Hard Landing

Lee squinted at his watch. 'Twenty past seven. They'll be doing roll-call soon.'

'You okay if I keep exercising?'

'Sure,' said Lee sleepily. He rolled over and put his head next to the wall.

Shepherd carried on doing press-ups, sit-ups and leg raises. He heard boots on the stairs, then inspection hatches.

It was Hamilton who opened theirs. 'Macdonald, you get to shower this morning,' he said.

Shepherd frowned. He hadn't requested a shower and it wasn't like Hamilton to offer him unnecessary privileges. He still hadn't come up with a copy of the Prison Rules.

'You've got an appointment with the governor at eight forty-five. RSVP isn't necessary.'

The inspection hatch snapped shut. The governor had obviously been told of his presence, and Shepherd was pretty sure that he wouldn't be happy to have an undercover cop in his prison.

In an ideal world, Shepherd would have preferred that no one knew his true role. But HM Prison Shelton was not an ideal world, and there might come a time when he needed a Get Out Of Jail Free card at short notice. The governor would be his only lifeline, so, whatever his reaction, Shepherd would have to handle him carefully.

The secure corridors were filled with inmates when Hamilton took Shepherd to the governor's office. Prison officers stood at the corners of the corridors linking the various blocks. All the connecting doors were open and they watched the prisoners file past, singly and in groups. The atmosphere was relaxed as a university campus between lectures, and other than the prison uniforms and surveillance cameras there was no real sense that they were in a holding facility for the country's most dangerous criminals.

Most of the prisoners were moving from their blocks to the workshops where they spent three hours each morning. Their jobs were mundane - filling the breakfast packs, assembling Christmas crackers for a high-street chain or electrical goods, putting junk mail into envelopes for financial institutions. Lee had told Shepherd there was a small computer department that did freelance programming work but the only prisoners who could work there had degrees and programming experience. Shepherd had been surprised to hear that half a dozen long-term prisoners fulfilled the requirements; most were in for murder.

The governor's office was on the top floor of the administration block. A small outer office contained two middle-aged women, one working at a computer, the other talking on the phone. One side of the room was lined with metal filing cabinets; flow-charts and posters covered the other walls. Hamilton pointed at a plastic sofa and Shepherd sat down. He'd seen most of the posters in the reception area when he'd first been brought into the prison. How not to get Aids. The penalties for racial abuse. How to contact a Listener.

The woman on the phone put her hand over the receiver and smiled at Hamilton. 'Is that Mr Macdonald?' she asked.

Hamilton nodded.

'Mr Gosden says he's to go in,' she said.

Hamilton gestured at Macdonald to stand up, then knocked on the door to the governor's office and opened it.

John Gosden was a stocky man in his late forties, sitting behind a large teak-veneer desk with two stacks of files in wire trays, a desktop computer and a small laptop, both with modem connections. There was a tropical fish tank by the door. A couple of dozen brightly coloured fish were swimming languidly round a sunken plastic galleon and a diver with a stream of tiny bubbles fizzing out of its helmet.

'Thank you, Adrian,' the governor said to Hamilton. 'You can wait outside.' He waited until the officer had closed the door, then got up. He was a head shorter than Shepherd, but his shoulders were broader. He looked like a bodybuilder who'd given up exercising some years ago.

Shepherd thought the man was going to shake his hand, but Gosden walked over to the fish tank and picked up a container of flaked food. 'Do you keep fish, Shepherd?'

'No, Governor,' said Shepherd. 'Don't mind eating them, though.'

Gosden flashed him a cold smile, then sprinkled a small amount of food on to the surface of the water and bent down to watch the fish feed. 'An aquarium is a delicate balancing act,' he said. 'The mass of fish you can support depends on the volume of water in the tank, the surface area, and the efficiency of your aeration pump. The number of fish determines how much food you put in. If any of the variables is out of kilter, if anything is added that isn't planned for, the whole eco-system can fall apart.'

'I get the analogy, Governor,' said Shepherd. 'I don't intend to do anything to upset the equilibrium of your institution.'

'Your presence does that,' said the governor, straightening up.

'Only if the prisoners work out who I am and what I'm doing here. And they won't.'

The governor's lips were a thin, unsmiling line. 'I'm not just referring to the prisoners. The fact that I have allowed you to go undercover in my prison suggests I don't trust my people. And this place runs on trust, Mr Shepherd. It's all we have standing between order and anarchy.'

Shepherd didn't say anything. The governor must have known there was a good chance that one of his officers was helping Carpenter run his organisation from behind bars.

'I'm not happy about this, Mr Shepherd. Not happy at all.'

'I'm sorry about that,' said Shepherd. He was still standing in the centre of the room. Clearly the governor had no intention of asking him to sit down.

'Have you any idea what a dangerous position this puts me in?' the governor went on. He knocked on the side of the tank and the fish darted to the back. 'If the prisoners find out there's a policeman in their midst, there'll be a riot.'

'I think, of the two of us, I'll be the one in most danger,' said Shepherd.

'You think they'll stop with you?' said Gosden. 'If you believe that, you've no idea how a prison functions.' He snorted, then went to sit behind his desk. 'Your mission is to find out what Gerald Carpenter is up to, is that right?'

'He's sabotaging his case. We have to find out how.'

'And the presumption is that one of my people is helping him?'

Shepherd shrugged. 'I've got an open mind, Governor, but his phone conversations and mail are monitored, so that doesn't leave too many options.'

'His family. His legal teams. He has medical visits.'

'Medical visits?'

'He has a recurring back problem, which means he has a weekly visit from an osteopath. And his dentist has visited twice.'

'I thought the prison had its own medical facilities.'

'Apparently the facilities we have aren't satisfactory in view of the state of his spine or his root canals. He's got world-class lawyers, has your Mr Carpenter, and the 1998 Human Rights Act is full of helpful phrases. At one point it was starting to look as if the great Cherie Booth was going to be representing him so we decided to let him have his own way.' At last the governor waved to a chair opposite his desk. 'Sit down. Please.' He looked suddenly tired. He ran a hand across his forehead and rubbed his eye. 'Look, I'm sorry if I sound tetchy but this is a stressful job at the best of times - and I don't like being told what to do by suits who've never been within a mile of a Cat A facility.'

Shepherd sat down. 'I have to say, Governor, I'm as unhappy as you are about being here. But you've been told what Carpenter's doing - what he's already done?'

'My suggestion was that they move him to another prison. Put him in the secure unit at Belmarsh.'

'And they said?'

'That they wanted it dealt with here. Which I presume means that they suspect the leak is in-house.'

Shepherd nodded. Moving Carpenter wouldn't solve anything. If they kept him in Shelton there was a chance that they would find the bad apple in the prison and identify who on the outside was doing Carpenter's dirty work. 'You were a prison officer yourself ?' asked Shepherd. Gosden didn't seem the type to have come into the service at the top.

Gosden smiled. 'Shows, does it? Started off walking the landings in Parkhurst. Six years. Then moved to an open prison and couldn't stand it. Went back to the Isle of Wight, got made Principal Officer and did an Open University degree.'

'It's not a job I could do.' Shepherd was trying to get on the right side of the man, but he was being truthful. Undercover work was stressful but at least he had the adrenaline rush and the satisfaction of putting away the bad guys. Prison officers were at their most successful when nothing happened, when the status quo was maintained. And the job was never-ending. For every prisoner who walked out of the gates, another moved in to take his place. Shepherd doubted he had the stamina or the patience to make a career of keeping people locked up.

'It has its moments,' said Gosden. 'Believe it or not, most prison officers care about what they do. At least, when they come into the service. And a lot of inmates are genuinely remorseful and want to turn their lives round.'

'I sense a "but" . . .' said Shepherd.

'There are enough bad apples to turn even the best-intentioned prison officer cynical after a few years,' Gosden told him. 'Hot water thrown over them, HIV-infected prisoners cutting themselves and flicking blood around, razor blades in soap, ears bitten off. You know all prison officers wear a clip-on tie? That's in case a prisoner grabs it. And these days all the prisoners know their rights, from the Prison Rules up to the Human Rights Act. And to make it worse, the officers often feel there isn't enough support from above. If a governor isn't behind his men one thousand per cent, they'll start to think that maybe it's not worth keeping to the straight and narrow. That maybe the rules can be bent.' Gosden stood up and started to pace up and down the office. 'So, if you were to ask me if one of my officers could be on the take, what am I supposed to say? I have to back them.' He stopped. 'Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Absolutely,' said Shepherd. 'It's the same on the job. Your colleagues come first. They have to, because when the shit hits the fan they're all you've got.'

Gosden nodded.

'But sometimes cops go bad,' said Shepherd.

'We've some in here too. On Rule Forty-five. Couple of Vice cops who were on the take for years.'

'What I'm saying is, when cops go bad you can't turn a blind eye.'

'That's not what I'm doing,' said Gosden, defensively. 'What I'm doing is giving my people the benefit of the doubt. You tell me that one of them's on the take and their feet won't touch the ground, I promise you.'

'That's fine by me,' said Shepherd.

'But if you disrupt my prison, if I think you're putting the safety of my men at risk, I'm pulling you out. I don't care what some Home Office mandarin says, this is my prison.'

Shepherd didn't say anything. He knew that Gosden didn't have the authority to halt the operation, but he could make Shepherd's life impossible. A word in the right ear and his cover would be blown. Once that happened he would have no choice but to bail out.

The two men stared at each other for several seconds, then Gosden relaxed. 'That's my pep talk over,' he said. 'I'm told I have to co-operate with you, so is there anything you want me to do?'

'I need to get close to Carpenter, but I'll have to do that myself. If you were to pull any strings it'd tip him off that something was up. But I could do with a look at your personnel files. Just the officers on the spur.'

Gosden shook his head. 'I'd have a walk-out if I did that. If nothing else they fall under the Data Protection Act.'

'No one would know,' said Shepherd.

'That's not the point. It's a breach of trust.'

'I only need background, just so I know who I'm dealing with.'

