Hard Landing (30 page)

Lee and his football cronies were leaning against the wire fence, deep in conversation. Lee nodded at Shepherd as he walked by. He nodded back. He had to walk past Needles and Dreadlocks to get out of the yard. He didn’t look at them, although he could feel them staring at him. He had gone past the stage of sour looks and menacing stares: he’d made his decision. All he needed now was the opportunity.

He walked out of the exercise yard, back on to the spur, and slowly towards the stairs. Half a dozen of the older inmates were sitting at a table playing dominoes, and four Jamaicans were playing pool. One of them was Stickman, the tall, thin guy that had attacked Shepherd with Dreadlocks on his first morning. Shepherd sensed no hostility from him as he walked past the pool table. No sullen look, no hard stare.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Needles and Dreadlocks emerge from the exercise yard. They’d been searched when they went into the yard so Shepherd knew they wouldn’t be carrying weapons. He went up to the twos. Needles and Dreadlocks walked along the ones and into Needles’s cell, which he shared with another West Indian who was still in the exercise yard. Shepherd leaned over the rail. Rathbone was at the entrance to the exercise yard, patting down prisoners who wanted to go outside. There were no other officers on the ones.

There were two in the bubble, drinking coffee and talking.

Shepherd turned and hurried down the stairs. The Jamaicans were intent on the pool game. The old lags were bent over their dominoes. He walked towards Needles’s cell. Charlie Weston was at the water-boiler, filling his metal Thermos flask. A middle-aged prisoner in a prison-issue tracksuit was filling out a visitor application.

Shepherd reached Needles’s cell. The door was ajar. He took a final look round and pushed it open.

Ray Mackie waited until the Rover was within a mile of the City, then told Hargrove he could remove the hood. He took it off and ran a hand across his hair and down the back of his neck. ‘I look forward to taking you on a clandestine meet one day, Ray,’ he said.

Mackie chuckled. ‘You’re lucky we didn’t get the rubber gloves out.’

Hargrove settled back in the plush leather seat and looked out of the window at the passing traffic. The Rover’s rear windows were tinted so other motorists wouldn’t have been able to see that he was hooded. ‘I didn’t like having to lie to them like that,’ he said quietly.

‘We didn’t have a choice,’ said Mackie.

‘Even so.’

‘Are you saying your people don’t bend the truth?’ asked Mackie, rhetorically. ‘How far would an undercover agent get if he never lied?’

‘There’s lying to the villains, and there’s lying to your own,’ said Hargrove.

‘And if we’d told Alice Roper that Gerald Carpenter would kill his mother if it meant his freedom, how would that have helped our present situation?’ asked Mackie. ‘You saw how close to the edge she is.’

‘She’d be better off in the safe-house,’ said Hargrove. ‘Wherever it is,’ he added drily.

‘The further away from her husband she is, the better,’ said Mackie. ‘She’s making him nervous. If he thinks she and the kids are out of harm’s way, he’s less likely to have any thoughts of pulling out.’

‘And what about this guest-house?’

‘She’s probably right. We can screen any guests as and when they make bookings, and we can put our own people in.’

‘This is one hell of a mess, isn’t it?’ said Hargrove.

‘It was never going to be easy,’ said Mackie. ‘There was no way Carpenter was going to go down without a fight.’

‘With Roper in the witness box and the evidence that hasn’t gone up in smoke, Carpenter’s going away, isn’t he?’

‘CPS says so.’

‘And the Crown Prosecution Service has never been wrong in the past, has it?’ said Hargrove, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘Which is why your man Shepherd’s in play,’ said Mackie. ‘How’s he bearing up?’

‘He’s the best I’ve got,’ said Hargrove.

‘Like Roper said, he must have balls of steel. Twenty-four hours a day among some of the hardest bastards in the realm.’ Mackie peered out of the window. ‘I’m heading south of the river to Wimbledon,’ he said. ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

It was a warm, sunny day and Hargrove wanted some fresh air. He needed thinking time too. ‘Here’s fine,’ he said.

‘Pull over, Stan,’ said Mackie. The driver indicated and brought the Rover to a halt at the kerb. Mackie looked earnestly at Hargrove. ‘I do appreciate what you did today, Sam,’ he said.

