A quick in and out, just as a favor. A big favor, a favor meriting repayment at some point down the line. A quick in and out – not even that actually. Breaking without entering. The alarm would kick in, though it always took time for anyone to respond. There might be cameras, but he was in his balaclava, the one that covered everything except the eyes. Gloved too, of course.
‘You don’t have to go in,’ he’d been told. ‘Leave that to us.’
The main door was almost too easy, though, and once it was unlocked, what was to stop him? Might even be a bit of petty cash lying around, a phone or an iPad, nothing anyone would bother about. He knew he had a couple of minutes. Maybe even five or ten.
But looking around the inside, it was just a nail bar. Not much to pocket other than manicure files and varnish. No cash register, just a card reader. If there’d been a computer, it had been unplugged and carried home for the night. Two more doors at the back of the room – toilet to the left and office to the right. The office was locked, too. Yale lock. He pulled off his gloves with his teeth so he could get a better grip on the smaller of his picks. Ten seconds was all it took. He crossed the threshold and switched his phone’s torch on. When he recognized what was sitting on the desk, he clenched his free hand, the one holding the pick. Clenched his teeth, too, and let out a hiss of breath between them.
Then he turned and ran, not noticing that the sharp little lock pick had pierced the flesh of his palm, a few tiny droplets of blood left behind on the fake wooden floor as he made good his escape . . .
Day One
Rebus sensed that something was wrong even before the alarm sounded. He was in the queue for breakfast, listening to the Wizard coughing up half a lung as usual. Nobody ever mentioned the hierarchy; it just happened naturally. Those liable to throw their weight around or go off on one ended up closest to the food while everyone else gathered behind in a ragged line. The Wizard was two places ahead of Rebus, which was fine. He probably wasn’t any older, but he looked it, and he’d been in prison longer than just about anyone else on the hall. His real name was Gareth Wallace, the nickname stemming from his long grey locks and longer beard. He arched forward as he coughed, not bothering to cover his mouth. New arrivals would make COVID jokes until they realized none were being heard for the first time. When Rebus turned to look behind him, he found Ratty there, seemingly more shrunken with each passing day. Ratty’s eyes, narrower even than usual, were for once not focused on the progress of the queue. He gave a slight nod when he realized he had Rebus’s attention.
There was a blur of movement as one of the white-shirted officers hit the alarm. The ringing was sudden and piercing, accompanied by other officers arriving, milling, conferring. Then the order – back to cells – followed by complaints and questions.
‘Room service today,’ an officer called Eddie Graves announced, beginning the process of shepherding the reluctant flock. ‘Wish I was as lucky.’ Graves had a complaint for every occasion, as if fortune was forever favoring the inmates.
‘How long but?’ someone asked.
‘Soon as we get you indoors,’ Graves answered.
Though Ratty was a good eight inches shorter than Rebus, he had the knack of seeing and knowing everything. ‘It’s Jackie,’ he told Rebus. Sure enough, two officers – Novak and Watts – filled Jackie Simpson’s doorway, faces close together, conversing in an undertone. Though other officers were forming a makeshift cordon, Rebus and several others had to pass this cell to get to their own.
‘Keep moving,’ came the order, hands flapping, arms outstretched. But as with a motorway crash, traffic inevitably slowed for a gawp. There were two more officers inside the cell. On the lower bunk Rebus could make out a prone and bloodied figure. Another man lay on the upper bunk and seemed in slightly better shape, in that the officers were trying to rouse him while ignoring his cellmate. Rebus remembered the name of the upper bunk – Mark Jamieson. He’d known him briefly on the outside. Not that he’d ever mentioned as much in here; Jamieson wouldn’t have thanked him.
‘Come on, John,’ Graves said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. ‘Don’t make things difficult.’ They locked eyes for a moment. Graves’s jaw was tensed and some of the color had drained from his face.
‘It’s not in my nature to make things difficult,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Unlike some.’ He gestured over Graves’s shoulder to where Darryl Christie sat at one of the circular tables near the food station. Two officers were flanking him while he finished his breakfast, taking his time, savoring each drop. Neither officer seemed minded to interrupt.