Gosden massaged the back of his neck. 'God, this is a mess.'

'Governor, it's as much in your interest as mine to find out who's helping Carpenter.'

Gosden went over to a filing cabinet, opened it and pulled out a dozen files. 'You mustn't make any notes,' he said, 'and I think you should be quick about it. Hamilton's going to wonder why you're in here so long.'

'What reason have you given him for bringing me here?'

Gosden was pacing up and down his office again. 'I told Tony Stafford that I wanted to talk to you about a family matter. I said your wife had written to me saying she was considering divorce. In view of the violent nature of the crime you've been charged with, I said I'd have a talk with you. It wouldn't be unusual, I'm pretty hands-on here.'

Shepherd sat down with the files. He scanned the pages quickly, but his eyes passed over every line. He had to read the words to memorise them. Every name, every date, every fact was recorded perfectly, and would remain in his memory for several years, then begin to fade. Shepherd had no idea how his memory functioned. He could only memorise, not understand.

He went through the files page by page, then stood up. 'There's one other thing you can do for me,' he said. 'I need some phone numbers authorised, and to be able to make calls.'

'I'll set up a pin number for you,' said Gosden, reaching for a pen and a notepad.

'I need money in my account, apparently.'

'I'll get that sorted. I'll put you on "enhanced".'

'Won't that raise eyebrows?'

'Not necessarily,' said Gosden. 'I'll simply say that after our chat I've decided that you're becoming more co-operative and that, as a gesture of good faith, I'm making you enhanced. It's happened before.'

Shepherd gave Gosden his fictitious Uncle Richard's number.

'Do you want to be able to call your wife?'

'There's no way I can risk it from the prison,' said Shepherd.

'You could call her from here,' said Gosden. 'I have a direct line.' He gestured at his desk. There were two phones, one cream, the other grey. 'The grey one doesn't go through the switchboard. The Home Office uses it and I take personal calls on it.'

It had been four days since Shepherd had spoken to his wife, and he had no idea how long it would take Hargrove to get her in as a visitor. He swallowed and realised his mouth had dried.

'It's there if you want it,' said the governor, 'but we're going to have to get a move on. You've already been in here much longer than I'd normally spend with a prisoner.'

Shepherd's mind was in turmoil. He wanted to talk to Sue, to let her know he was okay and missing her. But a call from the prison, even on the governor's direct line, was a risk. If anyone should ever trace the call from his house to the prison it would be the end of the operation. He dismissed the thought. No one knew who he was. As far as the prison population was concerned, he was Bob Macdonald, failed armed robber. No one other than the governor would know that he'd made the call. The benefits outweighed the risks. He nodded.

'I can't leave you alone,' said the governor, apologetically.

'That's okay,' said Shepherd. He picked up the receiver and tapped out Sue's number. His hand was trembling as he put the receiver to his ear. The governor busied himself at the fish tank.

Sue answered the phone on the fourth ring. 'Hello?'

Shepherd closed his eyes, picturing her. Shoulder-length blonde hair, probably tied back in a ponytail. Green eyes. Faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She hated her freckles and was forever covering them with makeup. Shepherd loved them. 'Sue. It's me.' Even with his wife, Shepherd rarely identified himself by name.

'Oh, God! Where are you?'

'Didn't Sam tell you?'

'He said you were in prison on a job, but he didn't say which prison. He said that was an operational detail and he couldn't tell me.'

'I'm sorry, love. I don't know why he didn't tell you because he's going to try to fix up for you and Liam to visit. I'm in London, not far away. Did Sam tell you why I was here?'

'Just that you were targeting someone. But he said it was important.'

'It is, love, believe me.'

'How long are you going to be away? Liam's going crazy not seeing you. And Sam said I wasn't to tell him anything, just that you were going to be away for a while.'

'Is he at school?'

'Of course. Life doesn't stop because you're away.' There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. Shepherd wasn't surprised she was upset. She'd expected him home two days ago and now she'd been told that he was on an open-ended assignment that would keep him away twenty-four hours a day.

'I'm sorry.'

'Why didn't they tell us you were going away?'

'They didn't know until the last minute. I was as surprised as you, love. I was in here for a day before they told me what was happening.'

Sue sighed. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to moan. Sam told me how important it was. And what happened to that other policeman.' Jonathon Elliott, she meant. 'Be careful, won't you?'

'Of course,' said Shepherd.

'Is it horrible?'

'It's not that bad, actually.'

'Really?'

'TV in the cells, food's reasonable, there's a gym and we get out in the fresh air every day. I might bring you and Liam for a week some time.'

'After this you owe us a fortnight in Mallorca, minimum.'

She went quiet. Shepherd couldn't think what to say. He wanted to hold her and kiss her, to smell her perfume and stroke her hair. The phone was a poor substitute. 'I really am sorry about all this,' he said eventually.

'It's your job,' she said. 'It's what you do.'

'Tell Liam I phoned, yeah? Tell him I love him and I'll be home soon.'

'How soon?'

It was a good question. 'I don't know, love.'

'Days rather than weeks?' she asked hopefully.

'If I get lucky, yeah,' he said.

'I love you.' She said it quietly, and he was suddenly ashamed. His place was at home with her and their son.

'I love you, too,' he said. 'I'll make this up to you when I get home. I promise.'

'You'd better.'

'I will.'

'Okay.'

'I've got to go.' The governor had straightened and was looking at a clock on the wall.

'I know.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Stop saying you're sorry. I've been married to you long enough to know how it works.'

'I don't deserve you.'

'That is so true.' She laughed.

'I do love you, Sue. I wish you were here with me now.'

'In prison with a hundred men who haven't had sex for years?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I know.'

'I have to go.'

'I know.'

'I love you.'

'I love you.'

Shepherd closed his eyes. He knew he was behaving like a lovesick teenager, but he couldn't bring himself to hang up on her, not knowing when he was going to have the chance to talk to her again.

'You're going to have to hang up first,' she said, as if reading his mind.

'I don't want to.'

'Can you call later, when Liam's here?'

'I can't, love.' He had no idea when he'd be able to talk to her again.

'Please try.'

'I will.' He hated lying to her but didn't have time to explain why contact was going to be impossible. He didn't know whom he could trust within the prison. Anyone, inmate or officer, could be on Carpenter's payroll. He was taking a big enough risk using the governor's personal phone. 'I've got to go, love. Sorry.'

He put down the receiver and immediately cursed himself for not ending on a better note. 'Sorry,' he'd said. He should have told her he loved her again. If it was the last thing he ever said to her he wanted it to be 'I love you' and not 'Sorry.'

'You're going to have to go,' said Gosden.

Shepherd stuck out his hand. 'Thanks for that,' he said.

'The worst thing about prison is the lack of contact with family,' said Gosden, shaking Shepherd's hand. He had a strong grip with thick fingers and calloused skin. 'They forget that, the people who complain about televisions in cells and education programmes. Being away from your family is the punishment. And it's got to be a hell of a lot worse for you.'

'Yeah, but at least I'll be walking out soon,' said Shepherd. 'Hopefully.'

Hamilton escorted Shepherd back to the remand block. 'So, what did he want?' Hamilton asked, as he unlocked the door to the secure corridor.

'To know what I thought of the prison officers,' said Shepherd.

'What?'

'Home Office is compiling a list of officers who can't do their jobs. The governor's supposed to get the opinions of a random group of inmates. My number came up.'

He stood to the side so that Hamilton could relock the door.

'A survey?' said Hamilton, frowning.

'Home Office.'

Shepherd started to walk down the corridor towards the remand block.

'What did you say?' asked Hamilton. 'To the governor?'

'It's confidential,' said Shepherd. 'Sorry.'

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Hamilton unlocked the door to the remand block. 'You're winding me up, you prick,' he said, as Shepherd walked into the spur.

Two prisoners were cleaning the ground floor with mops. They worked slowly and methodically, their heads down. Hamilton took Shepherd up to his cell. It was empty. 'I have to stay banged up?'

'Unless you're on a work detail or education.'

'Can't I go to the gym?'

Hamilton shook his head. 'Don't give me a hard time,' he said. 'Gym is in the afternoon, but you have to be on the list. And you're not.'

'It just doesn't seem fair that I have to stay locked up.'

'Yeah, well, who said life was fair? If it was fair, I wouldn't be in here jingling keys, would I?' He nodded at the cell. 'In,' he said.

'I want a copy of the Prison Rules,' said Shepherd.

'I'll get it for you.'

Shepherd stood his ground. 'I want it now.'

'I said I'd get it for you. In the cell, Macdonald.'

'I'm entitled to a copy of the Prison Rules. You're refusing to give me what I'm entitled to.'

'You're committing an offence against discipline,' said Hamilton. 'You are disobeying a lawful order. If you don't get into your cell now I'll put you on a charge.'

'In which case I'll be up before the governor and I'll be able to give him my side of the story.' Shepherd put his hands on his hips and stared at Hamilton. There was no way he was going to back down.

Hamilton continued to glare at Shepherd. He was a couple of inches shorter and Shepherd was in better condition. Hamilton couldn't physically make him go into the cell, not on his own. But calling for his colleagues would be an admission that he'd lost control. An admission to his colleagues, and to himself. Shepherd could practically see the wheels turning behind the man's eyes as he considered his options. Hamilton nodded slowly. 'Wait here,' he said.

He walked along the landing swinging his key chain. Shepherd leaned against the railing and watched him let himself out of the spur. The cleaners on the ground floor looked up at Shepherd. One grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Hamilton went into the control office and spoke to Tony Stafford. A few minutes later he returned with a booklet and thrust it at Shepherd. On the front it said The Prison Rules 1999, and under the title was a list of dates when the rules had been amended. 'Happy now?' asked Hamilton.

'Thank you,' said Shepherd.

'I am now asking you to enter your cell,' said Hamilton. 'If you do not comply with my instruction, I will summon a control-and-restraint team.'

