The assault also had the effect, like any violent incident in a prison, of creating a hysterically ugly mood. Prisons are very finely balanced places; they rely as much on the prisoners making it work as the staff. They were all in it together. But they are febrile, hothouse environments and the effect of Bingham’s attack was like poking an anthill. The natives were restless. He’d had to cancel leave and put on extra shifts. The last thing he needed was a riot. That really would be the icing on the cake. Fordham was furious about this damage to his reputation. Other governors would be rubbing their hands.
Fordham personally suspected Anderson. He had the showman’s flamboyant touch, the imagination, that most of the other prisoners lacked. Everyone knew the reason for his ‘Jesus’ nickname. Fordham also harboured a feeling that it might be connected with Hanlon’s visit. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Not in prison.
When he’d been in the army, in Iraq and in Afghanistan, Fordham had seen torture of suspects first hand, or ‘enhanced interrogation’ as the army put it. He wasn’t squeamish — you can’t fight a war with clean hands — and having met Hanlon, he knew that neither was she. Well, he wasn’t going to launch a complaint to the Met, to Hanlon’s boss, or to air his suspicions; by nature he believed in closing ranks, but he certainly wasn’t going to make life easy for anyone.
He ordered an immediate cell lockdown on Anderson’s wing and a thorough search. He put his most trusted men on this. Rip the place apart, he’d told them. Prisoners are only allowed a certain amount of personal effects, more or less enough to fill two shoe boxes, but stuff still accumulates. Anderson’s phone, minus its SIM card, was discovered. An incandescently angry Fordham — what else was Anderson up to? — ordered Anderson strip-searched, with replacement clothing issued, and that he be put in a holding cell indefinitely until Fordham had decided exactly what to do with him.
Anderson paced his solitary confinement cell angrily. He hadn’t had his phone with him when Bingham had grassed Conquest up. It had been in its secure hiding place that had turned out to be not secure at all. He guessed that Hanlon wouldn’t be allowed to see him, no one would be. He’d demanded to see his lawyer and was told his request would be considered. That could be days, maybe weeks. Today was Wednesday; if he couldn’t tell her where Bingham thought the boy was being held by Friday, the deal was off. All of this would have been in vain. Not only would he lose the money, which he didn’t particularly care about, but he would lose his chance to get out of jail. If he’d been in the main part of the prison he could have found someone who was due a visit that week to pass a message on; that wasn’t going to happen now.
He’d requested via one of the prison officers that he be allowed to see Hanlon. He was given a frosty reply that the matter would be looked into. He had to get a message to her, but he couldn’t see how.
As Fordham expected, he received a formal request from DI Hanlon for a further meeting with Anderson. This chimed with the Anderson request to see her. It confirmed the governor’s suspicions. No way, thought Fordham. You’ve got a bloody nerve, DI Hanlon. This was turned down until a thorough review of Anderson’s conduct had been made.
Hanlon sat in her office, frustrated and worried. She had known that calling the prison would be a bad idea, but she hadn’t been able to resist. Every moment she didn’t find Peter increased the danger he was in and increased the pressure on her. The same thoughts ran over and over in her head like a washing-machine cycle. She knew Conquest had the boy, but she had no real proof. She had nothing she could take to even the tamest of magistrates. Even if Corrigan were to go crazy, throw caution to the wind, and agree with her, she still had no idea where Peter was being held. A man like Conquest, with a property network, could have him almost anywhere. Conquest would never tell her where the boy was. She knew that even if she had incontrovertible evidence — a busload of witnesses, forensic evidence, the whole thing on film even — Conquest wouldn’t talk. It would be beneath his dignity. There was nothing she could threaten him with.
The thing that really got to her was that she was certain Anderson had fulfilled his part of the bargain. The answer as to where Peter was lay maddeningly close, but just out of reach.
Suddenly she thought of Cunningham. Her heart leapt at the thought. Momentarily a golden scenario unfolded in her imagination: Cunningham in an interview room alone with Anderson, the information passed on, the lawyer phoning her from the prison car park. Surely Anderson was entitled to see a lawyer? Cunningham could get the access that Fordham had denied her. After her calls to the governor went unanswered, his secretary stone-walling her, she’d called a couple of people she knew in the prison service and they’d made discreet enquiries. They quickly found out what had happened at HMP Wendover and filled her in on Anderson and the sorry state of Bingham. That’s how she knew Anderson had succeeded. If Bingham hadn’t talked, Anderson would have killed him out of annoyance. They also let her know about the governor’s frame of mind. She was persona non grata. Everyone was.
Hanlon didn’t have many friends; in some respects she didn’t have any, not in the conventional sense. She strongly disliked socializing. She didn’t really understand it. Hanlon had little time for Jean-Paul Sartre but she did agree that hell was other people. She would never meet or talk to anyone purely for the pleasure of their company; she hated small talk. Fortunately, friendship doesn’t have to be a two-way street. If you admired Hanlon you had to accept that there would be a great deal of giving with very little reward. There were, however, more than a few people, a significant number, who liked Hanlon very much and were prepared to go to great lengths to help her. People like Corrigan and James Forrest. People like Laidlaw and Brudenell, the evidence storage manager, who had given Whiteside the clothes when they’d trapped Cunningham. The prison service people she knew were in that category. But even they couldn’t reach Anderson.
She sipped a cup of coffee, black as her mood, and tried to think how she could get access to Anderson. Whatever she did, Fordham, already suspicious of Anderson, would smell a king-size rat. No way would she be allowed to see him. Eventually yes, but not in the limited time frame that she was operating within. Nobody would be allowed to see him. No visitors for the foreseeable future. Peter would be dead by then.
There was a knock on the frosted glass of her door. She looked around her storeroom-cum-office gloomily. This is where they put the furniture that’s too old-fashioned, that they don’t want but don’t know what to do with, the stuff that’s useless, she thought to herself, a suitable metaphor — in Ludgate’s eyes — for me. At this moment, I tend to agree, she thought.
‘Come,’ she called out and Enver’s paunchy frame entered the cluttered room. His jacket was folded across his left arm and his stomach strained against the fabric of his shirt. Hanlon was pleased to see him despite her unaccustomed gloom. There was something very reassuring about Enver. She motioned to the chair opposite and Enver sat down, gingerly, as if he didn’t quite trust it to carry his weight. Hanlon filled him in on the Anderson story.
‘Which prison is he in again, ma’am?’ he asked her as she told him about her interview with the crime boss. As she did so, Enver felt a growing sense of pleasure, no, make that delight, at being able to provide some possibly good news. It was about time something went their way. Hanlon finished her narrative. Enver stopped playing with his moustache and looked at her.