When he reached the top step he checked to see if anyone had noticed him leave. No one even glanced in his direction. The Argentine players were surrounding the referee and protesting, while the England captain picked up the ball and walked calmly into the penalty box.
He came to a halt outside the shower room, and peered inside to discover it was steamed up; all part of his plan. He stepped inside, relieved to find that only one person was taking a shower. He padded silently over to the wooden bench on the far side of the room, where a single towel lay neatly folded in the corner. He picked it up and carefully twisted it into a noose. The prisoner standing under the shower rubbed some shampoo into his hair.
Everyone on the ground floor had gone silent. There was not a murmur as David Beckham placed the ball on the penalty spot. Some even held their breath as he took a few paces back.
The man in the shower room took a few paces forward as Beckham’s right foot connected with the ball. The roar that followed sounded like a prison riot, with all the officers joining in.
The prisoner who was rinsing his hair under the shower opened his eyes when he heard the roar, and immediately had to place a hand across his forehead to stop more lather running into his eyes. He was just about to step out of the shower and grab his towel from the bench when a knee landed in his groin with such force that Beckham would have been impressed, followed by a clenched fist into the middle of his ribs which propelled him against the tiled wall. He tried to retaliate, but a forearm was rammed into his throat, and another hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. One swift movement, and although no one heard the bone snap, when he was released his body sank to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
His attacker bent down and carefully placed the noose round his neck, then with all the strength he possessed lifted the dead man up and held him against the wall while he tied the other end of the towel to the shower rail. He slowly lowered the body into place and stood back for a moment to admire his handiwork. He returned to the entrance of the shower room and poked his head round the doorway to check what was going on down below. The celebrations were now out of control, and any officers were fully occupied making sure that the prisoners didn’t start breaking up the furniture.
He moved like a ferret, making his way swiftly and silently back down the spiral staircase, ignoring the dripping water that would have dried long before the match came to an end. He was back in his cell in less than a minute. Laid out on his bed were a towel, a clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans, a fresh pair of socks and his Adidas trainers. He quickly stripped off his wet gear, dried himself and put on the clean clothes. He then checked his hair in the little steel mirror on the wall before slipping back out of the cell.
The prisoners were now impatiently waiting for the second half to begin. He joined his fellow inmates unnoticed, and slowly, a pace here, a sideways move there, made his way to the centre of the melee. For most of the second half the crowd were urging the referee to whistle for full time so that England could leave the pitch as one–nil winners.
When the final whistle eventually blew, there was another eruption of noise. Several officers shouted, ‘Back to your cells,’ but the response was not immediate.
He turned and walked purposefully towards one particular officer, knocking against his elbow as he passed by.
‘Look where you’re going, Leach,’ said Pascoe.
‘Sorry, guv,’ said Leach, and continued on his way.
Danny made his way back upstairs. He knew that Big Al would have already reported to surgery, but he was surprised that Nick wasn’t in the cell. He sat down at the table and stared at the photo of Beth still sellotaped to the wall. It brought back memories of Bernie. They would have been at their local watching the match together, if . . . Danny tried to concentrate on the essay that had to be handed in by tomorrow, but he just went on looking at the photo, trying to convince himself that he didn’t miss her.
Suddenly the shriek of a klaxon echoed around the block, accompanied by the sound of officers screaming ‘Back to your cells!’ Moments later the cell door was pulled open and an officer stuck his head in. ‘Moncrieff, where’s Big Al?’
Danny didn’t bother to correct him – after all, he was still wearing Nick’s watch, ring and silver chain, which had been given to him for safekeeping – and simply said, ‘He’ll be at work in the hospital.’
When the door slammed shut, Danny wondered why he hadn’t asked where he was. It was impossible to concentrate on his essay with so much noise going on all around him. He assumed some overexuberant prisoner was being carted off to segregation in the aftermath of the English victory. A few minutes later the door was pulled opened again by the same officer, and Big Al ambled in.
‘Hello, Nick,’ he said in a loud voice before the door was slammed shut.
‘What’s your game?’ asked Danny.
Big Al placed a finger on his lips, walked across to the lavatory and sat down on it.
‘They cannae see me while I’m sitting here, so look like yur working and don’t turn roon.’
‘But why—’
‘And don’t open yer mooth, just listen.’ Danny picked up his pen and pretended to be concentrating on his essay. ‘Nick’s topped himself.’
Danny thought he was going to be sick. ‘But why—’ he repeated.
‘I said don’t speak. They found him hangin’ in the showers.’
Danny began to pound the table with his fist. ‘It can’t be true.’
‘Shut up, ya stupid fucker, and listen. I wis in surgery when two screws came rushing in – one of them said, “Sister, come quickly, Cartwright’s topped himself.” I knew that wis balls, ’cause I’d seen ye at the football a few minutes before. It hud tae be Nick. He always uses the shower when he’s least likely tae be disturbed.’
‘But why—’
‘Don’t worry about why, Danny boy,’ Big Al said firmly. ‘The screws and the sister ran off, so I was left on ma own fur a few minutes. Then another screw turns up and marches mi back here.’ Danny was now listening intently. ‘He told me it wis you who’d committed suicide.’