Shepherd smiled easily and stepped inside cell. Hamilton pulled the door shut and Shepherd heard him walk away down the landing. It was a small victory, but he was starting to appreciate how small victories counted when you were in prison. He sat down on his bunk and started to read the rules.

Gerald Carpenter squeezed the excess water out of the mop and swabbed the floor, taking care not to get soapy water on his Bally loafers. Two hundred pounds he'd paid for them and there he was, cleaning a prison floor in them. Sometimes life just didn't go according to plan.

Carpenter didn't enjoy manual work, but the cleaning job was his by choice. It meant that he was out of his cell for most of the day, and was pretty much free to roam the spur. He spent most of his time on the threes, but being on the cleaning crew meant he could go down to the lower floors whenever he wanted. Some of the cleaners worked as go-betweens, ferrying messages and contraband between cells, but the inmates knew better than to ask Carpenter to act as a messenger boy.

The spur was quiet during labour, like a university hall of residence when lectures were on. During association it was bedlam - music blaring, arguments at the pool table, raucous laughter. Even late at night the spur was never completely quiet. There was the murmur of televisions, stereos playing, sometimes prisoners crying or screaming. Constant reminders that another fifty souls were locked up there. A hundred and fifty in the houseblock. But when the men were at labour, there was a peaceful quality to it. Not like a church or cathedral, the surroundings were too ugly for that, but a monastery perhaps - if it wasn't for the barred doors and the suicide nets. But the spur wasn't populated with men seeking spiritual fulfilment, thought Carpenter, with a wry smile. They were about as far from holy men as you could get.

Carpenter's smile widened as he ran the mop from side to side. He'd received some good news that morning. The electronics expert who had been planning to testify for the prosecution had decided that appearing in the witness box wouldn't be conducive to his health. Carpenter knew that Gary Nelson could be replaced, but it would take time for another expert to be brought up to speed, and that was assuming the prosecution could find another expert willing to take his place. The world of the expert witness was small, and word would soon get around. Nelson had been beaten and scarred, a living reminder of what would happen to anyone who threatened Gerald Carpenter.

Bit by bit Carpenter was dismantling the case against him. CPS files had been stolen and destroyed. Jonathon Elliott had been taken care of. The prosecution's prime piece of evidence - the yacht - had gone up in flames. But one major obstacle still had to be removed before Carpenter could be sure of winning his freedom, and that was the Customs officer, Sandy Roper.

Carpenter hated Roper. It wasn't just that the man's evidence threatened to keep him inside for the foreseeable future but because Carpenter had liked him. They'd been drinking together, gone to football matches and lap-dancing clubs, laughed and joked and told stories. They'd almost become friends, and Carpenter didn't let many people get close to him. Roper's betrayal had been personal. Pretty much every word that had left the man's mouth had been a lie. His name, his age, the school he went to, the deals he'd done. It had all been a web of deceit. And half the time Roper had been wearing a wire, recording everything Carpenter had said. Carpenter had let the man into his inner circle and Roper had betrayed him. And it wasn't even for money. Carpenter could have understood that. Sympathised, even. If Roper had been a grass and the cops had been paying him a few grand for the information, Carpenter would have hated the man for being a grass, but he'd have understood his motivation. If the cops had been pressurising him, forcing him to inform, Carpenter could have empathised. He knew that a man under duress was often more reliable than a man working for money. And he knew that cops could bring all sorts of pressure to bear to make a man betray his friends. But Roper had betrayed Carpenter for no other reason than that it was a job. A nine-to-five, dead-end, no-hope, time-serving job. Sandy Roper had been a civil servant with five weeks paid holiday a year, waiting for the day when he got a gold watch and a piss-poor pension. That was what riled Carpenter. He'd been outwitted by a bloody civil servant.

And it wasn't just Roper who'd betrayed him. He'd allowed a copper to get one over on him, too. Jonathon Elliott had been as likeable as Roper. A good-looking guy, always with a story about his latest conquest. Then, after he'd been arrested, Carpenter had discovered that Elliott had a wife and a wall full of commendations for his undercover work. Another civil servant who was trying to put Carpenter behind bars for no other reason than it was the career he'd chosen.

Carpenter hadn't taken any pleasure in having Elliott killed. He'd have preferred to buy the man off, because a cop on the payroll was an asset. But when it became clear that Elliott wasn't corruptible, killing him had been the only way of removing him from the equation. It was a simple one: evidence plus witnesses meant prison. No evidence, no witnesses, and Carpenter was a free man. He would take whatever steps were necessary to ensure that the equation worked in his favour.

He stopped swabbing the floor, leaned on the railing and looked down at the suicide net. One of the cleaners on the ground floor waved at him and Carpenter nodded back. Anton Jurczak, a middle-aged asylum seeker from Eastern Europe, had stabbed an immigration officer in his south London apartment. Like most of the men on the spur, Jurczak's crime made no sense to Carpenter. The immigration officer was unarmed, as was his female assistant and the two uniformed policemen who'd allowed the interview to take place in Jurczak's kitchen. Jurczak had panicked, grabbed a knife and thrust it into the chest of the officer, then tried to throw himself through the kitchen window. A search of the apartment revealed three kilograms of heroin from Afghanistan and over two hundred thousand pounds in cash behind a skirting-board. If he'd kept his nerve the worst that would have happened would have been deportation, a minor inconvenience to a man with Jurczak's money. But now, barring a miracle, Jurczak would spend the rest of his life behind bars. Most men in the remand block had similar stories to tell. Not that many were honest about what they'd done to get sent inside. Everyone lied. Most claimed they were as innocent as new-born babes. Framed. Mistaken identity. A million and one excuses. Not one of the prisoners Carpenter had met had ever admitted to being arrested fairly and squarely. Carpenter knew the truth about the men with whom he shared the spur. He made it his business to know. He paid good money for the information because information was power. Jurczak hadn't told anyone that he was a major player in the drugs industry, but Carpenter knew. There were two rapists and one paedophile on the spur: they wouldn't last a minute if the general population discovered the nature of their crimes. Carpenter knew about their cases, and their secrets were safe with him, as long as they did as he asked.

Carpenter knew that he was different. He wasn't behind bars because he'd lost control or lashed out in anger. He hadn't stolen on impulse or sold drugs on street corners. He'd been targeted, pursued, hunted, by some of the best thief-catchers in the world. And money had been no object. During pre-trial hearings his lawyers had discovered that Customs alone had budgeted almost two million pounds for the investigation. The Drugs Squad's overtime bill had been more than three hundred thousand. The investigators knew that if they put Carpenter away they'd be able to pursue his assets. The day Carpenter was charged they had frozen bank accounts, property and shares worth twenty-eight million pounds. It was less than a fifth of his assets, but Carpenter knew they were still looking. If he was found guilty, all the money would be forfeit.

Carpenter started mopping the floor again. He whistled quietly to himself. It wouldn't be long now before he was back home with his wife and children, where he belonged. All that stood between him and his freedom was Sandy Roper. And, if all went to plan, Roper would soon be as dead as Jonathon Elliott.

Shepherd was lying on his back, staring up at the white-painted ceiling, when he heard the rumble of conversation and the unlocking of the door to the spur. There were shouts and laughter as fifty or so prisoners milled around on the ground floor, waiting for tea.

Shepherd heard footsteps on the landing and then his door was opened. It was a prison officer he hadn't seen before, a huge West Indian with a beaming smile. Shepherd jumped down.

'I'm Hal Healey,' said the officer. 'You settling in okay?' He was a good three inches taller than Shepherd, with huge shoulders that almost blocked the doorway and a thick neck that threatened to burst out of his shirt collar. Shepherd's memory flicked through its filing system and he pictured the file that he'd read in the governor's office. Born 12 April, 1968. Divorced. Child Support Agency taking PS450 a month from his wages. Prior to Shelton he'd worked at Belmarsh, where he had twice been accused of assaulting a prisoner. In both cases the prisoner had withdrawn his allegation.

'Fine thanks, Mr Healey,' said Shepherd. He moved to get past the man but the officer stood where he was, blocking his way.

'I heard you were giving Hamilton a hard time,' said Healey, affably.

'I just wanted a set of Prison Rules.'

'Disobeyed an instruction, is what I heard.'

'It's sorted now.'

Healey's grin widened. 'It'll be sorted once we've finished this little chat,' he said. 'You've only been in here a day or two, so maybe you don't understand how things work here.'

'I've got the drift.'

Healey ignored Shepherd's interruption. 'This block runs on co-operation. Has to be that way. We can't force you to do anything. Not physically.'

At that Shepherd smiled. Healey was big and strong enough to force practically anybody to do anything.

'The punishments we can impose are basically loss of privileges. We can't all pile in and give you a good kicking. Not officially, anyway.'

There was a touch of cruelty in his smile, and Shepherd wondered why the men in Belmarsh had withdrawn their allegations. 'I don't follow you, Mr Healey.'

'When a prison officer asks you to do something, you do it. We tend to ask nicely, because we like you to co-operate. When you ask us for something, hopefully you'll ask us nicely, too. That way, everybody gets along. But if you don't co-operate . . .'

Shepherd nodded. 'I get it.'

'Well, you didn't this morning, apparently. You insulted Mr Hamilton in front of other prisoners.'

'They were down on the ones,' said Shepherd.

'They heard everything. Now it's going to be that much harder for him to get any prisoner to do anything. And once they're used to disobeying him, they might start on me. And I don't want that happening. Not on my spur. Do you understand?'

Shepherd was running through his options, then filtering them through the persona of Bob Macdonald, armed robber and hard man. Dan Shepherd would behave one way but, as far as the world was concerned, he wasn't Dan Shepherd and he had to behave in character. He stared at Healey, then took a step towards him. 'Hamilton is a prick,' Shepherd said quietly. 'And not only is he a prick, he's a cowardly prick, sending you to fight his battles. What was the theory there? Small white guy is scared of big black guy?' Shepherd took another step towards Healey. 'Well, you don't scare me, Mr Healey. You're big all right but most of it is fat, and I've stomped on bigger and fatter guys than you. Hamilton's a prick for sending you and you're a prick for coming in and trying to scare me.'

