Hard Landing (25 page)

Shepherd wiped his plate with a piece of bread. ‘Why don’t they give us a schedule, tell us what happens when?’

‘That’d be too logical,’ said Lee. ‘Anyway, you soon get into the swing of it.’

‘Who told you, though?’

‘Guy who was in the cell before you had been here five months.’

Rathbone appeared at the door. ‘Okay, lads?’

‘Fine, Mr Rathbone,’ said Lee, raising a forkful of beans.

‘You’re on gym list, Macdonald. Friends in high places?’

‘Miss Lloyd-Davies put my name down,’ said Shepherd.

‘Just so long as you didn’t break anybody’s leg.’ Rathbone closed the door.

Lee switched on the television and flicked through the channels. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said.

‘Sure.’

‘Jurczak. Did you really break his leg?’

‘He fell,’ said Shepherd. ‘We were having a chat and he fell.’

‘But his knee was all smashed up.’

‘He fell awkwardly,’ said Shepherd, and laughed. It was important that he played the hard man with Lee. Lee was clearly a blabbermouth, so anything Shepherd said to him would be common knowledge on the spur. ‘Let me ask you something,’ he said. ‘Who really runs the spur? Everyone says Digger, but they tug their forelocks when Carpenter’s around. And at least Digger goes to the hotplate himself.’

‘Different strokes,’ said Lee. ‘Digger’s got muscle, right. If Digger wants you to do something, he tells you. He says jump, you say how high, right?’

‘I’ve gathered that.’

‘But Carpenter’s got money. More money than you can shake a stick at. He doesn’t have to threaten anybody. He just buys what he wants.’

‘Through Digger?’

Lee’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s your interest in all this?’ he asked.

Shepherd held up his hands. ‘Hey, just want to know who does what, that’s all.’

‘You’re not thinking of taking him on, are you?’

‘Digger? Or Carpenter?’

‘There’s got to be a daddy on the block. Always is. But Digger’ll fight for what he’s got.’

‘What about Carpenter?’

Lee grinned. ‘Carpenter doesn’t have to fight.’

‘Yeah, he doesn’t look hard.’

‘That’s the point. He doesn’t have to be hard. But he can have you sorted, inside or out. Cross him, and there’s half a dozen guys on the spur who’d stick you for what he can pay them on the out. The screws know it too, which is why he’s allowed to take liberties. You know he’s on the gym list most days?’

‘How does he manage that?’

‘Buggered if I know.’

‘What about his single cell? Did Digger get that for him?’

‘No idea, mate. Why don’t you ask him?’ He frowned. ‘Hey, I’m not getting on your tits, am I?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Nah, you’re fine. I could just do with some privacy, you know?’ He cleaned his plate, put it on top of the wall cupboard and lay back on his bunk. Other than the odd titbit from Lee, time spent in his cell was wasted time as far as his investigation was concerned. The only occasions when he could talk to Carpenter were on cleaning duties, out in the exercise yard, in the gym, or walking down the secure corridor. But the difficulties were compounded by the fact that his quarry spent much of his time in his cell, even when he was free to move around. It was all very well getting block gossip from the likes of Ed Harris and Lee, but if Shepherd was going to put a stop to Carpenter’s wrongdoing he was going to need hard evidence. Soon.

Rathbone opened the cell door at ten fifteen and told Shepherd to wait at the bubble. Shepherd had changed into his prison-issue tracksuit, but when he got to the bubble he could see that he was underdressed. Bill Barnes was there in a brand new Reebok tracksuit and trainers. Three other prisoners, all West Indians, wore pristine sportsgear and thick gold chains round their necks. They grinned at Shepherd’s attire. He flashed them a tight smile. He didn’t care what he looked like: he just wanted to get rid of some of the energy that had been building up over the past few days.

He looked up at the threes. Carpenter was coming down the stairs, wearing a red Lacoste shirt with white shorts, socks and trainers. He was carrying a bottle of Highland Spring and a small white towel. He looked like a well-off businessman on the way to his local fitness centre.

Rathbone came up to the group as Carpenter arrived. The prison officer ticked off the eight names on his clipboard, then took them out into the secure corridor.

Shepherd hoped to talk to Carpenter on the long walk to the gym but before he could get next to the man, Barnes fell into step beside him. ‘How’s it going, Bob?’

Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Carpenter was walking at the rear of the group, talking to Rathbone.

‘When’s your next court appearance?’

‘Not sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’ve got to appear before a judge every two weeks when you’re on remand,’ said Barnes. ‘At least it’s a day out. You okay for puff?’

‘I’m still not smoking, Bill. Not tobacco and not wackybacky.’

‘What about booze?’

‘You can get booze in here?’

‘Sure, home brew. I’ve got a couple of pints on the go at the moment.’

Shepherd laughed, thinking Barnes was joking.

‘I’m serious, mate,’ said Barnes, earnestly. ‘I’ve got a mate in the kitchen who pinches yeast for me. You put it with a bit of fruit and water in a Ziploc bag, throw in some sugar, and Bob’s your mother’s brother. I’ve got some cider that’ll be ready in a few days, and orange and pear that’s ready to go. Once it’s fermented we put it in 7-Up bottles and sell it. Get me two packs of Marlboro and I’ll let you have a bottle.’

Shepherd wasn’t that desperate. He liked a drink, sure, either beer with the lads or a good bottle of wine with Sue, but it wasn’t the alcohol he enjoyed so much as the company.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Barnes. ‘After you’ve been inside for a few months you’ll want to get high, one way or another.’

They reached the gym. Rathbone searched the prisoners one by one, a perfunctory pat-down of their arms and legs. Shepherd followed Barnes in. A couple of dozen prisoners from the other blocks were already there. It was a big room, packed with equipment – half a dozen bikes and four good-sized treadmills along one wall, four rowing machines, two multi-gyms, and in one corner a weights section with half a dozen benches.

The West Indian prisoners immediately went over to the weights area where half a dozen others were standing around talking. They were greeted with high fives and clunked fists. No one seemed interested in lifting any weights.

Carpenter was still outside so Shepherd went over to the multi-gym and started doing some gentle stretching exercises. A balcony ran the length of one wall and a bored prison officer stared down at nothing in particular.

Carpenter came in and went over to one of the treadmills. Shepherd didn’t want to appear too obvious so he stayed on the multi-gym, working on his arm and chest muscles. Rathbone and another officer stood at the entrance, chatting. Barnes was on a bike, pedalling for all he was worth.

Shepherd revelled in the exercise. He’d been doing sit-ups and press-ups whenever Lee was in his bunk but there was something therapeutic about working against the machine with its steel-grey weights and chrome pillars. He worked his upper and lower arms, his shoulders, then did a series of leg stretches.

He looked over at the treadmills. Carpenter was still there, running fluidly, his breathing regular and even, his towel draped round his neck and his bottle of Highland Spring in his right hand. There was an Arab on the machine next to him, an obese man with a thick moustache who was bathed in sweat even though he could barely manage a fast walk. As soon as the Arab climbed off, Shepherd went over to take his place.

He nodded at Carpenter and started off at a slow jog, giving his muscles a chance to get used to working.

Carpenter upped the speed of his machine but he was barely breaking sweat. He took a swig from his water bottle. He was staring straight ahead as he ran. Shepherd figured he was probably imagining green fields ahead of him, not a blank white wall. Shepherd increased the pace. It had been over a week since he’d last been on a run and his muscles were burning already. It felt good to be moving again, though. His trainers thumped down on the machine’s rubber tread and he increased the pace again. He glanced across at the control panel of Carpenter’s machine. Carpenter was running at almost twice Shepherd’s speed. And while Shepherd was running on the level, Carpenter’s was set at an incline of ten per cent. He didn’t seem aware that Shepherd was running alongside him.

Shepherd altered the incline so that it matched Carpenter’s. The machine whirred and he had to drive himself harder to maintain the same speed. The adrenaline kicked in and he stopped being aware of his feet hitting the treadmill. He increased the speed again, to match Carpenter’s machine, and the two men ran in synch.

Carpenter glanced at Shepherd’s control panel, then jabbed at his speed button. The pace picked up and he started breathing heavily. Shepherd smiled to himself. Carpenter was clearly competitive, and he was more than happy to take him on. He increasedhis speedagainto match Carpenter’s, and fell into the other man’s rhythm. They ran together for ten minutes. Then Carpenter increased his speed. His mouth was open, his arms pumping as he ran.

