Shaun Hutson - Captives

Fairham swallowed hard and began drumming his fingers distractedly on his knees.

'I don't think anyone is casting aspersions on you or your officers, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton offered. 'What happened was unfortunate, we're all agreed on that.'

'It was also inevitable,' Nicholson said sharply. 'The men in here are unpredictable, violent and dangerous. To some, killing is a way of life, whether you want to face that fact or not. Mr Fairham obviously chooses to ignore it.'

'Do you feel that the killing would not have taken place had overcrowding been less intense?' asked Merrick, pulling a pair of spectacles from his top pocket. He began cleaning then with a handkerchief which, Nicholson noticed, bore his initials.

'The killing would have happened whatever the population of the prison. As I said to you, for some of the men in here it's all they understand.' Nicholson looked at Fairham. 'Most criminals are of low intelligence, as you're probably aware. The difference between right and wrong seems to escape them. Presumably you are aware of the dead man's background?'

'He'd been remanded to appear in court for a driving offence,' Fairham said.

'A driving offence which included being drunk in charge of a vehicle,' Nicholson said. 'A vehicle he lost control of, which ran into a bus queue, killing a six-year-old girl in the process. A little more serious than an expired tax disc, I think you'll agree.'

Fairham didn't speak.

'You sound as if you feel his killing was a kind of justice in itself,' said Anne Hopper.

'They say God pays back in other ways, Miss Hopper,' Nicholson said flatly.

A knock on the door broke the heavy silence and a moment later Nicholson's secretary entered with-a tray of tea and coffee, which she distributed before leaving once more.

'What attempts are there at segregation between remand prisoners and convicted men here?' Clinton finally asked.

Nicholson sipped his tea thoughtfully.

'Very little,' he said flatly. 'We simply don't have the facilities to cope with the number of remand prisoners sent here.'

'Does that bother you, Mr Nicholson?' Fairham wanted to know.

'They're all criminals,' the Governor said.

'No, they're not,' Fairham protested, putting down his cup. 'The men on remand are awaiting trial. Some may be acquitted. Yet you insist on placing them with men who have already been convicted of far worse crimes.'

'I don't insist on it,' snapped Nicholson. 'I have no choice. What would be your answer to overcrowding?' he said, challengingly.

'Build more prisons,' Fairham answered.

'If you empty a rubbish bin onto the ground, it doesn't mean the rubbish will disappear,' Nicholson said, smiling. 'All you do is re-distribute the rubbish over a wider area.'

'And what is that supposed to mean?' Fairham snorted indignantly.

'If you build more prisons you're doing the same thing,' the Governor said. 'You're not removing the problem, you're just re-distributing the rubbish.'

'I'm not sure I like your analogy,' Fairham said. 'We're speaking about men, not garbage.'

'You have your own view,' Nicholson said icily.

'Is that how you view the men in Whitely, Mr Nicholson? As garbage?' Anne Hopper wanted to know. She held his gaze as he looked at her.

'As I said, we all have our own views. Perhaps I'm the wrong one to ask about that.'

'I would have thought you were exactly the one to ask,' Fairham interrupted vehemently. 'You are, after all, in charge of over a thousand men. You are responsible for their welfare.'

'Perhaps you'd be better off asking the families of their victims how they feel,' hissed Nicholson, turning his full fury on Fairham. 'There's a man in here who kidnapped and murdered two babies. One of them was less than six months old. He beat them so badly there was hardly a bone left unbroken in either of their bodies. Why don't you speak to the mothers of those babies? Or perhaps Miss Hopper should speak to the women who've been raped by some of the men in here. Or to the husbands of those women. Speak to them.' He looked at the woman. 'Do you have any children?'

She shook her head.

'No,' he echoed. 'Then perhaps the prisoners in here who have sexually abused children won't seem quite so odious to you.'

'Clinton held up a hand to silence the Governor.

'All right, Mr Nicholson,' he said, smiling ingratiatingly. 'I think we understand your point.'

'Don't patronise me,' he snarled. 'This is my prison. Run my way. I understand the mentality of the men in here. I see them every day and familiarity doesn't breed contempt so much as disgust in me. When you've lived around men like that for as long as I have, when you've seen at first hand what they're capable of, then you can come here and tell me how to handle my affairs. But for now this is the way things will continue.'

'Mr Nicholson, we didn't come here for a battle,' said Clinton. 'And I'm sure no one doubts your knowledge and ability in this job. We came to see how the prison is run. Perhaps now might be a good time to do that.'

He got to his feet and looked first at his companions and then at Nicholson, who nodded, a slight smile creasing his lips.

'If Mr Fairham will allow me to say one more thing,' he offered, the tone of his voice even, 'we also find overcrowding a problem here but the answer isn't to build more gaols. Before you leave here today, I'll show you how overcrowding can be dealt with once and for all. Not just at Whitely, but at every prison in the country.'

FORTY-SIX

The rumbling of conversation gradually died down as DI Frank Gregson got to his feet.

'All right, keep it down,' he said, raising his voice, looking out at the twenty or so uniformed and plain clothes men seated in the room. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Beside him, his colleague DS Finn was adding to the pollution, blowing out long streams from his Marlboro.

The babble gradually subsided into near-silence.

Gregson walked across to a blackboard that had a map of the West End stuck to it. There were several red-tipped pins protruding from it and an area of Soho had been ringed in red marker pen. To the left of the map pictures of Paula Wilson, plus the remains of the two dead murderers, were tacked. On the other side of the map there were several pictures which, from a distance, looked like ink blots. They were in fact the blow-ups of the print taken from Paula Wilson's thigh.

'Nine deaths, including two suicides,' Gregson began. 'All within the space of a week. The murders, as far as we can tell, are motiveless; the killers are now dead, burned to a crisp both of them. By their own choice. Nine bodies and no leads. That is the state of play at the moment.' He prodded a picture of Paula Wilson. 'You all know about this woman, how she was killed and where. What we don't know is why and by who. Now Dean Street, where he killed her, isn't exactly a quiet area; someone somewhere must have seen or heard something. And, seeing as no one has come forward with any information about this killing, I supposed we're meant to think that no one saw anything.' He smiled humourlessly. 'That's a load of bollocks.' The smile faded rapidly. 'If they won't come to us then we'll have to go to them. I want you to talk to people.' He looked slowly around the other faces in the room. 'I want pubs, clubs, clip-joints, restaurants and anything else you can think of, checked out. Talk to the staff. Two men have committed suicide within a one-mile radius of each other within a week. We've had a fucking chase through Soho and now a woman's been murdered. Somebody has seen something. Somebody knows something. I want that somebody found and I want them talking.'

'Who exactly are we looking for?' asked a plain clothes man in the front row. 'A suspicious character?'