Hard Landing (6 page)

The magistrate looked back to Macdonald. ‘In view of the seriousness of the charges, compounded by your refusal to co-operate with the police, I have no alternative but to remand you in custody. And because of the nature of the crime and the fact that firearms were involved, you are to be held in a Category A facility.’

Macdonald stared stonily at the magistrate. It was what he had expected.

‘It seems to me that, these days, the criminal fraternity is all too keen to carry firearms in the pursuit of their activities, and I hope that the full weight of the law is brought against you when the case comes to court,’ the magistrate continued. Macdonald could see that the man was enjoying his moment of glory. He would spend most of his time dealing with motoring offences and shoplifters: the appearance of an armed robber and potential police-killer in his court would give him lots to talk about at his next dinner party. But the speech meant nothing: Macdonald hadn’t even applied for bail.

He was handcuffed again, taken to the van, put back into the stall and the door locked. A few minutes later, the vehicle drove out of the court car park, escorted by the two motorcyclists and the car of armed police.

Macdonald gazed out of the window, trying to work out where they were taking him. At some point they drove over the Thames, which meant they weren’t taking him to Belmarsh, but his restricted view meant that he had no clear idea of which direction they were heading.

Macdonald sensed they weren’t taking a direct route to the prison. That, and the armed escort, suggested the police believed he was an escape risk. He craned his neck and searched the sky for a helicopter, but saw nothing.

The sun was dropping towards the horizon so it must have been mid-afternoon when he saw the prison wall in the distance. There was no mistaking its nature: it was over thirty feet high and made of featureless brown concrete topped by a cylindrical structure like a large sewage pipe that ran its full length. There was no barbed wire, so presumably the cylinder was an anti-climbing device. If he was going to get out of the prison, Macdonald reflected, he wouldn’t be climbing over the wall.

The van slowed and Macdonald glimpsed a sign: HM Prison Shelton. Then it turned right and headed towards a gatehouse. A uniformed guard raised a barrier, and the van drove through, then stopped in front of a large gate. It rattled back and, a moment later, Macdonald saw three prison officers standing at a doorway, big men, with barrel chests and weight-lifters’ forearms, in short-sleeved white shirts with black epaulets. As the vehicle came to a stop another guard appeared, holding a large Alsatian on a tight leash.

The engine cut out. The Alsatian barked. The three guards folded their arms across their chests and waited. Macdonald heard footsteps outside his stall. A prison officer was standing in the doorway, in full uniform with a peaked cap. He undid the handcuff, took it off the rail, then fastened it to his own wrist. ‘Welcome to Shelton,’ he said, deadpan.

He nodded for Macdonald to stand up, then led him down the van and out into the courtyard. The Alsatian barked again, and struggled to get close to Macdonald, but his handler held him back. The prison officer took Macdonald through a door which led to a reception area. Off to the left there was a glass-walled holding cell lined with wooden benches, and to the right a waist-high desk of dark wood. A prison officer in shirtsleeves was standing behind a line of metal trays. He reached for a clipboard as Macdonald was brought in front of him. He took a form from one of the trays, picked up a pen and looked at Macdonald expectantly as the escorting officer removed the handcuff from his wrist. ‘This is the shooter,’ he said. ‘Be gentle with him.’

The officer behind the desk grunted. He was in his thirties with long sideburns and a drinker’s paunch that hung over his belt, like a late pregnancy. ‘Name?’ he asked Macdonald.

‘I’m not giving my name.’

The officer frowned. ‘What?’

‘I’m not giving my name.’

A uniformed policeman came in and placed a stack of files on the reception desk. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Five bodies.’

The officer kept his eyes on Macdonald. ‘You can’t not give your name,’ he said.

Macdonald shrugged. The prison officer waved two officers over. They took Macdonald into a side room and professionally strip-searched him. They checked his open mouth, behind his ears, and made him squat. Then they took him back to the reception desk.

‘Name?’ repeated the prison officer, as if it was the first time he’d asked the question.

Macdonald shook his head.

