“It doesn’t matter whose doing it was. It happened. And if that child is dead, I want you to think of how much harm you’ve done her mother.”
Lenora put her fist to her heart. “The child is alive, Superintendent. I’m convinced of it.”
For a moment, Gristhorpe was taken aback by the passion in her voice. After everything he had accused her of, she was still clinging to her original story. He let the silence stretch for a while longer, holding her intense gaze. He could feel something pass across the air between them. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, a tingling sensation, the hackles on his neck rising, and he certainly had no idea whether or not she was right about Gemma. He did know, though, that she was telling the truth as far as she knew it. The damn woman was genuine in her beliefs. He could see, now, how Brenda Scupham had been convinced.
“I want you to know,” he said slowly, “that I’ll check and double-check on everything you’ve told me.” Then he broke off the staring match and looked towards the bare wall. “Now get out. Go on, get out before I change my mind.” And he didn’t even turn to watch her go. He
knew exactly the kind of smile he would see on her face.
IV
Armley Jail was built in 1847 by Perkin and Backhouse.
Standing on a low hill to the west of the city centre, it
looks like a structure from the Middle Ages, with its
keep and battlements all in dark, solid stone—especially
in the iron-grey sky and the rain that swept across the
scene. Eastvale Castle seemed welcoming in comparison,
Susan thought. Even the modern addition to the prison
couldn’t quite overcome the sense of dank medieval dungeons
she felt as she approached the gates. The architects
could hardly have come up with a place more likely to
terrify the criminals and reassure the good citizens, she
thought, giving a shiver as she got out of the car and felt
the rain sting her cheek.
She showed her warrant card, and at four-thirty on that dreary September afternoon, the prison gates admitted her, and a uniformed attendant led her to a small office in the administrative block to meet Gerald Mackenzie. She had found herself wondering on her way what kind of person felt drawn to prison work. It must be a strange world, she thought, locked in with the malcontents. Like the police, the prison service probably attracted its share of bullies, but it also had an appeal, she guessed, for the reformers, for people who believed in rehabilitation. For many, perhaps, it was just a job, a source of income to pay the mortgage and help feed the wife and kids.
Mackenzie turned out to be a surprisingly young man with thin brown hair, matching suit, a crisp white shirt and what she took to be a regimental or club tie of some kind. The black-framed glasses he wore gave him the look of a middle-management man. He was polite, of
fered coffee, and seemed happy enough to give her the time and information she wanted.
“From what I can remember,” he said, placing a finger at the corner of his small mouth, “Johnson was a fairly unassuming sort of fellow. Never caused any trouble. Never drew attention to himself.” He shook his head. “In fact, I find it very hard to believe he ended up the way he did. Unless he was the victim of some random crime?”
“We don’t think so,” Susan said. “How did he spend his time?”
“He was a keen gardener, I remember. Never went in much for the more intellectual pursuits or the team games.”
“Was he much of a socializer in any way?”
“No. As I said, I got the impression he kept very much to himself. I must confess, it’s hard to keep abreast of everyone we have in here?unless they’re troublemakers of course. The well-behaved ones you tend to leave to themselves. It’s like teaching, I suppose. I’ve done a bit of that, you know. You spend most of your energy on the difficult students and leave the good ones to fend for themselves. I mean, there’s always far more to say about a wrong answer than a right one, isn’t there?”
“I suppose so,” said Susan. The memory of an essay she wrote at police college came to mind. When the professor had handed it back to her, it had been covered in red ink. “So Johnson was an exemplary prisoner?”
“Inmate. Well, yes. Yes, he was.”
“And you don’t know a lot more about him, his routine, his contacts here?”
“No. I don’t actually spend much time on the shop floor, so to speak. Administration, paperwork … it all seems to take up so much time these days. But look, I’ll see if I can get Ollie Watson to come in. He worked Johnson’s wing.”
“Would you?”
“No trouble.”
Mackenzie ducked out of the office for a moment and Susan examined a framed picture of a pretty dark-skinned woman, Indian perhaps, with three small children. Mackenzie’s family, she assumed, judging by the way the children shared both his and the woman’s features: a certain slant to the nose here, a dimple there.
A few minutes later, Mackenzie returned with Ollie Watson. As soon as she saw the fat, uniformed man with the small black moustache, Susan wondered if the “Ollie” was a nickname because the man looked so much like Oliver Hardy. He pulled at the creases of his pants and sat down on a chair, which creaked under him.
“Mr Watson,” Susan said after the introductions, “Mr Mackenzie tells me you’re in the best position to give me some information about Carl Johnson’s time in here.”
Watson nodded. “Yes ma’m.” He shifted in his seat. It creaked again. “No trouble, Carl wasn’t. But you never felt you ever got to know him, like you do with some. Never seemed much interested in anything, ‘cept the garden, I suppose.”
