13
Most prisons in Scotland are grim-faced places, with a tendency to cast a blight on their surroundings. During his career, Andy Martin had visited Glasgow’s massive, forbidding Barlinnie, the grey-walled institution which embarrasses Perth, and the top-security establishment at Peterhead.
Compared to those three Victorian citadels, he found Edinburgh’s Saughton less intrusive upon the city, in its discreet location, tucked away on the outskirts. Yet it was a prison nonetheless, a place of incarceration, and the policeman experienced a feeling of despair every time he walked through its doors.
In his eyes, every man there marked a success for his force, but a failure for humanity.
He announced himself at the gate-house, showing his warrant card to the guards, and was escorted through a succession of corridors to the interview room set aside for his meeting.
It smelled of stale sweat and cigarettes. As he waited alone, shouts from the exercise yard outside drifted through the barred window. Eventually, after around five minutes, the door swung open and the tall red-haired figure of Nathan Bennett shuffled into the room, ahead of two prison officers, each one bigger than him.
‘Thanks, lads,’ said Martin. ‘Would you stand guard outside, please. I want to talk to Mr Bennett in private.’
One of the warders eyed him doubtfully. ‘Ah’m no sure about that, sir.’
‘Don’t you worry about me. Mr Bennett says he’s an innocent man. In that case, he’s hardly going to take a swing at me, is he?’ He smiled evenly at the prisoner. ‘Unless he fancies a transfer to the hospital wing, that is.
‘On you go now. I’ll give you a shout when we’re finished.’
The two uniformed officers looked at each other. The doubter was unpersuaded. ‘Ah’ll still need to ask the Principal Officer about that, sir.’
Martin gave up. ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘Stand over in the corner there, and chat to each other. Just don’t be ear- holing me.’
As the men obeyed, Martin turned to Bennett, motioning to the red-haired man to sit at the small square table in the centre of the room, and taking a seat opposite. For a while, they gazed at each other, the policeman smiling lightly, the prisoner glowering, nervous and unsure.
The former broke the silence. ‘We haven’t met before. I won’t say that it’s a pleasure, but it’s fascinating, all the same. It’s not often that I’m privileged to be in the company of a genuine, fully qualified idiot.’
For a second there was a spark of reaction in the dull lifeless eyes, before the head dropped. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve been reading the transcript of your trial. If you think that any jury’s going to fall for that, you have to be daft as a brush. We both know that you’re as guilty as sin, so let’s cut the crap.’
‘Ah never done it,’ Bennett protested. ‘It’s mistaken identity. Ah wis at home in bed at the time. I’d been to the bank in the mornin’. That must have been when I dropped my card.’
The detective shook his head. ‘Fuck me,’ he sighed. ‘This gets better. I’m dealing with the Invisible Man now. That must be a hell of an advantage for a bank robber. Nathan, we didn’t get to that bit of the prosecution case before the judge popped his clogs, but we’ve looked at the tapes of the bank’s customers that day, and the day before. You don’t appear in any of them.’
‘The camera must have been faulty, then.’
‘Not till you sprayed paint on it. We’ve got a great shot of that, incidentally. You shouldn’t have used your left hand, not with those fingers missing.’ He nodded towards the table, where the man’s hands rested, the third and fourth fingers of the left severed at the knuckle.
‘How did you lose them?’ he asked casually.
‘In the Falklands. Fuckin’ Argies shot them off.’ Bennett was animated for the first time. ‘We fuckin’ sorted them though. Ah got five for each finger.’ He held up his right hand with its full complement.
‘How many had their hands up?’
As Bennett flushed and his gaze dropped once more, the detective wondered whether his aside had hit the mark.
‘Got any fags?’ the prisoner asked.
‘That the tradition, is it? I chuck you twenty Bensons and you talk to me. Forget it, pal. I don’t smoke, and I don’t hand out presents to the likes of you. I’m here to give you life, Mr Bennett, that’s all.’ The red-haired man shot a look at him, suspicion in his dull eyes.
‘There’s two ways that can work,’ Martin went on. ‘One way I give you back your life. For that to happen, you turn Crown evidence, you name the other guys on the robbery, and you give us the man in charge, the guy who did the planning.
‘We’ll deal with you separately, let you enter a guilty plea, and advise the judge that you co-operated willingly. You’ll do some time, of course. I guess you’ll get five years, but I can fix it with the Parole Board so that you only do half of that.
‘That’s the best offer you’re ever going to get. In fact, some of my team would be really pissed off if they knew I was making it. How does it strike you?’
Bennett gazed at him across the table, but said nothing.
‘Okay,’ said the Head of CID, ‘this is the other way. Did you hear what happened in Galashiels yesterday?’
Slowly, hesitantly, the prisoner nodded.
‘Right, so you know that your gang shot and killed two people. I was there, Bennett. I saw them both; the man with his insides on the carpet, the girl with the top half of her body in ribbons. You never came across worse than that in the Falklands, pal, I promise you.’
‘Nothin’ tae do with me,’ the man said, hoarsely.
‘Oh yes it was, Bennett. We know that your team did it. The method was just the same, and they used the same weapons; different masks, that’s all. Two of the witness descriptions match the two guys who were with you in Dalkeith. You might be in here, but you’re still part of it.
‘This is how it’s going to work. At your retrial, we both know that it will take the jury about ten minutes to convict. Even with the best brief in the world . . . whom you don’t have, by the way . . . you haven’t a fucking chance. You never had.
‘But this time,’ Martin continued, ‘things will be different. I’m going to give evidence, and I’m going to tell the judge that you are part of a conspiracy which has led to a string of well-planned robberies, with murder involved. I’m going to tell him that your total haul is upwards of two million. Finally, I’m going to tell him that this is the most brutal and ruthless gang that I’ve ever seen in my police career, and that you were an active member.
‘In short, I’m going to tell the judge that he should give you twenty years. And that’s exactly what he’ll do. You won’t do it in this cushy nick, though. You’ll be in Peterhead A Hall, freezing your balls off in the winter and roasting alive in the summer. You’ve got a sister, haven’t you? How often d’you think she’ll be bothered to travel all that way up there to see you? Oh yes, and if you’re still thinking about parole, forget that. I can also fix it with the Board that you don’t get any.’
He paused, to let his threat sink in. ‘How old are you, Nathan? Thirty-seven, isn’t it. Fifty-seven by the time you get out. Think of it! Boiled potatoes, cabbage and chewy beef for your next twenty Christmas dinners.
‘That’s your choice, my friend. Your life back, or your life taken away. No bullshit, that is it. Now...’
Bennett sat, head bowed, shaking slightly from side to side, hands clenching and unclenching on the table. His mouth worked as he gnawed his lip. When at last he looked up his eyes were glistening.
‘You’re wrong,’ he muttered, plaintively. ‘Ah dinna have a choice. I’m pleading Not Guilty.’
‘You really are that afraid?’ asked the detective, shocked beneath his calm exterior.
He nodded his red head. ‘It’s no’ just me,’ he said.
‘Who is it then?’ the detective shot back. But the prisoner fell silent once more.
‘I won’t be back with this deal,’ he warned. Bennett looked back at him helplessly, his expression wavering.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ sighed Martin. ‘I’ll give you the weekend to think it over. I’ll come back to see you on Monday morning.’ He turned to the two officers in the corner. ‘Guards, you can have him back.’
