‘Ewan Preece doesn’t sound like the sharpest tool in the shed,’ Glenn Branson chipped in. ‘I don’t think we should rule it out, boss.’
‘I’ll put it down as an action for the outside inquiry team. Perhaps we can put a couple of PCSOs on it.’ Then he turned to Potting. ‘Norman, do you have your update from Ford Prison?’
Potting pursed his lips, taking his time before answering. ‘I do, chief,’ he said finally, in his rich rural burr.
In another era, Grace could have envisaged him as a bloody-minded desk sergeant plod in some remote country town. Potting spoke slowly and methodically, partly from memory and partly referring to his notebook. Every few moments he would squint to decipher his handwriting.
‘I interviewed Senior Prison Officer Lisa Setterington, the one you spoke to, chief,’ Potting said.
Grace nodded.
‘She confirmed that Preece appeared to be a model prisoner, determined to go straight.’
Potting was interrupted by a couple of snorts from officers who’d had previous dealings with the man.
‘So if he was a model prisoner,’ asked Bella Moy sarcastically, ‘how come he was driving a van twenty-five miles away from where he was supposed to be on Wednesday morning?’
‘Exactly,’ Potting said.
‘Model prisoners don’t go over the wall either,’ she added tartly.
‘They don’t, Bella, no,’ he agreed condescendingly, as if talking to a child.
Grace eyed both of them warily, wondering if they were about to have another of their regular spats.
‘Now the good news is,’ Potting went on, ‘that word of this reward has spread around the prison, as you might imagine. Several inmates who’ve had contact with Preece have come forward to the Governor, offering suggestions where he might be, and I’ve got a list of six addresses and contact names for immediate follow-up.’
‘Good stuff, Norman,’ Grace said.
Potting allowed himself a brief, smug smile and took a swig from his mug of tea before continuing, ‘But there’s some bad news too. Ewan Preece had a friend in Ford Prison, another inmate – they go back years.’ He checked his notes. ‘Warren Tulley – had about the same amount of form as Preece. They were thick together inside. The officer had arranged for Tulley to talk to me. Someone went to fetch him to bring him over to the office – and found him dead in his cell. He’d hanged himself.’
There was a momentary silence while the team absorbed this. Grace’s first reaction was that this news had not yet reached Spinella.
DC David Howes asked, ‘What do we know about his circumstances?’
‘He had two months to serve,’ Potting said. ‘Married with three young kids – all fine with the marriage apparently. Lisa Setterington knew him too. She assured me he was looking forward to getting out and spending time with his kids.’
‘Not someone with any obvious reason to top himself?’ Howes, who was a former Prison Liaison Officer, probed.
‘Doesn’t sound like it, no,’ Potting replied.
‘I’m just speculating, but what it sounds like to me,’ Howes went on, ‘is that possibly Warren Tulley knew where to find Preece.’ He shrugged.
‘Which might be why he died?’ Grace said. ‘Not suicide at all?’
‘They’re launching a full investigation, working closely with the West Area Major Crime Branch Team,’ Potting said. ‘Seems a bit coincidental to them.’
‘How hard would it be to hang yourself in Ford?’ Glenn Branson asked.
‘Easier than in a lot of prisons. They’ve all got private rooms, like motel rooms,’ Potting said. ‘Being an open prison, they’ve got much more freedom and are left alone much more than in a higher-category place. If you wanted to hang yourself, you could do so easily.’
‘And equally easily hang someone else?’ Howes asked.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
‘One hundred thousand dollars is a lot of folding to someone inside,’ Glenn said.
‘It’s a lot of folding to anyone,’ Nick Nicholl replied.
‘More than enough to kill for,’ Howes said grimly.
PC Alec Davies put up a hand. He spoke quite shyly. ‘Sir, I might be stating the obvious, but if Warren Tulley did know where Preece was, then if someone did kill him, he possibly did it for one reason. Because he knows where Preece is too.’
39
Fernanda Revere sat restlessly on the edge of the green sofa. She gripped a glass in one hand and held a cigarette in the other, tapping the end impatiently, every few seconds, into a crystal ashtray. Then, with a sudden snort, she put down her cigarette, snatched up her cellphone and glared at it.
Outside a storm raged. Wind and rain were hurtling in from Long Island Sound, through the dunes and the wild grasses and the shrubbery. She heard the rain lashing against the windows and could feel the icy blast through them.
This huge living room, with its minstrel’s gallery, ornate furniture and walls hung with tapestries, felt like a mausoleum tonight. A fire crackled in the grate but she could get no warmth from it. There was a ball game on television, the New York Giants playing some other team, which her brother shouted at intermittently. Fernanda didn’t give a shit for football. A stupid men’s game.
‘Why don’t those stupid people in England call me back?’ she demanded, staring at her phone again, willing it to ring.
‘It’s the middle of the night there, hon,’ her husband replied, checking his watch. ‘They’re five hours ahead. It’s one in the morning.’
‘So?’ She took another angry drag on her cigarette and puffed the smoke straight back out. ‘So this
She stared suspiciously at her brother, who was sitting opposite her, cradling a whiskey and sucking on a cigar that looked to her the size of a large dildo.
Lou, in a checked alpaca V-neck over a polo shirt, chinos and boat shoes, looked at Ricky, his face hard suddenly, and said, ‘He’s going to show, right? He’s reliable? You know this guy?’
‘He’s reliable. One of the best there is. He’s in the car – be here any moment.’
Ricky picked up the brown envelope he had prepared, checked its contents once more, then put it down again, satisfied, and turned his focus back to the game.
At forty, Ricky Giordino had the Italian looks of his father, but not the old man’s strong face. His face was weak, a tad pudgy, like a baby’s, and pockmarked. It shone with an almost permanent shiny patina of grease, from a congenital problem with his sweat glands. His black hair was styled with a quiff and his mouth was slightly misshapen, as if he’d had an operation for a harelip as a child. He was dressed in a thick black cardigan with metal buttons, baggy blue jeans which concealed the handgun permanently strapped to his calf and black Chelsea boots. So far, to their mother’s dismay, he had remained single. He had a constant succession of brainless bimbos in tow, but tonight he had come alone, as his particular way of showing respect.
‘You done business with this guy before?’ Fernanda asked.
‘He’s recommended.’ Ricky gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘By an associate of mine. And there’s a bonus. He knows this city, Brighton. He did a job there one time. He’ll do what you want done.’
‘He’d better. I want them to suffer. You told him that, didn’t you?’
‘He knows.’ Ricky puffed on his cigar. ‘You spoke to Mamma? How was she?’
‘How do you think she was?’ Fernanda drained the rest of her Sea Breeze and got up, unsteadily, to walk towards the drinks cabinet.
Ricky turned his attention back to the game. Within moments, he leapt out of his armchair, shaking a hand at the screen and showering cigar ash around him.
‘The fuck!’ he shouted. ‘These guys, the fuck they doing?’