'Racist insults are an offence against discipline,' said Healey.

'Rule fifty-one, section 20A,' said Shepherd. '"A prisoner is guilty of an offence against discipline if he uses threatening, abusive or insulting racist words or behaviour." But all I did was call you a big black guy, which is what you are. And fat. Which is also what you are. If you want, you can put me on a charge and we can both go before the governor and you can explain why you came into my cell.'

'You called me a prick.'

'And I can justify that to the governor. You called me scum. You started name-calling.'

'Smart arse, huh?' sneered Healey, but Shepherd knew he'd won.

'Rule six, paragraph two,' said Shepherd. '"In the control of prisoners, officers shall seek to influence them through their own example and leadership, and to enlist their willing co-operation." That's not what Hamilton was doing, and it's not what you were doing by coming into my cell and getting heavy with me. Now, fuck off out. Yes, I know I'm using threatening and abusive words, but that's nothing to what I'll do to you if you don't fuck off.' Shepherd bunched his fists and took another step towards Healey. The prison officer backed away, then hurried off down the landing.

Shepherd took several deep breaths and smiled to himself. Despite his bulk, Healey was a coward. But Shepherd knew that the confrontation wasn't over. He'd won the battle but the war would go on, and Healey would be able to choose his moment. Not that Shepherd was worried about a physical confrontation. He'd meant what he said: he'd hurt bigger men than Healey. Winning fights wasn't a matter of size and strength: technique and commitment counted, and Shepherd had been trained by the best. But Shepherd was on his own and Healey had the backing of his colleagues. He was sure that Hamilton would relish the opportunity of putting the boot in, figuratively and literally.

Shepherd walked out on to the landing and looked down at the ones. Prisoners were already lining up at the hotplate, trays in hand. He looked at the bubble. Healey was talking to Stafford, waving his hands animatedly. It was obvious that he was telling the senior officer what had happened.

Shepherd stretched. The bones in his neck cracked. His wafer-thin pillow offered almost no support. He wondered how Stafford would react if he insisted on being treated by a chiropractor. Under Rule 20, an unconvicted prisoner was entitled to have his own doctor or dentist visit the prison. He rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. As he looked up at the threes he saw the big man with the shaved head walking purposefully down the stairs. He leaned on the railing and watched him go down to the ground floor and the hotplate. Once again, he went to the front of the queue and was served immediately. Craig Rathbone looked on disinterestedly.

Shepherd watched the man carry the tray of food back up to the threes, and lost sight of him as he walked along the landing. Carpenter's cell must be at the far end of the spur. He wondered how easy it would be to get transferred to a cell near him. The governor could probably arrange it but that would mean drawing attention to himself. So far Shepherd hadn't met Carpenter, either during association or in the exercise yard. And when Carpenter was out of his cell, working, Shepherd was banged up. Carpenter sent his man down to get his food, and Shepherd had no idea when he used the showers, but he doubted that a prison shower was the right sort of place to strike up conversation with a stranger.

Lee walked up the stairs, carrying his lunch on a plastic tray. 'How's it going, Bob?' he asked.

'Bored shitless,' said Shepherd.

'They'll find you a job, now that you're co-operating. Probably put you on breakfast packs.'

'What's that?'

Lee walked along to the cell. Shepherd went with him.

'Those trays we get each night. With the teabag, sugar, milk and cereal. They make them up in one of the workshops. They normally put the new guys on that.'

'Fuck that for a game of soldiers. How do I get on the cleaning crew?'

Lee laughed. 'You don't. Not without influence. Told you before, you'd have to talk to Digger.'

'Who's on the crew at the moment?'

'On the spur, there's six guys. There's Charlie Weston, he's in for VAT fraud. Must have money stashed away because he bought his job in his first week. There's a black guy called Hamster. He didn't pay but he does other stuff for Digger.'

'Hamster?'

'Sold crack in Soho. Kept the balloons in his mouth. Silly bugger had so many in there that his cheeks were always puffed up. Got caught by an undercover squad and couldn't swallow them all.' Lee chuckled.

'Who else?'

'Ginger, the guy down from us, the redhead who always wears Man United gear. He's been cleaning for six months. His wife pays Digger on the outside.'

They walked into the cell. Shepherd stood by the door while Lee sat down at the table and startedforking spaghetti into his mouth.

'How do you know that, Jason?'

'No secrets in prison, mate. Ginger tells the guy he shares a cell with, guy tells my mate Jonno in the gym, Jonno tells me. That's all there is to do in here, watch TV and talk. You come in thinking you're going to keep yourself to yourself but after a while you let your guard down. Have to, or you might as well be in solitary.'

'So, Charlie, Hamster and Ginger. Who else?'

'What are you angling for?' asked Lee.

'Just want to know who the competition is,' said Shepherd.

'It's not about competing, you just have to pay Digger.'

'I don't have the money to pay him so I'm going to have to be more creative.'

'Not sure that Digger appreciates creativity,' said Lee.

'We'll see,' said Shepherd. 'Who else?'

'There's a guy called Jurczak. He's Bosnian or something. Stabbed an immigration officer. Nasty bastard, always throwing his weight around. He's up on the threes. Oh, yeah, and Carpenter, he's on the threes as well. Drug-dealer. Supposed to have millions on the outside.' Lee frowned. 'That's five, innit?' He ran through the names in his mind and nodded. 'Yeah, Sledge on the ones is a cleaner, too. He's the one you usually find doing the showers. Big guy, bald as a coot, bulldog tattoo.'

Shepherd had seen him the previous evening, washing the floor after the hotplate had been taken back to the kitchen. 'Doesn't seem the sort of guy who'd have money to spare.'

'He hasn't, but would you want to try to take his mop off him? I don't think Digger does. You know why they call him Sledge?'

'I don't, but I bet you do.'

'Short for Sledgehammer. His weapon of choice. He was on the cleaning crew before Digger got sent here. Digger got the other cleaners to quit, but there's not much he could do to pressurise Sledge. Are you going to get your dinner?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'What did you ask for?'

'Cornish pasty.'

'Do me a favour and get it? If you don't want it, I'll save it for later.'

Shepherd headed for the door.

'Get us a bread roll, too, yeah?'

Shepherd stopped and turned to look at Lee. 'Anything else, Your Majesty?'

Lee put up his hands. 'No offence, Bob. Just a pity to see good food go to waste, that's all.'

Shepherd grinned. 'You should get out more, Jason.'

The next day, Shepherd still hadn't been given any work so he spent the morning locked in his cell. He was let out for dinner, then locked up again. Late in the afternoon, Craig Rathbone opened the door. 'You not been fixed up with a job yet, then?' he asked.

'It's in the pipeline,' said Shepherd. 'What jobs are there?'

'You'll probably be put in one of the workshops,' said Rathbone. 'Or maybe the laundry. I'll speak to Mr Stafford.'

The last thing Shepherd wanted was to go to one of the workshops. He had to get close to Carpenter, which meant a job on the cleaning crew. And that either meant talking to Digger or getting one of the existing cleaners to give up his job.

'You've got a legal visit,' said Rathbone.

'Yeah, my brief said he'd be back.'

Rathbone stood to the side to let Shepherd out of the cell, then the two men walked down the landing. 'What's your solicitor say?' asked Rathbone.

'Says I should try to get a deal, being caught red-handed and all. But I'm no grass.'

'Honour among thieves?'

'You know what happens to grasses inside.'

'So you'll go down for the full whack? Armed robbery, plus a cop getting shot? You could get life.'

'We'll see,' said Shepherd.

'Good luck,' said Rathbone, and it sounded as if he meant it.

He took Shepherd out of the spur and along the secure corridor to the administration block close to the entrance to the prison. Shepherd had already adopted the rhythm of walking under escort, stopping at each barred gate, standing to the side so that the officer could open it, walking through first, then waiting while the officer relocked it.

Hargrove was already in the interview room. Rathbone told him to use the bell when he'd finished, then closed the door and left them alone.

'How's it going?' asked Hargrove.

'I've only been here two days, and I've been banged up for most of that.'

'Have you seen Carpenter yet?'

'I'm working on it.'

'You're going to have to pull your finger out, Spider.'

Shepherd flushed and he glared at the superintendent. 'Have you any idea what it's like in here? It's a fucking high-security prison, not a holiday camp. I can't just wander along to Carpenter's cell and offer him a cup of tea.' He sprawled back in his chair, exasperated.

Hargrove was clearly concerned at his outburst. 'Are you okay?'

'What do you think?' said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

Rathbone appeared at the window with the bald officer who'd been there during Hargrove's previous visit. Hargrove smiled and nodded, as if he and Shepherd were having a pleasant chat. 'I think you're under a lot of pressure,' he said, 'and I appreciate how hard the task is that you've undertaken. But we're under pressure on the outside, too. One of the Home Office's experts has been attacked. Dr Gary Nelson. He was going to give evidence on the recordings Elliott and Roper made, proving that they hadn't been tampered with.'

'Is he okay?'

'They cut him. Threatened his wife. Threatened him. He's on sick leave, saying he's going to resign. Blames us for not protecting him.'

'He's got a point, don't you think?'

Hargrove sighed mournfully. 'We can't put every person involved on this case under twenty-four-hour guard, Spider. Nelson was just one of a dozen technical experts who've been lined up. There's probably fifty police, Customs, CPS and forensics people working on this case. Round-the-clock protection for them all would mean five hundred men; the Met just doesn't have the resources.'

'Have you told Roper?'

'About Nelson?' Hargrove shook his head. 'If he gets cold feet, the case will collapse. Ditto if anything should happen to Roper. You're our best hope, Spider.'

'I know, I know. I'm sorry.' Shepherd ran his hands through his hair. He felt dirty. He'd only had one shower since he'd arrived at Shelton and no matter how many times he brushed his teeth with the prison toothpaste his mouth never felt clean. 'I haven't been in role twenty-four seven before,' he said. 'I've always been able to go home - or at least somewhere where I can just be myself.'