‘Look, it’s no skin off my nose,’ said the officer. ‘You get a number anyway.’ He tapped the form in front of him. ‘This number will follow you for the rest of your sentence whether or not there’s a name to go with it.’

‘I haven’t been sentenced,’ said Macdonald. ‘I’m on remand.’

The prison officer flicked through the files and pulled out Macdonald’s, which contained only a few sheets of paper. His photograph was clipped to the inside cover.

The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been in prison before?’

Macdonald said nothing.

The officer read through the papers. ‘No fingerprints on file so this is your first time in the system,’ he said, as he continued to read. Once he’d scanned the final sheet he looked at Macdonald and sneered. ‘Right, then, you being a new boy and all, let me explain something to you. Your time on the remand wing can be relatively painless, or it can be a bloody misery, and the way you get treated depends one hundred per cent on how you treat us. Time out of your cell, the amount you can spend on canteen, recreation, association, the clothes you wear, it’s all down to how much co-operation you show us. Do you get my drift?’

Macdonald stared at him, his face blank. The Alsatian barked again, and another prisoner was led into the reception area, handcuffed to a policeman. Macdonald turned to look at the new arrival but it wasn’t a face he recognised.

‘Name?’ repeated the prison officer. He waited for a few seconds, then pushed Macdonald’s papers to the side. ‘Have it your way,’ he said. He turned to a computer terminal and tapped on the keyboard. He looked at the screen, then wrote down a number on a manila file: SN 6759. Next to the number were spaces for Macdonald’s surname and forenames. ‘You are now in the system, prisoner SN 6759,’ said the officer. ‘Everything that happens to you will be noted in your F
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here and it doesn’t give a toss whether you’ve got a name or not.’ He gestured with his chin at the holding cell. ‘Take a seat.’ He beckoned to the new arrival to approach the desk. The prisoner was a teenager in denims, who looked close to tears. Macdonald wondered what he’d done to justify being sent to a Category A facility.

Macdonald shuffled into the holding cell and sat down. A clock on the wall above the door told him it was three thirty. Macdonald hadn’t had anything to eat since his sandwich in the police station and his stomach growled. He knew there was no point in asking for something. Besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d gone without food and water. He’d survive.

Another prisoner was ushered into the holding cell, a big man with a badly bruised face and a freshly stitched wound on his shaved head. He nodded at Macdonald. ‘How’s it going, mate?’ he asked, in a whining Liverpudlian drawl. He was wearing an England football shirt, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Nike trainers, but his physique suggested it had been a long time since he’d chased after a ball.

‘Great,’ said Macdonald.

‘What’s with the gear?’ asked the man, indicating the forensic suit.

‘Cops took my stuff,’ said Macdonald.

‘Bastards,’ said the man. He pointed at his bruised face. ‘They did this to me. Resisting arrest.’ He chuckled.

Two more prisoners were brought into the holding cell, black men in their twenties wearing designer sportswear and expensive trainers. They sprawled on one of the benches, looking bored.

‘So, what are you in for?’ the bruised guy asked Macdonald.

‘Armed robbery,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell, premier division,’ said the man.

‘Yeah, well, I would be if we’d got away with it. Why are you here?’

The man laughed. ‘Retailing.’

‘Retailing?’

‘Tried to sell a couple of watches. Turned out they were nicked.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘My own fault, really. It was me what nicked them.’ He rubbed his square chin with his palm. ‘Serves me right.’

Macdonald heard the van start up, then drive away.

‘Did we have the same magistrate?’ asked Macdonald. ‘Guy with the long hair?’

‘Yeah, recognise him, did you?’

Macdonald frowned.

‘He was with that pop group, back in the seventies, the guys who dressed up with the makeup and everything. Right ponces. New fucking Romantics. What the hell were they called?’

A prison officer opened the door to the holding cell. ‘Barnes,’ he said.

‘That’s me,’ said the man. He flashed Macdonald a thumbs-up. ‘Catch you later.’

