would be an admission that he'd lost control. An admission to his colleagues, and to himself. Shepherd could practically see the wheels turning behind the man's eyes as he considered his options. Hamilton nodded slowly. 'Wait here,' he said.
He walked along the landing swinging his key chain. Shepherd leaned against the railing and watched him let himself out of the spur. The cleaners on the ground floor looked up at Shepherd. One grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
Hamilton went into the control office and spoke to Tony Stafford. A few minutes later he returned with a booklet and thrust it at Shepherd. On the front it said
'Thank you,' said Shepherd.
'I am now asking you to enter your cell,' said Hamilton. 'If you do not comply with my instruction, I will summon a control-and-restraint team.'
Shepherd smiled easily and stepped inside cell. Hamilton pulled the door shut and Shepherd heard him walk away down the landing. It was a small victory, but he was starting to appreciate how small victories counted when you were in prison. He sat down on his bunk and started to read the rules.
Gerald Carpenter squeezed the excess water out of the mop and swabbed the floor, taking care not to get soapy water on his Bally loafers. Two hundred pounds he'd paid for them and there he was, cleaning a prison floor in them. Sometimes life just didn't go according to plan.
Carpenter didn't enjoy manual work, but the cleaning job was his by choice. It meant that he was out of his cell for most of the day, and was pretty much free to roam the spur. He spent most of his time on the threes, but being on the cleaning crew meant he could go down to the lower floors whenever he wanted. Some of the cleaners worked as go-betweens, ferrying messages and contraband between cells, but the inmates knew better than to ask Carpenter to act as a messenger boy.
The spur was quiet during labour, like a university hall of residence when lectures were on. During association it was bedlam - music blaring, arguments at the pool table, raucous laughter. Even late at night the spur was never completely quiet. There was the murmur of televisions, stereos playing, sometimes prisoners crying or screaming. Constant reminders that another fifty souls were locked up there. A hundred and fifty in the houseblock. But when the men were at labour, there was a peaceful quality to it. Not like a church or cathedral, the surroundings were too ugly for that, but a monastery perhaps - if it wasn't for the barred doors and the suicide nets. But the spur wasn't populated with men seeking spiritual fulfilment, thought Carpenter, with a wry smile. They were about as far from holy men as you could get.
Carpenter's smile widened as he ran the mop from side to side. He'd received some good news that morning. The electronics expert who had been planning to testify for the prosecution had decided that appearing in the witness box wouldn't be conducive to his health. Carpenter knew that Gary Nelson could be replaced, but it would take time for another expert to be brought up to speed, and that was assuming the prosecution could find another expert willing to take his place. The world of the expert witness was small, and word would soon get around. Nelson had been beaten and scarred, a living reminder of what would happen to anyone who threatened Gerald Carpenter.
Bit by bit Carpenter was dismantling the case against him. CPS files had been stolen and destroyed. Jonathon Elliott had been taken care of. The prosecution's prime piece of evidence - the yacht - had gone up in flames. But one major obstacle still had to be removed before Carpenter could be sure of winning his freedom, and that was the Customs officer, Sandy Roper.
Carpenter hated Roper. It wasn't just that the man's evidence threatened to keep him inside for the foreseeable future but because Carpenter had liked him. They'd been drinking together, gone to football matches and lap-dancing clubs, laughed and joked and told stories. They'd almost become friends, and Carpenter didn't let many people get close to him. Roper's betrayal had been personal. Pretty much every word that had left the man's mouth had been a lie. His name, his age, the school he went to, the deals he'd done. It had all been a web of deceit. And half the time Roper had been wearing a wire, recording everything Carpenter had said. Carpenter had let the man into his inner circle and Roper had betrayed him. And it wasn't even for money. Carpenter could have understood that. Sympathised, even. If Roper had been a grass and the cops had been paying him a few grand for the information, Carpenter would have hated the man for being a grass, but he'd have understood his motivation. If the cops had been pressurising him, forcing him to inform, Carpenter could have empathised. He knew that a man under duress was often more reliable than a man working for money. And he knew that cops could bring all sorts of pressure to bear to make a man betray his friends. But Roper had betrayed Carpenter for no other reason than that it was a job. A nine-to-five, dead-end, no-hope, time-serving job. Sandy Roper had been a civil servant with five weeks paid holiday a year, waiting for the day when he got a gold watch and a piss-poor pension. That was what riled Carpenter. He'd been outwitted by a bloody civil servant.