‘I know you’d have done the same,’ said Hargrove. The two men shook hands and Hargrove climbed out of the car. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and started to walk westwards, his hands deep in his pockets.

Needles was on his knees by the two-tier bunk, reaching under the mattress. Dreadlocks was standing by the table. He was holding a blue toothbrush into which two razor blades had been set. They were a couple of millimetres apart so that no surgeon could repair damage done to the skin.

‘What the fuck—’ said Needles. Shepherd kicked the door closed behind him.

Dreadlocks raised the home-made cutter – a mistake because the weapon was designed for slashing, not stabbing. Shepherd moved quickly. He grabbed the steel Thermos flask from the sink with his right hand and stepped forward. As Dreadlocks brought down the blade, Shepherd smashed the Thermos against his hand. Dreadlocks grunted and the weapon clattered to the floor. Shepherd backhanded the Thermos into Dreadlocks’s mouth. Blood and bits of tooth splattered across the wall and Dreadlocks fell back, his arms flailing. He stumbled over Needles and crashed into the bunks.

Shepherd punched him twice, right and left, a blow to each kidney, then grabbed him by the scruff of his football shirt and slammed his head against the wall. Dreadlocks sagged to the ground, on top of Needles.

Needles struggled to get to his feet. In his right hand he was holding a piece of broom handle that had been sharpened to a point. He pushed Dreadlocks away with his left hand. ‘You’re fucking dead meat!’ he spat.

Shepherd said nothing. There was no point in talking: all that mattered was the fight. And winning it. He still had the Thermos. Needles had his left hand out, fingers splayed. He kept the sharpened stick close to his body, the point angled up. It was a killing weapon, sharp and long enough to drive up through Shepherd’s ribs and into his heart, or through his eye deep into his skull. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were wide and staring, gearing himself up to attack, making small jabbing movements with the stick.

Shepherd stared into the man’s eyes and not at the stick. The eyes were the key to seeing where the attack would come. The stick could be faked, a jab down and then a thrust up, but the eyes never lied, unless the man was a professional, but nothing Needles had done suggested he was anything more than a violent amateur. Shepherd unscrewed the top of the Thermos as he continued to stare at Needles. It was half full of hot water.

Needles swallowed, then his lips curled into a snarl. He took a deep breath and his eyes flicked towards Shepherd’s stomach. Before Needles could stab him, Shepherd threw the hot water into his face, blinding him, then slammed the Thermos flask against his throat, not hard enough to shatter the voicebox but enough to stop him screaming.

Needles lashed out with the stick but it was a slashing motion and Shepherd easily blocked it with his left arm, pushing the weapon up into the air and exposing the big man’s stomach. There were kilos of fat and massive blocks of muscle to absorb the strongest blows, Shepherd slashed his open palm across the man’s neck.

Needles staggered back and his left hand went to his injured throat. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his chest was heaving. His eyes were still filled with anger and hate and the sharpened stick was pointing at Shepherd’s chest.

Shepherd was treading a dangerous line. He couldn’t kill Needles – his undercover role wasn’t a licence for that – but he had to injure him badly so that he’d be moved off the wing. And he had to do it with a minimum of noise. If the officers broke up the fight Shepherd would be moved to solitary and the operation would be over.

Needles stabbed at Shepherd’s face with the stick but Shepherd swayed back, avoiding the blow, then lashed out with his foot and caught Needles between the legs. Needles bent forward and Shepherd punched him on the side of the chin, hard. The big man’s head snapped to the side and his eyes rolled back in the sockets. He slumped on top of Dreadlocks.

Shepherd stood looking down at the two unconscious men. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Neither man was seriously damaged, certainly not enough to be taken off the wing. He went to the door and eased it open. The Jamaicans were still playing pool, giving each other high-fives after each shot.

Shepherd shut the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past four. He picked up the makeshift knife Dreadlocks had been using. The two blades had been taken from a plastic safety razor. The bristles had been shaved off the toothbrush and the plastic melted over a flame until it was soft enough to push in the two blades. It was a nasty weapon whose only purpose was to produce a wound that would never heal properly.

