Hard Landing

Digger chuckled, but his eyes had narrowed to slits.

Carpenter held up his hands. 'Fine, whatever.'

'Nothing happens in this houseblock without you knowing,' said Digger, 'and mostly it happens because you say it happens.'

'You saying that I put Needles in hospital?' asked Carpenter.

'No profit in you doing that,' said Digger, 'but you know as well as me that it was Macdonald done the dirty deed.'

'Anyone see him?'

'He was seen going in and he was seen coming out. Did anyone see him cut Needles? No. But I don't need no calculator to add two and two.'

Carpenter leaned on the rail. Down below, Macdonald was walking away from the phones. 'It ends here and now,' he said quietly.

'Needles isn't going to be on his back for ever,' said Digger. 'And he's going to come after Macdonald, big- time.'

'Didn't you hear what I just said? I said it ends now. You tell Needles that if he moves against Macdonald, I'll destroy his life, inside and outside.'

'Is Macdonald your man now? Is that it?'

'If he was, that'd be my business, not yours,' said Carpenter. 'But it's nothing to do with him working for me. It's to do with wanting a quiet life. You do what you have to do to keep Needles quiet, okay?'

'Okay,' said Digger.

'I mean it, Digger,' said Carpenter. 'I'm holding you responsible.'

'I hear you.'

Carpenter patted Digger on the back. 'Tell him, I'll take care of any expenses. And I'll put a couple of grand his mother's way, too.'

'He'll appreciate that,' said Digger.

'Come on, let's go and burn off some of that excess energy.'

Shepherd upped the speed on the treadmill. On the outside he tried to run at least five kilometres a day, ideally on grass, and he was determined to take full advantage of whatever gym time Lloyd-Davies could get for him.

There were more than two dozen prisoners in the gym. Most of the West Indians had gathered at the weights area where Digger was holding court. A prison officer watched them from the balcony with a look of disdain. Carpenter was on a bike, his legs pumping furiously. The machine next to him was unoccupied, but Shepherd didn't want to seem too eager to approach him. Carpenter's routine never varied. He did thirty minutes' running on the treadmill, ten minutes on bike, and whatever time was left he spent on one of the multi-gyms. The only variation came on the multi-gym when he'd work either his arms or his legs. He never went near the weights area, and he rarely spoke to anyone. He never had to ask for a piece of equipment to be vacated: prisoners always moved away as soon as he approached. He'd acknowledge them with a tight smile and a nod, but never a word of thanks, accepting the deference as his right.

Shepherd upped the speed of the treadmill and increased the incline. His calf muscles burned but he ignored the pain. He fixed his eyes on the wall and concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. A couple of minutes before Carpenter was due to finish cycling, Shepherd got off the treadmill and went over to one of the multi-gyms. He was working on his pecs when Carpenter came over. He got off and nodded for Carpenter to take his place.

'Can I ask you something, Gerry?' said Macdonald, as Carpenter pulled the metal bar down to his chest.

'What?' Carpenter grunted.

'It's just that you're smarter than the average bear, right, so why are you inside?'

'I was set up. Undercover cops. Got me on conspiracy.'

'Bastards.'

'I was so bloody careful. Followed the golden rules. Never went near the drugs. Never went near the money. Never wrote anything down.'

'What - nothing? Not even phone numbers and stuff?'

'Especially phone numbers. Never write them down, never store them in your phone's memory.'

'Yeah, but I can't remember my own, never mind anyone else's,' lied Shepherd. His memory, of course, was infallible. 'If it wasn't for the phone book in my mobile, I'd never be able to call anyone.'

'Recipe for bloody disaster. You know the cops can access them whenever they want?'

'If they get hold of the phone, you mean?'

'Nah, that's the point. They don't need it. They can access all the info on the Sim card over the airwaves. Every number you've called, every number that's called you, every number in the phone book.'

'Bloody hell,' said Shepherd. It was old news to him. Getting access to a suspect's phone records was one of the first things the police did when they had a target under surveillance. All they needed was the number and the technical boys did the rest.

'I've known half a dozen guys go down because of info on their phones,' said Carpenter. 'They're a liability. Stick to landlines or throwaway mobiles, and never write anything down.'

'That's what I was asking,' said Shepherd. 'How do you remember everything? Is it a photographic memory?'

Carpenter stopped working on his arms and wiped his neck with his towel. 'It's a technique,' he said. 'Anyone can do it. You have to remember images instead of numbers. Say the first digit is five. You represent it with a five- letter word. Like tiger. Then say the next digit is three. Use dog for that. So you have a tiger, followed by a dog. Easy to remember, right? Five then three. You just do that for every number.'

The technique made sense, and Shepherd could see how an image would be easier to remember than a string of numbers. It wasn't the way his own memory worked - he simply remembered the numbers.

'How many numbers have you remembered that way?' Shepherd asked.

'Couple of hundred. It's virtually foolproof.'

'And what about bank-account numbers and stuff? It works for that?'

Carpenter looked at him and for a moment Shepherd thought he'd pushed it too far. He shrugged. 'Just interested, that's all. I have to write down all my pin numbers and I'm buggered if I know my bank-account number.' The lie came easily. He had spent several months being coached by actors and psychologists before he'd gone on his first undercover operation and he knew how to mask the tell-tale signs of dishonesty.

'What the hell? It's not as if it's a secret,' said Carpenter. He started working his arms again. 'Memory experts do it all the time. You know pi, right? From school. The circumference of a circle divided by whatever. The number never ends.'

'Sure.'

'Well, there's a guy in Tokyo who can rattle off the value of pi to more than forty- two thousand places.'

'Sounds like he should get a life,' said Shepherd.

'Macdonald!'

Shepherd turned his head. It was Hamilton, standing at the door to the gym. 'Stop nattering,' Hamilton shouted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. 'Your brief's here.'

Shepherd walked away from the multi-gym, frowning. 'Have I got time to change, Mr Hamilton?' he asked.

'He's waiting for you,' said Hamilton, 'and I've got work to do.' He waved at the officer on the balcony. 'Macdonald's brief is here,' he shouted. 'I'll take him back to the wing when he's done.'

The prison officer flashed Hamilton a thumbs-up but his face remained impassive.

Shepherd followed Hamilton out of the gym. When they reached the administration block, the officer showed him into one of the private interview rooms. Hargrove was sitting behind the Formica table and stood up awkwardly. Shepherd could tell that something was wrong.

'Press the bell when you're done,' Hamilton said to Hargrove.

Shepherd wondered what had happened. His first thought was that the operation had been blown and that he was about to be pulled out, but if that was the case there'd be no need for a conversation in the interview room. His second thought was that Hargrove was there to tell him Roper had been killed. The superintendent's face was like