Staying Alive Read online

  ‘Who are you and why are you asking me questions?’ In his anger he’d forgotten the protocol necessary for an interview. Another point. Prisoners: lots of points; police: nil. I was actually enjoying this. Here was a police officer, probably a very good police officer, that had come into a situation with his head full of assumptions and had found them wrong. Perhaps not wrong but prejudiced.

  He put his head in his hands with his elbows on the table. The silence went on for about thirty seconds. He looked up. I noticed his breathing was now under control and his colour had returned to its original shade of dull red.

  ‘I apologise, Mr Robinson. I’m Detective Inspector Elliot and my colleague is Detective Sergeant Ayres. The observer is Senior Officer James. We’re looking into the death of Mr Raymond Tidy. We’re hoping you can help us with our enquiries. We’d like to ask you some questions.’ His speech had been controlled and clear. You want war, Inspector; you’re going to get it.

  ‘I’d like a solicitor.’

  ‘This is only a preliminary investigation.’

  ‘I have been put into a segregation cell with absolutely no charges against me. I want my solicitor and I want him now. I think you will have to have me released or arrest me.’

  His colour started to rise again.

  ‘Any particular solicitor?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Keith Todd.’

  ‘And where might we find Mr Todd?’

  ‘In London.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ve never heard of a place called specifically. His offices are in Westminster.’

  I could see out of the corner of my eye Senior Officer James looking at the ceiling and fighting to keep a straight face.

  ‘Would it be possible to question you with a local solicitor?’

  ‘Let me see.’ I pretended to think. ‘Um, no.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ The irritation in his voice and his facial expression could have been collected in a black plastic bag.

  ‘The police screwed me in Mississippi so I ended up in prison for something I didn’t do by having their bent lawyer. It won’t happen to me again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Robinson. We’ll interview you at a later date.’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘Come on, Jake. I expect these police officers want to interview somebody else,’ said Senior Officer James.

  ‘I want an assurance that I will not be segregated again.’

  Elliot turned to Senior Officer James.

  She responded, ‘Unless you have specific instructions, Detective Inspector, it might be wise to release this prisoner.’

  ‘No, I believe it is best to hold him in segregation.’

  It was three days before they saw me again. Three days I’d spent in a cell. I understood they’d interviewed Dad and Arty. Dad had played the dementia card and Arty said he hadn’t seen anything and then just ‘no commented’ to every other question.

  I was pleased to have Sarah Sands with me. She was good: newly qualified, but as sharp as a needle. We’d had a quick chat and the plan was to cooperate with zero information. Sarah, of course, had a strong suspicion that I’d perpetrated the dastardly crime but she certainly would never have dreamed of asking. It would be unethical and she, in her legal capacity, had to assume I was innocent (well, not guilty). I knew Keith would have briefed her.

  At half past nine we went into the interview room. DI Elliot and DS Ayres were at the table as before and Senior Officer James was to the side of the room. As we walked in, Elliot said, ‘Who are you?’ staring at Sarah.

  ‘Sarah Sands, solicitor.’

  ‘But you’re a woman.’ He sounded mystified. Then I realised he’d expected Keith Todd.

  Sarah put down her bag, looked down, placed her hands under her bust, lifted them and said, ‘Oh, I wondered what these were.’

  DS Ayres smothered a laugh, as did Senior Officer James and I said, ‘Wow! You must be a detective, Inspector Elliot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ grouched Elliot. ‘I was expecting a man.’

  So, it was the same as before except for the addition of Sarah. DI Elliot started with all the correct procedure, by the book, including the statement that they were interviewing me as a witness.

  ‘Now onto –’ he began, but got no further.

  Sarah interrupted, ‘I am informing you now, Detective Inspector, that I will be making a formal complaint against your instruction to detain my client in segregation and also against the Governor.’

  ‘That is your prerogative Miss Sands.’

  ‘I’d like this recorded, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Yes certainly, Miss Sands.’ Resignation seeped through his words. He was definitely on the back foot when it came to Sarah.

  ‘It’s Ms Sands.’

  You could see the frustration building. His hands clenched into fists. A tape machine was brought in and set up. The inspector went through the routine again.

  ‘Jake, what do you know about the death of Raymond Tidy?’

  ‘Nothing. Can I go now?’

  ‘But you were in the passageway at that time.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We’ve got you on tape coming out of the passageway into the atrium.’ He showed me a still from the tape, complete with time. It was me.

  ‘That must have been before he was killed then. That should help you narrow down the search. It’s Wednesday.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘No, today is Thursday.’

  ‘Oh, you see, it’s so easy to get things wrong in here.’

  He looked totally confused then got himself back in balance and focused on me with a hard glare. ‘Let me try again,’ he said. ‘Where were you on Tuesday the eighteenth of May at eleven thirty?’ His words were precise and deliberate.

  ‘In prison.’

  I could see the exasperation. ‘Whereabouts were you in the prison?’ The teeth were gritted again.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

  ‘But I just told you that you were coming out of the passageway into the atrium and showed you a photograph.’