Needles was lying face down on top of Dreadlocks. Shepherd pulled him off. He put the toothbrush handle into Dreadlocks’s right hand, then ran it across Needles’s arm. Blood flowed in two parallel lines. Then he pulled up the T-shirt Needles was wearing and made two long cuts across his stomach. They spurted blood. Shepherd cut Needles again, from side to side. The wounds were in no way life-threatening but they would need careful stitching and Needles would have to remain immobile while the wounds healed. Any movement would rip the double cuts apart.

Blood dripped down on to Dreadlocks’s tracksuit bottoms. If Shepherd did this right, it would look like the two men had been fighting. He doubted they would tell the authorities what had happened. No matter how badly injured they were, they were unlikely to grass. Plus there was the embarrassment factor of admitting that one man had put them both in hospital.

Shepherd undid the laces from Dreadlocks’s trainers and tied them together, then used them as a tourniquet around the man’s right thigh. Then he picked up the sharpened stick and put it into Needles’s hand. He pulled up the right leg of the man’s tracksuit bottoms then stabbed at the calf with the pointed stick in Needles’s fist. It pierced the flesh and skewered the calf muscle. Blood spurted over Needles’s fingers and the leg twitched. Shepherd slowly withdrew the stick. Blood pooled in the wound, then dribbled down the leg towards the trainer. It was a slow, steady flow so he hadn’t ruptured any major vessels – a serious wound but not a fatal one.

Shepherd stood up. He washed his hands in the sink, then checked in the mirror for blood spots on his shirt. He looked down at his black Armani jeans and white Nike trainers. No blood.

Needles was groaning. His stomach glistened wetly and blood was pooling around Dreadlocks’s leg.

Shepherd slipped out of the cell, leaving the door ajar. He walked slowly up the stairs, went into his own cell and lay down on his bunk. A few minutes later he heard three loud blasts on a whistle, then shouts.

Shepherd climbed off the bunk and went to the door. Prisoners all over the landing were rushing to the railings and looking down at the ones. Shepherd joined them – to have stayed in his cell while all hell was breaking out would only have drawn attention to him.

Four prison officers rushed in from the bubble carrying two metal stretchers. The prisoners on the twos and threes cheered and yelled obscenities. Rathbone came out of Needles’s cell, his face pale.

Two officers went into the cell with a stretcher, and two minutes later they came out carrying Needles. He was shivering, his eyes wide open, his stomach covered in blood. The other two officers went inside with a stretcher for Dreadlocks.

More officers came on to the spur and started to usher the inmates back into their cells. ‘Come on, there’s nothing to see,’ said one.

‘What happened, boss?’ asked Lee. The officers were applying dressings to the wounds on Needles’s stomach.

‘Nothing,’ said the officer.

‘We’re supposed to be getting our tea,’ said Lee.

‘Get back in your cell or you’ll be on a charge,’ said the officer. ‘I’m easy either way.’

Down on the ones, Dreadlocks was carried out on the second stretcher. They took him straight to the stairs and up to the twos. His leg was drenched in blood, despite the tourniquet. More prisoners were crowding against the railings, trying to get a better look. The officers were shouting for them to get back into their cells.

‘Would you look at all that blood!’ said Lee.

The officer put a hand on Lee’s arm. ‘In your cell, laddie, or you’re on a charge.’

Lee backed away from the railing, complaining, but headed for his cell. Shepherd followed him. He glanced up and saw Carpenter staring down from the threes. Carpenter wasn’t watching the action on the ground floor, he was gazing thoughtfully at Shepherd. Then he pushed himself away from the railing and Shepherd lost sight of him. He followed Lee into the cell and the prison officer clanged the door shut behind them.

At five o’clock the prisoners were shouting and banging on their cell doors. Tea should have been served at a quarter to but the doors had remained locked after the injured men had been carried out of the spur.

‘This is a bloody liberty,’ said Lee. ‘We’re entitled to our food.’

Shepherd lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling.

‘What do you think happened down there?’ asked Lee. ‘Did you see all that blood?’

‘Dunno,’ said Shepherd.

‘Looked to me like Needles and Bunton had a set-to with shivs.’

Bunton must be Dreadlocks, Shepherd realised. He hadn’t known his name. Hadn’t cared.

‘Thought they were tight, those two,’ Lee went on.