‘But they’ll find out it wasn’t me as soon as—’
‘No, they won’t,’ said Big Al, ‘because I hud enough time tae switch the names on yer two files.’
‘You did what?’ said Danny in disbelief.
‘You heard me.’
‘But I thought you told me the files are always locked up?’
‘They are, but no during surgery, in case sister needs tae check on someone’s medication. And she left in a hurry.’ Big Al stopped talking when he heard someone in the corridor outside. ‘Keep writing,’ he said, and stood up, returned to his bed and lay down. An eye peered through the spyhole then moved on to the next cell.
‘But why did you do that?’ Danny asked.
‘Wance they check his fingerprints and his blood group, they’re gonnae go on thinkin it’s you who topped himself because ye couldnae face another twenty years in this shite-hole.’
‘But Nick had no reason to hang himself.’
‘I know,’ said Big Al. ‘But as long as they think it wis you on the end ay that rope, there’s no gonnae be an inquiry.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why you switched . . .’ began Danny. He went silent for some time, before adding, ‘So I can walk out of here a free man in six weeks’ time.’
‘Ye catch on fast, Danny boy.’
The blood drained from Danny’s face as the consequences of Big Al’s impetuous action began to sink in. He stared at the photo of Beth. He still wouldn’t be able to see her, even if he did manage to escape. He’d have to spend the rest of his life pretending to be Nick Moncrieff. ‘You didn’t think of asking me first?’ he said.
‘If I hud, it would’ve been too late. Don’t forget, there are only aboot half a dozen people in this place who cin tell ye apart, and wance they’ve checked the files, even they’re gonnae be programmed tae thinking yur died.’
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‘But what if we’re caught?’
‘Ye’ll carry on serving a life sentence, an I’ll lose ma job in the hospital and go back tae being a wing cleaner. Big deal.’
Danny was silent again for some time. Eventually he said, ‘I’m not sure I can pull it off, but if, and I mean if—’
‘Nae time for ifs, Danny boy. Ye’ve probably got twenty-four hours before that cell door opens again, by which time ye’ll huv tae decide if yer Danny Cartwright, serving another twenty years for a crime ye didnae commit, or Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, due for release in six weeks’ time. And let’s face it, ye’ll huv a far better chance of clearing yer name wance you’re on the ootside – not tae mention getting those bastards who murdered yer mate.’
‘I need time to think,’ said Danny as he began to climb up on to the top bunk.
‘No fur too long,’ said Big Al. ‘Remember Nick always slept on the bottom bunk.’
34
‘NICK WAS FIVE MONTHS older than me,’ said Danny, ‘and half an inch shorter.’
‘How dae ye know that?’ asked Big Al nervously.
‘It’s all in his diaries,’ replied Danny. ‘I’ve just reached the point where I turn up in this cell and you two have to decide what story you’re going to tell me.’ Big Al frowned. ‘I’ve been blind for the past two years, when all the time it was staring me in the face.’ Big Al still didn’t speak. ‘You were the staff sergeant who shot those two Kosovan Albanians when Nick’s platoon was ordered to guard a group of Serbian prisoners.’
‘Wurse,’ said Big Al. ‘It wis efter Captain Moncrieff hud given a clear order no tae fire till he’d issued a warnin’ in both English and Serbo-Croat.’
‘And you chose to ignore that order.’
‘There’s nae point issuing warnings tae someone who’s already firing at ye.’
‘But two UN observers told the court martial that the Albanians were only firing their weapons into the air.’
‘An observation made fae the safety of their hotel suite on the other side of the square.’
‘And Nick ended up carrying the can.’
‘Aye,’ said Big Al. ‘Despite the fact that I told the provost marshal exactly whit happened, they chose tae take Nick’s word over mine.’
‘Which resulted in you being charged with manslaughter.’
‘An only being sentenced tae ten years rather than twenty-two for murder with nae hope of remission.’
‘Nick writes a lot about your courage, and how you saved half the platoon, including himself, while you were serving in Iraq.’
‘He exaggerated.’
‘Not his style,’ said Danny, ‘although it does explain why he was willing to shoulder the blame, even though you had disobeyed his orders.’
‘I told the court martial the truth,’ repeated Big Al, ‘but they still stripped Nick of his commission and sentenced him tae eight years fur being reckless and negligent in the course of his duty. Do ye imagine a day goes by when I don’t think aboot the sacrifice he made fur me? But I’m certain of wan thing – he wouldae wanted ye tae take his place.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Read on, Danny boy, read on.’
‘Something doesn’t ring quite true about this whole episode,’ said Ray Pascoe.
‘What are you getting at?’ asked the governor. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s not uncommon for a lifer to commit suicide within days of his appeal being turned down.’
‘But not Cartwright. He had too much to live for.’
‘We can’t begin to know what was going on in his mind,’ said the governor. ‘Don’t forget that he tore his cell apart and ended up in segregation. He also refused to see his fiancée or his child whenever they turned up for a visit – wouldn’t even open her letters.’