  ‘That’s what you say, and that’s what’s on the photograph, but I don’t remember. So I can’t say I do remember when I don’t.’

  ‘There’s a rumour that you killed Raymond Tidy.’

  Sarah began to intervene but I stopped her with a hand signal.

  ‘There’s a rumour that I’m shagging Sarah here but it’s not true, worse luck.’ I felt Sarah stiffen beside me and then relax and Senior Officer James shifted; she’d turned to the wall.

  ‘If you didn’t kill Raymond Tidy who do you think did?’

  ‘Don’t answer that.’ Sarah cut across me as I was about to answer.

  ‘Sarah, if the nice policeman wants speculation then perhaps he should be allowed to listen to unsubstantiated speculation.’

  ‘Okay, Jake, speculate,’ said Sarah then she addressed the police officers. ‘My client will answer your question. I point out that what he says is pure speculation and has no basis in evidence.’ She looked at me.

  ‘I think it was Moorby and/or Manson.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Elliot. The two policemen were looking down their notes. I said nothing. The sergeant pointed. ‘But they’re prison officers.’

  ‘Yes, they were on duty on B-Wing and they were also on duty when Jason Phillips was murdered. That’s what the rumour was and you lot didn’t find out who killed him.’

  ‘But they didn’t come out of the passageway into the central area.’

  ‘So they went up the stairs in the training area and onto one of the landings.’

  ‘There’s another way out of the training area?’ He turned to Senior Officer James.

  ‘Yes. There are the fire doors to the outside but they’re alarmed and there are the stairs to the area above the training rooms, but only staff can use those stairs.’

  Sarah cu
t in. ‘So your assumption that the perpetrator of this crime came out into the central area is misguided, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Hell.’ He turned and looked at his sergeant. Could it be that these two bozos hadn’t done their basic homework? He turned to Officer James. ‘Could a prisoner use that route?’

  ‘Only if he had a key,’ she answered

  ‘And could a prisoner get a key?’ This policeman was blinded by the fact that he was working in a prison. Why the hell should it be a prisoner that commits murder? I know it was but if you don’t consider all the possibilities then you’re going to miss something obvious. Thank God for half-blind policemen.

  ‘Detective Inspector, this is a prison full of highly experienced criminals. What do you think?’

  I thought she was on my side. There was definitely more to Senior Officer James than met the eye. I decided to rub salt into the wound.

  ‘So, let me get this right, Detective Inspector Elliot. Without exploring the crime scene and checking routes in or out, you want to question me because I came out of a route that has surveillance; you also assume the killer was a prisoner.’

  The sergeant pointed to a page in a file and said, ‘That route was checked and nobody used it around that time.’

  ‘Who told you that then?’ I asked. They were both looking at the file page and from the looks on their faces I realised I’d hit an unexpected bullseye. ‘It was Moorby or Manson wasn’t it. Oh dear, oh dear!’

  Elliot’s colour deepened by a couple of shades again. ‘Interview closed at nine forty-two,’ he growled.

  ‘Can I go now please, gentlemen?’ If looks could kill I would be dead.

  Senior Officer James said, ‘Return to your place of work please, Jake.’ I believed that the gentle approach of using first names and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ was having a strong calming effect on me, and getting up the nose of the inspector. Sarah and I said goodbye and Senior Officer James took her away.

  20

  The next day I went down to breakfast as usual. Harry, Arty and Dad wanted to know how it went and I said nothing really except that the police thought they had some evidence but it was crap.

  One of the officers, Moorby, walked across and told me I was to remain in my cell after breakfast. There was something about the way he said it but I couldn’t quite place it. My expectation was that I would be called should Inspector Elliot arrive with the damning evidence, and my expectation was (well, my hope was) that he wouldn’t have that evidence. I could see the concern in the faces of the people at the table; two of them had watched me kill Ratty. Dad looked particularly concerned. He flicked his head to one side, so I walked around the table and he got up and we walked to the window and looked out.

  ‘You’re going to be glassed, Captain. You’ve seen it. When you come away from the tray rack Tug will do you.’

  ‘Advice, Dad?’

  The old man smiled. ‘Because of the way the tray racks are, everybody turns right. Turn left so you’ve an edge then do what you can.’

  I looked around the dining room; there were no officers in sight. I went back to my seat and sat. Sergeant was alert. ‘I’ll come with you, Captain.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, it would send the wrong message.’ I left the table and took my tray to the disposal. I scrapped the debris from my tray into the pig bin and placed it in the rack then threw the plastic tools into the rubbish bin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wilson approaching me. I was alone and to some extent in trouble and there were a few hundred observers watching. What a place for taking me down. I couldn’t help smiling to myself and that must have shown. I turned left then spun to face him. He went to launch an attack on me and I came off the back foot with a thrust, whipped my head forward and smashed my forehead into his nose. I’d shattered his nose and hopefully his cheekbones. He staggered back, off balance and my knuckles stabbed into his throat. He went down coughing onto his knees and my boot smashed into his ribs: more damage. I stepped over him to walk out and a prison officer was running towards me.

