Hard Landing

Hard Landing Dan Shepherd [1] Stephen Leather

Thriller

Praise for Stephen Leather

'Stephen Leather should be nestling in your bookshelves alongside Frederick Forsyth and Jack Higgins' Daily Mail

'Exciting stuff with plenty of heart-palpitating action gingered up by mystery and intrigue . . . Leather is an intelligent thriller writer' Daily Mail on The Tunnel Rats

'As high-tech and as world-class as the thriller genre gets' Express on Sunday on The Bombmaker

'A whirlwind of action, suspense and vivid excitement' Irish Times on The Birthday Girl

'Atmospheric suspense' Daily Mirror on The Eyewitness

'Stephen Leather's novel manages to put a contemporary spin on a timeless tale of revenge and retribution . . . Leather's experience as a journalist brings a sturdy, gritty element to a tale of horror . . . which makes The Eyewitness a compelling read' Evening Herald, Dublin

Also by Stephen Leather

Pay Off

The Fireman

Hungry Ghost

The Chinaman

The Vets

The Long Shot

The Birthday Girl

The Double Tap

The Solitary Man

The Tunnel Rats

The Bombmaker

The Stretch

Tango One

The Eyewitness

Spider Shepherd Thrillers

Hard Landing

Soft Target

Cold Kill

Hot Blood

Dead Men

Live Fire

Rough Justice

Fair Game (July 2011)

Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thrillers

Nightfall

Midnight

To find out about these and future titles, visit www.stephenleather.com.

About the author

Stephen Leather was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shovelled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue. He began writing full-time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as London's Burning, The Knock and the BBC's Murder in Mind series.

HARD LANDING

Stephen Leather

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Ian West and John Newman who helped me to understand what it's like to work in the prison system and I am grateful for their help and advice. Any errors of fact are mine, not theirs.

Alistair Cumming was invaluable for guidance on police matters and Sam Jenner gave me his expert advice on matters military.

I was lucky enough to have Denis O'Donoghue on hand to cast his professional eye over the manuscript and to have Hazel Orme's editing skills on the case.

It was a pleasure to work with Carolyn Mays at Hodder and Stoughton again and Hard Landing is a better book for her creative input and unwavering support.

Trish Elliott ran her hand across her stomach for the hundredth time since she'd left the doctor's surgery. It didn't feel as if there was a new life growing inside her - it was far too early for any movement or kicks, for the baby to make its presence felt. But Trish had known straight away this time, after years of trying, she was pregnant. The third pregnancy test had confirmed what her body had been telling her.

She hadn't said anything to her husband and she'd left it another month before seeing her doctor, but now there was no doubt. 'Pregnant'. She whispered the word to herself as she parked the car at the side of the road, relishing the sound of it. 'I'm pregnant,' she said softly. 'I am having a baby.' She wanted to run down the street and tell everybody, shout it to the sky, phone every friend and relative she had. But she also enjoyed having such a delicious secret. She knew. The doctor knew. And that was all. For a while, at least, the baby belonged solely to her.

She switched off the engine and shuffled across to sit in the passenger seat. Her husband loved to drive. It wasn't a macho thing, or that he didn't trust her at the wheel, it was just that he enjoyed it so much that she was happy to let him do it. Trish thought that she was probably the better driver. She took more care, followed the Highway Code religiously, checked her mirrors constantly, and was always happy to let other motorists get ahead of her. Jonathon - well, Jonathon drove like a man, there was no getting away from it. She sat in the passenger seat and waited for him to leave the office.

That was something else that would change, she thought, with a smile. Jonathon had promised that when they had a family he'd get a desk job. No more late nights, no more weeks away from home, no more putting his life on the line. He'd take a regular job, with regular hours, and he'd be there for her when she needed him. Someone else could take the risks and have the glory. He'd be a husband and father. A family man. He'd promised, and she would keep him to it.

She saw her husband walking along the pavement towards the car and waved. Jonathon got in and kissed her cheek. Trish slipped her hand round his neck and pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply. He kissed her back, with passion, and slid his hand down to cup her breast. 'That was nice,' he said, as she released him.

You deserve it,' she said.

'For what?' He started the engine and revved the accelerator, as he always did, boy-racer style.

'For being such a good husband.' She stroked his thigh. She wasn't going to tell him yet, not until the time was absolutely right. The food was in the boot, all the ingredients for his favourite meal, and a bottle of wine. She'd only have a sip to celebrate and that would be the last alcohol she'd touch until the baby was born. She wasn't going to do anything that might remotely jeopardise the health of her child. Their child. The child they'd been waiting for for almost three years. Their doctor had insisted there was no medical reason for her inability to conceive. She was fine. Jonathon was fine. There was no need yet for intervention, they just had to keep trying. They were young, fit and healthy. Jonathon's job meant he was under a lot of stress, but other than that all they needed was lots of sex and a bit of luck. They'd had lots of sex, all right, thought Trish, with a smile. It had always been great, from the very beginning.

'What are you smiling at?' asked Jonathon, putting the car in gear and driving away from the kerb. He pushed his way into the traffic without indicating, and waved a careless thanks to a BMW that had had to brake sharply to let him in.

'Nothing,' she said. She wanted to tell him there and then, but she wanted it to be perfect. She wanted it to be a moment they'd both remember for ever.

'Come on, come on,' muttered Jonathon. There was a set of traffic lights ahead. Jonathon groaned as they turned red. 'See that?' he said. 'Now we're stuck here.'

'There's no rush,' she said. She looked across at him. He was so good-looking. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mop of black hair that kept falling across his face. Perfect teeth- a toothpaste-advert smile.

He grinned at her, the grin of a mischievous schoolboy who had never grown up. 'What is it?' he asked.

'What?'

'You. You're smiling like the cat that got the cream.'

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to grab him and kiss him and hug him and tell him he was going to be a father. But she shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said.

A large black motorcycle pulled up next to them. The pillion passenger leaned down so that he could look into the car. For a moment Trish thought he wanted to ask directions. Then she saw the gun, and frowned. It was so unexpected that for a few seconds it didn't register. Then time seemed to stop and she saw everything clearly. The gun was a dull grey automatic in a brown-gloved hand. The pillion passenger wore a bright red full-face helmet with a black visor. The driver had a black helmet, his visor also impenetrable. Men without faces. The driver revved the engine. The passenger held the gun with both hands.

Jonathon turned to follow her gaze. As he moved, the gun kicked, the window exploded and cubes of glass splattered across Trish's face.

The explosion was so loud that it deafened her and she felt rather than heard the next two shots. Her face was wet and she thought she'd been cut, but then she realised it wasn't her blood: her face and chest were soaked with her husband's and she screamed as he toppled forward on to the steering wheel.

There were eight of them in the minibus, all wearing blue overalls, training shoes and baseball caps with the logo of the pest-control company above the peak. As the minibus stopped at the gate a bored security guard with a clipboard waited until the driver wound down the window, then peered at the plastic ID card clipped to his overall pocket. He did a head count and made a note.

'No one off sick tonight, then?' On a bad night there'd only be four in the squad. Eight was a full complement and, with the company barely paying above minimum wage, they were usually at least one man short. No women. The work was unpleasant and physically demanding, and while sex-discrimination laws meant that women couldn't be refused a job, few made it beyond the first night.

'New blood,' said the driver. 'Still keen.'

The security guard shrugged. 'Yeah, I remember keen,' he said wearily. He was in his late twenties but looked older, with hair greying at the temples and a spreading waistline. 'Okay, gentlemen, hold your ID cards where I can see them, please.'

The men did as they were asked and the security guard shone his torch at the cards one by one. He was too far away to check that the faces of the men matched those on the cards, but even if he had studied them he would have seen nothing wrong. Time had been taken to ensure that the ID cards were faultless. The van was genuine, as were the overalls and baseball caps, but its original occupants were in their underwear in a disused factory in east London, gagged, bound and guarded by another member of the gang. He would stay with them until he was told that the job was done.

The faces that looked back at the security guard showed the bored resignation of men about to start eight hours of tedious night work. Three were West Indian, including the driver. The rest were white, all aged under forty. One of the youngest yawned, showing a mouthful of bad teeth.

The security guard stepped back from the minibus. He waved across at his colleague and the white pole barrier with its STOP sign rose. Two uniformed policemen, wearing bullet-proof vests and cradling black Heckler and Koch automatics, were standing at the gatehouse. They watched the minibus drive by, their fingers inside the trigger-guards of their weapons. The driver gave them a friendly wave and drove towards the warehouses. Overhead, a British Airways 747 swooped low, its landing gear down, wheels ready to bite into the runway, engines roaring in the night sky.

The man with bad teeth ducked involuntarily and one of the West Indians laughed and slapped him on the back.

'Don't fuck around,' said the man sitting next to the driver. He was wide-shouldered, in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair cropped close to his skull. He scanned the darkness between the warehouses. He wasn't expecting trouble: virtually all the security was at the perimeter of the airport.

In the rear of the minibus, the men were pulling sports bags from under their seats.

'Right, final name check,' said the front-seat passenger. His name was Ted Verity and he'd been planning the robbery for the best part of three months. 'Archie,' he said. He opened the glove compartment, took out a portable scanner, switched it on and clipped it to his belt.

'Bert,' said the man directly behind him. His real name was Jeff Owen and he'd worked with Verity on more than a dozen robberies. Owen pulled a Fairy Liquid bottle out of his sports bag. He sniffed the top and wrinkled his twice-broken nose.

Verity took a second scanner from the glove compartment, switched it on and placed it on the dashboard.

'Charlie,' said the man next to Owen. He was Bob Macdonald, a former squaddie who'd been kicked out of the army for bullying. Verity didn't know Macdonald well, but Owen had vouched for him and Verity trusted Owen with his life. Macdonald pulled a sawn-off shotgun from his holdall and slotted a red cartridge into the breech.

'Doug,' said the man next to Macdonald. He shoved a clip into the butt of a handgun and pulled back the slider. He was the youngest of the West Indians, a career criminal who'd graduated from car theft and protection rackets to armed robbery after a six-month stretch in Brixton prison. That was where Verity had met him and spotted his potential.

The alphabetical roll-call continued. A to H. The young guy with the bad teeth was Eddie. He had a revolver in his right gloved hand and a stun gun in the left. He pressed the trigger of the stun gun and blue sparks crackled between two metal prongs. The high voltage charge was enough to disable a man without causing permanent injury. The tall, lanky West Indian next to Eddie was Fred. He had a twin-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A thirty-something Glaswegian, with a shaved head and football tattoos hidden under his overall sleeves, was sitting on his own in the back cradling a pump-action shotgun. He was George and he had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles.

The West Indian driver was Harry. Verity didn't know Harry's real name. Over five years he'd worked with him on a dozen jobs but had only ever known him by his initials, PJ. He was one of the best drivers in London and claimed to have been Elton John's personal chauffeur. Verity nodded at PJ, who brought the minibus to a halt.

'Anyone uses any name other than the ones you've been given and I'll personally blow their head off,' said Verity, turning in his seat.

'Right, Ted,' called George, then slapped his forehead theatrically. 'Shit, I forgot already.'

'Very funny,' said Verity. He pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his bag and flicked off the safety. 'Remember, we go in hard - hearts and minds. Don't give them time to think. They sound the alarm and we've got less than six minutes before the blues and twos arrive and we're up to our arses in Hecklers. Everybody set?'

The six men in the back nodded.

'Masks on,' said Verity.

They took off their baseball caps and pulled on black ski masks with holes for eyes and mouths. Verity nodded at PJ and the West Indian drove forward. Verity's heart raced. No matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many times he'd piled in with a gun, the fear and excitement always coursed through him like electricity. Nothing compared with the high of an armed robbery. Not even sex. All his senses were intensified as if his whole body had gone into overdrive. Verity pulled on his mask. He connected an earphone to the scanner, then slipped it on under his mask. Just static.

PJ turned sharply to the right and pulled up in front of the warehouse. Verity swung open the door and jumped down, keeping the sawn-off close to his body. His earpiece buzzed. A suspicious passenger in the arrivals terminal. An IC6 male. An Arab. Good, thought Verity. Anything that drew attention away from the commercial area of the airport was a Godsend.

Owen pulled back the side door and jumped out. He had stuck a revolver into the belt of his overalls. The rest of the team piled out and rushed over to the warehouse entrance. There was a large loading area with space for three trucks but the metal shutters were down. To the right of the loading bay there was a metal door. The men stood at either side of it, weapons at the ready.

Verity walked up to the door and put his gloved hand on the handle. It was never locked, even at night: there were men working in the warehouse twenty-four hours a day, but only a skeleton staff at night. Four men at most. Two fork-lift truck drivers, a security guard and a warehouseman. Four unarmed men in charge of a warehouse containing the best part of twenty million pounds' worth of goods. Verity smiled to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.

Verity pulled open the door and rushed in, holding his shotgun high. To the right of the door he saw a small office containing three desks and wall-to-wall shelving filled with cardboard files. A uniformed security officer was sitting at one of the desks, reading a newspaper. Verity levelled his shotgun and motioned with it for him to stand up. Eddie rushed past and pressed the prongs of the stun gun to the guard's neck and squeezed the trigger. The man went into spasm and slumped to the floor. Eddie dragged him behind the office door. He took a roll of duct tape from his overall pocket and used it to bind the man's hands and feet as the rest of the gang fanned out, moving through the warehouse. It was about half the size of a football pitch with cartons of cardboard boxes piled high on wooden pallets. Most were marked 'Fragile' and came from the Far East. Japan. Korea. Hong Kong.

An orange fork-lift truck reversed round a stack of boxes. Doug ran up to it and jammed his pistol against the neck of the operator, a middle-aged man in white overalls. He grabbed his collar and pulled him off the vehicle, then clubbed him across the head with the gun.

Verity could hear the second fork-lift whining in the distance and pointed in the direction of the sound. Fred and the Glaswegian ran off, their trainers making dull thuds on the concrete floor.

Doug rolled the fork-lift driver on to his front and wound duct tape round his mouth, then bound his arms.

Verity motioned at Macdonald and Owen to start moving through the stacked pallets. They were looking for the warehouseman, weapons at the ready. Macdonald looked at his watch. 'Plenty of time,' whispered Verity. 'Radio's quiet.'

The second fork-lift truck stopped, and there was a bump as if something soft had hit the ground hard. Then silence.

The three men stopped and listened. Off to their right they heard a soft whistle. Verity pointed and they headed towards it.

The warehouseman was in his early thirties with receding hair and wire-framed glasses. He was holding a palm computer and making notes with a small stylus as he whistled. He was so engrossed in it that he didn't see the three masked men until they were almost upon him. His jaw dropped and he took half a step backwards, but Verity jammed his gun into the man's stomach. 'Don't say a word,' hissed Verity. 'Do as you're told and we'll be out of here in a few minutes.'

He grabbed the man's collar with his left hand, swung him round so that he was facing in the direction of the office, then frogmarched him towards it with the gun pressed into the base of his spine. 'There's no m-m-money here,' the man stammered.

'I said, don't talk,' said Verity. He rammed the barrel into the man's back for emphasis.

When they reached the office the two fork-lift drivers were lying on the ground outside the door, gagged and bound. Owen was standing over them, his gun in one hand, the Fairy Liquid bottle in the other.

Verity pushed the warehouseman to the floor next to them. He rolled on to his back and his glasses fell off, clattering on the concrete. Verity pointed his gun at him. 'The Intel chips,' he said, through gritted teeth. 'The ones that came in from the States this morning.' Voices buzzed in his earpiece. A Police National Computer check on the Arab, name, date of birth, nationality. Iraqi. 'Bastard ragheads,' muttered Verity.

'What?' said the warehouseman, confused. He groped for his spectacles with his right hand.

Verity nodded at Owen, who sprayed the contents of the Fairy Liquid bottle over the three men. Macdonald frowned as he recognised the smell. Petrol. The fork-lift drivers bucked and kicked, but the warehouseman lay still in shock, clutching his spectacles.

Owen emptied the plastic bottle, then tossed it to the side. He took a gunmetal Zippo from the pocket of his overalls and flicked it open. 'You heard what the man said, now where are the chips?' He spun the wheel of the lighter with his thumb and waved a two-inch smoky flame over the three men.

'Archie, what the hell's going on?' shouted Macdonald. He took a step towards Verity. 'No one said we were going to set fire to anyone.'

'You've got a shotgun in your hands, this is no different.'

'Have you seen what third-degree burns look like?'

Verity levelled his weapon at Macdonald's legs. 'Have you seen what a kneecapping looks like?'

Macdonald raised the barrel of his shotgun skywards. 'Just wished I'd been fully briefed, that's all.' He shrugged. 'You're right. In for a penny . . .'

The warehouseman scrabbled on his back, away from Owen. Owen followed him, bending down to wave the flaming Zippo closer to his legs. The warehouseman backed against the wall of the office, his hands in front of his face. 'I'm not sure how close I can get before you go up in flames,' said Owen. 'The Intel chips,' he hissed. 'Where are they?'

'I'll have to check the computer,' stammered the warehouseman. A dark stain spread down his left trouser leg.

Owen clicked the Zippo shut, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the office door. Verity followed. The earpiece buzzed and crackled. There'd been a car crash outside the departures terminal. Two minicabs had collided and the drivers were fighting. Verity grinned under his mask. The more distractions, the better.

Owen threw the warehouseman into the office. 'You've got ten seconds, then it's barbecue time,' he snarled. He pushed him down on to a swivel chair.

The man's hands trembled over the keyboard. 'I have to think,' he said. 'I'm only the n-n-night man.'

'Remember this,' said Owen, lighting the Zippo again and waving the flame close to the man's face.

The warehouseman shrieked. 'Okay, okay, wait!' He stabbed at the keyboard. 'I've got it.' He wiped his sweating forehead with the arm of his coat. 'Row G. Section Six. Twelve b-b-boxes.'

Verity turned to the office door. 'Fred, Doug!' he called. 'Row G. Section Six.' The earpiece buzzed. Despite the clean PNC check, the Arab was being taken into custody.

Owen closed the Zippo and used duct tape to tie the warehouseman to the chair. 'I d-d-did what you wanted, d-d-didn't I?' asked the man fearfully. Owen slapped a piece of tape across his mouth.

Verity pointed at Owen. 'Tell Harry to get the minibus ready,' he said, then jogged towards Row G.

'I'll do it,' said Macdonald.

Verity stopped in his tracks. He pointed a gloved finger at Macdonald. 'I said him. If I'd wanted you to do it I'd have told you.' He pointed at Owen. 'Do it!' he shouted. Then to Macdonald: 'You stay with me where I can keep my eye on you.' He jogged down the centre aisle, Macdonald and the Glaswegian following him while Owen ran towards the main door.

Doug was already sitting at the controls of a fork-lift truck. 'Here they are.' Fred gestured at a pallet loaded with cardboard boxes.

'Come on, get them loaded and let's get out of here!' yelled Verity. The boxes contained the latest Pentium chips from the States. According to Verity's man on the west coast, there were twenty-four boxes in the shipment worth almost a million pounds, wholesale.

In the distance, the metal door slammed. They all turned at the sound of running feet. Verity and Macdonald raced into the main aisle and saw Owen hurtling towards them. 'Cops!' yelled Owen. 'There's cops everywhere!'

Verity whirled round. 'What?'

'They've got PJ. There's armed cops all over the place.'

Verity's hand dropped towards his scanner. He checked the frequency and the volume. Everything was as it should be. 'They can't be,' he said.

'They must have hit a silent alarm!' shouted Owen.

Verity ran towards the office, where Eddie was standing with both hands on his pistol. 'What do we do?' asked Eddie.

Verity gestured at the metal door. There were bolts top and bottom. 'Lock it,' he said. Eddie ran over, slid the bolts, then ducked away. There were no windows in the warehouse, no way of seeing what was going on outside. Owen was panting hard. Verity put a hand on his shoulder. 'How many?' he asked.

'Shit, I don't know. They were all over the minibus. Three unmarked cars. A dozen, maybe. I didn't hang around to count.'

Verity rushed into the office, slapped the warehouseman across the face, then ripped the tape off his mouth. 'Did you trip an alarm?'