'Do you want me to get a psychologist in?'

Undercover agents often talked through their problems with police psychologists, but bringing one into Shelton could be Shepherd's downfall. There was no way that a career bank robber would seek psychological help. 'I'll work through it.'

'Let me know if you change your mind,' said Hargrove. The two men sat in silence for a minute or two. 'How much contact have you had with the prison officers?' asked Hargrove eventually.

'I've had dealings with five so far. Tony Stafford runs the block. He's in the bubble most of the time so I don't see how Carpenter could be using him. Lloyd-Davies is on the spur but, like you said, she's a smart cookie and destined for higher things. Hamilton's got a chip on his shoulder and he'd be the one I'd try to turn. The guy who brought me over is Rathbone. Seems okay. And there's a nasty piece of work called Healey who isn't averse to breaking the rules.'

'Is he your main suspect?'

Shepherd shrugged. 'Too early to tell. Carpenter's hardly been out of his cell, at least when I'm around. He's on the cleaning crew, apparently, which means he can move around the spur pretty much as he wants, but when he's out and about I'm banged up.'

'So what's your plan?'

'I'm going to try to get on the cleaning crew.'

'Do you want me to talk to the governor?'

'Hell, no,' saidShepherd. 'Carpenter will see that coming a mile off. Let me see what I can do. Macdonald's a hard man so it wouldn't be out of character for me to start throwing my weight around.'

'Just as long as you don't end up in solitary,' said Hargrove. 'Is there anything you need?'

'My watch - or a watch, anyway. It's a pain not being able to keep track of time. And get me some decent clothes. There aren't many status symbols in here and clothing separates the faces from the muppets. Designer jeans. Polo shirts. And trainers - Nikes, whatever the latest model is.'

'I'll get them sent in,' said Hargrove, scribbling in a small black notebook.

'On second thoughts, make the watch a bit flash. And I want to see Sue and Liam.'

'I'm on it.'

'I have to see them,' said Shepherd. 'And I'd be happier talking to Sue without you there. No offence.'

'You'll have to put in an application. Angie Macdonald and Harry. I've had them added to all the computer files on the Macdonald legend. Soon as the application arrives I'll get her in.'

'I was in to see Gosden and he let me talk to her. On the phone.'

Hargrove looked pained but didn't say anything.

'It was a direct line, and if we can't trust Gosden I'm dead in the water anyway.'

Hargrove still looked unhappy.

'Gosden has put it around that I'm having marital problems and that my wife wants a divorce. I'll ask for a visit. Have her driven here by someone you know.'

'I'll make sure she's okay, don't worry.' Hargrove stood up and put away his notebook. 'You're doing a hell of a job, Spider. Don't think it's not appreciated.'

Shepherd stood up and rang the bell. 'Just remember the overtime, that's all.'

The bald officer came for Hargrove, then Rathbone escorted Shepherd to the remand block. 'How did it go?' asked Rathbone, as they walked along the secure corridor.

'He's optimistic,' said Shepherd.

'Yeah, well, they always say that as long as you're paying their bills,' said Rathbone.

'You're a cynical man, Craig,' said Shepherd.

'You get to be in this job,' he said. 'You never meet a guilty man in here. The excuses you hear. Framed by MI5 - get that at least once a week.'

They walked in silence for a while, Rathbone's thick-soled work shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor.

'Can I ask you a question, Craig?' asked Shepherd, as they headed towards the remand block.

'Sure, as long as it's not geography,' said Rathbone. 'I'm crap at that.'

'Who runs the wing?'

Rathbone looked across at Shepherd. 'You mean Tony Stafford?'

'You know what I mean. Who's top dog among the prisoners?'

'You're all equal under the sun,' said Rathbone.

'Yeah, that's great in theory, but it's not how it really works, is it?' said Shepherd. 'You know Digger, right?'

'Ah, the delightful Mr Tompkins. He's got his claws into you, has he?'

'He said he could get me sorted with the canteen until my money comes through.'

'Yeah, well, be careful. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, is the best advice I can give you.'

'Why do they call him Digger?'

Rathbone chuckled. 'He was supposed to have done double murder a few years back,' he said. 'Got rid of two Yardies who were encroaching on his turf. Never got caught and told everyone he'd buried them with a JCB.'

'What's he in for now?'

'A single murder this time. Shot another Yardie point-blank. Did a runner but got nailed by forensics. Seriously, be careful, yeah?'

'Everyone tells me he runs the spur. If not the block.'

'Do they, now?'

'Said that anything I need, he can get for me.'

'I'd like to see him get you out of here.'

'You know what I mean, Craig. Thing is, I don't want to start asking favours of the wrong people.'

'You wouldn't be trying to pull a fast one on me, would you, Macdonald?'

'What do you mean?'

'Maybe you see yourself as top dog and want to know who you have to take out.'

'Furthest thing from my mind,' said Shepherd. 'Besides, what's the point of being the big man on a remand wing? The population's always changing.'

'There's still money to be made, though.'

'If you know what he's doing, why don't you do something about it?'

Rathbone grinned sarcastically. 'Me, you mean?'

'The authorities. The governor.'

'You're not that naive, Macdonald. You know how it works here.'

'First time inside, remember?'

'Yeah, I wonder about that. You might not have a record, but you've slotted right in.'

'Just because I'm not sobbing into my pillow at night doesn't mean I'm enjoying myself,' said Shepherd.

They reached the door to the spur and Rathbone opened it. He held it so that Shepherd couldn't walk through. 'You seem like a nice guy, Bob, so a word to the wise, yeah? Don't even think about going up against Digger. He's a mad bastard. He'll be Cat A for his whole sentence, pretty much, so he's got nothing to lose. When he's done his time he'll be deported. He doesn't have British citizenship so it's back to sunny Jamaica when he's an old man.'

'I hear what you're saying,' said Shepherd.

Rathbone moved his arm and let Shepherd through.

'How do I apply for a visit?'

'Family or legal?'

'Family. My wife. And kid.'

'I thought your wife was divorcing you.'

Shepherd didn't like the way that everything he said or did in the prison seemed to become common knowledge within hours. 'Yeah, but we've got things to discuss,' he said.

Rathbone frowned. 'With your kid there?'

'I've not seen my boy for weeks.'

'You must miss him.'

'Yeah.' Shepherd wished Rathbone would stop talking about his family, but he thought the officer was just trying to be friendly. Cutting the conversation short might offend him.

'Is she definite about wanting a divorce?'

'That's what the governor said. I'll know more once I've seen her.'

'You should ask for a compassionate visit,' said Rathbone. 'That way the other cons can't hear what's being said. I'm sure the governor'll approve it, under the circumstances.'

Rathbone took Shepherd downstairs to the ones and showed him the visitor application forms. He helped Shepherd fill one out, put it into a box labelled 'Outgoing Mail and Visit Applications', then took him back up to the twos.

'If you need a Listener, Bob, just shout,' said Rathbone.

'Thanks, but I'm not suicidal,' said Shepherd.

'The Listeners aren't just for suicides,' said Rathbone. 'They're there to talk through any problems you have. Any time, night or day.'

'Even when we're banged up?'

'If we think it's serious, we can get you a Listener any time one's needed. It's at our discretion.' Rathbone unlocked the cell door.

'Thanks,' said Shepherd, and he meant it.

Rathbone locked the door and Shepherd climbed up on to his bunk. He was looking forward to seeing Sue and Liam, but what he really wanted was to be on the outside with them, twenty-four hours a day. And the quickest way of achieving that was to put paid to Gerald Carpenter. The sooner the better.

Kim Fletcher looked at the photograph for the twentieth time. 'They all look the bloody same in those uniforms,' he muttered.

Pat Neary tapped his fingers on the BMW's steering-wheel. 'Is that him?' he said. A boy was walking out of the school gates, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

Fletcher screwed up his eyes. 'I don't think so.'

'Do you need glasses?'

'Fuck off,' said Fletcher, looking at the photograph again.

'We should have waited nearer the house,' said Neary.

'Right, and get picked up by the filth.'

'I said nearer the house. Not near. Sitting outside a school we look like a couple of nonces on the prowl.'

'Speak for yourself,' snarled Fletcher. A black Range Rover driven by a middle-aged blonde pulled up in front of the gates and three boys piled into the back. Fletcher ignored them. The boy they were looking for always walked home.

The Range Rover roared off. A boy with a blue Nike backpack was standing at the school gate, talking to a taller boy with black-framed glasses.

'That's him,' said Fletcher.

Neary put the BMW into gear. Fletcher twisted in his seat as they drove away from the school. There was no mistake. The boy with the backpack waved goodbye to the taller boy and headed away from the gates, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His tie was at half-mast, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

They drove a couple of hundred yards down the road, then Neary stopped the car in front of a row of small shops. Fletcher got out, and slipped on a pair of impenetrable Ray-Bans. Neary pulled a tight U-turn, parked on the other side of the road and sat there with the engine running.

Fletcher looked into the window of a cake shop while he waited for the boy. What he was about to do had to be handled right. If he spooked the boy, Fletcher knew he wouldn't be able to run after him: he had just turned forty-five and it was a long time since he'd jogged, never mind sprinted.

He looked to his left. The boy was about fifty feet away, his head down and his shoulders hunched, hands still in his trouser pockets. He was twelve years old.

Fletcher walked slowly towards him, his right hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. The boy looked up and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. He saw that Fletcher was in his way and moved to the side, nearer to the road. His forehead was creased into a deep frown, as if he had something on his mind, but he wasn't looking at Fletcher.

'Ben Roper?' said Fletcher, not because there was any doubt but because he knew that the boy was less likely to run if he was addressed by name.

'Yes?' said the boy, the frown deepening.

Fletcher's hand emerged from his overcoat holding a gleaming white envelope. 'Can you give this to your dad, please?' He held it out.

'What is it?' said the boy, suspiciously.