‘True. But is it just a coincidence that this happens within days of Leach threatening to get even with him?’
‘You wrote in your latest report that there’s been no contact between the two of them since the library-book incident.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ said Pascoe. ‘If you intended to kill someone, the last thing you’d do is be seen anywhere near them.’
‘The doctor has confirmed that Cartwright died of a broken neck.’
‘Leach is quite capable of breaking someone’s neck.’
‘Because he didn’t return a library book?’
‘And ended up in segregation for a month,’ said Pascoe.
‘What about that tape you’ve been banging on about?’
Pascoe shook his head. ‘I’m none the wiser on that subject,’ he admitted. ‘It’s still just a gut feeling . . .’
‘You’d better have a little more to go on than a gut feeling, Ray, if you expect me to open a full inquiry.’
‘A few minutes before the body was found, Leach bumped into me quite purposely.’
‘So what?’ said the governor.
‘He was wearing a brand new pair of trainers.’
‘Is this leading somewhere?’
‘I noticed that he was wearing his blue prison gym shoes when the match started, so how come he was wearing brand-new Adidas trainers when it ended? It doesn’t add up.’
‘Much as I admire your powers of observation, Ray, that’s hardly enough proof to convince me that we need to open an inquiry.’
‘His hair was wet.’
‘Ray,’ said the governor, ‘we’ve got two choices. Either we accept the doctor’s report and confirm to our masters at the Home Office that it was suicide, or we call in the police and ask them to mount a full investigation. If it’s the latter, I’ll need a little more to go on than wet hair and a new pair of trainers.’
‘But if Leach—’
‘The first question we’d be asked is why, if we knew about Leach’s threat to Cartwright, we didn’t recommend that he was transferred to another prison the same day.’
There was a gentle tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ said the governor.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said his secretary, ‘but I thought you’d want to see this immediately.’ She handed him a sheet of lined prison paper.
He read the short note twice before passing it across to Ray Pascoe.
‘Now that’s what I call proof,’ said the governor.
Payne was showing a client round a penthouse apartment in Mayfair when his mobile phone began to ring. He would normally have switched it off whenever he was with a potential buyer, but when the name Spencer appeared on the screen he excused himself for a moment and went into the next room to take the call.
‘Good news,’ said Craig. ‘Cartwright’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘He committed suicide – he was found hanging in the showers.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s on page seventeen of the Evening Standard. He even left a suicide note, so that’s the end of our problems.’
‘Not while that tape still exists,’ Payne reminded him.
‘No one is going to be interested in a tape of one dead man talking about another.’
The cell door swung open and Pascoe walked in. He stared at Danny for some time, but didn’t speak. Danny looked up from the diary; he’d reached the date of Nick’s interview with Hurst from the Parole Board. The same day his appeal had been turned down. The day he trashed the cell and ended up in segregation.
‘OK, lads, grab a meal and then get back to work. And, Moncrieff,’ said Pascoe, ‘I’m sorry about your friend Cartwright. I for one never thought he was guilty.’ Danny tried to think of a suitable reply, but Pascoe was already unlocking the next door cell.
‘He knows,’ said Big Al quietly.
‘Then we’re done for,’ said Danny.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Big Al. ‘Fur some reason he’s gon’ along wi’ the suicide, an ma bet is that he’s no the only wan who’s got his doubts. By the way, Nick, whit made ye change yer mind?’
Danny picked up the diary, flicked back a
few pages and read out the words: If I could change places with Danny, I would. He has far more right to his freedom than I do.
35
DANNY STOOD as inconspicuously as possible at the back of the churchyard as Father Michael raised his right hand and gave the sign of the cross.
The governor had granted Nick’s request to attend Danny Cartwright’s funeral at St Mary’s in Bow. He turned down a similar application from Big Al on the grounds that he still had at least fourteen months to serve, and had not yet been granted parole.
As the unmarked car had swung into Mile End Road, Danny looked out of the window, checking for familiar sights. They passed his favourite chippie, his local, the Crown and Garter, and the Odeon where he and Beth used to sit in the back row every Friday night. When they stopped at the lights outside Clement Attlee comprehensive, he clenched his fist as he thought of the wasted years he had spent there.
He tried not to look when they passed Wilson’s garage, but he couldn’t stop himself. There were few signs of life in the little yard. It would take more than a fresh coat of paint to make anyone think about buying a second-hand car from Wilson’s. He turned his attention to Monty Hughes’s place on the other side of the road: row upon row of gleaming new Mercedes with smartly dressed salesmen displaying cheerful smiles.
The governor had reminded Moncrieff that although he had only five weeks left to serve, he would still have to be accompanied by two officers, who would never leave his side. And if he were to disobey any of the strictures placed upon him, the governor would not hesitate to recommend to the Parole Board that they rescind their decision for an early release, which would result in him having to serve another four years.
‘But you already know all this,’ Michael Barton had gone on to say, ‘because the same strictures were placed on you when you attended your father’s funeral just a couple of months ago.’ Danny didn’t comment.