The man was shaking. 'How c-c-could I?' he stammered. 'You were w-w-watching me all the time. You know you were.'

'What are we going to do?' asked Eddie.

'Shut the fuck up and let me think,' said Verity.

'There's nothing we can do,' said Macdonald. 'If the cops are outside, it's all over.'

Verity ignored him and turned to Owen. 'You said they had PJ?'

'He was bent over the bonnet of one of the cars and a cop was handcuffing him.'

'Did they see you?'

Owen nodded.

'The minibus was still there?'

Owen nodded again.

'Okay,' said Verity. If the cops knew they'd been seen then he and his men had only seconds. He gestured with his shotgun at the two on the floor. 'Free their legs,' he said. 'And untie the twat in the chair. They're our ticket out of here.'

Eddie rushed into the office. Fred and the Glaswegian bent down and ripped the tape off the fork-lift drivers' legs.

Verity cradled his shotgun as he stared at the bolted metal door. If the cops knew they were armed, they wouldn't come storming in. And if they went out with hostages, the police wouldn't be able to shoot. Verity tried to visualise the geography around the warehouse. As far as he could recall, there were no vantage-points for snipers. It would all be up close and personal, and that meant the cops wouldn't be able to fire without risking the hostages. But they had to move quickly. 'Come on, come on!' he shouted.

Eddie pushed the warehouseman out of the office. 'The security guard's still out cold,' he said.

'Three's enough,' said Verity.

'Enough for what?' asked Macdonald.

'To get us out of here.' Verity went over to the warehouseman. 'Give me the duct tape.' He held out his hand to Owen, who tossed him the roll. The warehouseman tried to speak but Verity pushed the barrel of the shotgun under his nose and told him to shut up. 'George, come over here.' The Glaswegian walked over to him. 'Put your shotgun against the back of his neck.' The Glaswegian did as he was told, and Verity wound duct tape round the weapon and the warehouseman's neck.

'You use him like that and it's kidnapping,' said Macdonald. 'Shoot him and it's cold-blooded murder.'

'If the cops let us go, no one'll get hurt,' said Verity. He nodded at Fred. 'Do the same with him.' He gestured at one of the fork-lift drivers. The West Indian hauled the man to his feet and did as he was told.

'They won't let us walk out of here,' said Macdonald. 'Even with hostages.'

'Armed robbery will get us twelve years, maybe fifteen,' said Verity. 'If a gun goes off and one of these sad fucks gets it, it'll be manslaughter. Ten to twelve. We've got nothing to lose.'

'Ted Verity, I know you can hear me,' said a voice. Verity spun round, then realised that the voice had come through the scanner earpiece. It was being broadcast on the police frequency. 'This is the police. It's over, Ted, come out now before this gets out of hand.'

Verity roared and ran over to the fork-lift driver Fred was tying up. He slammed his shotgun against the man's chin, then kicked him between the legs, hard. He fell back, and Verity hit him again as he went down.

Macdonald grabbed Verity's arm. 'What the hell's got into you?'

Verity shook him off. The earpiece buzzed again. 'There's armed police out here, Ted. There's nowhere for you to go. Leave your weapons where they are and come out with your hands in the air. If we have to come in and get you, people are going to get hurt.'

A telephone began to ring in the office.

'Answer the phone, Ted,' said the voice in Verity's ear.

'It's the cops,' said the Glaswegian. 'They'll be wanting to talk to us.'

Eddie hurried over to Verity.

'They've already talked to us,' said Verity. He slapped the scanner on his belt. 'On the radio.'

'How did they know we had a scanner?' asked Eddie, his face just inches away from Verity's.

Verity could smell garlic on his breath. 'They knew everything,' he said. 'We've been set up.' He swore, then pushed Eddie in the chest. 'Get the fuck away from me!' he said.

'It's over,' said Macdonald. He turned to the Glaswegian, looking for his support. The Glaswegian shrugged, but said nothing. 'If we go out with hostages, they'll throw away the key,' said Macdonald. The Glaswegian's finger was on the trigger of the shotgun. Most of the barrel was covered with duct tape, binding it to the warehouseman's neck. The man was trembling and the tape across his mouth pulsed in and out as he breathed.

'They'll throw away the key for me, anyway,' said the Glaswegian. 'One look at my record.' He jabbed the shotgun against the warehouseman's neck. 'Let's just do what we've got to do.'

Macdonald groaned. 'Jeff,' he said to Owen, 'help me out. This mad bastard's gonna get us all killed.'

'No names!' screamed Verity, brandishing his shotgun. 'No fucking names!'

'Ted,' said Macdonald calmly, 'them knowing who we are is the least of our problems.'

'He's right,' said Doug. 'If the cops are outside it's thank you and good night.' He gestured at the door with his handgun. 'This pea-shooter's gonna do me no good against pigs with heavy artillery.'

'We're not gonna shoot at them,' shouted Verity. 'All we're gonna do is tell them if they try to stop us the hostages get it. Look, the minibus is out there. PJ's there. If we move now, we can still get out of here. If we keep yapping they'll be firing tear gas and God knows what else in here.'

The phone stopped ringing. Fred went to stand by Doug. The Glaswegian pulled the warehouseman back so that he was closer to Verity. Battle lines were being drawn. Owen cursed and moved over to Verity, his sawn-off shotgun at the ready. He gestured with his chin for Macdonald to join him but Macdonald shook his head.

'Eddie,' said Verity, 'get the hell over here.'

Eddie looked across at the two West Indians, then at Verity. 'I didn't sign up for a shoot-out,' he said. 'In and out, you said.'

'Eddie, get over here or I'll shoot you myself.' Eddie gritted his teeth. Verity levelled his shotgun at Eddie's groin. 'I swear to God,' said Verity. 'Get your fucking arse over here.'

Tears welled in Eddie's eyes but he did as he was told.

'Answer the phone, Ted,' said the voice in Verity's ear. 'What we've got to say is better said over a secure line, right? Don't you agree?'

Verity ripped off the earpiece and pointed at the fork-lift truck driver on the floor. 'Get a shotgun taped to his neck, now,' he shouted to Owen, keeping his own weapon aimed at the West Indians.

Owen grabbed the duct tape and pulled the injured man to his feet. 'Give me a hand,' he said to Eddie.

'If you're going to go through with this, I'm out of here,' said Doug.

'You're not going anywhere,' said Verity.

'This ain't no Three Musketeers thing,' said Doug. 'You do what you've got to do, but I'm walking out now.'

'I'm with him,' said Fred, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The telephone rang again.

'We're going out together,' said Verity.

Eddie was winding tape round the fork-lift truck driver's neck.

'They're not going to let you drive away,' said Macdonald.

'They won't have a choice,' said Verity. 'What are they going to do? Shoot at us while we've got these guys by the short and curlies?'

'And what are you going to do when they say there's no deal?' said Macdonald. 'Blow the heads off civilians?'

'They'll deal,' said Verity.

'If that's what you think you don't know the cops.'

'Do you?' yelled Verity. 'Is that how they knew we were here? Did you grass us up?'

'Screw you, Verity,' said Macdonald. 'I don't need this shit.'

Verity pointed his shotgun at Macdonald's midriff, his finger on the trigger. Macdonald swung his own shotgun up so that it was levelled at Verity.

'Guys, for fuck's sake!' shouted Owen. 'We're on the same side here!'

'We're in this together,' said Verity. 'If we split up now, it's over.'

'It's over anyway!' roared Macdonald. 'You just don't see it.'

'Bob, we're damned if we do and damned if we don't,' said Owen.

Macdonald snarled at Owen, though he kept his weapon on Verity. 'You told me this was a straight robbery,' he said. 'In and out before anyone was the wiser, you said. Now we're taking hostages.'

'The cops are going to say we took hostages anyway,' said Owen calmly. 'Soon as we tied them up we were holding them against their will. Look, I brought you in on this because you were a cool head. Don't let me down now.'

The phone stopped ringing. Outside the warehouse they heard rapid footsteps. Then silence.

Macdonald lowered his weapon. 'Okay,' he said.

Verity stared at him, then nodded curtly, acknowledging Macdonald's change of heart. 'Check the door,' Verity said. 'Don't open it, just listen.'

Macdonald walked towards it. As he passed Verity, he turned suddenly and slammed the cut-down stock of his shotgun into the man's stomach. The breath exploded from Verity's lungs and he doubled over. Macdonald brought the stock crashing down on the back of Verity's head and Verity dropped like a dead weight.

Owen stared at Macdonald in amazement. Doug and Fred cheered. The Glaswegian tried to rip his shotgun away from the warehouseman's neck but the duct tape held firm and he cursed. Macdonald swung his gun towards him. 'Don't even think about it, Jock,' he said.

'You're dead,' said Owen. 'When he gets hold of you, you'll be wearing your balls around your neck.'

'If we go out there tooled up, we're dead anyway,' said Macdonald. He backed away from Owen. The Glaswegian ripped his shotgun free with a roar. He aimed it at Macdonald as the warehouseman slumped to his knees.

Macdonald kept backing away. 'I've no problem with you, Jock,' he said, 'or you, Jeff. I just want out of here.'

There was a loud bang at the entrance and they all jumped. As the Glaswegian turned to look at the metal door, Macdonaldsprinted down the warehouse. He ducked between two towering stacks of pallets, then zigzagged right, left and right again. He dropped the shotgun and kicked it under a pallet, then sprinted towards the rear of the warehouse. Behind him he heard the metal door crash open, then the staccato shouts of men who were used to their orders being obeyed. 'Armed police! Down on the floor, now! Down, down, down!'

Macdonald zigzagged again, and reached the warehouse wall. The emergency exit was at the mid-point and he ran towards it. From the front of the warehouse he heard a single shotgun blast, a burst of automatic fire, then more shouts. He wondered who had fired. Owen was too much of a pro to shoot at armed police. It was probably the Glaswegian. Macdonald hoped he hadn't hit anybody and that the police had been firing warning shots. A pump-action shotgun against half a dozen Hecklers was no contest.

Macdonald kicked the metal bar in the middle of the door, which sprang open. An alarm sounded in the distance. The door bounced back and he shouldered his way through.

'Armed police!' shouted a Cockney accent. 'Drop your weapon!'

Macdonald stopped dead and raised his hands in the air. 'I'm not carrying a weapon, dipshit!' he shouted, then stood where he was, breathing heavily.

'Down on the ground, keep your hands where we can see them!' shouted the officer. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed all in black with a Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap with POLICE written across it in white capital letters. His Heckler was aimed at Macdonald's chest. Two more armed officers stood behind him, their guns aimed at Macdonald.

'Can we all just relax here?' said Macdonald. He took off his ski mask and stared sullenly at the three policemen. 'Okay now?' he said. They looked at him grimly.

'Down on the floor!' said the oldest of the three, gesturing with his Heckler.

'Yeah, right,' said Macdonald. 'Look, I don't have time for this.' He moved to walk by them. The Cockney swore at him, raised his weapon and slammed the butt against the side of the Macdonald's head. Macdonald went down without a sound.

Macdonald came to lying on his back, staring up at a man in a white mask wearing a dark green anorak, shining a small flashlight into his left eye. Macdonald groaned. He heard the wail of a siren and realised he was in an ambulance. He tried to sit up but the paramedic put a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him down. 'Lie still, you've had a nasty bang on the head.'

'He hit me,' said Macdonald. 'Why the hell did he hit me?'

'Because you were resisting arrest, you twat,' said a Cockney voice.

Macdonald tried to sit up again.

'Really, sir, I wouldn't,' said the paramedic. 'There's a good chance of concussion. We're going to have to give you a scan.'

Macdonald tried to push away the paramedic but his arm wouldn't move more than a few inches. He looked down. His wrist was handcuffed to the metal bar of the stretcher he was lying on. He tried to raise the other. That was cuffed, too. The cop who'd hit him was sitting next to him, the Heckler cradled in his lap. He had a long face with deep-set eyes and he'd turned the baseball cap round so that the peak was at the back. 'I should have hit you harder,' he said.

'What the hell's going on?' asked Macdonald, groggily.

'Your mate shot one of ours,' said the cop. 'You're all going down for attempted murder on top of armed robbery.'

'He's okay?'

'Your mate? Took one in the arm. He'll live.'

'Screw him, he almost got us killed. The cop who was shot, is he okay?'

'Now you're worried, aren't you?' The cop slapped his Kevlar vest. 'Vest took most of the shot, bit of damage to his lower jaw. But the intent was there and you're all in it together.'

Macdonald lay back and stared up at the roof of the ambulance. They were moving at speed, the siren still wailing, but he could tell he wasn't badly hurt. He'd been hit before, by experts, and the butt of the Heckler hadn't done any serious damage. What worried Macdonald was why the job had gone so wrong.

Macdonald was wheeled into a cubicle where an Indian doctor examined the head wound, shone another light in his eyes, tested his hearing and tapped the soles of his feet before pronouncing him in no need of a brain scan. 'Frankly,' he said to Macdonald, 'the queue for the MRI is so long that if there was a problem you'd be dead long before we got you checked out.'

Macdonald wasn't sure if he was joking or not. The doctor put antiseptic on the wound and told Macdonald he didn't think it required stitching. 'Any chance of me being kept in for a day or two?' Macdonald asked. The longer he stayed out of a police station the better.

'Even if you were at death's door we'd have trouble finding you a bed,' said the doctor, scribbling on a clipboard. He glanced at the paramedic. 'You did the right thing bringing him in, but he's fine.'

'Told you I should have hit you harder,' said the armed policeman, who was standing at the end of the trolley cradling his Heckler.

The paramedic looked across at the cop. 'What do we do with him?'

'I've been told to keep him here until the forensic boys give him the once-over.'

The doctor pointed at a curtained-off area on the opposite side of the emergency room. 'You can put him in there unless we get busy,' he said, and walked over to where an old man with shoulder-length grey hair and a stained raincoat was haranguing a young nurse.

The paramedic wheeled Macdonald across the room and pulled the pale green curtain round him. The armed cop dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, facing him.

'Haven't you got anything better to do?' asked Macdonald.

'I'm not to let you out of my sight,' said the cop. 'Not until CID get here.'

'How about a coffee, then?'

'Fuck you,' said the cop.

'Hey, I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.

'You were carrying, and the intent was there. The fact that you didn't pull the trigger doesn't mean shit.'

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling.

'I should have shot you when I had the chance,' said the cop. Macdonald ignored him. The cop kicked the trolley. 'You hear me?' Macdonald closed his eyes.

Before he could say anything else, the curtain was pulled back. 'Okay, lad, we'll take it from here,' said a voice.

Macdonald opened his eyes. Two men in suits were standing at the end of the bed. The older one was wearing the cheaper outfit, an off-the-peg blue pinstripe that had obviously been acquired when he'd been a few pounds lighter. He was in his early fifties and had the world-weary look of a policeman who'd carried out more than his fair share of interviews in A and E departments. His hair was receding and swept back, giving him the look of a bird of prey. He smiled at Macdonald. 'I gather you're fit to talk.'

The armed cop glared at Macdonald and walked away, muttering.

'I've nothing to say,' said Macdonald.

'That's how I like it,' said the detective. 'Short and sweet. I'm Detective Inspector Robin Kelly, Crawley CID.' He nodded at the younger man. 'This is Detective Constable Brendan O'Connor. Don't let the Irish name fool you, young Brendan here is as English as they come. Product of the graduate-entry scheme he is, and sharp as a knife. Isn't that right, Detective Constable?'

O'Connor sighed, clearly used to Kelly's teasing. 'Yes, sir. Sharp as a knife.' His accent was pure Oxbridge - obviously destined for greater things than riding shotgun to a detective approaching retirement.

'How about getting us a couple of coffees?' said Kelly. 'Mine's black with two sugars. What about you?'

Macdonald turned to look at the detective constable. He was in his mid-twenties with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes that suggested there was more to his Irish heritage than his name. 'White, no sugar.'

'Sweet enough, as my grandmother always used to say,' said Kelly. He sat down and crossed his ankles as the detective constable left them. 'I hope I retire before he gets promoted above me.' He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'I'm missing my beauty sleep, I can tell you that much. Still, no point in brandishing shotguns in broad daylight, is there?'

'No comment,' said Macdonald.

'And if I was in your situation that's what I'd be saying. No comment until you're lawyered up and then it's "No comment on my solicitor's advice." But unless you take the initiative here, you're going to go down with the rest of the scum.'

'No comment,' said Macdonald.

'You see, the civilians are saying that you were the best of a bad bunch. You tried to stop the flaming-kebabs routine. You said it would be better to call it a night and go out with your hands up. And, bugger me, you only went and poleaxed Ted Verity, gangster of this parish. For which you have the thanks of Sussex Constabulary.'

'How is he?' asked Macdonald.

'Like a prick with a sore head,' said Kelly. He chuckled. 'He's in a better state than you, actually. You didn't do much in the way of damage.'

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling. 'No comment.'

'If I was you, and obviously I'm not because you're the one with the handcuffs on, I'd be wanting to put as much distance between me and the rest of them as I could. A cop was shot. Prison isn't particularly welcoming to people who take pot-shots at law-enforcement officials.'

'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.

'Which is another point in your favour,' said Kelly. 'But it's going to take more than that to keep you out of a Cat A establishment for the next twenty years.'

O'Connor returned with three plastic beakers on a cardboard tray. He handed the tray to Kelly, then unlocked the handcuff on Macdonald's left wrist. Macdonald smiled at him gratefully, shook his hand to get the circulation going, then took his beaker of coffee and sipped it.

'So what's it to be?' asked Kelly. 'Can we bank on your co-operation? Or shall I book you a cell with Verity?'

'No comment,' said Macdonald.

Kelly sighed and got to his feet. 'That's that, then,' he said.

The curtain was pulled back and a young woman in a dark blue jacket looked expectantly at him. 'Jennifer Peddler,' she said. 'I'm here for the forensics.' She jerked her head at Macdonald. 'This the shooter?'

'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.

'Strictly speaking, that's true,' said Kelly. 'He's a blagger rather than a shooter.'

Peddler put a large case down on the floor, opened it, took out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on. She was a good-looking woman, with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail.

Kelly chuckled. 'Not going to give him the full monty, are you?' he asked. 'We don't think he's got a shotgun up his back passage. We found his weapon at the warehouse.'

The woman flashed Kelly a bored smile. 'Contamination of evidence,' she said. She pointed at the handcuff on Macdonald's right wrist. 'You'll need to take that off so he can remove his clothes.'

'What?' said Macdonald.

'Guns were fired, we need to examine your clothing for particles.'

'I didn't fire a gun,' said Macdonald.

'It's procedure,' she said. 'As these gentlemen will tell you, I don't need a warrant.'

'It's true,' said O'Connor.

'Then what am I supposed to wear?'

Kelly smiled. 'Tell us your address and we'll send round a car for a change of clothes.'

'This is madness,' Macdonald said, annoyed.

'You can wear a hospital robe,' said O'Connor.

'I'm not going into a bloody cop-shop with my arse hanging out,' said Macdonald.

'I've a forensic suit you can wear,' said Peddler. She leaned down and took a plastic-wrapped package from her case, tore it open and removed a one-piece suit made from white paper.

'You're joking,' said Macdonald.

'It's that or the hospital gown.'

'What about my human rights?'

'What about the cop you shot?' said O'Connor.

'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.

'We'll start with your footwear,' said Peddler. She removed his trainers and socks, and placed them in individual brown paper bags with polythene windows. Then she helped him off with his jeans and put them into a bag. She took a marker pen from her jacket pocket. 'Name?' she said.

Macdonald said nothing.

'He's not saying,' said Kelly. 'But we'll get the full story once we've run his prints through NAFIS.'

Macdonald took another sip of coffee. A check through the National Automated Fingerprint Information System wouldn't help them identify him. His prints weren't on record. Neither was his photograph. But there was no point in telling them that. There was no point in telling them anything.

Peddler scribbled on the bags, then put down her pen. She took off Macdonald's leather gloves and bagged them, then O'Connor undid the cuff so that she could take his shirt and jacket. She put them in separate bags, sealed them, picked up her pen and scribbled on them. 'You can keep the underwear,' she said, handing him the paper suit.

