“Okay,” he said, handing the ID back to Clarke. He opened the door and showed them in.
“I’d like to see my client in private,” Clarke said, nodding towards the bored-looking cop sitting in a soft chair opposite the bed, reading a magazine about angling.
Morrison was uncomfortable with that. “We were told that he wasn’t to be left alone,” he said.
“He won’t be alone,” Clarke said, smarmily, “he’ll be with us.”
The man’s flippancy riled Morrison, who didn’t like solicitors much at the best of times. He opened his mouth to fire back a sharp retort but, before he could speak, Peters cut in, his tone conciliatory. “Officer,” he said, “we’re three floors up, and none of the windows have an opening big enough for a man of Mr Winston’s considerable stature to squeeze through.”
To make his point, he nodded towards the windows, which Morrison saw only had narrow top openers fitted. Winston had to be a good six-feet-five inches tall in his stockinged feet, Morrison estimated, and he easily weighed in at eighteen or nineteen stone.
“Besides,” Peters continued, “the door has a glass panel in it, so you’ll be able to see in from outside.”
Morrison considered that, realised that the intern was right and that no harm could come of allowing them to speak in private, which they were allowed to do with their client anyway.
“Fair enough,” he said, “but we’ll be right outside, so no funny business.” The last comment was addressed to Winston, who simply sucked through his teeth in response.
◆◆◆
As soon as they were alone with their client, the two suited men pulled up chairs, sitting next to his bed with their backs to the door to prevent the officers outside from being able to read their lips. They were probably being a little paranoid, but it was better to be safe than sorry, especially given the nature of the discussion they were about to have. They both sat as close to the patient as they could, leaning in and speaking in hushed tones.
“How are you doing, uncle?” Deontay Garston asked. Now that he had dropped the phony accent he’d used while masquerading as Peters, he sounded every bit as much a local boy as Oliver Clarke.
“You’ve scrubbed up pretty well, nephew,” Winston said with a chuckle. “The posh accent you put on was impressive. It certainly had the pigs fooled.”
Garston allowed himself a modest smile of self-satisfaction. “I’ve been practising,” he said.
“Mr Winston,” Clarke cut in. “Just for the record, I’m not happy about having to lie to the police to get your nephew in here. If they had checked with the Law Society or my firm, I could have lost my job –” he swallowed hard “– or worse.”
Winston sneered at the spineless toad. “Get over it,” he snapped. “You’re being well compensated for getting the boy in to see me, so shut your mouth and do your job.”
“My job is to represent you, not assist you to break the law,” Clarke insisted edgily.
Winston ignored him. “So,” he said to his nephew, “you know what we had planned for my return journey to Pentonville, is it still on?”
Garston glanced uneasily at the solicitor, unsure about how much information to reveal in front of him.
Winston waved this away dismissively. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, staring at the lawyer and loading the last word with contempt. “If he says anything to the filth, he’ll be in as much trouble as we will.” His voice became full of menace as he leaned forward. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
Clarke couldn’t hold his eye. Looking down at the floor, he gave a forlorn shake of his head. “No, I won’t say a word,” he confirmed, the modulation in his voice expressing a mixture of fear and shame.
Winston gave a satisfied grunt.
“What were you going to say?” he asked, returning his attention to his nephew.
“I think I’ve come up with an even better escape plan,” Deontay declared. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Clarke cringe at the use of the word ‘escape’. “Your being in here might actually work in our favour. If we can find a way to overcome the three cops outside your room, we’ll have all the time in the world to make good our escape.” Lying awake in bed the previous night, it had suddenly occurred to him that if they snatched Claude from a police car, and the cops had a chance to use their radios, they might only have a couple of minutes to make good their getaway before reinforcements started to arrive. If, on the other hand, they broke him out of here and secured the guards so that they couldn’t summon help, they could well have upwards of an hour. It was a game-changing difference as far as their chances of success were concerned.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Winston said scathingly. “The problem is, how are you gonna do that without them using their radios, and without alerting any of the hospital staff?”
Deontay smiled nervously. “I’ve already thought about that,” he said. “I know a bloke who can source me some powerful sedatives. All I need to do is work out a way to administer them.”
Clarke was looking thoroughly miserable now.
Winston rolled his eyes in contempt. “Just get a couple of shooters, and we can pop the fuckers,” he said. “You don’t need to make things more complicated than they need to be.”
Deontay raised a cautionary finger to his lips, afraid that Winston was going to blurt something out loudly enough for the officers outside to hear. “Leave it with me, Claude, I’ve already got an idea of how this might work. I just need to recruit the right people to help me pull it off.”
“Well, don’t fuck about,” Winston instructed harshly. “If they can get the infection under control and bring my temperature down, the doctor reckons I’ll probably be fit enough to be released on Saturday. If not, it’ll be Monday morning,
