Jack shrugged. “According to Andy Quinlan, even if he doesn’t get his sentence significantly reduced, he won’t end up going into general population with all the other scumbags if he turns QE, and if he becomes a super-grass, he might not even serve his time in prison.”
Dillon spun on him, the huge muscles of his neck straining against his collar.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, eyes narrowing to the size of slits. “Why should turning Queen’s Evidence or becoming a super-grass guarantee him an easy ride?”
“It’s not that, Dill. HMP wouldn’t be able to guarantee his safety, which is why people who turn QE end up in segregation, and super-grasses normally end up being housed in police stations that no longer have a working custody suite, like the one at Woodford Green.” Tyler snorted derisively. “Can you imagine that? He would be looked after round the clock, literally waited on hand and foot – it would be like he was staying in a bloody hotel.”
Dillon’s face darkened. “Don’t tell me that,” he said. “my blood pressure’s already climbing through the roof.”
Tyler stared at him with sympathetic eyes. “Well, I’ve spoken to George Holland, and he says there’s nothing we can do about it. He phoned his oppo at the drug squad to see if he could find out what they’re up to, but the man was unwilling to go into any detail for fear of –” he made air quotes “– compromising operational security.”
After the call, Holland had wryly explained that the turn of phrase had been managerial speak for ‘fuck off and mind your own business.’
Tyler was a pragmatist; he figured that if George Holland couldn’t get to the bottom of it, then he and Dillon stood no chance. The trouble was, from the determined look on his square-jawed face, Dillon wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“I’ve got a mate – well an acquaintance to be precise – who works at the drug squad. His name’s Frank Skinner, do you know him?”
Jack shook his head. The name didn’t ring any bells with him. “Can’t say I do,” he said.
“We were on a Project Team at SO7 at the same time. He’s a miserable sod, and a bit of a tosser if I’m completely honest, but he owes me. I’m gonna give him a discreet call and see if he can shed any light on this.”
Jack considered this and concluded that it might be worth a shot. “Go for it,” he said, and then decided to add a word of caution. “But remember this: we’ve done our bit. We arrested him and put him behind bars. If it’s been decreed from on high that Winston is super-grass material, there’s nothing we can do about it, no matter how unpalatable that might be.”
Dillon’s face sagged. “I know,” he said, “and it makes me sick to my stomach.”
Chapter 2
Wednesday 5th January 2000
Claude Winston awoke in agonising pain. His body was covered in sweat, and he barely made it to the metal toilet in the corner of his cell before he threw up.
The room was spinning and he felt like he was going to pass out. The pain in his lower stomach was so unbearable that he couldn’t even stand up straight. No, no, no, he thought, fighting off the panic, this can’t be happening. If I’m ill, the escape will have to be abandoned and I might never get another chance.
He had no idea what time it was, but he could tell from looking through the thick frosted glass of his cell window that it was still dark outside. Winston staggered back to his cot and flopped down on the shiny blue plastic mattress. Perhaps it would pass if he just laid down for a while. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, doing his best to ignore the searing pain in his stomach and right side.
◆◆◆
Trish Raven was the early turn civilian gaoler at Forest Gate, and when she conducted the first of her hourly checks at seven o’clock that morning, she found Winston unconscious on his bed, his chest covered in vomit. For a moment, she thought that he had chocked on it and was dead, so completely still was he. Then, as she stood there, gagging at the smell and trying not to panic unduly because a death in custody had just occurred on her watch, he groaned out loud and threw up again.
Thank God! Trish thought, moving forward cautiously. She was so relieved that, if he hadn’t been so smelly – and possibly contagious – she might actually have considered hugging him.
“Mr Winston, are you okay?” she asked. It was a stupid question, she realised because he obviously wasn’t. When he didn’t respond, she reluctantly moved closer to check his vitals. There was no time to don a pair of rubber gloves, and she hoped that whatever ailment he was suffering from wasn’t catching.
“You really don’t look too good,” she said, seeing the film of sweat that covered his unnaturally grey face. He was burning up, too, and he didn’t respond when she shook his shoulder, nor when she pinched his ear lobe. From what she could remember from her first aid training, that meant his GCS – Glasgow Coma Scale – score was very low and he required urgent medical treatment. “Shit,” she said under her breath and rushed out to call the custody sergeant. He would know what to do.
◆◆◆
When DS Frank Skinner and DC Patrick Donoghue, his ginger-haired, freckle-faced sidekick from the drug squad, arrived at Forest Gate police station at nine o'clock that morning to start interviewing Winston, they received a nasty surprise.
“He’s not here,” the custody officer informed them without looking up from the record he was hurriedly updating in an illegible scribble that would have done most doctors proud.
The custody suite was heaving as half-a-dozen overnight prisoners were being prepared