Peddler swabbed his hands and put the swabs in separate plastic tubes, each of which she labelled. She also took his wristwatch. 'You haven't printed him, then?' she asked Kelly.

'He was brought straight here. We'll scan him at the factory.'

'I'll take my own set now,' said Peddler. 'Give me a head start.' She inked Macdonald's fingers and took a set of his prints. Then she handed him a cloth to wipe off the surplus. 'I need a DNA sample for comparison purposes,' she said. 'It's a simple mouth swab. As you haven't been charged, I need written permission from a superintendent before I can insist. You can give me a sample willingly now or I can catch up with you later.'

'Take what you need,' said Macdonald. His DNA wasn't on file.

Peddler wiped a swab inside his mouth and sealed it in a plastic tube. 'Right, that's me finished,' she said. She went off with the case in one hand and the bags of clothing in the other.

'What happens now?' asked Macdonald.

'We take you back to Crawley for more questioning,' said Kelly. 'You're charged, we bring you in front of a magistrate and then you're banged up until trial, assuming you don't get bail. And I think it's pretty unlikely that any judge is going to let you back on the streets.' Kelly stood up. 'You finished your coffee?'

Macdonald drained his cup and the two detectives escorted him through A and E. Nurses, doctors and waiting patients craned their necks to get a glimpse of him, then quickly looked away. The paper suit rustled with every step and his bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor. Macdonald had a throbbing headache but he didn't know if it was as a result of the blow to his head or the tension that had cramped the muscles at the back of his neck. Police, court, then prison. He smiled grimly. This was definitely not how he'd been planning to spend the next few days.

Macdonald was driven to the rear entrance of Crawley police station and taken into a reception area where a bored uniformed sergeant asked a series of questions to which Macdonald replied, 'No comment.'

The sergeant, a big man with steel grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses, seemed unperturbed by Macdonald's refusal to answer any questions. He asked Kelly if he was going to interview the prisoner immediately and Kelly said that they'd talk to him in the morning.

'What about a solicitor?' asked the sergeant. 'Is there someone you want us to call?'

Macdonald shook his head.

'Do you want to see the duty solicitor?'

'No, thanks,' said Macdonald. He knew that the sergeant wasn't offering out of the goodness of his heart, simply following police procedure. Macdonald was in the system and everything that happened from now on would be covered by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. They'd play it by the book, one hundred per cent.

A young constable removed Macdonald's handcuffs and took him over to a desk where there was a machine like a small photocopier without a lid. The constable made him place his right hand on the screen and pressed a button. A pale green light scanned Macdonald's palm and fingers. Then the constable scanned Macdonald's left hand. The Livescan system would run his prints through NAFIS within minutes, but they would come back unmatched.

Then Macdonald was taken into another room where the constable took photographs, front and side profiles, and returned him to the reception desk. Kelly and O'Connor had gone.

The sergeant asked Macdonald if there was anyone he wanted to phone. Macdonald knew of at least half a dozen people he should call, but he shook his head.

'You do understand why you're here?' said the sergeant.

Macdonald nodded.

'You're going to be charged with some serious offences,' said the sergeant. 'I don't owe you any favours but you really should talk to a solicitor. The duty guy can advise you without knowing your name.'

'Thanks,' said Macdonald, 'but no thanks.'

The sergeant shrugged. 'I'll need your watch and any jewellery.'

'Forensics took my watch, and I don't wear jewellery,' he said. He'd taken off his wedding band two months earlier.

'You were examined by a doctor?'

Macdonald inclined his head.

'Did he say you needed any special attention, anything we should know about?'

'No. But I could do with shoes.'

'There's a bell in the cell. If you feel bad - dizzy or sick or anything - ring it. We can get the duty doctor out to see you. Had a guy die a few years back after being hit on the head. Bleeding internally and nobody knew.' He called the constable over. 'Cell three,' he said, handing him a card on which was written 'NOT KNOWN, ARMED ROBBERY' along with the date and time. 'I'll see what I can do about footwear,' he said to Macdonald.

The constable took Macdonald down a corridor lined with grey cell doors. He unlocked one and stood aside to let Macdonald in. The room was two paces wide and three long with a glass block window at the far end, a seatless toilet to the right, and in the ceiling, protected by a sheet of Perspex, a single fluorescent light. There was a concrete bed base with a thin plastic mattress. Two folded blankets lay at the foot. The walls were painted pale green. Probably Apple White on the chart, thought Macdonald. The paint was peeling off the ceiling and dozens of names and dates had been scratched into the wall, along with graffiti, most of which was along the lines of 'All coppers are bastards.'

The constable slotted the card into a holder on the door. 'Don't put anything down the toilet that you shouldn't,' said the constable. 'The sergeant gets really upset if it backs up. And if he gets upset, we get upset.'

'Any chance of some grub?' asked Macdonald.

The constable slammed the door without replying.

'I guess not,' said Macdonald. He picked up one of the blankets. It stank of stale vomit and he tossed it into the corner of the cell. He sat down on the bed. The floor was sticky and he swung his bare feet on to the mattress, then sat with his back against the wall. He'd slept in worse places. At least no one was shooting at him. The light went out and he sat in the darkness, considering his options. He didn't have many. He was in the system now and all he could do was ride it out.

Without a watch, Macdonald quickly lost track of the time. Light was streaming in through the window when the door was unlocked and a constable, a different one from the previous night, handed him a plastic tray that contained a bacon sandwich and a paper cup of tea with the bag still in it.

'Sarge said I was to ask what size your feet are,' said the constable. He was in his late twenties, tall and thin with a slight stoop. He looked more like a librarian than a policeman.

'Ten,' said Macdonald.

The constable started to leave. 'I could do with a shower and a shave,' said Macdonald.

'We don't have any washing facilities,' said the constable. He left, slamming the cell door.

Macdonald took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was stale and the bacon was fatty and cold but it was the first thing he'd eaten in twelve hours so he wolfed it down. The tea was lukewarm and sweet.

The next time the cell door opened a uniformed female sergeant came in, a thick-set woman with tightly permed hair. She was holding a pair of old training shoes. 'These are elevens but they're all we could find,' she said.

Macdonald thanked her and tried them on. There were no laces so he had to shuffle as he walked, but they were better than nothing. He sat down on the bed but the woman jerked her thumb towards corridor. 'You're to be interviewed,' she said.

She escorted him across the reception area. Several uniformed officers stared at him with hard faces. Word must have got round that a cop had been shot. Macdonald looked straight ahead. The sergeant opened a door and gestured for him to go in.

Kelly and O'Connor were already seated at a table with notebooks in front of them. A tape-recording deck with spaces for two tapes stood on a shelf and in the corner of the room above Kelly's shoulder there was a small CCTV camera.

'Sit down,' said O'Connor, pointing at a chair facing the camera.

Macdonald did as he was told. By now the detectives had probably discovered that neither his prints nor his photograph were on file. The DNA profile would take longer.

O'Connor switched on the recording machine and identified himself. He gave the date, looked at his wristwatch and said the time, then looked at his boss. Kelly seemed tired: there were dark patches under his eyes, and the shoulders of his suit were flecked with dandruff. Kelly spoke his name, then sat back to let O'Connor do the talking.

'So, you've had a chance to sleep on it,' said O'Connor. 'Are you ready to be a bit more co-operative today?'

'No comment,' said Macdonald.

'You were arrested leaving a warehouse at Gatwick airport late last night,' said O'Connor. 'Would you care to tell us what you were doing there?'

Macdonald knew he hadn't been arrested, he'd been knocked unconscious, but maybe O'Connor was hoping for an argument over the facts that would lead Macdonald to incriminate himself. If that was his intention maybe he wasn't destined for greater things.

'No comment,' he said.

'At this point I'm asking you if you want to be legally represented,' said O'Connor. 'Either by a solicitor of your choosing or by the duty solicitor.'

'I decline legal representation,' said Macdonald, folding his arms across his chest.

'Because?'

'No comment.'

'We understand that the raid was planned by Edward Verity.'

'No comment.'

'And that you were just a hired hand on the job.'

'No comment.'

'We understand that you hit Mr Verity before he could take actions that would have led to the hostages being hurt.'

'No comment.'

'If you explained why you did that, it might make things easier for you.'

'No comment.'

'We discovered a shotgun in the warehouse, close to the emergency exit you ran out of. Can you confirm that it was yours?'

'No comment.'

O'Connor reached under the table and brought out an evidence bag containing a pair of leather gloves.

'We removed this pair of gloves from you in hospital in the early hours of this morning.' O'Connor read out the serial number on the bag for the benefit of the tape. 'Can you confirm that you were wearing these gloves?'

'No comment.'

O'Connor bent down and picked up a second evidence bag, this one containing a black ski mask. 'You were wearing this mask when you broke out of the warehouse,' he said.

'No comment.'

'And you were wearing the overalls belonging to the employee of the pest-control company you were impersonating. All of which leaves us in no doubt that you were a member of the gang who broke into the warehouse, assaulted the employees and later shot a policeman.'

'No comment.'

'Refusing to answer our questions isn't going to get you anywhere,' said O'Connor.

Macdonald shrugged.

'The lad's right,' said Kelly. 'This isn't me playing good cop, bad cop either. You're not on file but all that means is that you haven't been caught before. You're a pro, that's as obvious as the wart on my arse. But just because it's a first offence doesn't mean you won't go down for a long time. If the Crown Prosecution Service goes for attempted murder plus kidnapping you could get life.'

Macdonald shrugged again.

'But if you throw in your lot with us, we could persuade the CPS to drop your case to attempted robbery. A few months behind bars. You might even get probation if you can come up with a few character witnesses and an invalid mother.'

'No comment,' said Macdonald.

Kelly leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. 'This is a once-only offer,' he said.

'I can't help you,' said Macdonald.

'If you can't, there's others that will,' said Kelly. 'You know Conrad Wilkinson? Of course you do. He was wearing the same outfit as you.'

Macdonald said nothing.

'Young Conrad's scared shitless about going back to Brixton. Seems he left a debt behind when he got early release. Plus his record is minor - car theft and demanding money with menaces. It's all we can do to shut him up. Trouble is, he doesn't know anything.'

Macdonald remained silent.

'Now Jeff Owen, he does know what time it is. All sorts of bells went off when we ran his prints through NAFIS. Owen wants to do a deal, but as he was the one splashing petrol about, the CPS isn't happy about cutting him any slack. So I'm going to ask you one last time. Do you want to help us with our enquiries, or shall we get ready to throw away the key?'

Macdonald stared sullenly at the detective. Kelly stood up. 'This interview is over,' he said.

O'Connor read the time off his wristwatch, then switched off the recorder. He took out the two cassettes, signed his name on them, and fixed seals over them. 'One of these is for you if you want it,' he said to Macdonald.

'No need,' said Macdonald.

Kelly threw open the door to the interview room and walked out. 'He's all yours,' he said, to the female sergeant. O'Connor hurried after the detective inspector.

The female sergeant took Macdonald back to his cell. On the way he asked if he could have some shoelaces because it was difficult to walk in the oversized trainers. She told him that he was a suicide risk so shoelaces and anything else he might use to kill himself were prohibited. Macdonald smiled to himself as she closed the cell door on him. Killing himself was the last thing he wanted to do.

Macdonald was interviewed three times over the rest of the day, but he didn't see Kelly or his sidekick again. The questioning was handled by a detective chief inspector and a detective sergeant, two men with more than fifty years of police experience between them. They tried every trick they knew but Macdonald said only, 'No comment.'

He was fed once, in the early evening. A watery spaghetti Bolognese on a paper plate and a sickly treacle pudding with fluorescent yellow custard. Neither was especially appetising but Macdonald cleaned both plates with the same plastic fork, and washed down the food with another cup of sweet tea.

There was no sink in the cell but he was given a washing-up bowl of warm water and a towel. His request for a razor was refused.

He slept uneasily on the thin plastic mattress and had to drape one of the foul-smelling blankets over his head to blot out the light.

He was woken by the uniformed male sergeant who informed him that his case had been reviewed by a superintendent and the twenty-four-hour grace period had been extended by eight hours; before the eight hours were up he would be charged and taken to Crawley magistrates' court.

Macdonald asked for some clothing and if he could shave before his court appearance. 'If you give us the name of a relative, we can get them to bring some things in for you,' the sergeant said. Macdonald knew there was no point in arguing with him. Besides, even if he appeared in court wearing an Armani suit and an MCC tie he wouldn't be granted bail. A short while later he was given another bacon sandwich, this time with a congealed fried egg inside it, and a cup of instant coffee. He ate the sandwich hungrily and sipped the coffee slowly.

He sat on the bed until they came for him. He was handcuffed to two police officers and taken into a small room where the uniformed sergeant formally charged him on one count of armed robbery. It was a holding charge, Macdonald figured, until they had finished their investigation. Kelly had seemed serious when he'd said that the gang members were all going to be charged with attempted murder and kidnapping.

As he was led through the reception area he caught a glimpse of Jeff Owen through a half-open door. He was sitting at a table, talking quickly. Macdonald couldn't see who was interviewing him but he had the feeling it was Kelly and O'Connor. Owen looked up and saw Macdonald. He said something to the interviewing officers and the door was closed.

The two police officers took Macdonald out through the rear entrance where a large white truck was waiting. A dark blue saloon car was parked behind it: four armed police officers were sitting in it wearing bullet-proof vests. Behind them two police motorcyclists were revving their engines.

The officers took Macdonald inside the van. There were separate stalls, each with its own door. They pushed him into one, attached one of his cuffs to a chrome rail and removed the other, then locked the door.

Macdonald sat down on the moulded plastic seat and stared out of a square window of reinforced glass. He heard more prisoners being brought into the truck, and doors slamming. Then the engine started and the truck edged out of the car park into the street. The two motorcycles roared round it and took the lead; the car of armed police followed behind.

Through the window, Macdonald saw mothers pushing prams, young men in suits striding along purposefully with briefcases, old people standing at bus stops. Normal people leading normal lives. Civilians. Several turned to stare at the truck as it rumbled along the road - wondering, no doubt, which hardened criminals were being taken to get the retribution they deserved. Rapists? Child molesters? Murderers? Only twenty-four hours earlier he'd been on the outside, leading a normal life. Macdonald smiled tightly. No, that was wrong. His life was far from normal. It had been a long time since his life had been anything other than extraordinary.

He saw a young couple embracing, kissing each other full on the lips, then parting and waving goodbye. His stomach lurched. He'd been trying not to think of his wife and son and how they'd be feeling, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. But there was nothing he could do about that just now. There was no way he could contact them - not until he'd figured out what was going on and why his life had been turned upside-down.

The magistrate was a man in his fifties with unfashionably long hair that Macdonald felt was probably tied back in a ponytail when he wasn't on the bench.

Macdonald sat in the dock, a uniformed policeman at each shoulder. He had no idea if anyone else from the gang had already appeared, or if anyone else would follow him. When he'd been taken out of the truck the doors to the rest of the stalls had been locked and there was no one else in the waiting room where he'd been kept for half an hour before his court appearance. Two armed policemen stood guard while he was in the waiting room and two more were in the court. The magistrate read a file through half-moon reading glasses, then looked over the top of them at Macdonald. 'You're refusing to give your name?'

'Yes, sir,' said Macdonald.

'That's a little pointless, isn't it?' He had the vestiges of a Scottish accent, as if he'd been born north of the border but had spent most of his life in London.

'It's my decision, sir,' said Macdonald.

'They'll put you on Crimewatch,' said the magistrate, and chuckled at his joke. 'And you're refusing legal representation?'

'I am, sir.'

'Equally pointless,' said the magistrate. 'Your case will be heard at the Crown Court, possibly the Old Bailey, and you will not be allowed to represent yourself there. Unless you have formal legal training.' He smiled patronisingly at Macdonald. 'Do you have any formal legal training?'

'No, sir.'

'Then I suggest you hire yourself a solicitor immediately and, in view of the charges, get yourself a decent barrister. From the look of the evidence against you, you're going to need all the help you can get.' The magistrate glanced at the two CPS lawyers who were sitting at a desk on the opposite side of the court. One was in his late forties, with a tan so perfect it could only have come from a sunbed or a bottle; the other was two decades younger, with an eager-to-please demeanour that suggested he hadn't long been in the job. Behind the lawyers were the two detectives who had taken over Macdonald's questioning. The younger CPS lawyer had done most of the talking while the older one had occasionally turned in his chair to whisper to the detectives. 'Do we have any idea when the further charges you mentioned might be laid?' the magistrate asked the lawyers.

The younger lawyer got to his feet. 'Investigations are continuing, sir,' he said. 'Statements are being taken from employees of the pest-control company who were held prisoner and we would expect charges of kidnapping and assault to be filed shortly. We are awaiting the results of forensic tests before charging the defendant with grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.'

The magistrate looked back to Macdonald. 'In view of the seriousness of the charges, compounded by your refusal to co-operate with the police, I have no alternative but to remand you in custody. And because of the nature of the crime and the fact that firearms were involved, you are to be held in a Category A facility.'

Macdonald stared stonily at the magistrate. It was what he had expected.

'It seems to me that, these days, the criminal fraternity is all too keen to carry firearms in the pursuit of their activities, and I hope that the full weight of the law is brought against you when the case comes to court,' the magistrate continued. Macdonald could see that the man was enjoying his moment of glory. He would spend most of his time dealing with motoring offences and shoplifters: the appearance of an armed robber and potential police-killer in his court would give him lots to talk about at his next dinner party. But the speech meant nothing: Macdonald hadn't even applied for bail.

He was handcuffed again, taken to the van, put back into the stall and the door locked. A few minutes later, the vehicle drove out of the court car park, escorted by the two motorcyclists and the car of armed police.

Macdonald gazed out of the window, trying to work out where they were taking him. At some point they drove over the Thames, which meant they weren't taking him to Belmarsh, but his restricted view meant that he had no clear idea of which direction they were heading.

Macdonald sensed they weren't taking a direct route to the prison. That, and the armed escort, suggested the police believed he was an escape risk. He craned his neck and searched the sky for a helicopter, but saw nothing.

The sun was dropping towards the horizon so it must have been mid-afternoon when he saw the prison wall in the distance. There was no mistaking its nature: it was over thirty feet high and made of featureless brown concrete topped by a cylindrical structure like a large sewage pipe that ran its full length. There was no barbed wire, so presumably the cylinder was an anti-climbing device. If he was going to get out of the prison, Macdonald reflected, he wouldn't be climbing over the wall.

The van slowed and Macdonald glimpsed a sign: HM Prison Shelton. Then it turned right and headed towards a gatehouse. A uniformed guard raised a barrier, and the van drove through, then stopped in front of a large gate. It rattled back and, a moment later, Macdonald saw three prison officers standing at a doorway, big men, with barrel chests and weight-lifters' forearms, in short-sleeved white shirts with black epaulets. As the vehicle came to a stop another guard appeared, holding a large Alsatian on a tight leash.

The engine cut out. The Alsatian barked. The three guards folded their arms across their chests and waited. Macdonald heard footsteps outside his stall. A prison officer was standing in the doorway, in full uniform with a peaked cap. He undid the handcuff, took it off the rail, then fastened it to his own wrist. 'Welcome to Shelton,' he said, deadpan.

He nodded for Macdonald to stand up, then led him down the van and out into the courtyard. The Alsatian barked again, and struggled to get close to Macdonald, but his handler held him back. The prison officer took Macdonald through a door which led to a reception area. Off to the left there was a glass-walled holding cell lined with wooden benches, and to the right a waist-high desk of dark wood. A prison officer in shirtsleeves was standing behind a line of metal trays. He reached for a clipboard as Macdonald was brought in front of him. He took a form from one of the trays, picked up a pen and looked at Macdonald expectantly as the escorting officer removed the handcuff from his wrist. 'This is the shooter,' he said. 'Be gentle with him.'

The officer behind the desk grunted. He was in his thirties with long sideburns and a drinker's paunch that hung over his belt, like a late pregnancy. 'Name?' he asked Macdonald.

'I'm not giving my name.'

The officer frowned. 'What?'

'I'm not giving my name.'