Fletcher flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. He was proud of his teeth: they'd cost him several thousand pounds and were the finest dentures money could buy. He hated dentists and years of neglect had meant that, by his late thirties, his gums had receded and the teeth rotted. The pain had been so bad that he had had to seek treatment but his mouth was in such a state of disrepair that the man he'd been referred to had offered only two choices, both of which involved the removal of all his teeth. The surgeon said he could bolt new teeth into Fletcher's jaw or fit him with dentures. Fletcher had gone for the dentures.

'It's a personal letter,' he said. 'It's important, so I don't want to risk posting it.'

The boy took it, but he looked at it suspiciously.

'Just give it to your dad, okay?' said Fletcher.

The boy kept the letter at arm's length as if reluctant to accept ownership. 'I'm not supposed to take things from strangers,' he said.

'It's only a letter,' said Fletcher tersely. He looked left and right but no one was paying them any attention.

'Who shall I say gave it to me?'

Fletcher nodded at the letter. 'It's all in there,' he said. 'Your dad will understand everything when he's read it. Just tell him I gave it to you near the school.'

'I guess that's okay,' Ben said, and put the envelope into his blazer pocket.

'Good lad.' Fletcher patted his shoulder.

Ben headed down the road, towards his home. Fletcher waited until he was well on his way before he crossed the road and climbed into the BMW. Neary gunned the engine. 'Now what?'

'Now we see if Roper gets the message,' said Fletcher, took off the sunglasses and slipped them inside his jacket.

'And if he doesn't?'

Fletcher made a gun with his hand. 'We get ourselves another motorbike.'

Shortly after the men returned from the workshops Shepherd's door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies, holding a white carrier-bag and a clipboard. 'Your solicitor dropped these in for you,' she said, giving him the bag.

'Thanks,' said Shepherd. He tipped the contents out on to his bunk. There were two Ralph Lauren polo shirts, one red, one blue, two pairs of black Armani jeans and a pair of gleaming white Nike trainers, Calvin Klein underwear and Nike socks. Tucked into one of the trainers was a Rolex wristwatch and a gold neck chain. Shepherd studied the expensive timepiece. It wasn't the one that the forensics woman had taken off him, so maybe Hargrove had requisitioned it from a drug-dealer's confiscated property. It was gold and studded with diamonds, a real player's watch.

Lloyd-Davies handed him the clipboard and a pen. 'Sign here,' she said, tapping the bottom of a form, which listed everything she'd given him.

Shepherd scrawled his Bob Macdonald signature and gave the clipboard back to her. 'I'd be careful with that,' she said, nodding at the watch.

Shepherd slipped it on to his wrist. 'It's just a watch,' he said.

'It's five grand, maybe more,' she said. 'There's guys in here would kill for five grand.'

Shepherd dropped the chain round his neck.

'Bob, I have to tell you, wearing jewellery like that is just asking for trouble.'

Shepherd smiled. 'I can take care of myself, ma'am,' he said. He held up the shirts. 'Which do you think?'

'Red,' she said. 'It'll go with your eyes. I'm serious. If your jewellery gets taken off you, there's not much we can do.'

'You could call the cops.'

Lloyd-Davies flashed him a cold smile. 'Suit yourself. I'm only trying to help.'

Shepherd saw that he'd offended her and felt suddenly ashamed. She'd gone out of her way to be friendly and helpful, but Bob Macdonald would see that as a sign of weakness. As Dan Shepherd he wanted to apologise, but that would be out of character. He had no choice but to keep giving her a hard time. 'Anyone tries to take my stuff, I'll give them what for.' He moved towards the cell door. 'Okay if I get my tea?'

Lloyd-Davies tapped the clipboard against her black trousers, then walked out.

Shepherd took off his prison-issue sweatshirt and pulled on the red polo, then changed into the black jeans and Nikes. He went out on to the landing and along to the stairs, looking down at the ground floor where prisoners were lining up at the hotplate. Lloyd-Davies had gone into the bubble and was talking to Stafford. There were no officers on the twos. Shepherd craned his neck. He couldn't see any on the threes either. He hurried up to the top floor and looked around. Still no officers. Three prisoners, all in T-shirts, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Adidas trainers, rushed past him and clattered down the stairs.

Shepherd took another quick look down at the ones. Hamilton was at the hotplate. Rathbone was beside the pool table. Lloyd-Davies was still talking to Stafford. He walked quickly along the landing. There was a white card in a holder to the right of each cell door and he checked the names. He found Jurczak's cell and pushed open the door.

Jurczak was lying on his bunk, watching television. 'What the fuck are you doing in my cell?' he snarled.

Shepherd kicked the door shut behind him. 'I want your job on the cleaning crew,' he said.

'Fuck off,' said Jurczak, getting up from his bunk. 'This is my cell. You don't come into another man's cell.'

Shepherd rushed at Jurczak, grabbed him by the throat and banged him against the wall. Jurczak's tray clattered to the floor. Shepherd was a good three inches taller and at least ten years younger. He blocked all thoughts of Jurczak as a human being. He was no more than a problem that had to be solved. And it had to be done quickly because as soon as tea had been served the prisoners were checked before association. He had less than five minutes to do what had to be done. 'All I want is for you to get off the cleaning crew,' he said.

'Fuck you,' hissed Jurczak. 'I paid five hundred for that job. Why should I give it to you?'

Shepherd head-butted him, his forehead slamming on to Jurczak's nose. Blood streamed down the man's chin, and Shepherd let go of his neck. Jurczak slumped to the cell floor, unconscious. Shepherd knew that a broken nose wouldn't be a serious enough injury to get him taken off the cleaning crew so he pulled out Jurczak's left leg and jammed the foot against the horizontal truss of the chair. Then he took a deep breath and slammed his foot on Jurczak's knee. The joint cracked like a dry twig. Shepherd stared down at the injured man, breathing heavily. Jurczak was a drug-dealer and a murderer, so he felt no sympathy for him but he'd taken no pleasure in crippling him. It had had to be done, though: Jurczak wasn't the type to respond to threats.

Shepherd opened the cell door a few inches and squinted down the landing. It was clear. He walked quickly to the stairs. The man with the shaved head was walking up from the twos carrying Carpenter's tray. He frowned as Shepherd walked by but didn't say anything.

Tony Stafford was alone in the bubble but his head was down. Lloyd-Davies was nowhere to be seen. Shepherd padded down the stairs and joined the queue at the hotplate. The mixed grill was a burnt sausage, an equally burnt beefburger and a strip of underdone bacon. The vegetable man gave him a scoop of chips and a spoonful of baked beans. Shepherd put a bread roll and a tub of raspberry yoghurt on his tray, then headed back to the cell. As he went he looked up at the threes: no officers on the landing.

Lee was sitting at the desk in the cell. He'd gone for the mixed grill, too. 'New gear?' he asked, as Shepherd sat on his bunk.

'Yeah, my brief dropped them off.'

'Watch too?'

'Yeah. Forensics took it, but I guess there was nothing on it.'

'Nice.'

'Tells the time.'

Lee nodded at Shepherd's tray. 'You going to eat the roll?' Shepherd tossed it to him. 'And the yoghurt?' Shepherd gave him that too.

Lloyd-Davies pushed open the door. 'All right, gentlemen?'

Shepherd held out his tray. 'Want a chip, ma'am?'

'I forgot to tell you, Macdonald, I got you on the gym list for this evening,' she said.

'Thanks, ma'am,' said Shepherd.

She was about to say more when someone shouted from the threes: 'Stretcher! Get me a stretcher up here!'

Lloyd-Davies hurried away. Lee stood up and rushed to the cell door. Shepherd followed him. They'd found Jurczak.

An alarm sounded. Half a dozen officers hurried on to the spur and shouted for the prisoners to get into their cells.

Lee craned his neck to look up at the threes. 'Bet someone's topped themselves,' he said.

Healey came along the landing, checking cells. Doors were clanging shut all over the spur. Two prison officers dashed up the stairs with a stretcher. Healey appeared at the door. 'Inside, Lee,' he said. 'Nothing for you to see.'

'What happened, Mr Healey?'

'Prisoner hurt,' said Healey, and closed the door.

'Topped himself ?'

Healey didn't answer. Lee switched on the television and sat down on the chair. 'Shit,' he said. He stabbed his sausage with a plastic fork.

'What?' asked Shepherd.

'They'll keep us banged up until whatever it is gets sorted,' said Lee. 'No association, no exercise, no nothing. Just because some wanker decides to hurt himself.'

Shepherd put his tray down on the bunk. He'd lost his appetite.

Alice Roper frowned when she saw the two cars parked in the road outside her house. As a rule there was just one, with two men from the Church. It had always seemed strange to Alice that the men of HM Customs and Excise were called the Church. The Custom House headquarters by the Thames didn't look in the least like a house of worship and there was nothing religious about the men and women who worked there. The reason, Sandy had once told her, was because of the code used over the radio. Custom House became Charlie Hotel, CH, and then their colleagues at MI5 had begun to use Church instead. The Customs men quite enjoyed the religious overtones of the codename; the honest and true forces of good battling against the powers of evil. They were like children sometimes, thought Alice.

One of the cars, a big black saloon, was empty but she recognised the two men in the other vehicle. Sandy had introduced them, but Alice couldn't remember their names. Over the past weeks there had been more than a dozen taking it in turns to sit outside the house and Alice's only contact with them had been to take out occasional cups of tea. One of the men smiled and waved as she drove by and turned into the flagstoned driveway. She parked the Ford Fiesta by the garage door and lugged the shopping out of the boot. Sandy had refused to go with her to the supermarket: the office was insisting that he go out as little as possible. That didn't make any sense to Alice because Sandy had claimed from the start that no one knew who he was or that he was involved with the court case. If that was so, why was the office so worried that he might be recognised? She hadn't argued as she was fed up being cooped up in the house with him all day and she'd quite enjoyed the time alone, even if all she was doing was pushing a trolley round Sainsbury's.

