'Are you saying your people don't bend the truth?' asked Mackie, rhetorically. 'How far would an undercover agent get if he never lied?'
'There's lying to the villains, and there's lying to your own,' said Hargrove.
'And if we'd told Alice Roper that Gerald Carpenter would kill his mother if it meant his freedom, how would that have helped our present situation?' asked Mackie. 'You saw how close to the edge she is.'
'She'd be better off in the safe-house,' said Hargrove. 'Wherever it is,' he added drily.
'The further away from her husband she is, the better,' said Mackie. 'She's making him nervous. If he thinks she and the kids are out of harm's way, he's less likely to have any thoughts of pulling out.'
'And what about this guest-house?'
'She's probably right. We can screen any guests as and when they make bookings, and we can put our own people in.'
'This is one hell of a mess, isn't it?' said Hargrove.
'It was never going to be easy,' said Mackie. 'There was no way Carpenter was going to go down without a fight.'
'With Roper in the witness box and the evidence that hasn't gone up in smoke, Carpenter's going away, isn't he?'
'CPS says so.'
'And the Crown Prosecution Service has never been wrong in the past, has it?' said Hargrove, his voice loaded with sarcasm.
'Which is why your man Shepherd's in play,' said Mackie. 'How's he bearing up?'
'He's the best I've got,' said Hargrove.
'Like Roper said, he must have balls of steel. Twenty-four hours a day among some of the hardest bastards in the realm.' Mackie peered out of the window. 'I'm heading south of the river to Wimbledon,' he said. 'Can I drop you anywhere?'
It was a warm, sunny day and Hargrove wanted some fresh air. He needed thinking time too. 'Here's fine,' he said.
'Pull over, Stan,' said Mackie. The driver indicated and brought the Rover to a halt at the kerb. Mackie looked earnestly at Hargrove. 'I do appreciate what you did today, Sam,' he said.
'I know you'd have done the same,' said Hargrove. The two men shook hands and Hargrove climbed out of the car. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and started to walk westwards, his hands deep in his pockets.
Needles was on his knees by the two-tier bunk, reaching under the mattress. Dreadlocks was standing by the table. He was holding a blue toothbrush into which two razor blades had been set. They were a couple of millimetres apart so that no surgeon could repair damage done to the skin.
'What the fuck--' said Needles. Shepherd kicked the door closed behind him.
Dreadlocks raised the home-made cutter - a mistake because the weapon was designed for slashing, not stabbing. Shepherd moved quickly. He grabbed the steel Thermos flask from the sink with his right hand and stepped forward. As Dreadlocks brought down the blade, Shepherd smashed the Thermos against his hand. Dreadlocks grunted and the weapon clattered to the floor. Shepherd backhanded the Thermos into Dreadlocks's mouth. Blood and bits of tooth splattered across the wall and Dreadlocks fell back, his arms flailing. He stumbled over Needles and crashed into the bunks.
Shepherd punched him twice, right and left, a blow to each kidney, then grabbed him by the scruff of his football shirt and slammed his head against the wall. Dreadlocks sagged to the ground, on top of Needles.
Needles struggled to get to his feet. In his right hand he was holding a piece of broom handle that had been sharpened to a point. He pushed Dreadlocks away with his left hand. 'You're fucking dead meat!' he spat.
Shepherd said nothing. There was no point in talking: all that mattered was the fight. And winning it. He still had the Thermos. Needles had his left hand out, fingers splayed. He kept the sharpened stick close to his body, the point angled up. It was a killing weapon, sharp and long enough to drive up through Shepherd's ribs and into his heart, or through his eye deep into his skull. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were wide and staring, gearing himself up to attack, making small jabbing movements with the stick.
Shepherd stared into the man's eyes and not at the stick. The eyes were the key to seeing where the attack would come. The stick could be faked, a jab down and then a thrust up, but the eyes never lied, unless the man was a professional, but nothing Needles had done suggested he was anything more than a violent amateur. Shepherd unscrewed the top of the Thermos as he continued to stare at Needles. It was half full of hot water.
