A Private and Convenient Place Read online

  A

  private &

  convenient

  place

  An Inspector Hood Novel

  MICHAEL G T STOKES

  Copyright © 2018 Michael G T Stokes

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  ISBN 9781789011593

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Anna and Harry

  ‘I swear by Almighty God that I will keep this jury in some private and convenient place. I will not suffer any person to speak to them, neither will I speak to them myself concerning the trial this day without the leave of the court unless it be to ask them if they are agreed upon their verdict.’

  - Jury bailiff’s oath

  ‘Wickedness is always easier than virtue; for it takes a short cut to everything.’

  Dr Samuel Johnson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter fifty-six

  Reviews of “Blackmail”

  Prologue

  Spring 2000

  Michael Doyle lay naked and still on the cold tiles of the shower block on level two of Draycott Heath Prison. The blood oozing from the wound on his leg was gradually turning into a trickle as it was washed away by the powerful jet of water descending from the shower head above. He had, he supposed, briefly lost consciousness when the blade entered his right thigh. As he started to come round, the disembodied screams and random shouting coming from the nearby landing streamed into his consciousness. Noise. That was a regular feature of prison life. Even at dead of night there was always someone creating a disturbance. But this was late-afternoon. This was the quiet period on D wing as the inmates returned from their work details. What had happened to him? Had he been attacked? Then he remembered. He moaned audibly, and noticed the crudely fashioned handle of the weapon in the hand of a fellow prisoner. He winced in pain and cursed. In his weakened state he was unable to turn his head. Dudley Manning, who was now bending over him and assuring him that all would be well, seemed to be the only other person present. Slowly but surely Doyle regained focus. His leg was still throbbing but the pain was gradually becoming tolerable. Manning examined the blade before tossing it into the shower gutter, the rush of water carrying it several feet towards the drain. He stood and switched off the shower then crouched down and tied a towel firmly around Doyle’s upper thigh using the cord from his prison issue dressing gown to secure it in place. Doyle nodded his appreciation and tried to get to his feet but the pain in his leg forced him down again. Manning advised him to stay where he was and covered his abdomen with the dressing gown in an attempt to preserve a modicum of decency. The alarm was now sounding which seemed to increase the racket from the landing. Prison officers would be arriving soon.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Michael,’ Manning assured him, but he did not sound too confident. ‘You’re in shock, but I don’t think it nicked the femoral artery. You’d better stay where you are though. The screws will be here any moment. I’ve already pressed the alarm.’

  ‘Where is everybody?’ asked Doyle, blearily. ‘I’m sure there was someone taking a shower when I came in here.’ He looked down at his leg. Blood was beginning to seep through the towel. He began to panic, placing his hand over the wound and flexing his leg to ensure he could still move it.

  ‘It’s still bleeding. Are you sure it hasn’t cut through anything important? It didn’t half hurt when you pulled it out. Funny thing is, I hardly felt it when it went in.’ There was a note of panic in his voice.

  ‘That’s to be expected,’ came the reply. ‘You passed out. They’ll have you in hospital in no time to check you over, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be OK.’

  Doyle responded with a lengthy and self-indulgent groan.

  * * * *

  Chapter One

  Draycott Heath Prison had been open for only eighteen months. A modern category ‘C’ establishment, it housed just under six hundred inmates. Situated close to the peak district, it was within striking distance of the major urban settlements of Sheffield, Nottingham, Stoke-on-Trent and Derby. None of the serving prisoners was considered particularly dangerous. Many of them were approaching the end of their sentences and had been transferred to Draycott prior to being sent to open conditions and eventual release on licence. It was its proximity to these cities that had caused the Home Office to use it as a temporary remand prison for those in custody attending
trials in the local Crown Courts. This meant that some potentially high-risk individuals were passing through, although they were supposed to be separately accommodated from the sentenced inmates. As had happened many times before, this edict from London proved impossible to enforce. The pressures on the system were extreme and never ending.