A uniformed policeman came in and placed a stack of files on the reception desk. 'There you go,' he said. 'Five bodies.'

The officer kept his eyes on Macdonald. 'You can't not give your name,' he said.

Macdonald shrugged. The prison officer waved two officers over. They took Macdonald into a side room and professionally strip-searched him. They checked his open mouth, behind his ears, and made him squat. Then they took him back to the reception desk.

'Name?' repeated the prison officer, as if it was the first time he'd asked the question.

Macdonald shook his head.

'Look, it's no skin off my nose,' said the officer. 'You get a number anyway.' He tapped the form in front of him. 'This number will follow you for the rest of your sentence whether or not there's a name to go with it.'

'I haven't been sentenced,' said Macdonald. 'I'm on remand.'

The prison officer flicked through the files and pulled out Macdonald's, which contained only a few sheets of paper. His photograph was clipped to the inside cover.

The officer's eyes narrowed. 'Have you been in prison before?'

Macdonald said nothing.

The officer read through the papers. 'No fingerprints on file so this is your first time in the system,' he said, as he continued to read. Once he'd scanned the final sheet he looked at Macdonald and sneered. 'Right, then, you being a new boy and all, let me explain something to you. Your time on the remand wing can be relatively painless, or it can be a bloody misery, and the way you get treated depends one hundred per cent on how you treat us. Time out of your cell, the amount you can spend on canteen, recreation, association, the clothes you wear, it's all down to how much co-operation you show us. Do you get my drift?'

Macdonald stared at him, his face blank. The Alsatian barked again, and another prisoner was led into the reception area, handcuffed to a policeman. Macdonald turned to look at the new arrival but it wasn't a face he recognised.

'Name?' repeated the prison officer. He waited for a few seconds, then pushed Macdonald's papers to the side. 'Have it your way,' he said. He turned to a computer terminal and tapped on the keyboard. He looked at the screen, then wrote down a number on a manila file: SN 6759. Next to the number were spaces for Macdonald's surname and forenames. 'You are now in the system, prisoner SN 6759,' said the officer. 'Everything that happens to you will be noted in your F2050 here and it doesn't give a toss whether you've got a name or not.' He gestured with his chin at the holding cell. 'Take a seat.' He beckoned to the new arrival to approach the desk. The prisoner was a teenager in denims, who looked close to tears. Macdonald wondered what he'd done to justify being sent to a Category A facility.

Macdonald shuffled into the holding cell and sat down. A clock on the wall above the door told him it was three thirty. Macdonald hadn't had anything to eat since his sandwich in the police station and his stomach growled. He knew there was no point in asking for something. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd gone without food and water. He'd survive.

Another prisoner was ushered into the holding cell, a big man with a badly bruised face and a freshly stitched wound on his shaved head. He nodded at Macdonald. 'How's it going, mate?' he asked, in a whining Liverpudlian drawl. He was wearing an England football shirt, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Nike trainers, but his physique suggested it had been a long time since he'd chased after a ball.

'Great,' said Macdonald.

'What's with the gear?' asked the man, indicating the forensic suit.

'Cops took my stuff,' said Macdonald.

'Bastards,' said the man. He pointed at his bruised face. 'They did this to me. Resisting arrest.' He chuckled.

Two more prisoners were brought into the holding cell, black men in their twenties wearing designer sportswear and expensive trainers. They sprawled on one of the benches, looking bored.

'So, what are you in for?' the bruised guy asked Macdonald.

'Armed robbery,' he said.

'Bloody hell, premier division,' said the man.

'Yeah, well, I would be if we'd got away with it. Why are you here?'

The man laughed. 'Retailing.'

'Retailing?'

'Tried to sell a couple of watches. Turned out they were nicked.'

'That's a pity.'

'My own fault, really. It was me what nicked them.' He rubbed his square chin with his palm. 'Serves me right.'

Macdonald heard the van start up, then drive away.

'Did we have the same magistrate?' asked Macdonald. 'Guy with the long hair?'

'Yeah, recognise him, did you?'

Macdonald frowned.

'He was with that pop group, back in the seventies, the guys who dressed up with the makeup and everything. Right ponces. New fucking Romantics. What the hell were they called?'

A prison officer opened the door to the holding cell. 'Barnes,' he said.

'That's me,' said the man. He flashed Macdonald a thumbs-up. 'Catch you later.'

Macdonald sat and waited. Barnes was processed and taken away. Then another load of prisoners arrived, six this time. They had all been in the system for some time because each man was carrying his belongings in a large, tagged, clear-plastic bag. Five were sent into the holding cell. Two were black and young, with the streetwise arrogance of the earlier pair. They stared sullenly at Macdonald and ignored him when he acknowledged them with a nod. He couldn't have cared less whether they were friendly or not - they were obviously dispersal prisoners who had been moved from another institution and he wouldn't see them on the remand wing. Of the three white prisoners, one was a stooped man in his late sixties with thinning grey hair and a smoker's cough. He smiled at Macdonald, showing that half his teeth were missing. His right arm trembled constantly and the hand was curled into a tight claw. 'Got a smoke?' he asked, and Macdonald shook his head.

The other two were similar to Barnes, with shaved heads and logo-covered sportswear. They nodded at Macdonald and pointedly ignored the two black prisoners. 'Nice outfit,' said one, but Macdonald closed his eyes and stretched out. He could see what game the prison officers were playing: he would be processed last.

The clock on the wall showed five thirty when Macdonald was alone in the holding cell. There had been three more deliveries, including another truckload of remand prisoners. Macdonald had watched them all being interviewed, given forms to sign, then escorted away.

Some were clearly familiar with the system, while others were confused and kept looking around as if hoping they were going to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream. One middle-aged man in a blue pinstriped suit and gleaming black shoes was wiping away tears as he answered the officer's questions.

It was just after six thirty when a female officer opened the door to the holding cell and told Macdonald he was to go back to the reception desk. Macdonald stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his back ramrod straight. The officer looked at him coldly. 'Bad news,' he said. 'By the time we've finished processing you, they won't be serving food.'

Macdonald shrugged.

'And we seem to have run out of breakfast packs. For the morning.' He pointed at Macdonald's forensic suit. 'Normally we'd be able to get you out of that and into some clothes, but we've left it a bit late. We might be able to get something sorted tomorrow. No promises.' He scratched his sideburns.

'I get the drift,' said Macdonald.

'Good. So let's run through the questions again, shall we? Name?'

Macdonald said nothing.

'Prisoner refuses to give his name,' said the officer, writing slowly on the form. 'Date of birth?'

Macdonald said nothing.

'Prisoner refuses to give his date of birth,' said the officer.

'Address?'

Macdonald sniffed, but said nothing.

The officer smiled to himself. 'Care of HM Prison Shelton,' he said. 'Remand wing.' He finished writing, then looked up at Macdonald. 'Next of kin?'

Macdonald stared back at him.

'Prisoner refuses to identify his next of kin.' In all there were more than two dozen questions on the induction form, and the officer insisted on putting each one to Macdonald before noting that he had refused to answer.

Eventually he turned the form round and pushed it across the desk. 'Sign at the bottom,' he said, slapping down a cheap Biro.

Macdonald picked it up. 'Can I put a cross?'

'Put what you like,' said the officer.

Macdonald made a mark at the bottom of the last page of the form.

The officer pointed at a curtained-off area. 'Go in there and strip,' he said.

'We hardly know each other,' said Macdonald drily.

The man stared at him without speaking. Macdonald stared back, then walked over to the curtain. He pulled it back. There were two metal chairs. He slipped off the training shoes, unzipped the forensic suit and draped it over one of the chairs.

'Pull the curtain back. We don't want to see your spotty arse!' the officer shouted.

Macdonald did as he was told, then removed his underwear and sat down. There was another clock on the wall. It was just before seven. It had been less than thirty hours since he'd run into the warehouse with a sawn-off shotgun. Thirty hours and his life had been turned upside-down. Macdonald put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He was dog-tired. And hungry.

The curtain swished back and a beanpole-thin man in a white coat walked into the cubicle holding a clipboard. He looked like a nervous supply teacher about to get to grips with a problem class in an inner-city school. He had black-framed spectacles with rectangular lenses, and a mop of brown hair that kept falling over his eyes. He sat down on the chair opposite Macdonald and put the clipboard on his lap, then patted the pockets of his white coat, looking for a pen. 'Any health problems I should know about?' he asked.

Macdonald shook his head.

'Are you on any medication?' Before Macdonald could answer, the doctor leaned forward. 'How did that happen?' he asked.

'It's nothing,' said Macdonald.

The doctor stood up and bent over him, examining the old bullet wound just below his right shoulder. 'Stand up, please.'

'It's nothing,' repeated Macdonald. He stood up and stared at the clock on the wall as the doctor prodded the scar tissue.

'What did this?'

'A bullet.' Macdonald was being sarcastic but the doctor was so intent on examining the wound that he didn't appear to notice.

'What calibre?'

'I don't know.' That was a lie. Macdonald knew exactly what it was. He still had it somewhere, a souvenir of the night he'd nearly died. It was a 5.45mm round from a Kalashnikov AK-74. Macdonald didn't usually go into details because when he said it was an AK-74 most people assumed he meant AK-47, the Russian weapon beloved of terrorists and freedom-fighters around the world. Macdonald had got tired of explaining that the AK-74 was a small-calibre version of the AK-47, initially developed for parachute troops but eventually the standard Soviet infantry rifle. But the weapon that had shot Macdonald hadn't been in the hands of a Russian soldier.

The doctor walked round him and studied his back. 'There's no exit wound,' he mused.

'They dug it out from the front,' said Macdonald.

'Unusual.'

'It hit the bone and went downwards. Missed the artery by half an inch.'

'You were lucky.'

'Yeah, well, if I'd really been lucky I wouldn't have stopped a bullet in the first place.'

The doctor studied Macdonald's chest again. 'Who did the operation?'

'I forget the guy's name.' Another lie. He would never forget the man who'd saved his life, digging out the bullet and patching up the wound before he could be helicoptered to hospital.

'It's . . . messy,' said the doctor, running his finger along the ridges of scar tissue.

'Yeah, well, that's what you get on the NHS,' said Macdonald.

'It's not a hospital scar,' the doctor said. 'This wasn't done in an operating theatre.'

When the doctor saw that Macdonald wasn't going to explain the origin of the wound, he pulled out a stethoscope and listened to his breathing. He examined his throat, then had him sit down while he checked his reflexes with a small metal hammer. The brief physical examination over, he asked Macdonald a dozen or so medical questions, ticking off boxes on a chart on the clipboard. Macdonald answered all in the negative: he was in perfect health.

'Drugs?' asked the doctor.

'No, thanks.'

The doctor smiled thinly. It was obviously a joke he'd heard a thousand times. 'Do you have a drugs problem?' he said.

'No,' said Macdonald.

'Alcohol?'

'The odd pint.'

'Ever been treated for depression? Anxiety?'

'I find a five-mile run usually gets me sorted.'

The doctor stood up. 'That's the lot,' he said. 'You can get dressed now.' He pulled back the curtain and walked away. A prison officer Macdonald hadn't seen before was standing by the cubicle holding an armful of bedding.

As soon as Macdonald had pulled on his forensic overall, the officer thrust the bundle at him. 'These are yours, then,' he said, in a lilting Welsh accent. 'I'll take you to the remand block.' He was a small, balding man with a kindly face.

Macdonald looked down at his bedding. There was a thin pillow, a pale green pillowcase, a green sheet and a brown blanket.

'Don't hang about,' said the officer. He already had his key in his hand and unlocked a barred door with the minimum of effort. He stood to the side to let Macdonald through, then followed him and relocked the door. Macdonald glimpsed the key. It was like no other he'd seen before, no rough edges, just small discs set into the metal strip, which he guessed were magnets, impossible to copy.

The officer walked him through another barred door that led on to a corridor covered by CCTV cameras. It stretched for several hundred yards and was deserted. Their footsteps echoed off the cream-painted walls as they walked towards a door at the far end. The officer unlocked another barred door and took Macdonald up a flight of metal stairs to the first floor. There, two guards were standing in a glass-sided cubicle. One was tapping at a computer terminal; the other was drinking a can of Coke.

The Welshman pointed for Macdonald to stand where he was, then walked into the cubicle. 'Got a mystery man for you,' he said, handing over the file to the guard with the Coke, a tall, broad-shouldered man with bulging forearms.

He scanned the file. 'Okay, thanks, Taff,' he said. He dropped it next to the computer. 'I'll take it from here.'

The Welshman walked away, whistling softly.

Macdonald gazed into the glass cubicle, the administration centre for the block. Along one wall there were half a dozen CCTV monitors. The guard put down his Coke and came out of the cubicle. 'My name's Tony Stafford, and I'm in charge of the block,' he said. 'You've been told how the prison is laid out?'

Macdonald shook his head.

'There are four blocks. This is block B, the remand block. It's made up of three wings, and each wing has three floors. You'll spend all of your time on your wing, unless you're going to the gym, the hospital or the education unit. An exercise yard is attached to the block, your meals are taken on your wing. Any problems, you talk first to the officers on your wing. Any problems they can't handle, they'll bring to me. I talk to the governor. That's the system and you work within it, right?'

Macdonald nodded.

'This your first time inside?'

'Yes.'

'You call me Mr Stafford. Or sir. Or boss. Some of the older lags call the officers "guv" but we'd rather you didn't. Causes confusion. I presume it's been explained what will happen if you continue to refuse to identify yourself ?'

'Several times,' said Macdonald. 'Mr Stafford,' he added.

'Right, then, I'll show you to your cell. Come on.' Stafford walked towards a barred door, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Macdonald followed.

Stafford unlocked the door, let Macdonald through followed him and relocked it. A second barred door led on to the wing. Stafford went up a flight of metal stairs. A female guard was walking down them, swinging her key chain. She had blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a trim figure.

Macdonald could hear music. An Eagles song, 'Hotel California'. The pounding beat of rap. Jazz. Then the muffled commentary on a football game.

They reached the first-floor landing. There were twenty metal doors around the landing, all closed. A chest-high railing ran round the hole in the middle. A wire-mesh net had been spread across it, presumably to deter anyone wanting to jump. Macdonald looked up: there was a similar net below the second landing.

Stafford took Macdonald along the landing, unlocked a cell door and pushed it open. 'We'll have a Listener for you tomorrow.'

'A Listener?'

'They're like the Samaritans. You can talk through any problems with them.'

'The only problem I've got is being here,' said Macdonald. 'I don't need to talk to anyone.'

'It's prison policy,' said Stafford.

Macdonald walked in. The cell was about four paces long and three wide, with pale green walls. A bunk bed was pressed against one wall and a small metal desk stood under a barred window. There was a small portable colour television on the desk. It was switched on, a travel show, but the sound was muted. The wall by the desk was plastered with photographs of semi-naked women torn from magazines and newspapers. The door closed behind him with a dull thud. To his right was a small toilet with a white plastic seat.

'Fuck me, I knew it was too good to be true,' said a voice from the lower bunk. A man sat up. He was squat with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. He could have been the twin of the man in the holding cell, Barnes, except Macdonald hadn't seen any tattoos on Barnes. 'I told 'em I wanted a cell on my own.'

He stood up and put his hands on his hips. A small vein pulsed in his forehead as he glared at Macdonald. 'I'm as thrilled as you are,' said Macdonald. He nodded at the photographs on the wall. 'Any of those the wife?'

The man's eyes narrowed, then he grinned. 'In my dreams,' he said. 'I suppose I should be glad they didn't put a nig-nog in with me. You're not a smoker, are you?'

Macdonald shook his head.

'That's something. I'm Jason. Jason Lee. What's your name, then?'

Macdonald threw his bedding on to the vacant bunk. 'Bit of a problem there,' he said. 'I'm not telling them who I am.'

'That'll only piss 'em off.'

'Yeah, well, I can live with that. Okay if I take the top bunk?'

'You're not a bed-wetter, are you?'

'I fart a bit after a few lagers and a curry but I don't expect that's a problem in here.'

Lee slapped Macdonald on the back. 'You're a laugh, you are,' he said. 'Look, what do I call you? I can't keep saying, "Hey, you", can I? Not polite.'

'Thing is, Jason, if I tell you, you might tell someone else . . .'

Lee shot to his feet and took a step towards the bunk. 'You saying I'm a grass?'

Macdonald put up his hands. 'It's not a question of grassing, it's a question of you using my name on the landing. Walls have ears, right?'

Lee's hands had clenched into fists. Macdonald saw HATE tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand.

Lee's brow furrowed. 'Fair point,' he said.

'No offence,' said Macdonald. He wasn't intimidated by his cellmate, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by starting a fight on his first night.

Lee grinned again, showing a gold tooth at the side of his mouth. 'None taken,' he said. He sat down again and gestured at the TV. 'Do you want to watch something?'

'I'm not fussed,' said Macdonald. He wasn't a television fan but that might change if the cell became his home for any length of time.

'I've a radio as well, so let me know if you want music or sport. They won't give us Sky in here, bastards, so if you want the footie you have to watch the radio.' He grimaced as he realised what he'd said. 'You know what I mean,' he said. 'You want music? Or sport? Arsenal are playing tonight but I couldn't give a shit. Chelsea man, me, through and through. You into football?'

'Not really.'

Both men looked at the door as a key was inserted into the lock. The door was opened by a female officer carrying a small plastic tray, the blonde who'd been on the ground floor. She was in her late twenties and wore matching coral pink lipstick and nail varnish. 'You making the new man welcome, Lee?' she asked.

'Yes, ma'am,' said Lee, getting to his feet in a show of manners that took Macdonald by surprise.

The prison officer placed the tray on Macdonald's bunk. It held a metal Thermos flask, a small packet of cornflakes, a carton of milk and a plastic spoon. There was also a plastic cup and a polythene bag, containing tea bags and sachets of coffee and sugar. She handed him a paper bag. Macdonald opened it and smiled when he saw a bacon sandwich inside. It had been his staple diet since he'd been in custody.

'That's all I could get at this time of the night,' she said. 'I'm Principal Officer Lloyd-Davies. I gather you're not introducing yourself at the moment.'

'I'm sorry,' said Macdonald, and he meant it. He knew that she could have let him go hungry.

'Don't worry about Lee here, his bark's worse than his bite.'

'We're getting on fine,' said Macdonald.

'Are those the only clothes you've got?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'They didn't give you any at Reception?'

'Apparently I was too late.'

'There's not much I can do, this time of night,' she said. 'Are you okay sleeping in that thing?'

'I've slept in worse, ma'am.'

'I'll get you another set tomorrow. Good night, then.'

Lloyd-Davies locked the door and Lee sat down. Macdonald took the sandwich out of the paper bag. He held it up. 'You want half ?'

Lee shook his head.

Macdonald took a bite. The bacon was cold but he was ravenous. 'She seems okay,' he said.

'Lloyd-Davies? Yeah, she's fair.'

'Didn't realise they had women in men's prisons.'

'Equality, innit? Most of them are pig-ugly dykes, though.'

'Not her. She's a looker.' Macdonald took another bite of his sandwich. He gestured at the light. 'When does that go off ?'

Lee laughed. 'You haven't been inside before, have you? There's no lights-out any more.' He pointed to a switch by the cell door. 'You turn it off yourself. They don't even tell us to turn off the TV, so long as we don't make too much noise. Not that there's much on after midnight. When are you back in court?'

'I'm not sure.'

'No way you'll get bail if you don't tell them your name.'

'Doubt I'll get bail anyway,' said Macdonald.

'Bastards,' said Lee.

'Yeah,' agreed Macdonald.

Macdonald woke to the sound of Lee crunching cornflakes. He was sitting at the metal table by the window, reading a paperback book propped up against the wall. Down the landing, Macdonald could hear rap music.

'Rise and shine,' said Lee, through a mouthful of cereal.

'What time is it?'

'Seven thirty.'

'When do they let us out?'

'Assuming they're not short-staffed, we can use the showers some time between eight and eight thirty. That's if you've booked it with an officer. You've got to run to get there first, though.'

Macdonald sat up. His neck ached from the wafer-thin pillow. He rubbed his face with his hands and felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks. 'What happens then?'