And it wasn't just Roper who'd betrayed him. He'd allowed a copper to get one over on him, too. Jonathon Elliott had been as likeable as Roper. A good-looking guy, always with a story about his latest conquest. Then, after he'd been arrested, Carpenter had discovered that Elliott had a wife and a wall full of commendations for his undercover work. Another civil servant who was trying to put Carpenter behind bars for no other reason than it was the career he'd chosen.
Carpenter hadn't taken any pleasure in having Elliott killed. He'd have preferred to buy the man off, because a cop on the payroll was an asset. But when it became clear that Elliott wasn't corruptible, killing him had been the only way of removing him from the equation. It was a simple one: evidence plus witnesses meant prison. No evidence, no witnesses, and Carpenter was a free man. He would take whatever steps were necessary to ensure that the equation worked in his favour.
He stopped swabbing the floor, leaned on the railing and looked down at the suicide net. One of the cleaners on the ground floor waved at him and Carpenter nodded back. Anton Jurczak, a middle-aged asylum seeker from Eastern Europe, had stabbed an immigration officer in his south London apartment. Like most of the men on the spur, Jurczak's crime made no sense to Carpenter. The immigration officer was unarmed, as was his female assistant and the two uniformed policemen who'd allowed the interview to take place in Jurczak's kitchen. Jurczak had panicked, grabbed a knife and thrust it into the chest of the officer, then tried to throw himself through the kitchen window. A search of the apartment revealed three kilograms of heroin from Afghanistan and over two hundred thousand pounds in cash behind a skirting-board. If he'd kept his nerve the worst that would have happened would have been deportation, a minor inconvenience to a man with Jurczak's money. But now, barring a miracle, Jurczak would spend the rest of his life behind bars. Most men in the remand block had similar stories to tell. Not that many were honest about what they'd done to get sent inside. Everyone lied. Most claimed they were as innocent as new-born babes. Framed. Mistaken identity. A million and one excuses. Not one of the prisoners Carpenter had met had ever admitted to being arrested fairly and squarely. Carpenter knew the truth about the men with whom he shared the spur. He made it his business to know. He paid good money for the information because information was power. Jurczak hadn't told anyone that he was a major player in the drugs industry, but Carpenter knew. There were two rapists and one paedophile on the spur: they wouldn't last a minute if the general population discovered the nature of their crimes. Carpenter knew about their cases, and their secrets were safe with him, as long as they did as he asked.
Carpenter knew that he was different. He wasn't behind bars because he'd lost control or lashed out in anger. He hadn't stolen on impulse or sold drugs on street corners. He'd been targeted, pursued, hunted, by some of the best thief-catchers in the world. And money had been no object. During pre-trial hearings his lawyers had discovered that Customs alone had budgeted almost two million pounds for the investigation. The Drugs Squad's overtime bill had been more than three hundred thousand. The investigators knew that if they put Carpenter away they'd be able to pursue his assets. The day Carpenter was charged they had frozen bank accounts, property and shares worth twenty-eight million pounds. It was less than a fifth of his assets, but Carpenter knew they were still looking. If he was found guilty, all the money would be forfeit.
Carpenter started mopping the floor again. He whistled quietly to himself. It wouldn't be long now before he was back home with his wife and children, where he belonged. All that stood between him and his freedom was Sandy Roper. And, if all went to plan, Roper would soon be as dead as Jonathon Elliott.
Shepherd was lying on his back, staring up at the white-painted ceiling, when he heard the rumble of conversation and the unlocking of the door to the spur. There were shouts and laughter as fifty or so prisoners milled around on the ground floor, waiting for tea.
