates was down and fresh capital was being spent on renovating cells in older parts of the jail. He talked about the inscrutable standards he’d implemented and his forthcoming strategies to reduce drug use inside the
prison, punctuating everything with swift, concise hand movements.

They reached a polished, dark wood door, fully at odds with the stark corridor in which it was set. Fitch used a fingerprint scanner to let them through into an opulent room where squeaky tiles gave way to plush carpets and homely shades. At the far end of the spacious reception area, a secretary glanced up from her desk.

‘So, Detective,’ Fitch asked as they moved on, ‘was Ms Thomas able to provide the information you required?’

‘Eileen was very efficient,’ Hawkins told him. ‘We actually came away with a bit more than we asked for.’

Without warning, Fitch stopped and turned to face them. ‘And what
was
that, exactly?’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t discuss it.’ She gave a penitent smile. ‘I’m sure you understand the need to minimize awareness of our investigation. It saves potential complications at a later stage.’

The prison governor’s brow tightened. ‘And I’m sure
you
understand my duty to see this establishment’s reputation preserved. Unnecessary association with an inquiry like yours can affect everything from average sentence length to prisoner conduct and staff morale. So if you come here unannounced and start questioning my employees about confidential detainee information, I have every right to know what’s being discussed.’

‘Fair enough,’ Hawkins replied. Fitch was obviously
no soft touch, and he was correct about his entitlement to know. Legally, he could have sat in on their session with Eileen, had he wished; the reason Hawkins had tried to slip in under the radar in the first place. Their research into the various ways information left prisons like this one would be hard enough in itself to follow up, without the inevitable complication added by men like Fitch, whose motivation was to keep his house looking clean. So the less people like him knew about the Met’s burgeoning interest in his establishment’s affairs, the better.

Reluctantly, she gave him an overview, revealing a little more than she was obliged, in the hope that he might provide fresh insight on a line of inquiry that, for now at least, seemed to have stalled.

Fitch listened closely and, despite being unable to offer much in the way of help, he promised to assist where possible with the ongoing case, but only in return for Hawkins’ guarantee that future inquiries regarding prison business would be directed through him. It wasn’t a deal she had much faith in, but Hawkins took it, keen to escape his cynical stare.

His piece said, the prison governor led them the short remaining distance to his office, where he handed them over to a female prison officer he introduced as Jones, before disappearing inside, quietly closing the door.

Jones led them back the way they had come. She was a stern woman, slim, pushing fifty, in regulation navy trousers and white shirt. She had the apathetic-guard
look down to a tee. Hawkins attributed that to experience, which made Jones a decent subject for her next question.

She moved alongside their escort as they walked. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

As she spoke, Hawkins felt Maguire bristle behind them.

Jones glanced across. ‘If you want.’

‘How much contact do you have with the inmates, day to day?’

Jones clearly wasn’t eager to chat, her eyes narrowing in response to Hawkins’ curiosity, but she answered. ‘They like us to talk with the prisoners, build trust and that. But we have to keep it professional; you can’t be mates with a convict.’

Hawkins nodded. ‘What about inmate correspondence?’

The pause was slightly longer this time. ‘Every warden has their own group of cons – sorry, prisoners. We have to read any emails or letters in or out, check for anything dodgy before we hand it over.’

Hawkins resisted a flippant urge to ask Jones if she’d seen any letters asking for quotes to murder fellow inmates. ‘How much dodgy stuff do you see?’

‘Nothing to speak of. Even the slower ones learn pretty fast that stuff like that gets picked up, so nobody does it. If they want to talk about anything secret in this place, someone comes in. Private stuff gets discussed in the visiting room, face to face.’

‘Interesting.’
Hawkins acted as if this was information she hadn’t expected, stoking Jones’ ego. ‘So you must get to know them pretty well, over time. Where they’re from, if they have family, stuff like that.’

‘Some of ’em, maybe.’ Jones paused at a gate, searching for the right key. ‘A lot of the inmates ignore us.’

‘I see.’ Hawkins watched her open the lock. ‘Did you know Sam Phi–’

‘Chief?’ Maguire’s voice cut in loudly over her shoulder.

She glanced back. ‘Yes?’

‘Can I talk to you?’

She forced a smile. ‘Can it wait?’

‘Nope.’

They stopped. Hawkins apologized to Jones and moved aside with Maguire, fully aware of what was coming.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘Making conversation. Why?’

‘You know damn well Fitch doesn’t want you grilling his staff.’

‘It’s hardly the Spanish Inquisition.’ Hawkins glanced over at the guard. ‘I don’t think she’ll sue.’

Maguire’s frown deepened.

‘
Okay
.’ She gave in. ‘I’ll stop.’

They re-joined their chaperone and walked on in silence, reaching the lobby, where the two detectives waited to reclaim their personal effects from the check-in desk as Jones lingered a short distance away.

The
yelling became audible as Hawkins was handed her bag, and moments later a young woman in tight blue jeans was manhandled through a side door by two male guards, her stiletto heels screeching on the tiles.