‘Darryl!’ Graves called out. ‘Back to your cell, please!’
Turning his head slowly, Christie took in both Graves and Rebus. ‘Right you are, Michelle,’ he called out. Michelle for Michelle Mone. Graves, the serial moaner, tried as ever not to show that the name irritated him. Rebus sensed that the grin Christie threw in Graves’s direction was meant not for the officer but for him.
John Rebus had a cell all to himself. It consisted of a narrow bed, toilet and sink. The toilet had no door but was in an alcove, allowing a modicum of privacy. There was a small desk and some storage space, plus a shelf for personal effects. He had piled here all the books he had promised himself he would read. Inside one of them he kept photos of his daughter and granddaughter. He wasn’t sure why he wanted them to remain private, but he did. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV had a slot at the side for DVDs, and there was also a landline telephone, again fixed to the wall. Calls had to be prearranged and paid for, and of course were monitored if there were any staff available. Beneath the bed was a small safe for valuables, which Rebus never bothered to lock.
This was his home now, and had been for the past six months. When he’d first arrived at HMP Edinburgh, they’d assessed him and put him in an overnight cell. Because he was ex-police, it was then decided that he should transfer not to one of the general halls but to the Separation and Reintegration Unit. This was where they kept the prisoners who were either in danger or were a danger to themselves. Some of them Rebus never saw. They remained in their cells, occasionally yelling a complaint but mostly staying silent. There was an enclosed yard where exercise was taken, its walls heavily graffitied with names, sometimes with the word ‘paedo’ or ‘nonce’ added.
Rebus felt hemmed in, not only by walls but by the same daily faces too. He had visited the prison many times during his detective years – he recalled being shown the Hanging Shed, now long demolished – but this was different. The various smells were never going to be showered away. Testosterone and wariness filled what air there was. Drug use was hard to miss. He had always known the place simply as Saughton, though the branding on the officers’ shirts these days declared it HMP Edinburgh. Prison, nick, jail, chokey, inside – many names but only one game: incarceration.
There were four general halls – Gyle, Swanston, Trinity and Whitecraig. Gyle was for women prisoners while Whitecraig housed the sex offenders. Trinity and Swanston were a mix of those awaiting trial on remand and those already convicted. One day, three months into his life sentence, the governor, Howard Tennent, had summoned Rebus to his office. It was large and modern and had a table and chairs for meetings. Tea was offered and there was even some shortbread.
‘How would you feel about joining the general population in Trinity?’ Tennent had asked while Rebus bit into a biscuit.
‘What’s happened?’ Rebus had asked back.
‘Two things. For one, we’re short of accommodation in the SRU, so we could do with your bed.’
‘And?’
The governor had shifted slightly in his chair. ‘Darryl Christie is ready to vouch for you, meaning you’ll be protected. He seems to think you did him some sort of favor a while back.’
‘He means getting rid of the competition – not that I did. My lawyers are busy with the appeal.’
‘You were there when Cafferty died, though.’
‘Again, not true. The coronary came after.’ Rebus had paused. ‘Is Trinity Christie’s patch?’
Tennent swept a few crumbs from the table in front of him. ‘He’s guaranteeing your safety, John, and we have a single cell that’s just been vacated. You’ve been off the force a good few years – I doubt you’ll come across too many guys you put in here. In fact, I’ve had a look. Just a few minor habituals, none of them minded to get on the wrong side of Darryl and his lads.’ He had fixed Rebus with a look. ‘So what do you say?’
‘I say that if someone does me in, I want you grieving at the graveside.’
Tennent had given a thin smile before rising to his feet, Rebus snatching a final biscuit as he was ushered from the room.
Well, it’ll make a change, he had thought to himself, while all too aware that ex-cops were unlikely to be welcomed with open arms. Aware, too, that Darryl Christie might at any time change his mind, leaving him wide open to attack.
It was an hour before his cell door was unlocked long enough for cold toast and a mug of stewed tea to be handed over. The officer’s name was Kyle Jacobs – nicknamed Kylie by the men on the hall. Rebus had made friends with him over the past weeks, Jacobs eager to hear tales from Rebus’s CID days. He was in his late twenties with short, well-groomed hair and heavily tattooed arms. He had two uncles who’d been Lothian and Borders Police and Rebus had pretended to know the names.