She walked to the front door, let herself in and heaved the carrier-bags on to the kitchen table. 'Do you want tea, Sandy?' she called, as she switched on the kettle.

Ben and David were in the garden, kicking a football. Alice saw a man at the end of the garden, close to the small greenhouse. He was tall, gangly, in a raincoat with sleeves that were slightly too short for his spindly arms.

She heard footsteps and whirled round, but it was only her husband. 'Who's that in the garden?' she asked.

'Alice, we've got to talk,' said Roper.

Lee had been right: the cell doors remained locked all night. In the morning Lee was due to shower so he was up as soon as he heard doors being unlocked down the landing. He stood at the door with his towel and washbag humming. Shepherd climbed down from the top bunk in his prison-issue sweatpants and a T-shirt. He started to shave at the washbasin. The spyglass clicked open and the door was unlocked. Lee rushed off down the landing.

Hamilton had opened the cell door.

'What's the story, Mr Hamilton?' Shepherd asked.

'What do you mean?'

'The lockdown last night.'

'A prisoner was attacked on the threes.'

'Is he okay?'

'Broken leg. He's in the hospital. What's your interest, Macdonald?'

'I missed out on the gym because we were banged up, that's all. How do I go about getting on today's list?'

'I'll see what I can do,' said Hamilton, but Shepherd could tell from his tone that he wouldn't.

He finished shaving and dried his face, then went out on to the landing and down to the ground floor. Digger's cell was in the corner opposite the door to the exercise yard. Prisoners were milling around but no one paid him any attention.

Digger's door was ajar. Shepherd pushed it open. The cell was empty. Shepherd cursed.

'You looking for something, man?' said a voice.

Shepherd turned. Needles was standing behind him, his hands on his hips. 'I'm looking for Digger.'

'Don't you know you never go into another man's cell until you're invited? Never as in ever.'

'I wasn't over the threshold, but I hear what you're saying, Needles. Now, where is he?'

'Showering,' said Needles. 'What do you want?'

'To talk to Digger.' Shepherd moved to get past him, but Needles put out a massive arm, blocking his way.

'You can talk to me,' he said.

Shepherd looked at the arm. It was the thickness of his leg. 'You spend a lot of time in the gym, yeah?' asked Shepherd.

'Some.'

'Lift weights, yeah?'

'Some.'

Shepherd wasn't sure how much damage he could do to a man as big as Needles. He was huge, but he wasn't fat. It was muscle. That didn't necessarily mean that he was hard, but it did mean that all his vital organs and nerve centres were well protected. If it came to violence Shepherd would have to aim for the unprotected areas - the throat, the temple, the sternum. But the problem with aiming for a vital area was that if he hit Needles too hard he risked killing him. Not hard enough, and Needles would have a chance to retaliate. He was capable, evidently, of inflicting a lot of damage.

'Here he comes now,' said Shepherd.

As Needles turned, Shepherd drove his knee into the man's groin. The breath exploded from Needles's mouth and he bent over, groping for his balls. His eyes were wide and staring as his mouth worked soundlessly. Shepherd stepped round him, then put his foot against the back of the man's left knee and pushed hard. Needles toppled forward. Shepherd started to walk back along the spur. He'd taken three steps before he heard Needles hit the ground with a dull thud. Two black men in tracksuits moved to let him walk by. From the astonished looks on their faces it was clear that they'd seen what he'd done to Needles. He glared at them, then scanned the spur. No prison officers.

He went quickly back up the stairs. There were two officers in the bubble, both men in their mid-thirties whom Shepherd hadn't seen before. He went along to the shower room. Lee was walking out, his hair still wet. 'Is Digger in there?' asked Shepherd.

Lee nodded and hurried away, as if he realised what Shepherd was planning to do. There were two men in the showers, a stocky white guy with a tattoo of the union flag on one shoulder, and Digger.

Shepherd leaned against the wall where two towels were hanging. The white guy glanced over at him and he gestured with his thumb for him to go. The man took his towel and left.

Digger turned to watch him go, then smiled. 'You want something?'

'A word.'

'In here?'

'Not shy, are you?'

'You could have talked to Needles.'

'I did.'

The water stopped running. Digger walked over to Shepherd, his huge feet slapping on the wet tiled floor.

'I want Jurczak's place on the cleaning crew,' said Shepherd.

'There's a queue.'

'Fuck the queue. I want his place.'

Digger loomed over him. He was as big and as hard as Needles, but he didn't seem the type to fall for the behind-you ruse. 'You got money?' asked Digger, thrusting his chin forward.

'I can get you money.'

'A grand.'

'Fuck that,' said Shepherd. 'Jurczak paid five hundred.'

'Inflation.'

'The way I see it, you've already got five hundred from Jurczak so the job's paid for.'

'You did a number on him. Broke the man's leg.'

'I asked him nicely first. Now I'm asking you nicely.'

Digger's eyes narrowed. 'That sounds like a threat,' he said.

'I just want Jurczak's place. He's not going to be walking for a while. Cleaning crew's a man short. I'm that man.'

'Five hundred.'

'Agreed.'

'You pay my sister on the out.' Digger told Shepherd her name and address. A flat in Brixton. 'Five hundred by tomorrow night.'

'Okay. When do I start?'

'Soon as it's okayed with the screws.'

'Who okays it?'

'I fucking okay it. That's all you need to know.'

Shepherd hadn't expected that Digger would tell him who his contact was, but it had been worth a try. 'There's something else.'

'Yeah?'

'Needles.'

'What about Needles?'

'We had a run-in downstairs.'

'And?'

'I had to hurt him.'

Digger chuckled. 'You hurt Needles?'

'A bit.'

'Because?'

'He blocked my way.'

Digger put a hand on the wall and pushed his face closer to Shepherd's. 'What if I block your way?'

Shepherd shrugged but didn't say anything. When a man was that close his options for attack were limited; Digger was too close to kick or punch so that meant a headbutt or a knee in the groin. Digger was several inches taller than Shepherd so headbutting would be difficult and Shepherd kept his hands low so that he could block the knee if it moved. However, Digger was menacing, but his body positioning was wrong for an attack.

'Am I going to have a problem with you, Macdonald?'

Shepherd shook his head. 'It's your spur. I just want to get out of my cell, that's all.'

'That money isn't paid to my sister by tomorrow night, I'll be paying you a visit.'

'She'll get it.'

Digger nodded slowly, then pushed himself away from the wall. Shepherd looked down at the other man's groin and grinned. 'It's true what they say about you guys, then?'

Digger chuckled. 'I don't get no complaints.'

Bonnie Carpenter tossed two containers of spaghetti carbonara into the microwave and slammed the door.

'I don't want pasta, Mum,' moaned Jacqueline. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a science book in front of her.

'Me neither,' said Paul, trying to match his older sister's tone and doing a pretty good job.

Bonnie twisted the dial and the microwave buzzed into life. 'It's Marks and Sparks,' she said. 'It's not as if I cooked it myself.' She picked up a French loaf and began hacking at it with a bread-knife.

'I'm a vegetarian, Mum,' said Paul, pulling a face.

'First of all, you're not a vegetarian,' said Bonnie, tossing chunks of bread into a basket. 'You're just copying Harry and he's only a vegetarian because his parents never grew out of theirhippiephase andtheywon't lethim eatmeat.'

'Actually, they're too young to have been hippies,' said Jacqueline. 'Hippies were in the sixties.'

Bonnie waved the bread-knife at her daughter. 'I didn't say they were hippies, I said they went through a hippie phase.'

'Harry said they were punks,' said Paul. 'His dad had a safety-pin through his nose. He says there's a picture in one of their albums. And you can see his mum's breast in one of the pictures. Most of it. He says he's going to bring it to school.'

Bonnie transferred the attentions of the bread-knife to her son. 'And second of all, there's no meat in spaghetti carbonara, so you won't be breaking any of your newfound principles.'

Jacqueline pushed back her chair and went over to the kitchen worktop as Bonnie emptied a pack of pre-washed salad into a glass bowl. 'Do you want dressing?' Bonnie asked.

'Dressing's fattening,' said Jacqueline, as she studied one of the cardboard wrappers that had been round the ready meals.

Bonnie ripped open the plastic sachet with her teeth and squeezed the dressing over the salad. 'You're a growing girl,' she said. 'You need the essential vitamins and minerals in olive oil.'

'It says here there's ham in the spaghetti sauce.'

'You don't think they use real ham, do you?' asked Bonnie, carrying the bread basket and salad bowl over to the kitchen table. 'It's that artificial stuff. Made from soya beans.' She frowned at her daughter. The last thing she wanted was her son refusing to eat meat. He was picky enough at the best of times.

Jacqueline held up the wrapper so that Bonnie could see the picture. 'Looks real enough to me,' she said.

'Just goes to show how cunning food scientists can be,' said Bonnie. 'It's artificial, trust me.'

'Was Dad ever a punk?' asked Paul.

Bonnie laughed harshly. 'If there's one thing your dad most definitely never was, it's a punk,' she said. 'Jacqueline, while you're on your feet could you get me a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge?'

'You drink too much,' scolded Jacqueline.

'You drive me to it,' said Bonnie. 'Be an angel and open it for me, will you?'

'I will,' said Paul, and rushed to the drawer where they kept the corkscrew. The phone on the wall rang and he changed direction to answer it.

The microwave pinged and Bonnie took out two plastic dishes of steaming pasta.

'It's Dad!' said Paul.

'Let me talk to him,' said Bonnie, holding out her hand for the phone.

'I want to tell him about my football match,' said Paul.

'Let me talk to him first,' said Bonnie firmly.

Paul gave her the phone reluctantly.

'Hiya, honey,' said Bonnie. 'How long have you got?'

'Six minutes and counting,' said Carpenter. 'Sorry. Should have more credit in a day or two.'

There was a small mechanical timer on the worktop and Bonnie twisted it to six minutes. Paul saw the time and pulled a face.

'You okay for tomorrow?' asked Carpenter.

'Sure, do you need anything?'

