From Dillon’s perspective, the phone call had terminated most unsatisfactorily, with Skinner promising to get back to him if anything significant came out of the production or if there were any unforeseen problems. It had taken him less than a day to renege on his promise, and Dillon chided himself for being foolish enough to expect anything else from a shifty fat fucker like Frank Skinner.
“So, what happened?” Dillon asked, scathingly.
Skinner blew out his cheeks, spraying spittle everywhere. “Nothing bloody happened,” he said petulantly. “The fucker’s appendix ruptured before we could even speak to him. Peritonitis, I think they call it. Long story short, he’s going to be hospitalised for quite a while, which means by the time he’s ready to be discharged, the poxy production order will have expired and he’ll have to go straight back to prison. If we want to speak to him, we’ll have to go through the whole rigmarole of producing him again. It’s a bloody disaster, mate.” He thumped the chair next to him in frustration.
Serves you bloody right, Dillon thought, resisting the urge to smile smugly. “Has a risk assessment for the hospital watch been carried out yet?” he asked instead, noting that the uniformed officers were unarmed.
Skinner didn’t like the tone of Dillon’s voice, and he responded by folding his arms defensively, the way that small-minded people often do when put on the spot.
“Yes,” he said, guardedly. “I’ve carried one out myself, in conjunction with the local Duty Officer. It’s all been properly documented.”
“Look, I’m not trying to teach you how to suck eggs,” Dillon said, struggling not to lose his cool, “but have you considered requesting an armed guard. He’s a nasty fucker and his gang has access to guns.”
Skinner snorted at that. “Practically every villain in the country has access to firearms these days,” he said, dismissively. “Don’t worry, there will be three uniformed PCs with him for the duration of his stay. I’m happy that that’s enough and, more importantly, so is the Duty Officer who’s providing the staff.”
Dillon didn’t share his confidence. Unlike Skinner, he’d seen what Winston was capable of at first hand, and there was no doubt in his mind that armed officers were definitely warranted. By choosing not to go down that route, he felt that Skinner was making a big mistake. Cynically, he found himself wondering whether the decision was down to poor judgement or laziness. After all, getting the authority to deploy an armed guard involved a hell of a lot more paperwork than drafting in three lids from the local station do the job.
Skinner’s tone became slightly more conciliatory. “Look,” he said, pausing to smile indulgently, and looking like he was trying to pass wind. “It’s not like he’s a member of one of the Turkish or Albanian organised crime gangs we used to deal with at SO7, is it?”
Dillon scowled at him. “Meaning what exactly?”
Skinner spread his arms expansively. “Meaning it’s highly unlikely that anyone would care enough about the twat to try and spring him out of here, even if they could.”
Dillon could tell that there was absolutely no point in continuing the conversation. Skinner’s narrow little mind was made up, and nothing he said was going to change it. “I really hope you’re right, Frank,” he said, standing up to go, “because if you’re not, it won’t be your life on the line when the shooting starts.”
Chapter 3
Thursday 6th January 2000
At precisely eleven o’clock that morning, two smartly dressed men carrying expensive-looking briefcases turned up at Winston’s room and demanded access.
“Sorry,” PC Stanley Morrison said, barring their way, “this man’s in police custody and only authorised persons are allowed to visit.”
The elder of the two, a white man in his mid-thirties with a spray-on tan and heavily gelled hair, smiled indulgently and produced a laminated badge, which stated that his name was Oliver Clarke and that he was a fully qualified solicitor working for a company called Cratchit, Lowe and Clarke.
“I’m Mr Winston’s solicitor, and I’m here to visit him in that capacity,” Clarke announced. Morrison was surprised to hear him speak in a coarse East London accent more becoming of a barrow boy than a solicitor. He had expected something much snootier from the man’s flashy appearance, although now he came to think about it, maybe the unevenly sprayed-on tan should have given him a clue.
“This is my intern, Jeremy Peters,” Clarke said, introducing the thin black man in his late twenties who had accompanied him.
Morrison eyed the studious ebony-skinned intern carefully. He certainly seemed respectable enough, so he probably was exactly who he claimed to be, but orders were orders. “Do you have a formal ID like this?” he asked, waving Clarke’s laminate in his face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Peters said, smiling apologetically. He was far better spoken than Clarke and Morrison got the impression that he had come from a wealthy background, attended a posh school and an even posher university.
Morrison stared at them indecisively. He had strict orders that any solicitor requesting access to the prisoner was to have proper identification. Otherwise, a check was to be made with the Law Society and a drug squad skipper called Frank Skinner was to be consulted before they were admitted. Morrison knew that getting the intern checked out with the Law Society would take time, and now that he thought about it, no one had actually said anything about interns. Were they even registered with the Law Society? Morrison suspected not. He decided that his instructions were ambiguous enough to give him some leeway in how he interpreted them and concluded that as long as the solicitor checked out, which he did, there was no