Shepherd matched his speed and settled into the new rhythm. He knew he was close to his maximum; he was a distance runner, not a sprinter. But Carpenter was also close to his limit, and he seemed to be tiring quickly.

Shepherd knew he could outlast Carpenter – stamina was his strong point, always had been – but he was trying to win the man’s confidence, not humiliate him. Sweat was pouring down Carpenter’s face, and his Lacoste shirt was soaked. Shepherd let his own breath come in unsteady gasps, and faked a stumble. He powered on, but let his feet slap on to the rubber tread and his knees go weak. He reached out and slowed down his machine, panting. He stole a glance at Carpenter, who was smiling grimly.

Shepherd slowed his treadmill to a walk, wiped his face with his hands, still faking exhaustion, then stopped his machine and climbed off.

Carpenter ran for another full minute, then slowed to a jog.

Shepherd bent over, then dropped into a crouch. Carpenter grinned and stopped his machine. He stepped down, wiping his face with his towel.

‘You’re fit, all right,’ said Shepherd.

‘Just practice,’ said Carpenter, stretching his legs.

‘You know, in the old prisons they used treadmills as hard labour. Nowadays they’re a privilege. Progress, huh?’

Carpenter chuckled.

‘You’re in the gym every day, pretty much, aren’t you?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Pretty much.’

Shepherd straightened up. ‘How do you manage that?’

Carpenter took a long drink from his water bottle but his eyes never left Shepherd’s. Shepherd didn’t look away, but kept an amused smile on his face, knowing that Carpenter was weighing him up. Carpenter wiped his mouth with his towel. ‘You know how I manage it,’ he said.

‘Digger?’

‘That and a broken leg should do it,’ said Carpenter.

‘There’s only eight on the spur allowed at any one time, right?’

‘That’s the rule.’

‘And Digger can get me on the list every day?’

Carpenter grinned at him. ‘You’d have to ask him about that. Just don’t try to get my slot.’

Shepherd pulled a face. ‘Wouldn’t want to screw things up for you.’

‘You won’t,’ said Carpenter. He went over to a bike and climbed on. As he started pedalling, Shepherd climbed on to one next to him.

Both men cycled in unison, but this time there was no competition.

‘Heard from your wife?’ asked Carpenter.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I reckon it’ll be her solicitor I hear from.’

‘She seemed pretty angry.’

‘Be different if I was outside,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I could just talk to her without the bloody screws looking on. The whole thing is bound to turn her against me, isn’t it? The wall, the bars, the searches, the drugs dogs.’

‘I’ve told my kids not to come,’ said Carpenter. ‘No way I want them seeing me in here.’

‘Yeah, I wish mine hadn’t brought my lad in. Especially if that’s the last time he sees me. Hell of a memory. His dad behind bars with that stupid yellow sash.’

‘You’ll see him again,’ said Carpenter. ‘Fathers have rights.’

‘Not if I’m sent down for twenty,’ Shepherd said. ‘By the time I get out, he’ll have forgotten me.’

Carpenter didn’t say anything. He took a drink from his bottle.

‘You seem pretty calm about your situation,’ said Shepherd.

Carpenter shrugged. ‘No point in letting off steam in here,’ he said. ‘Throw a tantrum and they’ll either drug you up or put you in a cell with cardboard furniture.’

‘If it looks like I’m going to do twenty, I’ll top myself.’

‘You adapt,’ said Carpenter.

‘Fuck that,’ said Shepherd.

‘How would killing yourself make it any better?’

‘Now you sound like Ed Harris. I mean it, I’d be better off dead.’

They pedalled in silence for a while. Shepherd wanted to keep Carpenter talking but without appearing over-eager. The West Indians had split into two groups and were lifting heavy weights.

‘Your wife seemed okay,’ said Shepherd, eventually. ‘About coming to see you in here, I mean.’

‘She knows it won’t be for ever,’ said Carpenter.

‘But what if you don’t get off ?’

Carpenter snorted softly. ‘It’s not about getting off. If I get in a courtroom, I’m buggered.’

‘So what’s your way out?’

Carpenter flashed him a sideways look. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘Because if I don’t come up with something, I’m fucked.’

Carpenter looked at him, his eyes hard. Then he nodded slowly, as if he’d decided he could trust Shepherd. ‘How much money have you got on the outside, tucked away?’