‘This looks appetizing,’ Rebus said as he took the plate. ‘Best we could do. The eggs would have walked in here by themselves.’
‘So what’s happening out there?’
‘Someone stabbed Jackie in the neck. He’s done for.’
‘How about Jamieson?’
‘Doped to the eyeballs. A nasty gash on his forehead.’ ‘Taken out of the game, basically. Found the weapon?’ Jacobs looked around. ‘I’ve already said more than I should.’
Rebus had edged forward, hoping for a glimpse down the hall, but the young officer crowded in on him. A raised voice came from behind the door of the next cell along.
‘Will you hurry the fuck up, Kylie! My belly thinks my throat’s been cut!’
Jacobs started closing Rebus’s door. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Rebus told him.
He settled on the edge of his bed, listening to the door locking. The normal routine would have had him helping at the library. He’d been offered floor polishing or the kitchens, but being around books had appealed more. The library wasn’t far from the NHS unit and its nursing staff. Rebus got his regular supply of COPD inhalers there, always with the warning that he shouldn’t pass them on – ‘Some users tweak them to make bongs,’ he’d been told. Not that cannabis was the biggest problem inside. Spice and its chums had been causing havoc for several years. Ketamine, nitazene, etizolam, bromazolam – Rebus couldn’t keep up, which didn’t matter as most of the prisoners just called them ‘benzos’ and didn’t seem to mind exactly which doses and combinations they were being offered. The drugs were easy to hide and there was no giveaway aroma. From noon onwards you could see the benzos taking their toll, slack faces atop immobile frames. There were ketamine users whose addiction had led to bladder problems and colostomies. They were known as Pissbag One, Two and Three. Nursing staff carried oranges with them because they diluted the effects of spice. Rebus had also seen plenty evidence of self-harm, prisoners whose arms bore scarring, some of it fresh and raw from the razor blade’s work. No one ever discussed it; it was just another fact of life behind bars.
Tennent had been right about one thing: Rebus hadn’t become aware of any real grudges against him. There was one guy, JoJo Peters, three murders to his name, who’d been put away after a cold-case trawl that Rebus had been involved in. But he was suffering from dementia these days and barely left his cell. The other prisoners made regular checks on him and took him treats. Rebus had stopped by one day and Peters had stared straight through him while chewing a toffee with the few teeth he’d managed to keep.
‘Shouldn’t be here,’ a younger prisoner had commented, arriving with another handful of sweets. ‘Home or a hospice if they had any heart.’
Word had obviously filtered down to Darryl Christie, who had stopped Rebus in the hall later.
‘Reckon JoJo could pose a problem?’ he’d asked. ‘Definitely not.’
Christie had nodded slowly and turned away, watched by a couple of officers. Rebus doubted they’d have been quick to respond even if Christie had launched himself at him. The place was short-staffed – all prisons were – and it was at near-capacity. Other jails were even more crowded, but life here was made easier for all concerned if someone like Christie exerted a level of control.
The day Rebus had moved into his permanent cell, Christie had come calling. He’d gained some weight and wore his hair long, swept back from his forehead. He’d wanted to thank Rebus for getting rid of Morris Gerald Cafferty. But Rebus had been convicted of attempted murder rather than murder proper. Even so, the judge had handed down the mandatory life sentence, despite Rebus’s protestations that he’d only meant to scare Big Ger by putting a cushion over his face. The prosecution hadn’t liked that, presenting Cafferty as a wheelchair-bound Mother Teresa rather than a thuggish career criminal. Rebus’s past run-ins with the man had been dusted off and held up to the jury for their consideration and condemnation. Still, Cafferty had died, leaving a vacuum of sorts – once his cocky lieutenant, Andrew Downs, had been scared off and run out of town. Christie’s town, controlled at a distance, while inside HMP Edinburgh he sat on his throne – or at least the chair at Rebus’s desk.
‘Settling in? Anything I can get you? I know you had a bit of a thirst on the outside – harder to source in here. Pills, on the other hand – uppers and downers – you’ll soon forget you’ve got four walls around you. You’ll forget everything bad.’