  Michael Doyle, a convicted prisoner, was an exception to the general rule. He had moved rapidly through the system, from category ‘A’ to category ‘C’ despite his conviction for conspiracy to commit robbery. Sentenced to 15 years’ imprisonment, he had over 7 years to serve before he could apply for parole and release even then could not be assumed. But Doyle anticipated he would receive special consideration. Nothing had been formally agreed, but the information he had disclosed to Chief Inspector Hood had led directly to the arrest of Derick Duffy, who since his release from prison years before, had been living in South Wales under the pretended identity of Patrick Lafferty. Doyle believed he was only one of three individuals who were aware of this deception until he disclosed what he knew to Hood. The other two were Duffy himself and the late but unlamented master criminal, Gus Grayling.

  After Duffy was arrested, Hood had deliberately implied that it was Grayling who had given him up. Whether Duffy believed him or not he couldn’t be sure, but Hood knew if it became known that Doyle had assisted the police in identifying Duffy, his life would be at risk. Duffy, in turn, had quickly betrayed his accomplices and reluctantly agreed to give evidence against them in the hope of reducing his own sentence. He had received a hefty discount in return, but his treachery was well known throughout the prison estate. No-one trusted him. Even some of the prison officers at Long Lartin gave him the cold shoulder. His presence in any establishment was an irritation and a trigger for trouble. He had been moved on three occasions already and would likely be moved again. Although his associates had eventually accepted their guilt, the mark of ‘supergrass’ was fixed and indelible and Duffy’s reputation would be forever compromised at the serious end of the criminal fraternity. He now spent his time in virtual seclusion, unhappy that he would be expected to give evidence in open court at the forthcoming trial of Julia Hamilton, Doyle’s erstwhile lover, but hoping his continued co-operation would result in a further reduction in the time he would have to spend behind bars. Giving evidence would certainly increase the likelihood of further incidents so long as he remained in custody. But he hoped that would work to his advantage. If the system could not protect him while he was in prison, the only alternative would be to discharge him and leave him to his own devices. He could but hope.

  As for Doyle, only the governor of Draycott was aware of his special status and she was under instructions from the Home Office to maintain strict confidentiality. It was because of what she knew that she had concluded that Doyle was genuinely at risk of serious injury or worse if he remained at Draycott. While she knew he had given valuable information to the police, the precise terms of what he had disclosed had not been divulged to her or to anyone else. She knew nothing of Duffy and his companions in crime and was unaware of any significant link between them and Doyle. All she had been told was that if Doyle’s contribution were revealed his life would be in danger. It was this that had caused her to question Senior Officer McCabe’s assessment that Doyle’s stabbing might have been what he described as a ‘put up job.’ She had summoned Brogan McCabe to her office to discuss his concerns. As he climbed the stairs to the first floor of the administration building, it crossed his mind that something was being kept from him but he had no firm idea of what it might be.

  He tapped briskly on the door but didn’t wait until he was invited to enter. He turned the handle and stepped inside. The governor looked up from her desk at the far side of the room and beckoned him forward. Her office was pleasant enough, spacious and functional. Painted in a restful shade of pastel pink, a few of the prisoners’ more accomplished artistic efforts were displayed on the walls alongside a photograph of the governor standing with the Home Secretary when he had visited six months before.

  Jane Robson was not yet thirty-five. An attractive slim woman with long, auburn hair tied up in a bun, she had a degree in sociology from Durham University and a Masters in criminology from Nottingham Trent. Joining the Prison Service after a gap year touring various penal institutions in the United States, she had been quickly promoted. Regarded by her superiors as possessing huge potential, she was dedicated, progressive and keen to improve the rehabilitation of the offenders in her charge. She was also ambitious and well aware of the statistical evidence. Over 45 per cent of criminals re-offended within weeks or months of release. There had to be a better way, or so she believed. To that end she had introduced a more liberal regime which allowed the inmates more freedom, longer periods of association and greater opportunities for education and self-improvement. Those who established a consistent pattern of good behaviour were allowed to wear their own clothes instead of the dull prison uniform. She saw little point in locking them in their cells for most of the day which staff shortages had forced on those in charge at her first prison. Her approach had been supported by London and quietly endorsed by the Home Secretary. But now she had the embarrassment of a prisoner in hospital with what could easily have turned out to be a life-threatening injury – a prisoner she had known was potentially vulnerable. She anticipated, too, that there would be voices raised in high places that this was the foreseeable consequence of her over-relaxed if enlightened reforms.

