'That should please the men,' said Niles, smiling. The other officers chuckled but Nicholson didn't see the joke.
'If any of those bastards finds out that one of them is going to be a woman, there could be trouble,' Nicholson said flatly. 'Take care of it.' He smoothed his hair back with one hand. 'I want them in and out of here as quickly as possible. I don't like the idea of people investigating my prison.'
'Why are they coming to Whitely, anyway?' Paul Swain enquired. 'We're not the only prison in the country that's overcrowded.'
'That's perfectly correct. Unfortunately, however, we are the only prison where a remand prisoner was murdered by a lifer recently.' He held up his hands in a dismissive gesture.
'I hope they're not too disappointed by what they see,' said Gareth Wart on.
Nicholson looked at him unblinkingly.
'Meaning what?' he said irritably.
'You have to agree, sir, conditions are below standard.'
'Standard for what? This is a prison, in case you'd forgotten. The men here are here because they broke the law. Most of those in Whitely are here because they're too unruly or dangerous even for other jails to cope with.' He fixed Warton in his gaze. 'We, Mr Warton, have the scum of the earth under this roof.'
'They still deserve better conditions,' Warton persisted.
'They deserve nothing,' Nicholson hissed. 'They're here to be punished. We're here to ensure that punishment is carried out.'
'Isn't it our job to help them too, sir?' Warton said.
'Yours, perhaps, if that's how you feel. I don't see it as my job to help them. It's my job to help the people on the outside and I do that by making sure the scum in here stay in here.' He fixed Warton in the unrelenting stare of his cold green eyes. 'Do you know what we are, Mr Warton? We're zoo keepers, paid to keep animals behind bars.'
Warton coloured and lowered his gaze.
Nicholson sucked in an angry breath and turned back to look out of his office window.
'When the delegation arrives I want them brought here,' he said. 'I'll show them round the prison, round the recreation rooms and cells. If they want to speak to any of the prisoners they can. But I want at least two men present at all times.'
'Will you be taking them to the maximum security wing, sir?' Swain asked.
'Yes, and the solitary cells,' the warden told them.
'What about the hospital wing?' asked Niles.
'No,' snapped Nicholson, turning to face the officer. 'The infirmary, perhaps, but there's no need to show them anything else.' He looked up and down the line of faces. 'Are there any questions?'
There weren't. Nicholson dismissed the warders, returning to the window for a moment as if searching for something out in the windswept yard.
From where he stood he couldn't see the hospital wing.
The thought suddenly spurred him into action.
He turned back to his desk, picked up the phone and jabbed an extension number.
As he waited for it to be answered he drummed lightly on the desk top. The phone was finally answered.
'We have to talk,' said Nicholson. 'Come over to my office. It's important.'
FORTY-FOUR
Ray Plummer filled the Waterford crystal tumbler with soda and ice and handed it to John Hitch, and then repeated the procedure, passing the other brandy and soda to Terry Morton.
Morton thanked him, interrupted in his appraisal of a pair of Armani statues.
'And this stuff is worth money, is it, Ray?' Morton said, motioning towards the figurines.
'Of course it's worth money, you prat. Why do you think I bought it?' Plummer said. 'Fuck me, I'm surrounded by Philistines.'
He took a sip of his own drink and sat down in the leather chair closest to the fireplace, looking into the authentic fake gas flames as he sipped his drink. He touched his hair self-consciously, worried that the high wind outside might have disturbed it.
Morton remained on his feet, swaying backwards and forwards from the balls to the heels of his shoes. The delicate tumbler was out of place in his heavy hand; he looked as if he would have been more comfortable carrying a bottle of beer. Or a cosh.
'Sit down, Terry, you make the place look untidy,' Plummer told him, smiling at Hitch, who grinned back as his companion sat down hurriedly.
Both Hitch and Morton had worked for Plummer for more than ten years and he trusted them as much as anyone in his organisation. Hence their privileged presence in his penthouse flat. They were two of only a handful of his employees allowed to enter this most private of havens.
Hitch was a couple of years younger than his boss but his long blond hair and perpetual sun tan (the product of a solarium) made him look closer to thirty than thirty-six. Morton was the opposite, dark-haired, squat, almost brutish in appearance. He'd been a successful amateur boxer before he joined Plummer's organisation. The flat nose was a testament to his habit of fighting with his guard down. Hitch maintained he could stop buses with his head (and frequently did).
'So, tell me what you found out about Connelly,' said Plummer. 'Is it right he's moving into drugs?'
'As far as we could find out, he's got no plans to expand in that area, Ray,' Hitch said, sipping his drink.
'He's making bundles out of the money business, isn't he?' Morton added. 'Why should he try that other shit?'
'Because that other shit is worth a damned sight more,' Plummer said scornfully.
'Well, we spoke to at least half a dozen members of his firm and none of them knows anything about a shipment of cocaine,' Hitch announced. 'That call must have been someone winding you up.'
'But why?' Plummer wanted to know.
Hitch could only shrug.
'The bit about the warehouse was right,' Plummer continued. 'Connelly's just bought himself a warehouse down by the docks.'
'Maybe his boats unload there, the ones that bring his mags in,' Hitch offered.
Plummer remained unconvinced.
'You spoke to members of his firm,' he said. 'They're hardly likely to tell you what the cunt's planning, are they? Especially if he's planning to take over London with the money he makes from selling that fucking cocaine.' Plummer got to his feet and walked across to the fireplace, staring into the flames.
'There's no reason why he should want to try and "take over",' Hitch said. 'It doesn't make sense, Ray. There's been peace for over three years now. Connelly's not going to fuck it up by starting a drugs war, is he?'
'He might,' Morton offered.
'Oh, shut it, Terry, for fuck's sake,' Hitch said wearily.
'So what are you saying?' Plummer demanded. 'That the call was bollocks? A wind-up? If it was, I'd like to get my hands on the bastard that made it.'
'Forget about it,' Hitch advised, sipping his drink.
The phone rang.
Plummer crossed to it and picked up the receiver.
'Yeah,' he said.
'Ray Plummer.'
'Yeah, who's this?'