'Labour. That's what they call work in here. Dinner at twelve. More labour. Tea at five. Association, gym and stuff at six. Back in the cells at eight. That's the routine during the week. Varies at weekends. Proper breakfast, for a start.'

There was a rattle of a key chain outside the cell. Lee pulled a face and continued to eat his cornflakes.

First Macdonald caught a glimpse of a male prison officer, then a big man in a blue sweatshirt and baggy linen trousers appeared, a plastic bag in one hand. He was in his fifties with receding hair that he'd grown long and tied back in a ponytail. 'All right if I come in, lads?' he asked.

'Aye,' said Lee. 'You're here to see the new boy, yeah?'

The man stuck out his hand for Macdonald to shake. 'Ed Harris, I'm one of the wing's Listeners.'

Macdonald took the hand. Harris had a strong grip and he looked into Macdonald's eyes with a measured gaze. Macdonald knew he was being assessed. Harris handed him the carrier-bag. 'They said you needed a wash pack,' he said. 'Courtesy of the management.'

Macdonald looked inside it. There was a yellow Bic razor, a bar of shaving soap, a shaving brush, a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. 'Thanks,' he said. 'I could do with a towel.'

'I'll get you one,' promised Harris. He gestured at Macdonald's forensic suit. 'Is that all the clothes you've got?'

'Lloyd-Davies said she'd get me something else today.'

'I'll remind her,' said Harris. He leaned against the wall by the door and folded his arms across his chest. 'Did they tell you about the Listeners?'

'Like the Samaritans, they said.'

Harris nodded. 'We're trained by them, but we're not just for people who want to top themselves. We're here if you need someone to talk to. There's four of us on the wing, and you can always find us because we've got orange cards on our cell doors. You need to talk to us any time, day or night, just ask one of the officers.' He gave Macdonald a sheet of paper on which were printed several paragraphs under the heading The Listeners - Who Are They? How Do I Contact Them? How Do I Know I Can Trust Them? 'This explains what we do.'

'Thanks,' said Macdonald, though he doubted that he'd ever want to confide his innermost thoughts to a balding man with a ponytail.

'I'm told you're not saying who you are.'

Macdonald didn't respond.

'I know you're angry at being here,' said Harris. 'No one comes into a place like this of their own volition. But there's no point in fighting the system.'

'I'm not fighting anyone, Ed.'

'Call it passive resistance, then. Call it what you want. But you're here and you have to accept that. This place runs on co-operation. If you co-operate, your time in here goes smoothly. If you make waves, you're the one who'll get wet.'

'I've already had the pep talk from the screws.'

'Armed robbery, right?'

Macdonald shrugged carelessly.

'You could get twelve,' said Harris. 'Play by their rules and you could be out in six. Play by yours and you'll do the full twelve. Is it worth an extra six years inside to prove a point?'

'What happened to innocent until proved guilty?' asked Macdonald. 'I'm on remand.'

'The prison is full of innocent men,' said Harris. 'Nine times out of ten the guys I speak to swear on their mothers' graves that they've been fitted up.'

'Some of us were,' said Lee.

'Jason, you were caught with a knife in your hands and a Pakistani shopkeeper bleeding at your feet.'

'I was provoked,' said Lee.

Harris raised an eyebrow incredulously, then turned his attention back to Macdonald. 'The point I'm making is that we all choose our own paths in here. Guilty or innocent, you're inside until the system has finished with you. All I'm saying is that you have to think about what you're doing.'

'I know what I'm doing, Ed.'

Harris pushed himself off the wall. 'I'll drop by again in a couple of days, see how you're settling in. Has Jason here explained the whys and wherefores?'

'Pretty much.'

'You couldn't have a better guide. He's been a guest at half a dozen establishments like this. Take it easy, yeah?'

Harris left, and the prison officer locked the door.

'What's his story?' asked Macdonald.

Lee finished his cornflakes and washed his plastic bowl in the small stainless-steel sink by the toilet. 'Murder, suspicion of,' he said. 'His trial's in a couple of months. Topped his missus.'

'And he's offering advice to me?'

'He's a thief. A good one. Did a three-stretch in the Scrubs and when he came out his wife said she was gonna leave him and take the kids. He snapped. Picked up a bread-knife and damn near severed her head. Provocation, if you ask me. I mean, wives are supposed to stand by their men, right?'

Macdonald lay down on his bunk. 'That's what they say, Jason.' He sighed. He read the information sheet that Harris had given him. '"You can talk to a Listener about anything in complete confidence, just as you would a Samaritan,"' he read aloud. '"Everything you say is treated with confidentiality."' He looked over at Lee. 'Is that right?'

'Supposed to be,' said Lee.

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling. There was only one person he could trust, and that was himself. Everyone else was a potential threat, and that included his cellmate.

It had been light outside for a couple of hours when the cell door was unlocked again. Lee was standing at the ready, jiggling from foot to foot. As soon as it opened he rushed out and hared along the landing. Macdonald heard the pounding of feet as other prisoners rushed to the showers. He felt dirty but without a towel and clean clothes to change into, he didn't see the point of showering.

He climbed down from the top bunk and stared at his reflection in the mirror tiles above the sink. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair was lank and greasy. He bared his teeth. He looked as if he'd been sleeping rough for a week.

He took the shaving soap and brush, lathered his face, then shaved with the small plastic razor. He cleaned his teeth with the foul-tasting toothpaste. Plastic bristles came off the brush and he spat them out.

As he was rinsing his mouth, the cell door opened. It was Harris, carrying a dark blue towel and a plum-coloured prison-issue tracksuit. 'Lloyd-Davies isn't here until this afternoon but I scrounged these for you,' said Harris. 'Bit worn but they're clean.'

Macdonald thanked him, tossed the clothes on to his bunk and wiped his face with the towel.

'You know you can have clothes sent in from the outside?' asked Harris.

'There's no one I can call,' said Macdonald.

'You can get a change of clothes here once a week, but it'll be the same as you've got there,' said Harris. 'I couldn't get you underwear or socks but I'm on the case. I had a word with the screws and you can use the showers this morning.' He grinned. 'Told them Jason was complaining about the smell.'

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and handed Macdonald two printed sheets of paper. 'I got you a canteen list, too,' he said.

Macdonald studied the printed pages. It was like a shopping list, starting with half a dozen brands of cigarettes, tobacco and cigarette papers. The bare essentials of prison life, but Macdonald had never smoked. Next on the list were seven different types of battery, stationery, postage stamps, sweets and chocolate, toiletries and groceries.

'You tick off what you want and it'll be delivered tomorrow,' said Harris. 'Providing there's enough money in your account you can spend up to five quid a week as a basic prisoner. If you toe the line they make you an enhanced prisoner and you can spend thirty. Standard is fifteen quid.' He looked pained. 'The bad news is that withholding your details puts you straight on the basic list. That fiver's all you'll have for extra food and telephone calls. It's just one of the ways they can make your life a misery.'

Macdonald tossed the list on to his bunk. 'Nothing there I need,' he said.

A smile flickered across Harris's face. 'Say that after a couple of weeks of prison food,' he said. 'And tobacco gets things done here.' He jerked a thumb at the fresh clothing. 'Better gear, for a start.'

'Thanks, Ed,' said Macdonald, who had realised that Harris was doing what he could to make him feel at home. He wondered if the man really had killed his wife with his bare hands, but decided it would be bad manners to broach the subject.

'You can get money sent in, but it has to come from people on an approved list.'

'I won't be giving anyone a list,' said Macdonald.

'You can bring your own money in, but that'll mean identifying yourself.'

'I figured that much.'

'There's jobs here, and that'll earn you some. If you're available for work but they can't find you a job then you get two pounds fifty a week unemployment rate. Refuse to work and you get nothing.'

'Like I said, Ed, there's nothing on that list I need. And I won't be making any phone calls.'

'And like I said, see how you feel after a few weeks. You've got another ten minutes to use the showers.'

As Harris left the cell, Macdonald scooped up the tracksuit and towel and walked down the landing. Two black men in their early twenties, wearing Nike tracksuits and gleaming white Nike trainers, stared at him stonily as they leaned against the railing around the inner atrium. 'Hiya, guys, I'm looking for the showers,' he said.

The men stared at his forensic suit. 'What planet are you from, then?' asked one. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a scar that ran the full length of his left forearm.

'Showers, guys, please. I've only got ten minutes.'

The men pushed themselves off the railing and stood in front of him, blocking his way.

'Where's your manners, Smurf?' said Dreadlocks.

His companion snorted. 'Smurf,' he repeated. He was tall and stick-thin, his lanky arms protruding from the sleeves of his tracksuit showing half a dozen beaded bracelets.

Macdonald's eyes hardened and he tried to push past them. Dreadlocks shoved his arm with his left hand and pulled the right back in a fist. Macdonald moved fluidly, tossing his clothes and towel at Stickman, then grabbing Dreadlocks's arm. Macdonald twisted Dreadlocks's arm behind his back and gripped his neck, digging into either side of his windpipe. 'Keep struggling and I'll rip your throat out,' he hissed. Dreadlocks grunted and pushed back, trying to force Macdonald against the railing, but Macdonald's foot was behind his right knee and he pushed down, forcing the man to the ground. He released his grip on Dreadlocks's throat and kicked him in the ribs, savagely.

Stickman kicked out at Macdonald but Macdonald caught his foot andstood up, forcing him to hop backwards. He kept him off balance then kicked him hard between the legs. Stickman's arms windmilled as he fell backwards. His head thudded against the concrete and he slumped to the floor.

Dreadlocks was curled up in the foetal position, his hands at his throat, gasping for breath. Macdonald bent down to pick up his towel and clothing. He looked up and down the landing. Three teenagers in polo shirts and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms stood at the stairs, watching with open mouths. Across the landing, two middle-aged prisoners turned away as Macdonald looked in their direction. Stafford was in the glass-walled administration cubicle, deep in conversation with another male officer. Neither were looking his way. Ahead of him, Ed Harris was standing in the doorway to a cell. 'Winning friends and influencing people already?' he said drily.

'I had no choice,' said Macdonald.

'Watch yourself,' whispered Harris, as he walked by. 'Those guys have friends in here.'

'The more the merrier,' said Macdonald. 'Where are the showers?'

'Along the landing on the right,' said Harris.

Macdonald thanked him and walked away. He could sense Harris watching him, but he didn't look round.

The teenagers scattered, like sheep from a barking dog. 'Nice moves,' said one, but he averted his eyes when Macdonald looked at him.

'Serves the black bastards right,' whispered another.

There were three showerheads, each with a chrome push button set into the wall. Two black men were showering, their hair frothy with shampoo. Macdonald nodded when they looked at him. He took off his laceless trainers. When he turned to hang up his clothes and towel he heard them whisper, then laugh. He was looking forward to ditching the forensic suit. He unzipped it, slipped it off, then hung it on the hook next to his clothes. It was only when he stepped under the free showerhead and pressed the chrome button that he realised he didn't have any soap.

The water kicked out, lukewarm at first but then steaming hot. Macdonald closed his eyes and let the water play over his face and down his body.

'You okay there, man?' one man called.

'I'm fine,' said Macdonald, and opened his eyes.

'Just got in?'

'Yes,' said Macdonald.

The man next to him held out a tube of shower gel. Macdonald hesitated, then took it and thanked him. He squeezed a few drops into his palm, then handed it back.

'Anything you need, I'm your man,' said the guy with the shower gel. 'Name's Digger.'

Macdonald thanked him again.

'Dope if you need it. H. Whatever burns your candle.'

'I'm a man of simple needs, Digger. Plus I've got bugger-all in my account at the moment.'

'Think of me as a credit union,' said Digger. He was well over six feet tall with close-cropped hair and a barrel chest. He ran two shovel-sized hands over his head, then stepped out of the water and wrapped a towel round his waist. 'You can borrow from me, arrange to have me paid back on the outside.'

Macdonald's water cut out and he pushed the button to restart it. 'I'll bear that in mind,' he said.

Digger jerked a thumb at the second black guy. 'He's Needles. You don't see me on the wing, you can talk to him.'

'Will do,' said Macdonald. He turned to let the hot water play over his back. It felt good to wash away two days' sweat and grime.

Digger stood in front of Macdonald, hands on hips, jaw up so that he was looking at Macdonald down his broad nose. 'And your name would be . . .?'

Macdonald pulled a face. 'I'm not telling anyone,' he said.

Digger chuckled. 'Raging against the machine, huh?'

'Something like that.'

Digger held out a massive fist. Macdonald clenched his own right hand and tapped his fist against Digger's. The black man's was almost twice the size of his own. Digger was well muscled and had the confident swagger of a man who'd never lost a fight. 'Don't forget to wash behind your ears, yeah?' He chuckled.

Digger and Needles dried themselves off. They changed into their clothes - pale blue Nike sweatshirts and Versace jeans - and left Macdonald alone in the shower room. Digger flashed him a clenched fist as he left. Macdonald just hoped they weren't related to the two guys he'd kicked the shit out of. He stretched out his arms, leaned against the wall, and hung his head so that the water cascaded down his face. The rushing water blocked out the noise from the wing and he could have been anywhere. A health club. His own bathroom next to his bedroom, where his son was curled up in bed next to his wife. Standing in the shower with his eyes closed, it was easy to imagine he was only feet from his family. The water cut out and he thumped the button with his fist.

'Shower room's closing,' said a voice.

Macdonald opened his eyes. An officer was standing at the entrance. He was in his late twenties with a shirt collar several sizes too big for his neck and a small patch of red skin over his right eyebrow. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

'Just finishing up,' said Macdonald.

'You're the new guy, yeah?' asked the officer. 'The one who won't give his name?'

Macdonald nodded.

'You know we have to identify ourselves? Prisoners have the right to know who their guards are. We're in the wrong if we don't say who we are.'

'I guess you have to follow the rules,' said Macdonald, reaching for his towel.

'So I'm Mr Hamilton.'

'Pleased to meet you, Mr Hamilton.'

'Are you taking the piss?'

Macdonald shook his head, then turned his back on the officer and towelled himself dry.

'Had a guy like you on the wing a few years back,' said Hamilton. 'Thought he was hard. Thought he was the bee's bloody knees.'

Macdonald finished drying himself and put on his prison-issue clothes. 'Is it okay if I leave that here?' he asked, pointing at his white paper suit as he slipped on his grubby trainers.

'No, it bloody isn't,' said the officer. 'Take it back to your cell and put it out with your rubbish.'

'Right,' said Macdonald, taking the suit off the hook.

Hamilton stood as if he was glued to the ground, forcing Macdonald to walk round him. 'You can't fight the system,' he said. 'It's broken better men than you.'

Macdonald said nothing. On the way back to his cell, he met Barnes leaning on the rail and looking down at the ground floor. 'See they gave you some gear,' he said.

'Yeah, I'm trying not to think about who wore it before me.'

'Get some sent in,' said Barnes. 'My missus'll be dropping me some stuff off tomorrow.' He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and offered it to Macdonald.

'Don't smoke, thanks.'

'Name's Bill,' said Barnes. Macdonald was about to explain his situation but Barnes cut him short. 'I know, I know. Everyone on the wing knows you're playing the strong, silent type.'

'News travels fast.'

'There's not much else to do in here but gossip. They say it's your first time inside.'

'Never been caught before.'

Barnes grinned. 'If you need any tips, let me know.' He nodded at the ground floor. 'I'm on the ones. Bloody triple, but the other two guys are okay.'

'I'm there,' said Macdonald, pointing towards his cell.

'I know. You're in with Jason Lee. He's okay, is Jason. Chelsea fan, but what can you do? Are you sorted for your meals tomorrow?'

'What?'

'Your meals. Dinner and tea. You have to make your choices today for tomorrow. We're given the vegetarian option today unless you've got some pull on the hotplate.'

'You've lost me, Bill. Sorry.'

'You really are a virgin, aren't you?' He put his arm round Macdonald's shoulder. 'Come with me, old son, let me show you a few ropes.'

Barnes took Macdonald down the metal-mesh stairs to the ground floor and over to a large noticeboard. There were several notices that warned of the dangers of drugs and a copy of the Listeners sheet that Ed Harris had given him. At the top of the board was a typewritten menu with a week's meals. There were three choices for each, labelled A, B and C, except for Saturday when there were only two alternatives.

Barnes tapped the sheet. 'You make your choice from this,' he said. To the right of each meal description was a code, and at the bottom of the menu they were explained: ORD was ordinary; MUS was Muslim; V was Vegan; H was the healthy option; VG was Vegetarian. Choice A was always marked ALL DIETS, which Macdonald presumed meant that it was vegetarian, healthy and suitable for Muslims.

Barnes ran his finger down the list. 'So, for dinner we get spicy vegetable bake,' he said. 'Yummy. And for tea we get curried beans.' He chuckled. 'Jason's going to love you,' he said.

There was a table under the noticeboard and a plastic tray containing small forms with spaces for name, prison number, date and meal request. A black Biro hung from a chain, and a cardboard box, with a slot in the top marked 'Meal Slips', stood beside it.

'Make your choice and drop it in there,' Barnes said. 'If you don't show a preference, you get A, and most of the time A is just whatever veg they've got fried, boiled or curried. A word to the wise, don't argue with the guys on the hotplate. They can make your life a bloody misery. Just smile and nod and say thank you. Giving them a bit of puff now and then keeps them sweet.'

Macdonald thanked Barnes. It was just one of a thousand things about the system that he didn't know, and none of the officers seemed keen to inform him of the way things worked. Pretty much all the useful information he'd been given so far had come from fellow prisoners.

'Get yourself a copy of the Prison Rules, too. Tells you everything you're entitled to.' Barnes clapped him on the back and went to his landing.

Macdonald chose a cornish pasty for the next day's dinner and the mixed grill for the evening meal and dropped his form into the box. Prison officers walked down the landing shouting, 'Finish off,' and the inmates headed back to their cells. Macdonald hurried up the landing with his paper suit. Lee was already sitting at the desk, reading a book. There was a metal waste-bin under the sink and Macdonald shoved the paper suit into it. 'What happens now?' he asked, sitting on his bunk.

'Work starts at nine. Back here at noon for dinner. Banged up for roll-call, then back to work at one forty-five. Here at five for tea.'

'When do we get some fresh air?'

'After dinner. We get an hour in the exercise yard unless it's raining. Sometimes they let us out during association. Depends how they're staffed.'

Macdonald lay down on his bunk. He had nothing to read, nothing to do, and no idea of what was going to happen to him. 'What sort of work do you do, Jason?'

'I'm assembling electric heaters. Putting the plugs on. Mindless, it is, but you get to talk to the lads. The good jobs are on the hotplate or the cleaning crew, but you need contacts to get them. Or serious money.'

'You mean bribe the officers?'

Lee laughed. 'The screws? Bloody hell, no! They don't run the block. The prisoners do.' He put down his book and jerked a thumb at the door. 'How many screws did you see out there?'

Macdonald rolled over on his bunk. 'Three or four.'

'Right. Two in the bubble. Two on the ones. One on each landing. Maybe one or two floating around if they're fully staffed. Now, how many cons on the spur?'

Macdonald thought about it. A spur was three landings, maybe fifteen or twenty prisoners on each. 'Fifty or sixty.'

'Give the man a goldfish,' said Lee. 'So you've got a maximum of eight screws in charge of fifty cons. No guns, a whole set of rules and regulations they have to follow. Where do you think the power lies?'

'You mean it's anarchy in here?'

Lee grinned. 'More like a bloody dictatorship,' he said. 'Have you met Digger yet? Big black guy?'

'Yeah, he was in the showers. Wanted to sell me some gear.'

'Digger runs the show. Anything goes down on the spur, Digger takes a piece. Nothing happens here without his say-so. If you want to work on the hotplate, you talk to Digger. Cleaning job, he's your man. If you want a single cell, you talk to Digger.'

Macdonald sat up. 'Are you telling me that the prison officers have handed control to him?'

