Angel on the Inside (24 page)

‘One: do not draw attention to yourself. Two: do not talk to anyone except a prison officer, and only if they talk to you first. Three: do not be cheeky, or pretend to know what you're talking about. So you do not say “porridge”, “banged up”, “screw” or anything like that.'

‘You did.'

‘I'm allowed. I'm a known face; that's why I'll just be taking you as far as the Visitor Centre, show you the ropes. After that, you're on your own. That's why you've got to remember Rule One.'

‘Which was?'

‘Don't draw attention to yourself!' Then he realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. ‘Anyway. Number four: make sure you've got some genuine ID with you, with a photo for preference. Five: don't take more than six quid in with you. That's all that's allowed, but you'll need it to buy tea or coffee and you can leave the change in Malcolm's account. Six: do not take anything to write with. No paper, no pens. Prisoners aren't allowed to write anything or sign anything during visiting. And for Christ's sake don't go in there with a mobile phone. That's asking for it. Seven: don't bother taking any fags in there; they're trying to make it a healthier environment. And eight: do not carry any sort of drugs in with you, and to be safe, don't wear any clothes that have been near any drugs lately. Don't laugh; those sniffer dogs are good, and if they pick you out, the next sound you hear is the smack of a rubber glove, and it's bend over and spread ‘em for the anal search. If you're lucky, they'll remember the Vaseline.'

‘I'm rapidly going off this whole idea,' I said. ‘I mean, I'm still no clearer as to why I'm visiting this guy Fisher anyway.'

‘Bit late to start worrying about that, innit? You pick me up outside the hostel at 12.00, eh? That should do it. Be a nice run round by Dartford in that taxi of yours. Don't forget some cash for the toll bridge, though.'

‘Now wait a minute.' I caught his arm and pulled him up short. Fang took the opportunity of the unscheduled stop to squat down and finally do what he was supposed to do, right in the middle of the footpath. ‘You haven't given me one good reason why I should take up this Mr Fisher's nice offer of an afternoon in one of Her Majesty's prisons. What if I just don't show?'

‘That's up to you, son.' Spider looked around him, anywhere but at me. Just an old man waiting for his dog to finish fouling the walkway. ‘But I'd always bear in the back of my mind how Mr Creosote got that name.'

‘Do you know, I've been meaning to ask that.'

‘Well, put it this way, the last person who crossed him – it was down in Cardiff, and when he was in Cardiff nick – the next day, they comes home to find their living room has been creosoted. You know what I'm talking about? Creosote. The stuff like tar, that you use outside on your roof or on your garden shed that you just don't ever, ever, get on your clothes? Imagine coming home to find your walls, the carpet, the three-piece suite from Ikea, the television, even your fucking dog, all done out in creosote. And not just a bucket of it thrown slapdash like some young hooligan would, but a proper job. Three men in there for most of the day, applying two coats and not a drop spilt on the front doorstep to tell you they'd called.

‘He can make that happen from inside his cell. That's why he got the name.'

‘And that's why you're scared of him?'

‘That's why
you
should be scared of him. You've got a fucking living room, I haven't.'

 

I called in at the Stuart Street flat on my way back to Hampstead, to collect my old B-flat trumpet to bolster my alibi.

I told Springsteen he was looking well and it wouldn't be long before the plaster came off. Then I made a chainsaw sound. He lashed out at me, but he was slow, far too slow.

For a moment, I seriously considered joining Amy on that flight to Madrid, but the prospect of coming home to a weatherproof lounge worried me.

Then I realised I was picking Spider up for the jaunt to Belmarsh at roughly the same time I had agreed to take Amy to Heathrow, and that worried me as well.

On my way out, I stopped at Flat 2 and gave Fenella some dosh for Springsteen's food and nursing. I also told her that if three men in overalls turned up with tins of what looked like paint, she was
on no account
to let them in. They had not been hired to repaint my flat, it was all a cruel practical joke, but the guys in overalls wouldn't know that and they might turn ugly if they thought they were losing a job.

If they turned violent, there was only one thing Fenella could and should do.

Shout for Lisabeth.

In an odd sort of way, I was curious to see if Mr Creosote could top that.

 

‘How long are you going for?' I almost added:
this time
.

‘Back on Friday. Plane lands at 8.15 – that's pm, so don't panic. You could pick me up from Heathrow if you like.'

Amy concentrated on packing yet another dress into an already-straining suitcase.

‘And you want me to drop you there tomorrow as well?' I said, as if I'd just remembered it.

‘If it's not too much trouble.'

‘Well, actually, I've been volunteered to pick up one of the band over in Chadwell Heath about 12.00. We've got the offer of a warm-up session at a pub down Canary Wharf.'

‘On a Monday lunchtime?'

‘They don't get much entertainment down Canary Wharf.'

‘Well, okay, I'll take the Freelander and stick it in the Long Stay car park.'

‘No, that's always a hassle, don't bother with that.'

I had a vague feeling I might need the Freelander. Far too many people had seen me in Armstrong lately: Spider, the Turners and even Steffi Innocent.

Now there was an idea.

‘I promise you there'll be a cab here on the dot of 12.00,' I said confidently. ‘On me. You won't even have to fiddle your expenses. And I'll pick you up on Friday night. That's a guarantee. What about tickets and stuff?'

‘I'll e-mail Debbie at the office and she can bike them round first thing. All the paperwork can be downloaded from the office computer into my laptop. I don't have to go in.'

She stood back from her suitcase, which covered most of the bed, and glared at it, willing the pile of clothes to shrink.

