constant rap music blaring from the cells on the ones, but having to socialise with men he despised was more than he could bear. Better to sit in his cell and watch television or listen to his stereo.
There was a pool table on the ground floor and two dozen names chalked up. Less than half would probably get a game before it was time for the cells to be locked for the night. Three card tables had been set up. One was a regular bridge group, comprising two businessmen facing fraud charges, a former MP accused of killing his gay lover, and a Pakistani doctor, held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Pontoon was being played at the other two tables. The stakes were bits of matchstick but Carpenter knew that debts were paid in tobacco. So did the prison officers, but they did nothing to stop the games. Anything for a quiet life.
Ed Harris walked up the metal steps to the top floor and along the landing. He nodded at Carpenter and joined him at the railing.
'Who are the new arrivals?' asked Carpenter.
Harris nodded at Bill Barnes, who was making short work of clearing the pool table. 'Bill Barnes, second time in Shelton. Calls himself a cat burglar but he's more of a bull in a china shop. Got caught selling a couple of gold Rolexes to an undercover cop in Clapham. Standard con- the cops set up a pawnbroking operation and wait for the gear to surface.'
'Hardly Cat A,' said Carpenter.
'Tried to slash a guard last time he was inside. Did an extra year for that. Word is, he'll be in for a kicking at some point. The guard he tried to nail transferred here and is over on Block D.'
A middle-aged man wearing a white shirt with blue pinstripes, and black wool trousers was standing with his back against the wall.
'See the guy there?'
Carpenter nodded.
'Insurance fraud. Simon Hitchcock. Distant relative of the film director, he says. Sold policies but didn't pass the money on to his head office. Fraud Squad are looking for six million quid.'
'Doesn't look like he'll last long.'
Harris agreed. 'Took his wedding ring off him, and a St Christopher's medal and chain. So much for protecting travellers. Digger's already hit him for protection money.'
Carpenter shook his head. The man was a lost cause. On the outside he was probably a big wheel at his local Rotary Club, played golf with other wheeler-dealers, got special service at the best restaurants and flew business class. On the inside he was easy meat for the sharks. 'Anyone else?'
'Guy by the name of Bob Macdonald, not Scottish. Wouldn't give his name when they first brought him in, but he's seen sense. Armed robbery and they say his crew shot a cop. They've put him in with Jason Lee on the twos. First time inside.'
'He's a pro, though?'
'Handles himself like he's been around, but he can't have been in the system before or they'd have had his dabs.'
'Hard, is he?'
'I can't make him out,' said Harris. 'He gave Austin and his sidekick a thrashing first morning he was in, then bugger me if he doesn't go over to them in the yard and get it sorted.'
'How?'
'Dunno what he said but they're not gunning for him.'
'Threaten them with harm, do you think?'
'He doesn't come over as the threatening type.' Harris pointed down to the ground floor. 'There he is now. Prison sweats. Brown hair.'
Harris was right, Carpenter thought. Macdonald didn't look the threatening type. He was of average height, wiry and seemed relaxed in the prison environment. There was none of the tension of a new arrival, but none of the forced bravado of an old hand. Macdonald walked over to the pool table and stood watching.
'Tell me about the fight, Ed. Did you see it?'
'Yeah, I was on the landing. They started it, but he finished it - bloody quickly, too.'
'Hands, feet, head?'
'Kicked and punched them. Not
'Efficient?' repeated Carpenter.
'Like he was matching their violence. Hurt them just enough to stop them.'
'Reasonable force?'
'Yeah, that's it exactly. He was using reasonable force.'
Down below, the man they were talking about folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He looked up and, for a brief moment, had eye-contact with Carpenter. Carpenter was used to hard men trying to intimidate him with cold stares, but Macdonald's expression was more inquisitive, the look a tiger might give an antelope while he decided whether or not it was worth giving chase. Then, just as quickly, Macdonald broke eye-contact and waved at Harris, who waved back.
'Nice enough bloke,' said Harris.
'Well, anyone who shoots cops can't be all bad,' said Carpenter. 'Thanks, Ed. You need anything?'
'Tunnel under the wall and a new identity,' said Harris. 'They're going to throw away the key this time.'
Carpenter pulled a sympathetic face. He was prepared to throw a few home comforts at Harris in exchange for his information, but there was nothing he could do to help Harris out of his predicament. He'd been caught red- handed, literally: the bloody knife that had severed his wife's jugular vein had been in his hands when the police answered a neighbour's 999 call. And he'd confessed all to the sympathetic detectives who'd interviewed him, the tape-recorder running. More likely thannot, Harriswould die behind bars. Carpenter had no intention of suffering the same fate. He'd do whatever it took to regain his freedom.
Gary Nelson flicked through the files in his in-tray, dropped half a dozen of the most urgent into his briefcase and snapped the lock. His wife had driven up to Newcastle to visit her mother and there was nothing on television that he wanted to watch so he planned on getting some work done. But first he was going to pick up a couple of curries. His wife hated the smell of Indian food, but if he opened the windows and sprayed air-freshener around she'd be none the wiser when she got back.
The office was deserted so he switched off the lights as he left. He took the lift to the ground floor, acknowledged the uniformed security guard and pushed his way through the revolving door. His Toyota Corolla was in an underground car park a short walk from the office. It was starting to rain so he turned up the collar of his raincoat and jogged, clutching his briefcase to his chest.
His car was on the second level below ground. There was a lift but it was claustrophobically small, hardly bigger than a coffin, so Nelson took the stairs.
There were spaces for two dozen cars on the second level, but only three vehicles. Nelson's was at the far end, close to the emergency exit. His footsteps echoed off the bare walls as he walked across the concrete. Overhead there were bare pipes, stark fluorescent lights and the sprinkler system. Two CCTV cameras covered the area but he had never seen a security guard in the building. Nelson took his keys from his pocket. He looked up at the CCTV camera by the emergency exit, then frowned as he saw that the lens had been sprayed with black paint. He stopped walking and looked across at the second camera. That, too, had been spray-painted. It didn't look like the work of vandals, he realised. It was a deliberate attempt to blind the cameras. So that no one would see what was going on. The hairs on the back of Nelson's neck stood up and he shivered. He had a strong feeling that something bad was about to happen. 'For God's sake,' he muttered to himself. 'Get a grip.'
He started walking again, swinging his briefcase and humming. He kept looking round as he approached his car, unable to shake off the dread, but he was alone. He'd been watching too many horror movies. The world was a safe place, he told himself, and he was a thirty-five-year-old male in good physical condition, not the average mugging victim. Not any sort of victim.
Nelson jumped when he heard footsteps behind him. A man in a dark green anorak was running towards him, a black woollen hat pulled low over a pair of impenetrable sunglasses. The door to the emergency exit crashed open and Nelson whirled round. A second man stood there. Leather jacket. Blue balaclava. Sunglasses. Holding a Stanley knife.
Nelson took a step backwards, his heart pounding. He held up his briefcase in front of him, facing the man