'What do they want?' asked Lee. The question was clearly rhetorical because he continued his argument without giving Macdonald a chance to answer. 'They want what we all want. A nice house, a wife they can shag without putting a paper bag over her head, a flash car, couple of weeks in Spain, good school for the kids. They don't give a toss about rehabilitation - they don't care who does what in here, so long as no one makes any waves. They want an easy life, and that's what they get if they let Digger run the spur.'

'He said I could pay him on the outside. Is that how it works?'

'Has to be that way,' said Lee. 'There's no money on the spur. It's all held on account. Way back when, phone cards were used as currency but the PIN system put paid to that. There's burn and there's gear, but drugs'll get you on a charge and there's a limit to how much tobacco you can hoard, so you either trade stuff on the inside or pay him on the out.'

They heard a noise at the door and looked up. It was Hamilton. 'Come on, Lee, labour.' Lee hurried out of the door. Hamilton reached to pull it shut.

'Mr Hamilton?' said Macdonald. 'How do I get to go to the gym?'

'Gym's a privilege, and prisoners who refuse to cooperate aren't entitled to privileges,' said the prison officer.

'But I'm entitled to a copy of the Prison Rules, right?'

Hamilton's eyes narrowed. 'What would you want with that?'

'I'm entitled, so I'd like a copy,' said Macdonald.

Hamilton shut the door.

Macdonald lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes.

Macdonald drifted in and out of sleep. He could hear a television down the landing so he wasn't the only prisoner not working. He lost track of time. He could have switched on the television or radio for a time check, but there was no point. He wasn't going anywhere and he had no schedule to keep.

Eventually the door was unlocked and Lee came in.

'Had a nice day at the office, dear?' asked Macdonald.

Lee frowned, not getting the joke. 'What?'

'Work. Was it okay?'

'Boring as hell. But the guys are all asking about you. They reckon you killed three cops and that SO19 have put out a contract on you.'

Macdonald tutted. 'I didn't shoot anyone. A cop took a few pellets in the chin. And we were out at Gatwick Airport so it was Sussex police and bugger-all to do with SO19. They work for the Met.'

'I know, but it's a better story, innit? Come on, skates on, dinner's ready.' He picked up his Thermos and pointed at Macdonald to bring his. They went down the stairs together. Lee indicated Macdonald's flask. 'Don't forget to fill it,' he said. 'The boiler's by the hotplate. Sometimes they keep us banged up after dinner if they're short-staffed so you need a brew.'

A prison officer Macdonald hadn't seen before was standing at the bottom of the stairs. 'Settling in okay?' he asked. He had a soldier's bearing, his blond hair was cropped short and he had a scar under his chin that looked as if he'd been on the wrong end of a broken bottle.

'Thanks.'

'I'm Mr Rathbone. Craig, if there are no governors around.'

Rathbone seemed more easy-going than Hamilton, so Macdonald thought he'd put in another request for the gym. Rathbone said he'd see what he could do.

Prisoners were hurrying down to the ground floor where a large metal trolley had been wheeled into the association area. Stainless-steel trays of food were being pulled out of cupboards at the bottom of the trolley, which had been plugged into a nearby power socket. A table next to the hotplate supported a basket of bread rolls and a tray of fruit. Three inmates wielded serving utensils and Hamilton was standing to the side, watching them.

Macdonald picked up his Thermos and went downstairs to join the queue. Lee already had his tray of food and was filling his flask at a large chrome water heater.

Barnes was at the front of the line, helping himself to a bread roll. He reached for a second but a server slapped his hand with a spatula. Barnes swore good-naturedly.

As Barnes took his tray to the water heater, another prisoner collected a plastic tray and walked to the front of the queue, a big guy with a shaved head, wearing a mauve Versace polo shirt and black jeans. No one protested as he shoved out his tray. Hamilton was watching, but didn't seem interested. 'Gerry wants sausages,' said the prisoner.

The hotplate man in charge of main courses used a pair of metal tongs to select them.

'He wants them well done,' said the prisoner.

The hotplate man replaced them with two blackened ones. The prisoner kept staring at him. The hotplate man added two more sausages, then the prisoner moved over to the vegetables. 'Just french fries,' he said, and received an extra-large portion. Another prisoner held out his tray. Two sausages were plonked onto his plate. 'I want another,' said the prisoner.

'Yeah, well, I want to share a cell with Pamela Anderson, now fuck off,' said the server.

The prisoner who'd pushed in took his plate towards the stairs. As he went up he kept one hand on the rail as if he was scared he might spill something.

The spicy vegetable bake seemed to consist of chopped carrots, potatoes, cabbage and beansprouts that had been sprinkled with cheese, then shoved under a grill. Macdonald received a large portion, with a serving of chips and a spoonful of green peas. He took a roll and an orange, then went upstairs to his landing. There, he looked up and saw the prisoner in the Versace polo shirt walking to a cell at the far end of the landing.

Macdonald went into his. Lee wasn't there but he didn't want to sit at the desk. He had the feeling that Lee regarded it and the chair as his own personal territory. The vegetable bake was bland and unseasoned, the chips were greasy and the peas hard. He was peeling his orange when Lee returned. 'They're letting us out in the exercise yard,' he said, and sat down at the table.

Macdonald put his orange on his pillow, took his tray to the ground floor and dropped it into a large plastic dustbin at the end of the hotplate. Prisoners were heading towards the far end of the spur where Rathbone and another officer were searching them before they went out into the yard. It was a basic pat-down. Arms, waist, legs. The officers carried out the searches on autopilot and the prisoners seemed equally bored by the procedure. Macdonald wondered why they bothered. A blade or a drugs stash could easily be concealed in trainers or underwear.

When it was Macdonald's turn to be frisked he raised his arms and spread his legs as Rathbone patted him down.

Two dozen or so men were already outside, mostly walking round a Tarmac rectangle about the size of a tennis court. A few were standing about, smoking and talking. The exercise area was surrounded by wire mesh three times the height of a man, thick wires criss-crossed the air above their heads, threaded every few yards with dinner-plate sized metal circles. Anti-helicopter cables.

Macdonald walked round slowly, swinging his arms and taking deep breaths. He reached a vacant corner, dropped to the ground and did fifty brisk push-ups. Then he rolled over and did fifty sit-ups, hands clasped behind his neck, relishing the burn in his stomach muscles.

As he got to his feet, Ed Harris ambled over. 'How's it going?' he asked.

'I'm having trouble getting time in the gym,' said Macdonald. He widened his stance and started touching his toes. Left, right, left, right.

'What's the problem?' asked Harris.

'Hamilton,' said Macdonald. 'Says gym time's a privilege and that as I'm not co-operating I don't get any privileges.'

'He's talking bollocks,' said Harris. 'Prison rules say you get an hour a week physical education. That's above and beyond outside time. Two hours if you're convicted. There are privileges they can give and take, but exercise isn't one. I'll talk to him.'

'I don't need anyone to fight my battles, Ed.'

'I can make an approach as a Listener.'

Macdonald straightened up and arched his back. 'It's okay.'

Harris nodded. 'If you change your mind, let me know. Hamilton's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He wanted to be a fireman but couldn't pass the physical. Sees this as second best and sometimes takes it out on the prisoners. You've just got to know your rights, that's all. The rules work both ways and if he breaks them it's a black mark on his record.'

'So I can get him into trouble?'

'Let's just say you can make life difficult for him. And if there's one thing a screw wants, it's an easy life.'

Macdonald glanced over at the entrance to the exercise yard. Rathbone was patting down a young prisoner who was wearing a harlequin-type uniform made up of yellow and blue patches. The man said something and Rathbone laughed. He seemed to be taking extra care searching him. 'What's his story?' Macdonald asked Harris.

'The guy in the escape uniform? That's Justin Davenport- he escaped from Brixton a few years back. Managed to get over the wall with a home-made ladder he built in the metal shop.'

Davenport was slightly built and the uniform was several sizes too big for him - the trouser hems scuffed the floor as he walked. He started to circle the exercise yard, prowling like a trapped tiger, his eyes darting from the wire fence to the perimeter wall.

'They caught him last month on the Eurostar heading to France.'

'What was he in for, originally?'

'Believe it or not, TDA - taking and driving away. He'd been stealing cars since he was a kid and eventually a judge lost patience and sent him to an open prison for twelve months. Silly bugger went AWOL. They added a few months to his sentence and put him in a Category C prison. Ran away again. He's been inside now for three times as long as if he'd just done his time and kept his nose clean.'

Macdonald started jogging on the spot.

'I'm getting tired just looking at you,' said Harris, and sauntered away. He joined a group of four middle-aged men from the twos.

Macdonald realised that two black men were staring at him from across the exercise yard. Dreadlocks and Stickman. He returned their gaze. He'd beaten them once and had no doubt he could do it again, but he didn't want to have to keep watching his back on the landing. He had a choice: either beat them so badly they'd never go near him again, or win them over.

Dreadlocks whispered something to Stickman. They continued to glare at him.

Macdonald walked slowly to where they were standing. 'How's it going, guys?' he said.

'What the fuck do you want?' said Dreadlocks, fists clenched. Stickman was looking around but nobody was paying them any attention. There were no officers in the yard.

'We got off to a bad start this morning,' said Macdonald. 'It happens. Sorting out the pecking order and all. But I don't want you thinking that you've got to stick something sharp in my back to get even.'

Stickman was frowning, a faraway look in his eyes. 'What do you mean?' he slurred. Macdonald realised he was doped up to the eyeballs, probably been smoking marijuana.

'I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible. We clashed heads this morning, and I want to know if that's the end of it.'

'And if it isn't?' said Dreadlocks.

Macdonald stared levelly at him. It was important to show no sign of weakness. The man had to understand that Macdonald was offering a truce, not surrendering. 'Then let's go to it now, two against one,' he said. 'But the way I see it, either I'm going to have to put you in hospital or you're going to have to kill me. Because that's just the way I am. I'm in for shooting a cop. There's not much more they can do to me. Now you two, I'd guess drugs. Probably dope, maybe crack. If you're lucky you'll be out in a few years. But if we go to war and you win, it's life.'

Dreadlocks continued to stare at him. Stickman was swinging his shoulders from side to side. He wasn't a threat: the dope he'd smoked had dulled his reactions to the point at which Macdonald could have pushed him over with his little finger. Dreadlocks was a different matter, though. The scar on his left forearm could have been from a knife fight and he didn't look the sort to back down, even if he wasn't carrying a weapon. But there was sharp intelligence in his eyes and Macdonald could see the wheels turning as he considered what had been said. Macdonald kept his hands loose but he was ready to strike the moment he saw any sign that Dreadlocks was going to get violent.

'Shot a cop, yeah?' said Dreadlocks.

'Didn't pull the trigger but I'll be charged with it,' said Macdonald.

'Dead?'

Macdonald smiled. 'No. He was wearing a vest.'

'Pity,' said Dreadlocks. He wasn't smiling but Macdonald sensed that the tension had gone. He had made his decision.

Dreadlocks pointed at the wound on Macdonald's head. 'They do that?'

'Hit me with the butt of a Heckler.'

Dreadlocks smiled for the first time. 'Ain't that the thing about the white man? Can't even use a gun the way God intended.'

'So, are we okay?'

'We're cool.'

Dreadlocks held out his fist and Macdonald tapped his against it. 'You did look like a Smurf in that paper suit.'

'No argument about that,' said Macdonald. He turned and walked away.

Harris was still deep in conversation with the men from the twos, but he was looking at Macdonald. As he walked past, Harris nodded. He'd obviously seen the confrontation, and Macdonald realised that the nod had been of approval. Not much got past Ed Harris. Macdonald was going to have to be careful around him.

The spur emptied again as the prisoners went back to work. Macdonald was locked up in his cell. He switched on the television but there was nothing he wanted to watch.

A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies. 'Your solicitor's here,' she said.

Macdonald sat up, frowning. 'I haven't asked for one,' he said.

'Yeah, well, he's asking for you. I wouldn't go looking any gift horses in the mouth, if I were you. The sort of charges you're facing, you need all the help you can get.'

Macdonald swung his legs off the bunk and slipped on his trainers. Lloyd-Davies stood aside to let him out. She locked the door, then walked down to the ground floor with him. 'How was your first night?' she asked.

'It was okay,' he said. He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. After all, he was banged up in a high-security prison, sleeping on a wafer-thin mattress surrounded by drug-dealers, rapists and other violent criminals.

'At least you got a change of clothes.'

'I could do with new trainers,' he said.

'Ask your brief,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'He can have clothing sent in for you. Money, too.' She unlocked the door on the ground floor and took him along the secure corridor. It was deserted and the clicking of her heels echoed off the walls. 'How did he know you were here?' she asked. 'No one even knows who you are.'

'That's a very good question, Miss Lloyd-Davies. I was wondering that myself.'

'Maybe the guys who were arrested with you sent him.'

Macdonald smiled to himself. He doubted that Ted Verity would have sent him a solicitor. A hit-man maybe.

'You do that a lot,' said Lloyd-Davies, giving him a sideways look.

'Do what?'

'Smile.'

'It's my sunny personality, Miss Lloyd-Davies.'

'The way I hear it, you're on remand for armed robbery and facing charges of kidnapping and attempted murder.'

'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald. 'The forensic'll bear me out.'

'Even so, I don't see much to smile about.'

'Things have a way of working out for the best,' said Macdonald.

'You believe that?' she asked.

Macdonald grinned. 'No,' he said. He was a realist. He knew that, more often than not, things didn't work out for the best. Bad people did bad things to good people and got away with it. Good people got sick and died. Life wasn't fair, good didn't triumph over evil, and there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy. 'No, I don't.'

'There's something about you that's not right,' said Lloyd-Davies.

'Yeah, well, if I was completely normal I wouldn't be in here, would I?'

'You don't seem bothered by it.'

'Yeah, well, still waters . . .'

'I've seen thousands of men pass through the remand wing, and they normally fall into two camps.'

'Gay and straight?'

She ignored his attempt at humour. They turned right. More CCTV cameras watched them. Again the corridor was deserted, stretching ahead for almost a hundred yards. Macdonald was bigger than the female officer by a good six inches and probably weighed fifty per cent more than she did. She had no weapons that he could see, and she wasn't wearing a radio. Yet she seemed confident that she could control him.

'Can I ask you a question, ma'am?'

'Fire away.'

'Aren't you concerned that I might turn violent?'

She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Is that supposed to worry me?'

'It's a serious question. I'm an armed robber, what's to stop me grabbing you and holding you hostage?'

Lloyd-Davies laughed. 'For what? A million quid and a helicopter?'

'The point is, they brought me in here with an armed escort and in handcuffs. Now there's just you and me walking down an empty corridor.'

Lloyd-Davies pointed out the nearest CCTV camera. 'We're watched all the time. If anything were to happen, there'd be a dozen guys in here kicking the shit out of you.'

'And if I had a knife?'

'You haven't. And if I was in any way unsure of my safety, we wouldn't be doing it like this. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I trust you?'

'I guess you get to become a good judge of character, working in here.'

'You've got to know that when you open the hatch in the morning you're not going to have hot water thrown in your face,' she said. 'Or worse. Now was that you changing the subject?'

'What do you mean?'

'I was about to tell you what was wrong about you when you got me on to the dangers of the job. Worried I was going to have an insight into your character that you don't want to hear?'

They reached a barred gate. Lloyd-Davies stood, key in hand, but made no move to unlock it.

'Fire away,' said Macdonald.

'Like I was saying, there's two sorts of guys on the remand wing. There's the new meat, men who've never been in trouble before. It hits them hard the first few days. They walk around in shock. Then there's the men who've been in the system before. Okay, they're not happy to be back behind bars, but they've got a confidence about themselves. The way they treat the officers, the way they react to the other inmates.'

'And?'

'Well, you've got the confidence, but not the experience. You had the confidence to get stuck into two hard nuts on the landing, but you didn't know to order your meals.'

Macdonald wondered how she knew about the fight, but guessed that little happened on the wing without the officers finding out.

'So, what do you think, ma'am?'

She looked at him quizzically, swinging her key chain. 'Either (a) boarding-school or (b) the army. You're not intimidated by institutions. Public-school boys and former soldiers always do well in prison.' She smiled. 'So, which is it?'

Macdonald grinned. 'That would be telling.'

'There's always C,' she said.

'And C would be?'

Lloyd-Davies put the key into the lock and opened the door. 'That would be telling,' she said.

She let Macdonald through, then followed him and locked the door. She took him along another corridor to a central hallway. For the first time since leaving the remand wing they saw other prisoners escorted by guards.

Lloyd-Davies greeted another female prison officer and stopped to confirm a squash game, then took Macdonald up a flight of stairs. They entered a hallway in which there were four cubicles, each with windows on three sides. She took him to one. The door was unlocked. 'Wait in here,' she said.

Macdonald walked into the room. It was about eight feet square with a Formica-topped table and four plastic chairs with metal legs. Macdonald sat down and folded his arms. Lloyd-Davies closed the door.

Another officer appeared at the window to Macdonald's right. He was in his fifties, almost bald with wisps of grey hair. He looked at Macdonald, then moved away from the window. Macdonald sighed and settled back in his chair. There were no CCTV cameras in the room, and no obvious signs of listening devices. He recalled that conversations between prisoners and their legal advisers were supposed to be sacrosanct.

The door opened again and the grey-haired officer showed in a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstripe suit carrying a shiny black leather briefcase. He indicated a bell by the door. 'Ring when you're finished,' he said gruffly.

The man thanked him and sat down opposite Macdonald. He swung the briefcase up onto the table and flicked open its two brass combination locks.

The officer closed the door.

Macdonald leaned forward. 'What the fuck is going on?' he said, his voice a harsh whisper.

'Don't you mean, "What the fuck's going on, sir"?' said the man, adjusting his cuffs. He was wearing gold links in the shape of cricket bats. His hair was greying at the temples and it glistened under the overhead lights. Superintendent Sam Hargrove never spent less than forty pounds on a haircut and, whenever possible, visited an upmarket salon in Mayfair for his monthly trim.

'Why the fuck am I here?' said Macdonald.

'If you calm down, I'll tell you.'

Macdonald folded his arms again and leaned back. 'This had better be good.'

'There was a change of plan, after you went undercover.'

'And no one thought of telling me?'

'Spider, I'm as unhappy about this as you are.'

'Plans aren't supposed to be changed, not without a full briefing. Have you any idea how dangerous this is for me? There are six hundred men in here, any one of whom might know who I am. I need a legend that'll stand up to scrutiny. You can't just expect me to wing it.'

'We've run a check. No one here has crossed paths with you. No one will know you are Dan Shepherd. Your Bob Macdonald cover isn't in jeopardy. You continue with that.'

'The legend was set up so I could infiltrate a gang of armed robbers,' said Shepherd. 'We knew exactly who I was going to be pitching to. Now I'm on the remand wing and there are new arrivals every day.'

'We're watching your back, Spider. You have my word.'

Shepherd took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He had worked in Hargrove's undercover unit for the best part of five years and in all that time he had never seen the superintendent deliberately put one of his operatives in harm's way. Except, of course, that every time an undercover policeman went on duty, his life was on the line.

'I've already spoken to Sue and put her in the picture,' said Hargrove. He held up a hand before Shepherd could speak. 'She's fine - but understandably she's as thrilled about this as you are.'

Shepherd's face tightened. He would have preferred to explain the situation to his wife himself, but the fact that he was behind bars made that next to impossible.

'I'll see what I can do to arrange a visit,' said the superintendent.

'I'm staying here, then?' asked Shepherd.

'I'm hoping to convince you to,' said Hargrove, 'but it's your call.'

That was par for the course, as Shepherd knew. An undercover cop was never forced to undertake an operation. It was always his choice. It had to be because of the nature of the work.

Hargrove opened his briefcase and took out a manila file. He opened it, extracted a glossy ten-by-eight colour photograph and slid it across the table. 'Gerald Carpenter,' he said, 'presently on remand here at Shelton.'

Shepherd didn't recognise the man but that was hardly surprising. There were three floors on his spur, plus two more spurs each with three floors. Out of almost a hundred and fifty men in the remand block, Shepherd doubted that he'd come across more than twenty. Then he remembered the incident at the hotplate. Gerry's sausages.

'He's on the threes,' said Shepherd. 'Gets special treatment.'