‘No chance of any Sanatogen then?’ Christie looked blank. ‘Forget it,’ Rebus said. Then: ‘Am I supposed to thank you for this?’
Rebus had known him since Christie was in his late teens, keening for retribution after his sister’s murder. Paths were open to him back then and he’d chosen the one leading here. Rebus had been in the room the night Christie had shot and killed an enemy. He’d seen a madness behind the young man’s eyes and had assumed he’d end up in the secure unit at Carstairs. But the law dictated otherwise.
‘One thing you can do for me, lifer to lifer,’ Christie had said that day in the cell, rising to his feet so he was eye to eye with the standing Rebus.
‘What?’
‘Run me through it. Help me picture the scene.’ His voice had dropped, but his eyes glittered. ‘Was he scared? Did he show it? Did he beg?’ He ran his tongue across his lips. His breath was bad and his skin sallow. ‘Come to think of it, how did you feel? It was a long time coming. Too long for many . . .’ ‘I actually had a bit of respect for the guy,’ Rebus had eventually replied. ‘He had a code of sorts, things that were beyond the pale. Not every toerag can say the same.’
Then he’d sat down on his bed, picked up a book and pretended to start losing himself in it, leaving Christie to stand his ground, dragging a hand through his hair before walking out.
A few of the prisoners referred to Christie as ‘the Don’. The first few times it had happened, Rebus had felt it necessary to respond that he was no Vito Corleone. But it kept happening anyway. Rebus knew all too well that Christie’s protection was a mixed blessing; it didn’t do to rile the guy unnecessarily. So he kept himself to himself, worked all the hours he could in the small but well-stocked library, and got to know a few of his companions, finding out who could be trusted to any extent and who should be avoided. He thought of Cafferty sometimes, not quite with remorse. The life sentence felt like Cafferty having one last laugh at Rebus’s expense.
The level of noise rose as the morning progressed, complaints from behind the locked doors. Rebus’s neighbors on both sides – Billy Groam and Everett Harrison – gave occasional kicks and thumps. Harrison had music playing as usual. Rebus had given up asking him to turn it down. Harrison was of Caribbean descent and had a Liverpudlian accent. He worked for a Merseyside-based trafficker of drugs and people, and had been caught in Edinburgh with a consignment of the former.
Rebus had asked him once if encroaching on Christie’s turf meant he had to watch his back.
‘Anyone comes at me, they better have nuclear capability,’ Harrison had retorted. And it was true that he seemed to get on well with Christie, the two men playing pool together and sometimes even sharing a console game. Smiles and laughs, pats on the back and handshakes. Rebus was almost convinced. His door was unlocked at one o’clock. An officer he didn’t recognize told him that food was being served in Swanston Hall, so he’d need to get changed. On your own hall, you could wear what you liked, but when visiting elsewhere, prison-issue polo shirts and sweatshirts were required, their colors indicating what level of inmate you were. Blue for short-term, brown for those not yet tried in court, maroon for sex offenders. The long-termers like Rebus wore dark green. He’d been told it was so the officers watching on CCTV could keep tabs. Last thing they wanted was lifers meeting kiddie-fiddlers during free flow. Having swapped his faded red polo for green, Rebus stepped out of his cell and saw that a cordon had been set up around the crime scene, courtesy of blue-and-white-striped POLICE tape draped between some parking cones. A scene-of-crime team was still busy, those inside the cell covered head to toe to prevent trace contamination. The governor meantime was in conversation with a cop Rebus recognized – Detective Sergeant Christine Esson. Spotting Rebus, she raised an eyebrow before
turning her attention back to Howard Tennent.
‘We all know what happened,’ Billy Groam muttered, walking a few paces ahead of Rebus. ‘Bad blood between Jackie and that bawbag Chris Novak. You saw him this morning same as I did, standing outside the cell making sure all his mates had their stories straight.’
Yes, Rebus remembered the two officers, faces almost touching as they talked. Novak and Valerie Watts. Rumor was they were more than just colleagues. But then rumors were like oxygen in a place like this, keeping the heart pumping and the mind active.
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