  ‘I think he’s having a fit, Officer. I think he needs help.’ I thought about Sun Tzu, who said in The Art of War, ‘Those who are skilled in producing surprises will win.’ Yes, I was involved in a war.

  The officer was in a dilemma; should he grab me or go and help Wilson? Maniac arrived. ‘I’ll handle this, Captain,’ he said and turned to the officer. ‘I think he slipped, sir. You can see where he bashed his nose. Shall we get him up?’ Maniac was in sane mode.

  I didn’t hang around. I just slipped through the door, walked up to our cell and Harry joined me on the way.

  ‘What have you done to Maniac?’ he asked. ‘He was quite sane.’

  ‘I think the therapy is working, Sergeant.’

  ‘What therapy?’

  ‘A new psychiatrist has some sessions with him. He’s put him on some medication and a psychotherapist has started working with him. At good times he becomes Joe. Sometimes Maniac and Joe talk to each other.’

  ‘Christ, he shouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘I know that and you know that. Joe knows that but it seems Maniac doesn’t and nor do the prison authorities so I have to cope with him.’

  I just lay on my bunk after that, looking at the ceiling. The excitement was over. The issue of what the prison authorities were going to do about the murder and what they would do about the incident in the dining hall was to come but my guess was that they would do nothing and my guess turned out to be correct. Explanations as to why no prison officers were there in the dining hall would be awkward, but any explanation was going to be awkward for them. As for the murder, my only concern was whether Elliot had my fingerprints from the body. So I turned my mind to other things. I thought about Arthur, a big, intelligent giant of a man. Mr Cratcher was right; Arthur couldn’t read so he dropped out of school. Being on the street meant trouble, trouble in the form of crime, and eventually he got caught. How on earth could he get out of the system if he thought he couldn’t read? What else can people do if they can’t read or write? How do you apply for a job? Companies have application forms. Even if you do get a job most jobs require some training. How do you find somewhere to live if you can’t read the accommodation adverts? I lay there and for the first time, recognised the absolute horror that the prisoners in my class had faced and surmounted. Even though it wasn’t an ideal solution, crime solved many of their problems. At least it provided independent survival as opposed to the dependent survival of relying on the state. The state solution required obedience to bureaucratic rules. I wanted even more to help these people who had become my students and now my friends. This was a revelation to me, that the elementary ability to read and write was the foundation of independent, honest survival. I now understood why they liked me. I was one of the few people that had tried to genuinely help them instead of treating them as if they were mere victims or had something wrong with them or were just evil. I was no saint. I was offered this teaching job and I did it and I enjoyed doing it. I wouldn’t have selected it. It just happened that I was good at it. It’s a funny old life.

  No call came and I was told to go back to work, so I joined my motley crew, most of whom weren’t there because they thought I wouldn’t be, but Maniac was there and now he was Joe. I hoped it would last.

  21

  Three days went past and on the Saturday morning I received a summons from the governor. I duly arrived at the appointed place at the appointed hour and saw that it was all very formal. My personal officer, Senior Officer James, met me in the waiting area.

  ‘What is this about?’ I asked.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you get paid overtime?’

  ‘I will for this as it’s outside of my shift pattern.’

  ‘See, I even get you extra pay.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I was supposed to be watching my boy play football in half an hour.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can escape qu
ickly then, shall we?’

  We waited; half an hour went by. I looked at the cracks in the plaster on the walls. This must have been the most boring waiting area in the world; less to see than on the tube and people often fell asleep when travelling on the tube despite the noise. The boy’s football would have started. Oddly, I was upset by this and, clearly, so was Senior Officer James.

  I could hear the voices through the wall and they didn’t seem to be agreeing but I couldn’t hear the words. Then the governor’s secretary invited us in. A man in a suit and tie accompanied Inspector Elliot, who was as red-faced and dishevelled as before.

  The man looked like a funeral director apart from the fact that he had brown shoes that didn’t go with his pinstriped suit. He also had a comb-over to try to hide his bald patch, which didn’t work. It just looked ridiculous. The governor invited me to sit, which was a surprise, and introduced Inspector Elliot and Mr Brian Benton from the Crown Prosecution Service. Neither offered me their hands to shake. Mr Benton then took over.

  ‘Mr Robinson, you’ve been questioned in relation to the death of one Raymond Tidy.’ He stopped. Clearly, he expected a response. I said nothing. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  ‘A solicitor is unnecessary.’

  ‘Then she can tell me that.’

  ‘I see. Yes, I understand you may have concerns. Let me outline a small problem that the police and the CPS have encountered. Fingerprints have been taken from Raymond Tidy’s face. A check of those fingerprints on the national database indicates access is denied. Would access to your fingerprints on the national database be denied for any reason?’

  ‘You have an insufficient level of clearance.’

  ‘We have the highest level of clearance.’

  ‘Clearly not.’ There was a thoughtful look on his face. ‘I want my solicitor.’

  ‘They could eliminate you from the enquiries.’

  ‘I want my solicitor.’

  ‘In circumstances such as this we can request access to the person in question if access to the information on the database is denied without the name of the person being revealed to any other person.’