'Yeah, well, even in here money talks,' said Hargrove. 'Carpenter has been charged with bringing just over eight hundred kilos of heroin into the country. He's facing up to twenty years. The Drugs Squad have been after him for donkeys.'

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. Eight hundred kilos was worth close to eighty million pounds on the street. Even at wholesale prices, Carpenter wouldn't have got much change from twenty million. The man in the photograph was in his mid-forties, a decade or so older than Shepherd. He had deep frown lines etched into his forehead and pale blue eyes that squinted suspiciously at the camera. He had thin, almost bloodless lips and bullet-grey hair, parted on the left. Shepherd handed it back. He had photographic recall for faces and a brief glance was all he needed to commit it to memory.

'Carpenter is a millionaire many times over and is very well connected on the outside,' said Hargrove, as he put the photograph back into the file. 'He's pulling all the strings he can to make sure the case doesn't come to court. The yacht that was used to bring in the drugs went up in flames two weeks ago, although it was under the supposedly watchful eye of HM Customs. A CPS solicitor was mugged at Waterloo last week. Two assailants, both white. They ignored the woman's Breitling watch and a wallet full of credit cards, just ran off with her briefcase. Which happened to be filled with papers relating to Carpenter's case.'

Hargrove put the file back into his briefcase. 'Three days ago an undercover drugs officer, who was pivotal to the case, was murdered. Shot twice in the head by two men on a motorcycle.'

Shepherd pursed his lips. There was no need for the superintendent to spell it out. It had been a professional hit - and killing a cop wasn't undertaken lightly. Only a man like Carpenter could afford to have it done.

'Jonathon Elliott. I believe you knew him.'

Shepherd's eyes widened. It had been a good five years since he'd crossed paths with Elliott, but he'd known him as a probationary officer when he was pounding the beat in south London, a lifetime ago. He was a Spurs fan, a fitness fanatic and a first-rate undercover officer. 'Yeah, I knew him.'

'Elliott was one of two undercover operatives preparing to give evidence against Carpenter. The other works for Customs and we've got him under wraps.'

'I'm sure that's a great comfort to him,' said Shepherd. 'Why were the agents giving evidence anyway?' Usually undercover agents were protected at all costs. They gathered evidence and helped prepare cases but, as a rule, they didn't appear in court. Once they did, their cover was blown for all time.

'It was the only way to get Carpenter. Until this case he's been untouchable. Like you, he has a photographic memory. Nothing is written down - names, addresses, phone numbers, bank details, all in his head. And, like most of the untouchables, he keeps well away from the drugs. Never goes near the money either. His method of bringing the gear into the country was pretty much infallible.' Hargrove leaned forward. 'He dealt mainly in cocaine and heroin, bought from a Colombian cartel. They fly their drugs out into the Atlantic and drop them into the sea where they're picked up by a tanker that spends most of its life in international waters. Buyers sail out to it. Carpenter had a dozen yachts picking up gear and sailing back to the Scottish coast. It was damn near perfect.'

'Couldn't have been that perfect or he wouldn't be in here.'

'Customs spent almost two million quid,' said Hargrove, 'and they've got him on conspiracy, but for that to stick they'll need agents giving evidence.'

'And the guys are okay with that?'

'Elliott was. And so is the Cussie. Elliott's wife had been wanting him to get out of undercover work for some time and he'd said that the Carpenter job was going to be his last. And the Cussie isn't far off retirement. We'd arranged for them to give evidence via video links with their identities concealed. Best we could do.'

'Best wasn't good enough, was it?' said Shepherd, bitterly. 'Not for Jonathon.'

'There's a bad apple,' said Hargrove. 'Has to be. Elliott is one of the squad's most experienced officers.' The superintendent grimaced. 'Was,' he said. 'We're looking for leaks within the Met, Customs and the CPS.'

'I'm not going to be much good to you in here,' said Shepherd. 'You need me on the outside.'

'Not so,' said the superintendent. 'You're exactly where you're most needed. Close to Carpenter.'

'He can't be doing anything here,' said Shepherd. 'This is a Category A prison. Even on the remand wing they're watched every minute.'

'Carpenter has never trusted anyone,' said Hargrove, 'and he'd never cede control of his organisation - he's too much of a control freak for that. No, he's still running things from behind bars. The question is, how? We know he's not passing anything out on the phone. All conversations are listened to.'

'What about his legal team?' said Shepherd.

'That's a possibility,' said the superintendent. 'We're also watching his family visits. But there's a more likely proposition.'

'A corrupt prison officer?'

'It wouldn't be the first time,' said Hargrove. 'A man with as much money as Carpenter wouldn't have any trouble buying help on the inside.'

'And that's why I'm in here? To sniff out the inside man?'

'Assuming you're up for it, yes.'

Shepherd sighed. 'What did Sue say?'

Hargrove shifted in his seat. 'She used a few choice phrases.'

Shepherd could imagine the sort of language his wife would have employed on being told that he was remaining undercover for the foreseeable future. She'd been nagging him to spend more time with their son. 'I'm going to have to see her,' said Shepherd. 'Liam, too. They've been through enough over the past few years.'

'That's not going to be easy,' warned Hargrove. 'Bob Macdonald doesn't have a wife or child, not with the legend the way it is.'

'I'm sure you'll think of something,' said Shepherd. 'There's room for flexibility. Have them separated. She's got the kid. Planning a divorce. It's not rocket science.' Although Shepherd was a detective constable and Hargrove a superintendent, they'd worked together long enough not to worry about speaking bluntly. 'This isn't going to be an overnighter, is it? There's no way Carpenter's going to let me get up close and personal until there's a degree of trust, and that could take weeks. Months.'

'It depends on you,' said Hargrove. 'I doubt that he's ever going to tell you how he's getting his orders to the outside, but you might pick up clues from watching him. That's all we need. Once we know how he's doing it we shut down his lines of communication and let the judicial process take its course.'

'Okay,' Shepherd said. 'I'm in.' He smiled. 'I've just realised that even if I said I didn't want to do it, I don't have much choice, do I? You could just leave me here.'

'You know me better than that,' said Hargrove. 'You always get to choose, Spider. It has to be that way. And the moment you think it's too risky, you bail out. He's already been responsible for the death of one undercover agent so he'd have no qualms about getting rid of another.'

'Who would my contact be?'

'We'll talk to the governor. He'll be the only one who knows who you are.'

Shepherd leaned forward over the table. 'You mean I'm in here alone at the moment? No back-up, no nothing?'

'We don't know who the rotten apple is. Any sort of back-up risks blowing your cover. This way, if you turn down the assignment we pull you out and nothing's lost.'

'What if the governor doesn't co-operate?'

'He won't have a choice,' said the superintendent. 'Besides, it's in his own best interests to find out who's helping Carpenter.'

'And he'll be the only one who'll know what I'm doing?'

'Has to be that way,' said Hargrove. 'We've no idea who Carpenter's using. Chances are it's a prison officer, but it could be anyone in the prison administration. They're not especially well paid, these days. The fewer people who know the better.'

'Until it goes pear-shaped,' said Shepherd. 'What do I do? Rattle my tin mug against the bars and demand to see the governor?'

'Haven't you noticed it's all plastic in here?'

Shepherd smiled grimly. 'You know what I mean. Prisoners don't just get to see the governor. There's six hundred-odd men in here and they've all got grievances. They'd all be in to see the top man, given the chance, but there are procedures in place to stop them. If the shit hits the fan, I won't have time to start filling out forms in triplicate.'

Hargrove reached into his top pocket and took out a white business card, with a handwritten telephone number and a north London address on the back. 'This is a dedicated line and there'll be someone at the end of it twenty-four hours a day. Register the number as your uncle Richard's. He's your mother's brother. If you need to be pulled out, call it and we'll do the rest.'

'And if I can't get to a phone?' Shepherd memorised the number and handed back the card.

'What do you want, Spider? A mobile?'

'I'm just saying, there are only so many hours a day when we're allowed to use the phones and more often than not there's a queue. I can't just push to the front and say, "Sorry, guys, I'm an undercover cop and I've got to call my handler," can I?'

'It's not like you to be so jumpy.'

'Yeah, well, this is the first time I've been undercover in the midst of six hundred Category A criminals. And the cover I've got wasn't set up for the sort of scrutiny I'm going to get here.'

'It's perfect. Career villain, ex-army, parents deceased.'

'But that's as far as it goes. I'm banged up with a guy most of the day. We've got to talk. That's all there is to do. And the way things stand at the moment, I've bugger-all to talk about.'

'So be the strong, silent type. Play the hard man. That fits with your cover. Look, Spider, if this is too much for you just say so and you can leave with me now.'

Shepherd flashed the superintendent a sarcastic smile. 'I've already said I'll do it,' he said. 'It's just that I was in the end phase of the Verity operation, home and dry. I was all geared up for drinks with the lads and a pat on the back, and now I'm having to get used to an open-ended operation with a whole new target. It's going to take me a while to get back into the zone, that's all.' He sat back in his chair and put his hands flat on the table. 'Sue's going to be as pissed as hell.'

'She's a copper's wife, she'll understand.'

Hargrove looked in his briefcase and took out half a dozen sheets of paper. He slid them across the table to Shepherd. 'This is a summary of the intelligence we have on Carpenter. I've taken out all the dross.'

Shepherd scanned them and handed them back. He closed his eyes, took a slow breath and forced himself to relax. One by one he pictured the papers in his mind. Ever since he was a child he'd had virtually total recall of anything he read or saw. And he could remember conversations almost word for word. It wasn't a trick or a skill he'd acquired, it was a knack that he'd been born with. It meant he'd had to do the minimum of work at school and university - and it had saved his life several times as an undercover policeman.

'Got it?' asked Hargrove.

'Yes.'

Hargrove took an envelope from his briefcase. He opened it and placed half a dozen black-and-white photographs on the table in front of Shepherd. 'These are Carpenter's associates, the main ones.' He pushed two pictures towards Shepherd. 'These guys are on remand but they're in different prisons. The other four are on the outside.'

'They're all being watched?'

'Best we can, but they're pros.'

'Think they're doing his dirty work?'

'Pretty sure. But thinking and proving are two different things.'

Shepherd turned the photographs over. On the back he read typewritten summaries of their criminal careers.

'So, are we okay about this?' asked the superintendent.

Shepherd passed back the photographs. 'I guess so. What about the money side?'

'The money side?' repeated Hargrove, frowning.

'I'm in here twenty-four hours a day. By my reckoning that's fifteen hours a day overtime. More at weekends.'

'Since when have you been in the job for money, Spider?'

'Have you tried the food in here?' asked Shepherd. 'Have you tried sleeping on an inch-thick mattress with a pillow that's not much thicker? And a cellmate who farts in his sleep.'

'I get the point,' said the superintendent.

'So the money won't be a problem?'

'How about a compromise? Eight hours a day overtime, then take the rest as days off when this is over. It'll give you a chance to spend some time with your family.'

'Deal,' said Shepherd. He sighed and stretched out his legs. 'You might have warned me,' he said.

'There was no time,' said Hargrove.

Shepherd wondered if that was true. Or if Hargrove had wanted him inside before putting the mission to him. It was a lot harder to say no once he was in the system.

'What's happening with Verity?'

'He's in Belmarsh, and that's where he'll stay. Owen's singing like a bird so we'll let the Sussex cops run with him.'

'Any sense that they know I was a cop?'

Hargrove shook his head. 'Owen reckons you lost your nerve. Verity's going to be after your blood, but we've got him under wraps.'

'He'll know I'm here, though. And chances are he'll have mates inside.'

'We'll be watching your back, Spider. Anyone who's associated with you will be kept well away.'

'It was a bloody mess, the whole thing.'

'There was nothing else you could do,' said the superintendent.

The bald officer appeared at the window again. He stood watching Shepherd, his arms folded across his chest.

'Knocked me for six when Owen took the petrol out,' said Shepherd. 'He was going to do it, too. If the warehouse staff find out we knew there was going to be a robbery, they could sue for millions.'

'We didn't have a choice, you know that,' said Hargrove. 'There were too many warehouses at Gatwick to put our own people in every one.'

Shepherd shrugged.

'You did everything you could,' said Hargrove. 'The transmitter on the minibus led us to the right warehouse.'

'Eventually,' said Shepherd.

'We got them. That's what counts.'

'We risked civilians.'

'It was my decision, Spider. It was either that or just do them for conspiracy. I wanted Verity there with his trousers round his knees.' He paused, then leaned forward. 'I'm putting you forward for a commendation. You did a great job.'

Shepherd already had a string of commendations and awards for his undercover work, but he didn't do it for the glory. Or for the money. He did it because he was good at it. And he enjoyed it.

'So, what do you think?' asked Hargrove.

'About Carpenter? He's got people fetching and carrying for him on the wing. The prison officers seem a decent bunch. I presume you've already done financial checks?'

'All clean. But they wouldn't be stupid enough to pay money into their bank accounts.'

'Might not be money,' said Shepherd. 'He could be threatening them. Guy like Carpenter could reach their families any time he wanted.'

'Hopefully you'll hear about it on the wing. That's all we need, Spider. A nod in the right direction. Once we've got a name we can put him under the microscope.'

'Or her,' said Shepherd. 'There are female officers in here.'

'Only two on the remand spur where you are. It's not unknown for female officers to develop crushes on prisoners, which is why they get moved around more than the men. But Amelia Heartfield's married with four kids and, believe me, he's not her type. We had a good look at Joanne Lloyd-Davies too, but she's got a boyfriend. Several, as it happens.' He adjusted his cuffs. 'And she's very highly thought of. Graduate entrant, studied psychology at Exeter University. She could be running her own prison before she's thirty-five. Not the sort to start taking bungs from a drug-dealer. Don't rule her out on my say-so, but I'd look elsewhere if I were you.' Hargrove pushed back his chair and stood up. 'I'll fix an appointment to see you tomorrow.'

Shepherd got to his feet. Hargrove pressed the bell by the door and the grey-haired officer opened the door and took him down the corridor. A man Shepherd hadn't seen before escorted him back to the remand wing.

By the time he was back on the wing the evening meal was being served. Shepherd wasn't hungry but he joined the queue. He was given the vegetarian option - curried beans - and put a roll and a pot of strawberry yoghurt on his plastic tray with it. As he headed for the stairs he passed Lloyd-Davies and flashed her a tight smile.

'How was the meeting with your lawyer?' she asked.

'He agreed with you,' said Shepherd. 'Said I should start co-operating. Would it be possible to speak to a governor some time?'

'About what?'

'About registering, or whatever you call it. I want to start making phone calls, maybe arrange a visit.'

A smile of triumph flicked across her face. 'Decided to face reality, have you?'

'Seems pointless playing the strong, silent type.'

'Cutting off your nose to spite your face - I told you that your first day on the wing,' said Lloyd-Davies.

'I should have listened to you. So I can have a meet with a governor, can I? Run through my details?'

'You don't need to see the governor for that,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'I can take care of it. What do we call you?'

'Macdonald. Bob Macdonald.'

'And this is your first time inside, is it?'

Shepherd nodded.

'I'm sure it won't be your last. Now up the stairs with you.'

'You sound just like my old mum when you say that, ma'am,' said Shepherd. He saw her fighting not to smile as he headed up the stairs to the first-floor landing.

Lee was sitting at the desk, his head down over his plate. He grunted as Shepherd walked in. 'Where'd you get to?' he asked, his mouth full.

'My brief,' said Shepherd. He put the tray down on the table. 'You can have mine, I'm not hungry.'

'Gut trouble?'

'Just not hungry.' Shepherd sat on his bunk.

'The yoghurt, too?'

'Have it all.'

'Cheers, mate.'

Shepherd lay back on the bunk and interlinked his fingers behind his neck. 'Just so you know, I'm Bob Macdonald.'

'No more man-of-mystery, huh?'

'Figured it wasn't getting me anywhere. At least I'll start getting my money and I can register for the phone.'

'Means the screws'll cut you some slack, too.' Lee ripped his roll in half and used it to wipe his plate, then reached for Shepherd's. 'So was it your brief's idea to come clean?' he asked.

'He said they could put me away for just as long even if they didn't know who I was.'

'Makes sense. Is he expensive?'

'I suppose so.'

'It's worth paying the extra, that's what I always say. My brief's a diamond. Worth his weight in gold.'

Shepherd noticed the mixed metaphor but didn't say anything.

'He's the reason I'm in here,' said Lee, digging his plastic fork into Shepherd's beans.

Shepherd rolled on to his side so that he could look at his cellmate. 'Run that by me again, will you, Jason? Your brief's a diamond and he's the reason you're in prison?'

'Not in prison, you soft bugger.' Lee waved his plastic fork around the cell. 'Remand. He's the one who got me in here instead of doing hard time.'

'This is a Category A prison,' said Shepherd, still not following his cellmate's logic.

'It's Cat A, but we're on the remand wing, and remand time is always easier than hard time,' said Lee. He twisted round in the metal chair and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Look, I'm as guilty as sin, right? So Joe, he's my brief, says we plead not guilty on the basis that there's no way I'm going to get bail whatever happens. I sit here on remand, Joe drags his feet as much as he can before we get to trial, then we put our hands up to it. Judge looks at us favourably because we're saving the taxpayer the expense of a trial and I get a reduced sentence. Any time served here is knocked off the total.' He raised his eyebrows. 'See?'

'Got it,' said Shepherd. He rolled on to his back and stared up at the ceiling.

'He's all right, is Joe,' said Lee, turning back to his meal. 'For a Yid. Always make the best lawyers, Yids do.'

Lee continued to talk, but Shepherd closed his eyes and blanked him out as he went through the information he'd read about Gerald Carpenter. Father of three, married to his wife Bonnie for fourteen years, a keen rugby union fan and an experienced scuba diver. He had a private pilot's licence, a collection of expensive sports cars and a driving licence that had twice been suspended for speeding offences. Educated at Chiswick grammar school, he'd gone on to study economics at Exeter University then dropped out at the start of his second year to spend three years backpacking around the world.

Carpenter was almost fifteen years older than Lloyd-Davies, so there was no possibility of them having met at Exeter, but it might have given him a way to get close to her.

Carpenter had ended up in South East Asia, teaching English in the north of Thailand before coming to the notice of the US Drug Enforcement Administration's office in Chiang Mai. He left the country just days before the DEA and the Thai police swooped on a major heroin consortium. A dozen Thais and two American expats received long prison sentences, but two months later the street price of heroin dropped ten per cent in south London with the arrival of a huge shipment from the Golden Triangle. Carpenter had acquired a large mews house in Hampstead and a Porsche, and was red-flagged by Drugs Squad surveillance teams after he was seen in the company of known drug-importers.

The DEA bust was interesting, thought Shepherd. Undercover operations in the UK, even for Hargrove's special Home Office unit, were tightly monitored and controlled. Every facet of an operation had to be approved and signed for at a high level, but the Americans were often allowed to play fast and loose. He wondered if they'd cut a deal with Carpenter and allowed him to keep his shipment in exchange for information on the Chiang Mai Americans. It wouldn't be the first time that a drug-dealer had prospered under DEA protection.

After the first heroin shipment Carpenter hadn't looked back. He'd moved straight into the premier division of drug-importing and had stayed there. According to Drugs Squad intelligence he was responsible for as much as fifteen per cent of the heroin and cocaine coming into Britain. He had contacts across South America and the Far East, and a daisy-chain network of bank accounts that stretched round the world. He was as adept at money-laundering as he was at shipping drugs, and the National Criminal Intelligence Service could only estimate his wealth. They put a figure of two hundred and fifty million dollars on his net worth, but less than a fifth of that was in the banking system.

According to the file Shepherd had read, Elliott and Roper had spent months getting close to Carpenter, working their way through his organisation, proving themselves, until they were finally admitted to the inner circle. Their evidence would be crucial in putting him away. The recordings Elliott had made, plus the statements he had given to the CPS, would still be admissible, but they were no substitute for a police officer standing in the witness box and swearing on the Bible that he'd tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

According to the intelligence reports, the police and Customs should have expected Carpenter to move against the undercover officers. Over the previous decade three agents had disappeared while investigating his organisation. Two had been Drugs Squad officers; the third was a DEA agent investigating his links with a Colombian cocaine cartel. There was no evidence that Carpenter had had the men killed, but he was as careful to distance himself from violence as he was to keep away from drugs. Jonathon Elliott shouldn't have been out and about, not with the trial so close. Shepherd hoped that the Church was doing a better job of protecting its agent than the Drugs Squad had done with Elliott.