‘Why this sudden concern for my welfare?' she asked suspiciously.

Typical.

‘Welfare? Whose welfare? I want to make sure you don't miss your plane. That way, I get you out of the way for five days while I get to go and revisit my misspent youth, touring with the boys in the band, making good music, staying up late, getting drunk and taking drugs and fighting off the groupies.'

She screwed her eyes up and waited for the moment.

‘Damn, you must have a long memory,' she said.

 

First thing on Monday morning, I rang Rudgard & Blugden Confidential Investigations. Steffi Innocent picked up the phone. I'd just known she would be the first one in the office, at her desk by 8.30.

I told her I had a job for her, an important job. She asked if I was hiring her and I said no, giving her a chance to pay off her debt to me. Before she could ask what debt, I said there had been a
development
in the case she'd got me involved in and I needed her and her Tixilix taxi at 12 noon sharp. Before she could ask what case, I told her she had to pretend to be a regular taxi – prepaid and ordered by me – and to pick up Amy and drive her to Heathrow. She was not to reveal who she was or anything about her following me and Amy around the previous week, or to mention Haydn Rees or Keith Flowers. In fact, just talk normal taxi driver/passenger stuff. In fact, just pretend she was a real taxi driver.

‘It sounds as if you just want me to give her a lift to the airport,' she moaned.

As if, I said. Didn't she realise I needed a trained observer to check whether or not Amy
was being followed
? Not to do anything if she was, mind, just take notes and check in back with me later.

Was somebody following her? That was for her to find out, wasn't it? After all, she was the detective.

By the time she hung up, she was quite enthusiastic about the whole thing, and I felt fairly pleased with myself as well.

I'd just saved 30 quid, with tip.

 

I actually parked at the end of the road just to check that Steffi turned up on time, but of course Miss Perfect Professional was 15 minutes early. Which was fine by me, as I was only slightly late getting over to St Chad's to find Spider hopping from one foot to the other outside the hostel.

‘Cutting it a bit fine aren't you?' he growled as he piled in the back.

‘Can't wait to get back inside, can you?' I said, a tad cruelly.

‘The warden's gone to the cash ‘n carry, but he'll be back soon, and it don't look good if he sees me getting into a cab, does it? I mean, he'll begin to think I've got a source of income. And anyway, I'm not going inside – well, not today. You are.'

He sank down in the back so he couldn't be seen clearly until we were well on to Eastern Avenue. Only as we were circling Romford did he move on to the rumble seat behind me and start chattering in my ear. I was tempted to slide the partition into place; not because of what he was saying but because of his breath, which stank as if he'd been stealing Fang's dinner. I wished I had a cigarette to give him.

‘You got your VO?'

‘Yes.'

‘You got some photo ID?'

‘Yes.'

‘You got any drugs on you?'

‘No.'

‘You carried any hard drugs on you in the last week?'

‘No.'

‘You smoked any dope in the last 30 days?'

‘No,' I said, surprised. ‘Why 30 days?'

‘They reckon that's how long it stays in your system. Or, least, that's what they say when they do MDTs on you.'

‘In English, please,' I said.

‘What?' he snapped back.

‘What does MDT mean?'

‘Mandatory drugs testing – piss tests to you and me. It's what they do inside. Your name comes up on their computer and you get to pee in the bottle. Ten to 14 days on your sentence for cannabis, 21 to 36 for opiates. You don't take the test, they add on 36 days anyway. How much money you got on you?'

‘Five pounds 99p.'

‘Correct. But that's just what you can take in. I hope you got some stashed away somewhere so you can buy me a pint on the way home.'

‘I thought this was your way home.'

He threw himself off the rumble and onto the back seat, snorting in disgust. ‘Easy thing for you to say, but you've got no poxy idea what it's like inside. I can handle it, you couldn't. They won't need to do an MDT on you, you'll piss yourself with fright in the visiting room.'

I supposed I deserved that. I just hoped he wasn't right.

We joined the M25 off the Southend Arterial and, thanks to a clear run, we were on the Dartford Bridge within a few minutes. We were halfway across before Spider spoke again.

‘It's the views you miss, you know.'

I checked him in the mirror. He was gazing out over the Thames at its widest, greyest and most industrial, a view rarely seen on postcards.

‘And it's the views that do your head in as well. In Belmarsh, some of the local lags on remand can see their own flats over in Thamesmead West or Plumstead. “I live there, third balcony down,” they yell, just like big kids. Then there's the City Airport just across the river, and you can see the planes come in and go out all bloody day and night. Fucking cruel it is sometimes.'

I knew about the Alcatraz syndrome, where the real punishment for the prisoners there came not from the incarceration itself so much as being able to look across the bay and see the waterfront lights of San Francisco and actually hear the music and sometimes the voices of the revellers on Fisherman's Wharf. I'd never thought a view of a council tower block in Plumstead or a short take-off stumpy plane full of irritated businessmen or bored civil servants heading for yet another showdown in Brussels could match the delights of Frisco. But then, each to his own, especially when the alternative is 30-foot high redstone walls.

‘I thought you quite fancied the idea of going back inside,' I said over my shoulder as I flipped coins into one of the automatic toll collectors.

‘I have to admit I do,' said Spider mournfully.

‘And why's that?'

‘My age? My circumstances? Trust me, it's more of a prison on the outside.'

I put my foot down and zipped Armstrong into the correct lane for Dartford and the strangely-named Erith, cutting up a couple of trucks and several families of holidaymakers on their way to Dover and the continent. No-one minded. Even returning Belgian motorists knew better than to honk a London taxi.