  But she had no intention of letting this incident jeopardise her career.So, she looked, as always, to Brogan McCabe for support. Indeed, she was very much reliant upon him. He did not fully share her philosophy, but neither was he opposed to many of the changes she had instituted. A wily Scot of forty-four, he could not have had a more contrasting start in life. He had certainly come up the hard way. His father had died when he was seven years old and his mother had struggled valiantly to bring him up along with his three younger siblings. He had left school with few qualifications and after several dead-end jobs had joined the army. He served with distinction for thirteen years in the First Battalion Royal Scots, reaching the rank of sergeant-major. Following an injury to his leg during the Gulf War, he’d been invalided out of the services and forced to start over again. After making an almost complete recovery, he’d joined the Prison Service as an ordinary officer and made steady if unspectacular progress. Recently promoted, he was transferred to Draycott Heath as a senior officer. He prided himself on knowing almost everything that was going on in his prison, as he liked to call it, and was known for his no-nonsense approach. But he’d learnt to respect Jane Robson and although he would never have admitted it, quite admired her. She, in her turn, trusted him implicitly and rarely interfered in his day to day management of the prisoners. But she had not told him anything about Doyle. Not even her three deputies were trusted with that information.

  As McCabe approached, she stood up and walked around her desk, perched on the edge and invited him to sit down, an indication that this meeting was to be as informal as possible. McCabe could not avoid looking admiringly at her long, slim legs stretched out before her. He coughed, but declined her invitation to sit. He preferred to stand, almost to attention. Jane Robson smiled but could not hide her concern that her senior officer might be working things out for himself. He was no fool and had always wondered how Doyle had managed to move so quickly through the system. Prisoners never went from ‘cat A’ to ‘cat C’ as fast as Doyle had. His suspicions had caused him to scrutinise Doyle’s file with particular care and he had cross-examined the assistant governor in charge of administration but had found nothing to support his misgivings. But there had to be more to it, hadn’t there? Something was not quite right. Of that he was certain. Was Doyle, perhaps, a supergrass? That thought had crossed his mind, fleetingly, more than once, but he had dismissed it as unlikely. It would have explained everything, but if he were, why had he not been told? He was the most senior offi
cer in the prison. He was the one who walked the landings, not the governor or her deputies. He was the one who needed to know if a prisoner presented a potential problem. An informer on the landing always spelt trouble and that was the last thing he needed in an under-staffed prison. He decided to probe Jane Robson, but gently. He would be able to judge from her reaction whether his suspicions had any substance.

  ‘It’s my gut feeling,’ he told her. ‘Doyle is probably the most seriously convicted man here. Violence is virtually unheard of, except in the remand wing. I reckon he did this to himself or was in cahoots with Manning. And remember, ma’am, Manning has medical knowledge. He was a dentist – until he was struck off for fraud – he’d have known about the femoral artery – and how to avoid it. And the two of them were as thick as thieves. They’re always together except on their work details.’

  The governor was not convinced. She couldn’t imagine Doyle taking such a risk.

  ‘But would a dentist normally know about the femoral artery?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am. But I know that Manning borrowed our only copy of Gray’s Anatomy from the prison library last month.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Brushing up his medical knowledge he said.’

  The governor noticed the sceptical look on Brogan’s face as he spoke. She frowned but it occurred to her that if she went along with his suspicions, it might save her from divulging the true position.

  ‘Do you know, Brogan, that never crossed my mind,’ she said, seemingly quite openly. ‘But it was a terrible risk to take, wasn’t it? If the blade had gone in half a centimetre to the left it would have severed the artery and he’d have bled to death before anything could be done for him. And besides, what would his motive be in injuring himself? He was as good as gold when he was taken to hospital. He certainly hasn’t attempted to escape.’