There was no sink in the cell but he was given a washing-up bowl of warm water and a towel. His request for a razor was refused.
He slept uneasily on the thin plastic mattress and had to drape one of the foul-smelling blankets over his head to blot out the light.
He was woken by the uniformed male sergeant who informed him that his case had been reviewed by a superintendent and the twenty-four-hour grace period had been extended by eight hours; before the eight hours were up he would be charged and taken to Crawley magistrates' court.
Macdonald asked for some clothing and if he could shave before his court appearance. 'If you give us the name of a relative, we can get them to bring some things in for you,' the sergeant said. Macdonald knew there was no point in arguing with him. Besides, even if he appeared in court wearing an Armani suit and an MCC tie he wouldn't be granted bail. A short while later he was given another bacon sandwich, this time with a congealed fried egg inside it, and a cup of instant coffee. He ate the sandwich hungrily and sipped the coffee slowly.
He sat on the bed until they came for him. He was handcuffed to two police officers and taken into a small room where the uniformed sergeant formally charged him on one count of armed robbery. It was a holding charge, Macdonald figured, until they had finished their investigation. Kelly had seemed serious when he'd said that the gang members were all going to be charged with attempted murder and kidnapping.
As he was led through the reception area he caught a glimpse of Jeff Owen through a half-open door. He was sitting at a table, talking quickly. Macdonald couldn't see who was interviewing him but he had the feeling it was Kelly and O'Connor. Owen looked up and saw Macdonald. He said something to the interviewing officers and the door was closed.
The two police officers took Macdonald out through the rear entrance where a large white truck was waiting. A dark blue saloon car was parked behind it: four armed police officers were sitting in it wearing bullet-proof vests. Behind them two police motorcyclists were revving their engines.
The officers took Macdonald inside the van. There were separate stalls, each with its own door. They pushed him into one, attached one of his cuffs to a chrome rail and removed the other, then locked the door.
Macdonald sat down on the moulded plastic seat and stared out of a square window of reinforced glass. He heard more prisoners being brought into the truck, and doors slamming. Then the engine started and the truck edged out of the car park into the street. The two motorcycles roared round it and took the lead; the car of armed police followed behind.
Through the window, Macdonald saw mothers pushing prams, young men in suits striding along purposefully with briefcases, old people standing at bus stops. Normal people leading normal lives. Civilians. Several turned to stare at the truck as it rumbled along the road - wondering, no doubt, which hardened criminals were being taken to get the retribution they deserved. Rapists? Child molesters? Murderers? Only twenty-four hours earlier he'd been on the outside, leading a normal life. Macdonald smiled tightly. No, that was wrong. His life was far from normal. It had been a long time since his life had been anything other than extraordinary.
He saw a young couple embracing, kissing each other full on the lips, then parting and waving goodbye. His stomach lurched. He'd been trying not to think of his wife and son and how they'd be feeling, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. But there was nothing he could do about that just now. There was no way he could contact them - not until he'd figured out what was going on and why his life had been turned upside- down.
The magistrate was a man in his fifties with unfashionably long hair that Macdonald felt was probably tied back in a ponytail when he wasn't on the bench.
Macdonald sat in the dock, a uniformed policeman at each shoulder. He had no idea if anyone else from the gang had already appeared, or if anyone else would follow him. When he'd been taken out of the truck the doors to the rest of the stalls had been locked and there was no one else in the waiting room where he'd been kept for half an hour before his court appearance. Two armed policemen stood guard while he was in the waiting room and two more were in the court. The magistrate read a file through half-moon reading glasses, then looked over the top of them at Macdonald. 'You're refusing to give your name?'
'Yes, sir,' said Macdonald.
'That's a little pointless, isn't it?' He had the vestiges of a Scottish accent, as if he'd been born north of the border but had spent most of his life in London.
'It's my decision, sir,' said Macdonald.
'They'll put you on
'I am, sir.'
'Equally pointless,' said the magistrate. 'Your case will be heard at the Crown Court, possibly the Old Bailey, and you will not be allowed to represent yourself there. Unless you have formal legal training.' He smiled patronisingly at Macdonald. 'Do you have any formal legal training?'
'No, sir.'
'Then I suggest you hire yourself a solicitor immediately and, in view of the charges, get yourself a decent barrister. From the look of the evidence against you, you're going to need all the help you can get.' The magistrate glanced at the two CPS lawyers who were sitting at a desk on the opposite side of the court. One was in his late forties, with a tan so perfect it could only have come from a sunbed or a bottle; the other was two decades younger, with an eager-to-please demeanour that suggested he hadn't long been in the job. Behind the lawyers were the two detectives who had taken over Macdonald's questioning. The younger CPS lawyer had done most of the talking while the older one had occasionally turned in his chair to whisper to the detectives. 'Do we have any idea when the further charges you mentioned might be laid?' the magistrate asked the lawyers.
The younger lawyer got to his feet. 'Investigations are continuing, sir,' he said. 'Statements are being taken from employees of the pest-control company who were held prisoner and we would expect charges of kidnapping and assault to be filed shortly. We are awaiting the results of forensic tests before charging the defendant with grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.'
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.