Needles swallowed, then his lips curled into a snarl. He took a deep breath and his eyes flicked towards Shepherd's stomach. Before Needles could stab him, Shepherd threw the hot water into his face, blinding him, then slammed the Thermos flask against his throat, not hard enough to shatter the voicebox but enough to stop him screaming.
Needles lashed out with the stick but it was a slashing motion and Shepherd easily blocked it with his left arm, pushing the weapon up into the air and exposing the big man's stomach. There were kilos of fat and massive blocks of muscle to absorb the strongest blows, Shepherd slashed his open palm across the man's neck.
Needles staggered back and his left hand went to his injured throat. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his chest was heaving. His eyes were still filled with anger and hate and the sharpened stick was pointing at Shepherd's chest.
Shepherd was treading a dangerous line. He couldn't kill Needles - his undercover role wasn't a licence for that - but he had to injure him badly so that he'd be moved off the wing. And he had to do it with a minimum of noise. If the officers broke up the fight Shepherd would be moved to solitary and the operation would be over.
Needles stabbed at Shepherd's face with the stick but Shepherd swayed back, avoiding the blow, then lashed out with his foot and caught Needles between the legs. Needles bent forward and Shepherd punched him on the side of the chin, hard. The big man's head snapped to the side and his eyes rolled back in the sockets. He slumped on top of Dreadlocks.
Shepherd stood looking down at the two unconscious men. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Neither man was seriously damaged, certainly not enough to be taken off the wing. He went to the door and eased it open. The Jamaicans were still playing pool, giving each other high-fives after each shot.
Shepherd shut the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past four. He picked up the makeshift knife Dreadlocks had been using. The two blades had been taken from a plastic safety razor. The bristles had been shaved off the toothbrush and the plastic melted over a flame until it was soft enough to push in the two blades. It was a nasty weapon whose only purpose was to produce a wound that would never heal properly.
Needles was lying face down on top of Dreadlocks. Shepherd pulled him off. He put the toothbrush handle into Dreadlocks's right hand, then ran it across Needles's arm. Blood flowed in two parallel lines. Then he pulled up the T-shirt Needles was wearing and made two long cuts across his stomach. They spurted blood. Shepherd cut Needles again, from side to side. The wounds were in no way life-threatening but they would need careful stitching and Needles would have to remain immobile while the wounds healed. Any movement would rip the double cuts apart.
Blood dripped down on to Dreadlocks's tracksuit bottoms. If Shepherd did this right, it would look like the two men had been fighting. He doubted they would tell the authorities what had happened. No matter how badly injured they were, they were unlikely to grass. Plus there was the embarrassment factor of admitting that one man had put them both in hospital.
Shepherd undid the laces from Dreadlocks's trainers and tied them together, then used them as a tourniquet around the man's right thigh. Then he picked up the sharpened stick and put it into Needles's hand. He pulled up the right leg of the man's tracksuit bottoms then stabbed at the calf with the pointed stick in Needles's fist. It pierced the flesh and skewered the calf muscle. Blood spurted over Needles's fingers and the leg twitched. Shepherd slowly withdrew the stick. Blood pooled in the wound, then dribbled down the leg towards the trainer. It was a slow, steady flow so he hadn't ruptured any major vessels - a serious wound but not a fatal one.
Shepherd stood up. He washed his hands in the sink, then checked in the mirror for blood spots on his shirt. He looked down at his black Armani jeans and white Nike trainers. No blood.
Needles was groaning. His stomach glistened wetly and blood was pooling around Dreadlocks's leg.
Shepherd slipped out of the cell, leaving the door ajar. He walked slowly up the stairs, went into his own cell and lay down on his bunk. A few minutes later he heard three loud blasts on a whistle, then shouts.
Shepherd climbed off the bunk and went to the door. Prisoners all over the landing were rushing to the
