Good as Dead

EIGHT

Roger Bracewell, the governor, was younger than Thorne had been expecting, floppy-haired and well spoken. Hugh Grant with trendy spectacles. He pushed a collection of files across the desk, bound with a thick elastic band and labelled.

A name, date of birth, prisoner number.

‘This is everything on Amin Akhtar,’ he said. ‘Admission papers, progress reports, course assessments and so on.’ He sat back from his desk. ‘I was asked to get everything together in a hurry, so… ’ He waited, as if expecting thanks or explanation, but none was forthcoming. ‘Nobody’s seen fit to let me know the reason for all the rush, but ours is not to question why, I suppose.’

Thorne lifted the files from the desk and dropped them on the floor by the side of his chair. ‘We’re investigating Amin Akhtar’s death,’ he said. ‘ Re -investigating.’ He saw no reason to explain anything to Bracewell. He did not want anyone he would be talking to at Barndale knowing what his agenda might be, besides which they would all know soon enough, when they switched on a television or opened the evening paper.

‘Right,’ Bracewell said.

The governor’s office lay at the far end of a warren of interconnected offices in the prison’s administration block. With modern furniture and venetian blinds at the windows, it was rather less imposing than some Thorne had visited. There were no antique clocks or dusty paintings of hunting scenes on the wall. There was no portrait of the Queen.

‘Horrible business,’ Bracewell said. He reached for the mug of coffee that had been brought in soon after Thorne had arrived. ‘Sure I can’t offer you some biscuits or something?’

Thorne said that he was fine. Took a sip of his own coffee.

‘Worst thing that can happen, obviously.’ Bracewell tapped at the edge of the wooden desk. ‘Thankfully we’ve got a pretty good record as far as suicides go, but it’s always a possibility. They’ll always find some way of doing it if they’re determined enough.’

‘Tell me about Amin,’ Thorne said.

Bracewell leaned back again, cradling his mug. ‘Kept himself to himself,’ he said. ‘Studied hard, did as he was asked. Stayed away from trouble.’ He pointed down to the files on the floor. ‘It’s all in there.’

‘I’ll go through them later on.’

‘We run a mentoring scheme here, something I introduced a year or so ago. We team up the more trusted of the older boys with some of the younger ones who look like they might be having a problem adjusting. A buddy system, if you want to call it that. Amin was certainly one of those I would have asked to do some mentoring for me.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Not much point as he was moving on.’

‘Over there?’ Thorne nodded towards the window, the building a hundred yards away on the other side of a large, well-maintained courtyard. Barndale was a split-site prison, with three separate estates whose inmates were divided by age. The Juvenile site, where Amin Akhtar had been held, housed boys between fifteen and eighteen. The population was fed from a Secure Training Unit holding younger boys and itself fed directly on to the Young Offenders Institution for those aged eighteen to twenty-one. The three sites had different governors and management teams, but while each prison was autonomous, key members of staff moved between them on a regular basis and they shared sports facilities, a reception area and a hospital wing.

‘No,’ Bracewell said. ‘He was being transferred.’

‘Where?’

‘He wanted to do an A-level course in Pure Maths, whatever that is, and unfortunately we don’t do an awful lot beyond woodwork here. He’d applied to do the course at a YOI in the East Midlands. Long Minster?’

Thorne shook his head. He didn’t know it. ‘Anyway, I was happy to approve the application despite some stupidly strong opposition from the Youth Justice Board, and he was scheduled to be transferred… some time this month, I think.’

Thorne made a note of it. ‘He was doing well here,’ Bracewell said.

‘And I can’t say that for too many of the boys. He spent almost all his time on our Gold wing, with better rooms and extra privileges and so on, and presuming things had carried on the same way he would probably have been looking at an open prison well before his sentence was up.’ Bracewell smiled and shook his head. ‘Tragically, all speculation now of course.’

‘It’s very helpful.’

‘Is it?’

‘Building up a picture of him, you know?’

The governor nodded and looked at Thorne. ‘Well, I’d certainly have been sorry to see him go.’

‘But you still approved his move?’

‘Because it was the best thing for him, and it was what he wanted.’

‘So why was the Youth Justice Board opposed to it?’

‘Well, I suppose it would have been a little further from his family than he was here, but sometimes these pen-pushers who allocate placements just like to try and make things awkward, if you ask me. I’m sure you’ve met the type.’

Thorne said that he’d met plenty. That it sounded like a detective chief superintendent of his acquaintance. He glanced at the white-board behind Bracewell’s desk. Various headings had been scribbled: Re-offending Rates; Justification for Remand; Age/Offence/Ethnicity. At the bottom of the board, somewhat incongruously, it said, Buy milk, eggs, smoothies.

‘How did he end up in the hospital wing?’ Thorne asked.

Bracewell shrugged. ‘Looked at someone for a few seconds too long. Or someone didn’t like the fact that he was awarded certain privileges for good behaviour. Sometimes these kids don’t need any reason at all.’

‘What happened?’

‘Someone walked into his cell and slashed his face. In and out, no sign of a weapon.’

‘You had a damn good look though.’

‘We followed all the normal search procedures.’

Thorne nodded. The sharpness of the governor’s response had probably been justified. Thorne knew how hard it was to find any weapon, when a boy determined enough could fashion one from almost anything that came to hand.

‘Amin was taken to the local A amp;E to get stitched up, then brought back here the same evening. It’s all in the police report.’

