When long-stay inmates are nearing the end of their sentences the prison authorities like to gradually re- introduce them to life on the outside; to give them a taste of freedom, in small doses. One way is by home visits, another is by what are called town visits. Vince Halliwell had no home to go to, so it would have to be a town visit. I knew he wouldn’t talk to me in jail — somebody always knows it’s a cop who’s called to see you — but he might if I met him on neutral territory, away from screws and inmates and the gossip of a closed community.
The probation officer gave him strict instructions and a ten-pound note. It was a tough test. He had to catch the ten o’clock bus from the prison gates into York, walk to the Tesco supermarket, buy himself a pair of socks there, have a cup of coffee in the restaurant and catch the next bus back to the jail. He’d have to walk past all those pubs, all those shelves stocked with whisky and rum and beer from places he’d never heard of, with money jangling in his pockets. Anything less than superhuman effort and he’d be back at Bentley, category A again. At eight thirty, nice and early, I started the car engine and headed towards the Minster City.
I arrived with enough time to do my shopping, which was intentional, and to have a quick breakfast in the restaurant before he arrived, which was an afterthought. Their curries were a pound cheaper than Heckley Sainsbury’s. At ten thirty I walked across the car-park towards the road he would come down.
It was a warm morning, with people strolling about in their shirt sleeves and summer dresses. Four-wheel drive vehicles with tyre treads like Centurion tanks slowly circulated, following sleek Toyota sports cars and chunky Saabs, all looking for a space near the entrance. In the afternoon they’d do the same outside the health club. The indicators flashed on a BMW like the one that met Chilcott at the station, and an elderly couple in front of me steered their trolley towards its boot. A few minutes later, out on the main road, they drove past me. The driver’s window was down and I could hear the sound of Pavarotti coming from inside it. BMW spend countless millions of pounds and thousands of hours on wind tunnel tests. They install the finest music system money can buy, with more speakers than an Academy Awards ceremony. They design a climate control — that’s air conditioning to the rest of us — better than in the finest operating theatre in the world, and what happens? People drive around with the window down; that’s what.
I hardly recognised him. Some thrive in prison, put weight on; others are consumed by it. Halliwell’s time inside had reduced him to a shambling shell. Always a gaunt figure, he was now stooped and hollow and looked well into his fifties, although he was only about thirty-six. He crossed the road at the lights, waiting until they were red and then checking that the traffic had stopped, glancing first this way, then the other, but still not moving until everybody else did. He was wearing grey trousers that had been machine-washed until they were shapeless, a blue regulation shirt that was almost fashionable, and cheap trainers. His jacket was gripped in one hand. I stood in the queue for the park- and-ride bus until he’d passed, then fell in behind him.
There were supermarkets before he went inside, but a man forgets, and the rest of us take progress, if that’s what it is, for granted. He stopped to examine the rows of parked trolleys as if they were an outlandish life-form engaged in group sex, and stared at the big revolving doors as they gobbled up and regurgitated a steady stream of shoppers. Slowly, nervously, he made his way into the store.
The security cameras were probably focused on this suspicious, shabbily dressed character who wandered about aimlessly, occasionally changing direction for no reason at all, picking up packets and jars at random only to replace them after reading the labels, but nobody challenged me. How Barry Moynihan had followed Chilcott for eight or nine hours dressed like he was, without being spotted, I couldn’t imagine. After a good look up and down the rows Halliwell selected a pair of socks and took them to the checkout. I replaced the jar of Chicken Tonight I was studying — 0.4g of protein, 7.7g of fat — and headed for the restaurant.
It was a serve-yourself coffee machine with scant instructions. Halliwell watched a couple of people use it before having a hesitant attempt himself. His first try dumped a shot of coffee essence and hot water through the grill, then a woman took over and showed him how to do it. He smiled and made an “I’m only a useless man” gesture and allowed her to pass him in the queue at the till. For a few seconds I was afraid they would sit down together, but she had two cups on her tray and joined a waiting friend at one of the tables. Halliwell headed for an empty table in a corner. I collected a tea and joined him.
“It’s Vince, isn’t it?” I said, sitting down.
He looked at me, speechless, for a long time. His eyes were frosty blue, and the ponytail had given way to a regulation crop that still, annoyingly, looked good on him. He could have been a jazz musician on his way home from a gig, or a dissolute character actor researching a part. He had, I decided, that elusive quality known as sex appeal. His jacket was draped across his knees. He fumbled in the pockets until he found a tobacco pouch, and in a few seconds he was puffing on a roll-up.
“What you want?” he asked, eventually, as a cloud of smoke bridged the gap between us. A woman who was about to sit at the next table saw it and moved away.
“I was just passing,” I lied.
“Like ’ell you were. It’s Priest, innit? Mr Priest?”
“Charlie when I’m off duty.”
“You still with the job, then?”
“’Fraid so.”
“So this is all part of it, is it?”
“Part of what?”
“The test. This is all part of the test?”
“Oh yes,” I agreed. “This is all part of it. All over York there are people from your past who are going to pop out in front of you, confront you with situations to see how you react. Then there are the markers. Women with clip boards and coloured pens, following you, giving you marks for style, difficulty and performance. So far you’re doing well.”
He grinned, saying: “They always said you were a bit of a card. Did you set all this up? If you did, you’re wasting your time.”
He stood up to leave, but I said: “Sit down, Vince, and hear what I have to say.” He sat down again. That’s what eight years inside does to a man.
The roll-up was down to his fingertips. He nipped it and looked for an ashtray but there wasn’t one, so he put the debris back in the pouch and made another.
“Could you eat a breakfast?” I asked.
“Not at your prices,” he replied.
“No charge. My treat.”
“No, thanks all the same.”
“It comes on a real plate, made of porcelain, with a knife that cuts.”
“I’ll do without.”
I said: “Listen, Vince. It’s not going to be easy for you. You’ll need all the help you can get, so if someone offers you a free breakfast, take it. That’s my advice.” “You weren’t so generous with your ’elp and advice eight years ago,” he reminded me. “You knew…well, what’s the point.” He left the statement hanging there, dangling like the rope from a swinging tree.
“I knew it wasn’t your gun. Is that what you were going to say?”
“And the rest.” He twisted around in his chair until he was half-facing away from me.
“It wasn’t my job to tell the court it wasn’t your gun,” I said. “It was your brief ’s. It was yours. You could have said whose it was.”
“And a fat lot of good it would ’ave done me.”
“It’d have got you five years instead of ten. Aggravated burglary’s a serious offence.”
“You knew it wasn’t mine. I’ve never carried a shooter, and you knew it.”
“There’s always a first time, Vince. I wanted you to get fifteen years; keep you out of my hair for as long as possible. Now you’re doing full term because you’ve refused to admit it was your gun. It’s your choice all along, Vince. Take responsibility for your actions. Now, tell me this: How do you like your sausages?”
A youth in a white shirt was hovering near us. I looked up at him and he said: “I’m sorry, Sir, but this is the no-smoking area.” Halliwell looked annoyed but nipped the tip of his cigarette.
I said to him: “Go sit over there. I’ll fetch you a breakfast,” and he carried his coffee to a table with an ashtray on it.
I kept a weather eye on him as I stood in the queue, but he sat patiently waiting, occasionally sipping the coffee, his glance following the succession of people who moved away from the pay point carrying trays and leading