Sandy Roper swung his feet on to the sofa as his wife ran the vacuum cleaner in front of the television. 'Haven't you got anything to do?' she shouted, above the noise.

'I'm fine,' he said.

'You can go down the pub if you want,' she said.

'Alice, I'm fine,' Roper repeated.

Alice switched off the Hoover and faced him. 'Sandy, we've got to talk,' she said.

Roper grimaced and sat up straight. 'I know,' he said. 'This isn't easy for either of us.'

'You're moping around like a wet weekend,' she said. 'If this is what retirement's going to be like then God help us.'

'This isn't retirement,' he said. 'This is gardening leave. Until Carpenter's trial.'

'So go and garden,' said Alice. She looked at the lawn outside the sitting-room window. 'Why don't you get the mower out or clip the hedges? Do something.'

'I will,' said Roper.

'You've been off work for two weeks and you've barely left the house.'

'Orders,' said Roper.

'If the office is so keen on running your life, they should find you something to do.'

'It's not as easy as that,' said Roper. 'Carpenter's going to be hunting high and low for me. Until he's sent down I've got to keep a low profile.'

'But you're a Customs officer. You work for the government. What can he do?'

Roper knew exactly what Carpenter was capable of doing, but he didn't want to worry his wife. Carpenter only knew Roper's cover name and, provided he didn't go anywhere near Custom House, he should be as safe as houses. The head of Drugs Operations, Raymond Mackie, had gone to great pains to reassure Roper that HM Customs would do everything within its power to ensure that no outsiders, not even the CPS, would know his true identity.

'He might try to intimidate me,' said Roper. He hadn't told his wife about Jonathon Elliott's murder, and he didn't intend to. Roper shared little about his work with his wife. She knew that he'd switched to undercover operations about five years earlier but he'd never gone into detail, letting her believe that most of the time he was working on VAT fraud. She regarded his job as worthy but mundane, and told acquaintances that he was a civil servant.

Roper had barely known Elliott. He hadn't even been told the policeman's real name until after his death. They'd met on the Carpenter operation and had come at it from different angles so they'd only ever been in character. If Roper hadn't been tipped off that Elliott was a cop, he'd never have guessed he wasn't an out-and-out villain. He'd played the part to perfection. That made his murder all the more surprising. Elliott hadn't seemed the type to blow his cover, which meant that someone on the inside must have tipped off Carpenter's people. There was probably a bad apple within SO10, the Met's undercover unit, but as no one in the unit knew who Roper was, he should be safe. That was the gospel according to Mackie, anyway, and Roper saw no reason to doubt his logic. But Roper also knew that a man with Carpenter's resources could just as easily corrupt a Customs officer as he could a policeman. He wouldn't truly be safe until the trial was over.

'If he did, he'd be in even more trouble than he is already,' said Alice.

Roper smiled but didn't say anything. He'd been married to Alice for a little over sixteen years and was used to her naive view of the world. She'd had a sheltered middle-class upbringing and had been a primary-school teacher until she had given birth to their first boy. Then she'd become a full-time wife and mother, and her perception of the world was based on the evening news and the Daily Mail. Roper had done little to disillusion her. He had spent a good part of his working life hunting down men who thought nothing of destroying lives and livelihoods, who saw the law as something to be tested and broken, rather than respected and obeyed. Carpenter would see men like him and Elliott as nothing more than obstacles to be removed.

'You're retiring next year anyway,' said Alice, sitting down on the sofa next to him. 'Why can't they let you go now?'

'My pension doesn't kick in until I'm fifty-five,' said Roper.

'They could make an exception for you, surely.'

Roper smiled at the thought of the Church making exceptions for anyone.

'You are going to retire, aren't you,' pressed Alice, 'when this is over?'

'Of course I am. That's what we've planned, right?'

Alice took his hand in hers. 'It's what I want,' she said. 'We've earned some time to ourselves, Sandy. You can spend more time with the boys, we can take holidays. Join the bridge club, like you promised.'

Roper patted her hand. 'We will, love. Once the trial's over.'

Alice leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. 'Cup of tea?'

'Lovely,' said Roper.

Alice went off to the kitchen and Roper stared out of the window at the grass. He didn't want to get out the lawnmower. He didn't want to cut the hedges. He didn't want to join the bridge club. What he wanted more than anything was to continue working for HM Customs and Excise, keep on hunting down men like Gerald Carpenter and putting them away. Roper didn't do the job for money, or his pension: he did it for the thrill of the chase, the excitement of pitting his wits and skills against villains. Sometimes the Church won and sometimes they lost but, no matter what the result, there was always the adrenaline rush and Roper was scared to death of losing it for ever. He sat forward and put his head in his hands. There was no way he would ever be able to explain to Alice that he feared retirement more than he feared a hardened criminal like Carpenter.

Gerald Carpenter leaned on the guard-rail and looked down through the suicide mesh at the ground floor where prisoners were milling around. Association, they called it, but there was no one on the spur with whom Carpenter wanted to associate. He could tolerate the bad food, the smell from his in-cell toilet, even the near constant rap music blaring from the cells on the ones, but having to socialise with men he despised was more than he could bear. Better to sit in his cell and watch television or listen to his stereo.

There was a pool table on the ground floor and two dozen names chalked up. Less than half would probably get a game before it was time for the cells to be locked for the night. Three card tables had been set up. One was a regular bridge group, comprising two businessmen facing fraud charges, a former MP accused of killing his gay lover, and a Pakistani doctor, held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Pontoon was being played at the other two tables. The stakes were bits of matchstick but Carpenter knew that debts were paid in tobacco. So did the prison officers, but they did nothing to stop the games. Anything for a quiet life.

Ed Harris walked up the metal steps to the top floor and along the landing. He nodded at Carpenter and joined him at the railing.

'Who are the new arrivals?' asked Carpenter.

Harris nodded at Bill Barnes, who was making short work of clearing the pool table. 'Bill Barnes, second time in Shelton. Calls himself a cat burglar but he's more of a bull in a china shop. Got caught selling a couple of gold Rolexes to an undercover cop in Clapham. Standard con- the cops set up a pawnbroking operation and wait for the gear to surface.'

'Hardly Cat A,' said Carpenter.

'Tried to slash a guard last time he was inside. Did an extra year for that. Word is, he'll be in for a kicking at some point. The guard he tried to nail transferred here and is over on Block D.'

A middle-aged man wearing a white shirt with blue pinstripes, and black wool trousers was standing with his back against the wall.

'See the guy there?'

Carpenter nodded.

'Insurance fraud. Simon Hitchcock. Distant relative of the film director, he says. Sold policies but didn't pass the money on to his head office. Fraud Squad are looking for six million quid.'

'Doesn't look like he'll last long.'

Harris agreed. 'Took his wedding ring off him, and a St Christopher's medal and chain. So much for protecting travellers. Digger's already hit him for protection money.'

Carpenter shook his head. The man was a lost cause. On the outside he was probably a big wheel at his local Rotary Club, played golf with other wheeler-dealers, got special service at the best restaurants and flew business class. On the inside he was easy meat for the sharks. 'Anyone else?'

'Guy by the name of Bob Macdonald, not Scottish. Wouldn't give his name when they first brought him in, but he's seen sense. Armed robbery and they say his crew shot a cop. They've put him in with Jason Lee on the twos. First time inside.'

'He's a pro, though?'

'Handles himself like he's been around, but he can't have been in the system before or they'd have had his dabs.'

'Hard, is he?'

'I can't make him out,' said Harris. 'He gave Austin and his sidekick a thrashing first morning he was in, then bugger me if he doesn't go over to them in the yard and get it sorted.'

'How?'

'Dunno what he said but they're not gunning for him.'

'Threaten them with harm, do you think?'

'He doesn't come over as the threatening type.' Harris pointed down to the ground floor. 'There he is now. Prison sweats. Brown hair.'

Harris was right, Carpenter thought. Macdonald didn't look the threatening type. He was of average height, wiry and seemed relaxed in the prison environment. There was none of the tension of a new arrival, but none of the forced bravado of an old hand. Macdonald walked over to the pool table and stood watching.

'Tell me about the fight, Ed. Did you see it?'

'Yeah, I was on the landing. They started it, but he finished it - bloody quickly, too.'

'Hands, feet, head?'

'Kicked and punched them. Not kung fu or anything flash. He was . . .' Harris scratched his nose as he searched for the right word. 'Efficient,' he said eventually.

'Efficient?' repeated Carpenter.

'Like he was matching their violence. Hurt them just enough to stop them.'

'Reasonable force?'

'Yeah, that's it exactly. He was using reasonable force.'

Down below, the man they were talking about folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He looked up and, for a brief moment, had eye-contact with Carpenter. Carpenter was used to hard men trying to intimidate him with cold stares, but Macdonald's expression was more inquisitive, the look a tiger might give an antelope while he decided whether or not it was worth giving chase. Then, just as quickly, Macdonald broke eye-contact and waved at Harris, who waved back.

'Nice enough bloke,' said Harris.

'Well, anyone who shoots cops can't be all bad,' said Carpenter. 'Thanks, Ed. You need anything?'

'Tunnel under the wall and a new identity,' said Harris. 'They're going to throw away the key this time.'

Carpenter pulled a sympathetic face. He was prepared to throw a few home comforts at Harris in exchange for his information, but there was nothing he could do to help Harris out of his predicament. He'd been caught red-handed, literally: the bloody knife that had severed his wife's jugular vein had been in his hands when the police answered a neighbour's 999 call. And he'd confessed all to the sympathetic detectives who'd interviewed him, the tape-recorder running. More likely thannot, Harriswould die behind bars. Carpenter had no intention of suffering the same fate. He'd do whatever it took to regain his freedom.

Gary Nelson flicked through the files in his in-tray, dropped half a dozen of the most urgent into his briefcase and snapped the lock. His wife had driven up to Newcastle to visit her mother and there was nothing on television that he wanted to watch so he planned on getting some work done. But first he was going to pick up a couple of curries. His wife hated the smell of Indian food, but if he opened the windows and sprayed air-freshener around she'd be none the wiser when she got back.

The office was deserted so he switched off the lights as he left. He took the lift to the ground floor, acknowledged the uniformed security guard and pushed his way through the revolving door. His Toyota Corolla was in an underground car park a short walk from the office. It was starting to rain so he turned up the collar of his raincoat and jogged, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

His car was on the second level below ground. There was a lift but it was claustrophobically small, hardly bigger than a coffin, so Nelson took the stairs.

There were spaces for two dozen cars on the second level, but only three vehicles. Nelson's was at the far end, close to the emergency exit. His footsteps echoed off the bare walls as he walked across the concrete. Overhead there were bare pipes, stark fluorescent lights and the sprinkler system. Two CCTV cameras covered the area but he had never seen a security guard in the building. Nelson took his keys from his pocket. He looked up at the CCTV camera by the emergency exit, then frowned as he saw that the lens had been sprayed with black paint. He stopped walking and looked across at the second camera. That, too, had been spray-painted. It didn't look like the work of vandals, he realised. It was a deliberate attempt to blind the cameras. So that no one would see what was going on. The hairs on the back of Nelson's neck stood up and he shivered. He had a strong feeling that something bad was about to happen. 'For God's sake,' he muttered to himself. 'Get a grip.'

He started walking again, swinging his briefcase and humming. He kept looking round as he approached his car, unable to shake off the dread, but he was alone. He'd been watching too many horror movies. The world was a safe place, he told himself, and he was a thirty-five-year-old male in good physical condition, not the average mugging victim. Not any sort of victim.

Nelson jumped when he heard footsteps behind him. A man in a dark green anorak was running towards him, a black woollen hat pulled low over a pair of impenetrable sunglasses. The door to the emergency exit crashed open and Nelson whirled round. A second man stood there. Leather jacket. Blue balaclava. Sunglasses. Holding a Stanley knife.

Nelson took a step backwards, his heart pounding. He held up his briefcase in front of him, facing the man with the leather jacket. The man was grinning. Totally confident, totally in control. 'I don't want any trouble,' said Nelson, and he could hear the fear in his voice. He took another step backwards.

Anorak was still running towards him. Nelson didn't know what he could say to keep the two men at bay.

'Please . . .' he said. He felt his bowels go liquid and knew he was about to piss himself.

Leather Jacket swished the Stanley knife from side to side. Nelson stared at it in horror. Then Anorak hit him side on and Nelson crashed to the ground. His hand twisted under his chest and he felt his little finger snap. He tried to get to his feet but Anorak kicked him in the stomach and he curled up into a ball.

Anorak kicked him again, his boot catching him under the chin and snapping his head back. Nelson started to black out. Then he was aware that his face was being slapped. He opened his eyes. Leather Jacket had a knee in the middle of his chest. Nelson blinked away tears. He could see his face, his tear, reflected in the black lenses of Leather Jacket's sunglasses.

Leather Jacket leered at him and held the Stanley knife to his throat. 'If I cut you here, you'll bleed to death in less than a minute,' he hissed.

'Please, don't!' Nelson gasped. 'My wallet - my wallet's in my jacket.'

'We don't want your money.'

'My car,' said Nelson. 'Take it. The keys are--'

Leather Jacket pressed the knife to Nelson's cheek and sliced the flesh. Nelson felt a burning sensation, then warm blood spuring down his cheek. 'Shut up and listen,' hissed the man, his mouth just inches from Nelson's ear. 'You know the Carpenter case?'

Nelson nodded. It was a Customs and Excise and Drugs Squad case, and he had been scheduled to give expert testimony in support of tapes recorded by two undercover officers. He had to show that the tapes hadn't been tampered with, and that the voices on them belonged to Gerald Carpenter and the agents.

'You tell them you can't give evidence,' said Leather Jacket. 'Tell them you're sick, tell them you've had amnesia, tell them what you want, but if you turn up in the witness box we'll be back to finish the job. Understand?'

'They'll know I've been warned off--' The man in the anorak kicked him hard in the ribs. Nelson felt a bone break and pain lanced through his side. He screamed, but the man with the knife clamped a hand across his mouth.

'I'm a nasty piece of work, me, but I've got mates who are ten times worse,' he murmured. 'They'd love nothing more than to spend a few hours in the company of your wife. Pretty woman, Mrs Nelson. Lovely blonde hair. My mates were arguing about whether or not she was a natural blonde, and they'd love the chance to find out. How would you feel if your wife was raped? Take the gloss of your marriage, wouldn't it?'

Nelson didn't say anything. Tears welled in his eyes, not because of the pain but because he felt so helpless. The last time he'd been so powerless was when he was nine, and two teenage bullies at school had taken his dinner money off him every Monday. Nelson had been too scared to tell his parents, too scared of what the older boys would do to him if they found out, so he'd paid them every week. He'd started stealing loose change from the coats in the sixth-form cloakroom and had used it to pay for his lunches. He'd never told anyone. Not his parents. Not his teachers. Not his wife. It was a secret he'd kept buried for years, but lying on the cold concrete floor of the car park with the knife against his throat and blood trickling down his cheek, the shame and self-disgust came flooding back.

'We know where you live, Gary. We know where your wife walks the dogs. Fuck with us and we'll fuck with you.'

Leather Jacket took his hand off Nelson's mouth. Nelson gasped. Every breath was agony - he could feel the fractured ends of his broken rib grating together - but he was grateful that he was still alive, that they weren't going to kill him.

'Just nod to let me know that you understand and agree,' said the man, pushing the blade of the Stanley knife into Nelson's neck.

Slowly, Nelson nodded.

Shepherd woke early. It was a nuisance not having his watch. The forensics investigator still had it, and he had no idea when, if ever, he'd get it back. Lee was snoring softly. Shepherd stared up at the barred window. All he could see was a patch of pale grey featureless sky. It was a strange feeling, knowing that central London was only a few miles away. Pubs, shops, football grounds, all the places he used to take for granted might as well not exist. His wife and son were less than thirty minutes away.

He wondered how it would feel to be a lifer, knowing you were going to be kept behind bars for ever. The confinement would drive him mad, he was sure of it. He'd go the same way as Justin Davenport and devote all his time and energy to breaking out. There was no way he could accept that for the rest of his life he would be told what to do at every minute of every day. Lloyd-Davies had probably been right when she said that a military background prepared a man for prison: the communal food, sleeping and washing arrangements, the requirement to follow orders, the rules and regulations that had to be obeyed, no matter how inappropriate, all brought back memories of Shepherd's time in the army. But there was a big difference between the men with whom he had served and the prisoners in Shelton: choice. Shepherd had wanted to join the army ever since he'd gone into an army careers office with three school friends to shelter from the rain one lunchtime. They'd watched a promotional video, dripping wet and eating packets of Golden Wonder crisps. The others had jeered at the video, but Shepherd had been transfixed. His parents had been pushing him towards university: they wanted him to be a solicitor or a doctor, a professional, someone they could boast about to their neighbours, and they looked horrified when he'd turned up with a stack of army brochures. They managed to persuade him to go to university but he'd left before taking his finals and had signed up as a career soldier.

Once in the army he'd wanted to be the best of the best and had put himself through the SAS selection course twice before he was accepted. It had been harder and more uncomfortable than anything they could do to him in prison, but it had been his choice. Everything he'd done had been his choice, right or wrong, and there hadn't been a day when he couldn't have walked away if that was what he'd wanted. Eventually he had left, and that had been his choice, albeit because it was what his wife had wanted. But the men in Shelton had no choice, and that was what made prison such a terrible punishment. It wasn't the food or the environment or even the people, it was the lack of choice. And when there were choices, they were choices laid down by others. Top bunk or bottom. Tea or coffee. Vegan meal or Ordinary. Choices that were no real choice at all. Even now, Shepherd was in prison by choice. He could have refused the job and woken up in a warm double bed with Sue, instead of alone in an uncomfortable bunk with a racist thug beneath him. But if that choice was ever taken away from him, Shepherd knew that the confinement would be more than even he could bear. He'd do whatever it took to get out.

He sat up, not liking where his train of thought was heading. Gerald Carpenter had a wife and family, and he was facing a long prison sentence. Shepherd had been inside only two days but already he had grasped how appalling the prospect of twenty or even ten years was. Carpenter had decided how badly he wanted his freedom, and the price he was prepared to pay to achieve it. He'd kill to get out. Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck where the tendons were as taut as steel cables. Would he be prepared to do the same? He had killed - five times - but in combat, in the heat of battle, the enemy in front of him. Combat wasn't especially clean or honourable, but it was kill or be killed, soldier against soldier. Would he be prepared to kill another human being in cold blood if it meant the difference between life imprisonment and freedom?

Shepherd swung down off his bunk and started doing rapid press-ups. He concentrated on his rhythm and breathing and was soon bathed in sweat. He increased the pace and soon he could think of nothing except the exercise, the burning in his muscles, the pressure on his fingertips, the blood coursing through his veins. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. He stopped at sixty, knowing he could do more, and switched to rapid sit-ups, working his left side, then the right, until he rolled over and did another fifty press-ups.

'Bloody hell! Sooner they let you in the gym, the better,' said Lee. He was watching Shepherd with one eye.

'Sorry, Jason,' said Shepherd. The lack of privacy was one of the worst things about his confinement. The only time he could be alone was when he was sitting on the tiny toilet: it had a thin plastic door but even then every bodily function could be heard in the cell. Since he'd been in prison he had always been just a few feet from another human being. He promised himself that the first thing he would do when he got out was go for a long walk in the countryside. The Brecon Beacons, maybe, where he'd done the SAS selection course. He'd hated the wilderness then, hated the bleak hillsides and the icy, clinging rain that had soaked him to the skin and chilled him to the bone, hated the freezing streams that poured into his boots, hated the wind that froze his cheeks and hands. But now he'd give anything to be out in the open, breathing fresh air that hadn't been through the lungs of a hundred other men. 'What time is it?'