‘I haven’t seen it yet,’ Thorne said. He had already decided that the constraints placed upon him by time might be no bad thing in terms of his investigation. Not having had a chance to look at the notes, he would be unprejudiced by the findings of the original inquiry and would have no choice but to investigate Amin Akhtar’s death as if it had just happened. If he came to the same conclusions as Martin Dawes then so be it, but this way he might just be giving himself the best chance of getting at the truth and that was what Javed Akhtar wanted. ‘Best to start with a clean slate anyway, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Compare what I find out today with what my predecessor found out eight weeks ago.’

Bracewell smiled, knowing. ‘See if anyone changes their story.’

Thorne smiled back. ‘That’s always a possibility.’ He kept his eyes on the governor as he drank the last of his coffee. ‘Any idea who was responsible for the attack on Amin?’

‘A couple of my officers reckon they’ve got a very good idea,’ Bracewell said. ‘But proving it is something else entirely. The boy concerned denied it of course. Amin refused to tell us who it was and it’s very hard to find witnesses in a place like this. I’m sure you know what it’s like.’

‘I’ll need to speak to him,’ Thorne said. ‘Proof or no proof.’

‘Unfortunately, he was released a couple of months ago. Just a few days after the attack on Amin, in fact. Annoying, but without evidence there was nothing we could do to prevent it.’

‘I’ll need a name, then. The address on his release papers.’

Bracewell said that shouldn’t be a problem, but with sufficient hesitation for Thorne to point out that, as far as this inquiry was concerned, the normal procedures did not, could not apply. There was simply no time for niceties, or ethics. Bracewell said he understood, and though Thorne could see that he did not, that the man was still desperate to know the reason for what was happening, he could also see that the situation was making him uneasy.

‘I need to speak to whoever found the body as well.’

‘That was Ian McCarthy,’ Bracewell said. ‘ Dr McCarthy. I think he should be in by now, so I can get one of my officers to take you down there. If that’s OK?’

Thorne thanked him for his help and Bracewell phoned out to make the arrangements. Almost as soon as he had hung up, the phone rang and Bracewell took the call. He said, ‘For Pete’s sake,’ and ‘Right,’ and when the call was finished, he sat back shaking his head as though the weight of the world had just settled on his smartly suited shoulders. ‘One of the boys has smashed his cell up. Seventeen-year-old Polish lad, doesn’t speak a word of bloody English.’

‘Can’t be easy.’

‘It isn’t. My officers are doing their best, but they’ve got their work cut out as it is.’

‘I meant for the boy.’

Thorne remembered the colourful sign he had seen at the entrance to the prison. A single word written in dozens of languages. It was a nice idea, but a shame that the effort at translation had not gone a little further. The inmates probably thought it was a sick joke anyway, considering where they were and what that one word was.

Welcome.

‘Well no,’ Bracewell stammered. ‘Of course not… I mean, obviously . It’s a very tricky situation for everyone.’

When the prison officer arrived, Thorne stood to gather up the files and Bracewell moved quickly from behind his desk to assure him that he would remain available if there was anything else he could help with. With his hand pressed firmly between the governor’s two, Thorne said that he would bear the offer in mind.

Then he turned and followed his escort out of the office.

Decided, on reflection, that perhaps there was a miniature portrait of the Queen tucked away in one of the drawers.

In the school’s assembly hall, the temporary Incident Room was up and running. A communications team had set up fax and phone lines and had tapped into a local CCTV feed. Monitors showed live, black and white images of the shopfront from two different angles, while a hastily erected camera in the alleyway behind the property broadcast a picture of the shop’s back door. There was no sound and precious little movement. Occasionally an emergency vehicle moved through shot, or a stray dog that nobody had yet been able to catch. A member of the CO19 team wandered between the two Armed Response Vehicles which were still parked on the street across from the newsagent’s.

Still waiting for instructions.

There were more than two dozen officers working inside the school. Most sat at computers, feeding back any information they could find about the layout of the shop and the man who owned it to the team from Specialist Crime. A few more had come down from Helen Weeks’ unit in Streatham, volunteering to help, but now found themselves with little to do.

Donnelly was at the monitors with Sue Pascoe when Chivers walked across to join them.

They studied the pictures for a while.

‘Phones?’ Chivers said.

Pascoe shook her head. ‘He’s making us wait.’

They had quickly established that there was a landline in the shop, but just as quickly discovered that Akhtar had taken the phone off the hook. Calls being made every fifteen minutes to the mobiles registered to both Helen Weeks and Stephen Mitchell were going straight to voicemail.

‘In for the long haul, I reckon,’ Donnelly said.

Chivers shrugged. ‘Up to you.’

‘Up to Mr Akhtar, I would have thought.’

‘Only if we let him have control of the situation.’

Donnelly stared at the screen. ‘I’m open to suggestions.’

‘Look at those shutters.’ Chivers pointed at the monitor. ‘They’ve already been twisted up at the bottom, see? That’s just kids or what have you. Wouldn’t take us long to get through those.’

‘Long enough for him to do something.’

‘We need to get this sorted quickly,’ Chivers said.

‘What we need,’ Pascoe said, ‘is to open a channel of communication with our hostage taker.’

‘At least let us get Tech Support in here.’ Chivers was looking at Donnelly. ‘Get some microphones up on the roof, take a listen to what’s going on in there.’

‘Too risky,’ Pascoe said. ‘If he thinks there’s anything like that going on, he might do something stupid.’

‘We don’t even know the gun is loaded.’ Chivers stabbed at the monitor again. ‘He’s a newsagent, for Christ’s sake.’

Donnelly looked at Pascoe. She shook her head.

‘We do something without really thinking it through,’ she said, ‘and he’ll be the one making the news.’