‘Arthur, you and your team take all the time you need to find any traces that this man may have left behind. DCS Martin and I are off to rattle Mr Bennett’s cage.’
The two detectives and Sarah had reached the front door when Skinner’s phone rang. He answered it, with an impatient frown. ‘Yes?’ he answered, pausing as the caller identified himself.
‘What is it, Dan?’ he asked. ‘We’re in a hurry to be somewhere.’
As Sarah watched, she imagined that she saw her husband’s face go chalk-white beneath the tan. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, as Detective Superintendent Pringle finished his urgent message.
‘Do we know how?’
His companions looked at him as he listened to the reply, and saw the effect of the news, as the surprise left his eyes, to be replaced by cold fury.
‘Okay,’ he snapped at last. ‘Tell the Governor that DCS Martin and I are on our way.’
He ended the call, and stared at the wall, the phone still held loosely in his hand.
‘What is it, Bob?’ Sarah asked him anxiously.
‘A thoroughly bad day for the Bennett family: that’s what it is.’
18
A garishly decorated traffic car stood at the entrance to Saughton Prison as Martin drove up the approach road. One of the two uniformed officers who stood beside it stepped forward, holding up a hand, but stopped as soon as he recognised the occupants, and waved them through the outer gates, which, unusually, lay open.
Skinner identified himself tersely to the prison officer who waited inside, showing the warrant card which hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Very good, sir,’ the man replied. Despite the growing heat of the day, he still wore his heavy blue tunic, rather than shirt-sleeves. ‘You’re expected. If you’ll drive through the inner gate and park in the reserved space by the main office block, I’ll let the Governor’s secretary know you’re here. The offices are round the first corner then first on the right. I’ll send someone with you, if you’d like.’
Skinner shook his head. ‘Thanks, but that’s okay, I’ve been here before.’
The great steel inner gate slid open, and Martin drove through, taking the turns which the officer had described. The parking space which had been kept for them was beside the door of the administration block, in which Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle stood waiting. As always he wore his bleary-eyed look, the usual signal of a late night.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said, as Skinner stepped from the car.
‘Hello, Dan. What was it last night then?’
‘Masonic dinner dance, sir. We got home at two.’
‘That sounds pretty quiet for the masons,’ Skinner grunted. ‘Where’s the Governor, then?’
‘In his office. Big Neil’s with him, trying to keep him calm.’
‘McIlhenney?’
‘Yes. I called him out. I thought you might want him here, and he agreed.’
The DCC laughed out loud. ‘Too fucking right he did. Big McIlhenney would go dookin’ for turds at Seafield to get out of going to Sainsbury’s with Olive.’
The grin left his face as quickly as it had appeared. ‘The Governor’s shaky, is he?’
Pringle nodded. ‘And then some. He’s taking it personally.’
Martin shrugged his shoulders as he locked the car. ‘So he should, on the face of it. Let’s go see him.’
Pringle led the way into the office, his business suit contrasting with the casual dress of the senior officers. The Governor’s room was on the first floor, looking out on to the roadway. It was accessed through an outer office, through which Pringle marched, with the briefest of nods to the officer who was seated there.
Ian Whiterose, the Governor of Saughton Prison, was seated behind his desk as Skinner and Martin entered, his hands clenched together, twisted, wringing. He was in his mid forties, bespectacled, with dark, untidy hair, and wearing a creased grey suit. As he looked up at the policemen his jaw was clenched.
‘Good morning, Governor,’ said Skinner extending his hand as the man stood up. Whiterose shook it, limply.
‘Good morning, Mr Skinner, Mr Martin. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you’ve had to be called here. It’s appalling. I know that things like this aren’t unprecedented in prisons, but it’s never happened to me before.’ The man’s voice rose as he spoke, accentuating his tension and distress.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ the DCC insisted, putting a hand gently on the man’s shoulder and pressing him back into his chair. He looked round at his assistant, who stood impassively beside the desk. ‘Sergeant, if you’ve been here more than two minutes, you’ll have sorted out the coffee. See if you can find some for Mr Whiterose and us.’ McIlhenney threw him a dubious look, but said nothing as he withdrew to the outer office.
‘Okay, Governor,’ Skinner began as he took a seat facing the man across his desk. ‘First things first. What’s the state of the prison as of now? Where are the inmates?’
‘Locked up,’ answered Whiterose. ‘Every one of them. My staff are conducting a detailed search of every cell.’
‘Oh? Well, stop them at once, please.’
The Governor’s eyes widened and his eyebrows rose. ‘Why?’
‘Because that search must be conducted by the police.’
‘Why?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? If this thing was planned, we can’t rule out the possibility that one of your officers might have been involved. If that was the case, you could be helping them recover and conceal evidence.’
‘You don’t believe that, surely?’
‘I don’t believe anything yet, but I don’t discount anything. Now issue the order, please. Get your men out of those cells.’ Whiterose nodded, picked up the telephone, pressed a button and spoke to the man in the outer office, just as McIlhenney returned with a tray of coffee. Skinner took a mug, sipped from it, and knew at once why the sergeant had given him the doubtful look. It was the sort of brew that went straight to the heart. ‘
‘Tell us, then, Governor, what happened.’
‘It’s all very confused,’ the man began, sounding apologetic. ‘We exercised the remand prisoners at nine- thirty as usual, separately from the convicted men. We give them an hour.’
‘How many do you have on remand?’ asked Martin.
‘Sixty-seven.’ Whiterose paused, then continued.
‘No one seems actually to have seen what happened. Some of the men were circling the yard, some were standing smoking, others had a game of football going on. Bennett was with a group walking the yard, when all of a sudden he went down.’
‘None of your officers saw him fall?’ Skinner queried.
‘No. I had eight of them on supervision, but most seem to have been watching the football.’
‘Did any of them hear anything?’
‘No, but it was very noisy in the yard, with the game going on.’
The detective nodded. ‘I appreciate that. How did the men nearest to Bennett react, when he hit the ground?’
‘As it was described to me, they backed off and stood in a circle, looking down at him.’
‘And what did your officers do, once they’d torn themselves away from the football?’
Whiterose hesitated. ‘Well, as it was told to me, when it became clear that Bennett wasn’t going to get up, the senior officer in charge approached him. Carefully, you appreciate, just in case it was some sort of a ruse. The man was lying on his side, motionless, with his head bent and his face almost touching the ground. The officer spoke to him without response. Eventually, he bent over him and shook him. It was then that he noticed the blood running down his temple, and realised that he was badly hurt.’
Skinner nodded. ‘That’s clear up to now. What did he do next?’
‘He cleared the exercise yard. All the men were escorted back to their cells. Then he sent for the MO.’