Macdonald sat and waited. Barnes was processed and taken away. Then another load of prisoners arrived, six this time. They had all been in the system for some time because each man was carrying his belongings in a large, tagged, clear-plastic bag. Five were sent into the holding cell. Two were black and young, with the streetwise arrogance of the earlier pair. They stared sullenly at Macdonald and ignored him when he acknowledged them with a nod. He couldn’t have cared less whether they were friendly or not – they were obviously dispersal prisoners who had been moved from another institution and he wouldn’t see them on the remand wing. Of the three white prisoners, one was a stooped man in his late sixties with thinning grey hair and a smoker’s cough. He smiled at Macdonald, showing that half his teeth were missing. His right arm trembled constantly and the hand was curled into a tight claw. ‘Got a smoke?’ he asked, and Macdonald shook his head.

The other two were similar to Barnes, with shaved heads and logo-covered sportswear. They nodded at Macdonald and pointedly ignored the two black prisoners. ‘Nice outfit,’ said one, but Macdonald closed his eyes and stretched out. He could see what game the prison officers were playing: he would be processed last.

The clock on the wall showed five thirty when Macdonald was alone in the holding cell. There had been three more deliveries, including another truckload of remand prisoners. Macdonald had watched them all being interviewed, given forms to sign, then escorted away.

Some were clearly familiar with the system, while others were confused and kept looking around as if hoping they were going to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream. One middle-aged man in a blue pinstriped suit and gleaming black shoes was wiping away tears as he answered the officer’s questions.

It was just after six thirty when a female officer opened the door to the holding cell and told Macdonald he was to go back to the reception desk. Macdonald stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his back ramrod straight. The officer looked at him coldly. ‘Bad news,’ he said. ‘By the time we’ve finished processing you, they won’t be serving food.’

Macdonald shrugged.

‘And we seem to have run out of breakfast packs. For the morning.’ He pointed at Macdonald’s forensic suit. ‘Normally we’d be able to get you out of that and into some clothes, but we’ve left it a bit late. We might be able to get something sorted tomorrow. No promises.’ He scratched his sideburns.

‘I get the drift,’ said Macdonald.

‘Good. So let’s run through the questions again, shall we? Name?’

Macdonald said nothing.

‘Prisoner refuses to give his name,’ said the officer, writing slowly on the form. ‘Date of birth?’

Macdonald said nothing.

‘Prisoner refuses to give his date of birth,’ said the officer.

‘Address?’

Macdonald sniffed, but said nothing.

The officer smiled to himself. ‘Care of HM Prison Shelton,’ he said. ‘Remand wing.’ He finished writing, then looked up at Macdonald. ‘Next of kin?’

Macdonald stared back at him.

‘Prisoner refuses to identify his next of kin.’ In all there were more than two dozen questions on the induction form, and the officer insisted on putting each one to Macdonald before noting that he had refused to answer.

Eventually he turned the form round and pushed it across the desk. ‘Sign at the bottom,’ he said, slapping down a cheap Biro.

Macdonald picked it up. ‘Can I put a cross?’

‘Put what you like,’ said the officer.

Macdonald made a mark at the bottom of the last page of the form.

The officer pointed at a curtained-off area. ‘Go in there and strip,’ he said.

‘We hardly know each other,’ said Macdonald drily.

The man stared at him without speaking. Macdonald stared back, then walked over to the curtain. He pulled it back. There were two metal chairs. He slipped off the training shoes, unzipped the forensic suit and draped it over one of the chairs.

‘Pull the curtain back. We don’t want to see your spotty arse!’ the officer shouted.

Macdonald did as he was told, then removed his underwear and sat down. There was another clock on the wall. It was just before seven. It had been less than thirty hours since he’d run into the warehouse with a sawn-off shotgun. Thirty hours and his life had been turned upside-down. Macdonald put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He was dog-tired. And hungry.

The curtain swished back and a beanpole-thin man in a white coat walked into the cubicle holding a clipboard. He looked like a nervous supply teacher about to get to grips with a problem class in an inner-city school. He had black-framed spectacles with rectangular lenses, and a mop of brown hair that kept falling over his eyes. He sat down on the chair opposite Macdonald and put the clipboard on his lap, then patted the pockets of his white coat, looking for a pen. ‘Any health problems I should know about?’ he asked.