'Just clean clothes. See if I've any thirty-two-inch jeans, will you? The thirties are getting a bit tight.'

'Gerry . . .'

'I know, love, but it's the bloody food here. All starch and carbs.'

'Mum . . .' complained Paul. He pointed at the timer, which was down to five and a half minutes.

'Paul wants a word,' said Bonnie.

'Everything okay there?' asked Carpenter.

'There's been a BT van parked down the road for the past three days,' said Bonnie. 'They must think I'm stupid.'

'Ignore them,' said Carpenter. 'If they want to waste their time, let them.'

'The DVD in the bedroom's playing up. Keeps saying there isn't a DVD in when there is. What is it with these machines? They think they're smarter than we are sometimes.'

'Chuck it and buy a new one,' said Carpenter. 'Costs more to repair them than it does to replace them. Repair shops, bloody robbers they are.'

'Mum . . .' whined Paul.

Bonnie handed the phone to Paul. 'Ninety seconds, then give it to your sister.'

Paul grabbed at the receiver and started telling his father about the game of football he'd played the previous day.

Bonnie went upstairs and knocked on the door to Stephanie's room. It bore a sheet of paper with 'PRIVATE - KEEP OUT' printed on it. Underneath were the words 'Especially you, Paul!' Bonnie opened the door. Stephanie was sitting in front of her television with her PlayStation 2. 'Steph, your dad's on the phone,' she said.

'So?' said Stephanie, her eyes never leaving the screen. It was some shoot-'em-up game, blowing zombies into dozens of bloody pieces.

'It'd be nice if you said a few words to him.'

'Like what?'

'Like asking him how he is. Like telling him how much you miss him.'

'I'm busy, Mum.'

'Steph, get downstairs and talk to your father. Now.'

'Let me get to the next level.'

'He's only got a few minutes.'

'So I'll talk to him tomorrow.'

Bonnie glared at her wilful daughter. She had half a mind to walk over and pull the plug out of the video game but knew how unproductive that would be. Tears, threats, and probably a week-long sulk. She closed the bedroom door and swore under her breath.

When she got back to the kitchen there were just three minutes left and Jacqueline was standing behind her brother, poking him in the kidneys with a spoon. 'Paul, let your sister talk to your father.'

'I haven't finished yet,' Paul protested.

'Yes, you have.' Bonnie took the receiver from him and handed it to Jacqueline.

She poured the spaghetti on to four plates and put them on the table as Jacqueline chatted to her father. Paul sat down at the table with a sour look on his face. Bonnie picked up the glass of wine, which her daughter had poured for her, and drank half of it in one gulp.

When there was a minute left on the timer, Bonnie took the phone from Jacqueline. 'Where's Steph?' asked Carpenter.

'In the bath,' said Bonnie.

'She was in the bath last time I called.'

'Just be glad she's not like her brother. I can't get him to stand still in the shower long enough to get wet.'

'She's okay?'

'As okay as any ten-year-old can be,' said Bonnie.

'Sorry I'm not there to help out,' said Carpenter.

'Yeah, you and me both,' said Bonnie. 'How much longer are you going to be in there, love?' She regretted the question as soon as she'd asked it. She knew that he was doing everything he could to get out of prison, and that there was nothing he could tell her, not with the authorities listening in to all his calls.

'I'll be back before you know it, honey,' said Carpenter.

'I'm sorry,' said Bonnie. 'I know how tough it is for you in there.'

'Piece of cake,' said Carpenter. 'Got to go, see you tomorrow.'

The line went dead and Bonnie put the receiver back on its cradle. She drained the rest of her wine and refilled the glass. 'It's not your dad's fault,' she said to Paul. 'He only has so many minutes to use the phone.' She ruffled Paul's hair. 'He'd talk to you all day if he could.'

'It's not fair,' he said. 'It's bad enough that he's in prison, what difference does it make how long he uses the phone for?'

'It's part of the punishment,' said Bonnie.

'But it's punishing me and I'm not the one who did anything wrong.'

'Dad didn't do anything wrong either, did he, Mum?' said Jacqueline.

Bonnie took a deep breath, then forced a smile. 'Of course he didn't. Go and tell Steph her food's on the table.'

Shepherd nodded at Carpenter as he replaced the receiver. 'How's it going?' he asked. He'd been waiting in the line for the two phones and had heard most of Carpenter's end of the conversation - 'I'll be back before you know it,' Carpenter had said, and he'd sounded confident.

'Okay,' said Carpenter. 'You're Macdonald, yeah?'

'Bob,' said Shepherd. 'I'm in with Jason Lee on the twos.'

'Gerry Carpenter. I'm on the threes.'

'You've got a single cell?'

Carpenter shrugged.

'How do I go about getting one?' Shepherd picked up the receiver.

'You fed up with Jason?'

'Wouldn't mind some privacy, that's all. Who do I speak to?'

'Put in a request to Stafford. He runs the block.'

'He'll just put my name on a list, won't he?'

'That's the way it works.'

'No short-cut?'

'Wouldn't know,' said Carpenter, and walked away.

Shepherd keyed in his four-digit pin number and got a dialling tone. He tapped in the north London number that Hargrove had given him on their first meeting. It was answered on the second ring.

'This is Bob Macdonald,' said Shepherd.

'Hello, Bob. This is Richard. What do you need?'

Shepherd recited the name and address of Digger's sister and explained that she had to be given five hundred pounds.

'Anything else?'

'That's all,' said Shepherd, and cut the connection.

As he walked away from the telephones, Lloyd-Davies waved him over. She was watching two prisoners play pool. 'Sorry you missed your gym yesterday, Bob.'

'No sweat, ma'am. Any chance of you getting me on the list again?'

She smiled. 'Still got excess energy?'

'I used to run a lot, on the out,' he said.

'From the cops?'

Shepherd laughed. 'You don't run from cops, these days, ma'am. They never get out of their cars. You've just got to be able to drive faster than them, that's all.'

'I'll see what I can do. Still got the watch, then?'

'No one's tried to take it off me.'

'That wasn't why you had the altercation with Needles, was it?'

Shepherd feigned innocence, but his mind raced. How did she know about Needles? There had been no officers in the vicinity when Shepherd had hit him. And there was no way that a man like Needles would go running to an officer. 'Altercation, ma'am?'

'Butter wouldn't melt, would it, Macdonald? You know what I'm talking about. I heard you kneed him in the balls, then kicked him to the floor.' She shook her head sadly. 'You're going to have to watch your back.'

'Not while I've got you looking after me, ma'am.'

'I'm serious,' she said. 'This is your first time inside. You don't know how it works in here. You make waves, sometimes you get thrown out of the boat.'

Shepherd walked down the spur to the exercise yard and joined the line of inmates waiting to go out. Two officers were doing the searches. One was Rathbone, the other a middle-aged West Indian woman whom Shepherd hadn't seen before. She had a pretty smile and seemed to know all the prisoners by name. It was clear that they preferred a pat-down from her to one from Rathbone, and several pushed their groins forward as she ran her hands down their legs. She took it all good-naturedly.

Shepherd stood in front of Rathbone with his legs apart and his arms outstretched. The officer rubbed his hands along the top of Shepherd's arms, then underneath, around his armpits down his waist to his legs, inside and out. Then he patted his back and chest and waved him through.

As soon as he was out in the open air Shepherd took several deep breaths. He found an empty corner and stood swinging his arms, his head back so that he was looking up at the sky.

'You okay, Bob?' said a voice.

Shepherd turned to find Ed Harris standing behind him. 'Why do you ask?'

'Heard you had a run-in with Needles.'

'Word gets around fast in here.'

'Not much else to do but gossip,' said Harris. He handed Shepherd a sandy-coloured booklet: Anger Management and below, in smaller type, Controlling Your Temper Under Pressure. 'There are courses you can go on, too.'

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. He flicked through the pages. There were self-assessment quizzes, exercises, and lots of flow-charts. 'You are taking the piss, right?'

'Anger is an understandable reaction to what you're going through,' said Harris. 'What you've got to learn is that it's yourself you're angry with. You lash out at others because you don't want to lash out at yourself.'

'Ed, I'm really not angry,' said Shepherd. That was true. He hadn't been angry when he'd hit Needles and he hadn't been angry when he'd crippled Jurczak. Anger hadn't come into it. He had done what he had to do. What he'd been trained to do. Even when he was with the Regiment and he'd been under fire, he hadn't been angry with the men shooting at him. And he hadn't been angry when he'd fired back and killed them.

'That's denial,' said Harris. 'I hear it all the time. If it's not controlled you lash out at others, or you hurt yourself.'

'I'm not suicidal,' said Shepherd.

'You were in a fight,' said Harris. 'You've only just arrived on the spur and you're lashing out.'

There was no way Shepherd could explain why he'd hit Needles. Or Jurczak. But explaining wasn't the issue. Shepherd knew it was vital that he reacted as Bob Macdonald, career criminal, and not as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop. That was one of the hardest parts of being undercover. He could memorise his legend and all the facts about his targets, but his emotions and reactions had to be faked. He had to filter everything he did so that he was consistent in whatever role he was playing. But it had to be done instantly because any hesitation would be spotted by someone who knew what they were looking for. That was why so many undercover agents ended up as alcoholics or basket cases. It wasn't the danger or the risks: it was the strain of maintaining a role when the penalty for failure was a beating at best or, at worst, a bullet in the back of the neck. 'He got what was coming to him,' he said.

'Do you want to tell me what happened?'

Shepherd flashed him a sarcastic smile. 'No, Ed, I don't. Now, fuck off and leave me alone.'

Harris walked away. Shepherd did a few stretching exercises and then started to walk round the yard. Two middle-aged men in Nike tracksuits nodded at him and he nodded back. One was a hotplate server, but Shepherd knew neither of their names. They were just showing respect. He was making his mark.

The prison officer sighed with relief as he saw that the metal detector wasn't manned. He'd arrived for his shift ten minutes early, assuming he'd be able to slip in without being scanned, but it had still been a risk. The mobile phone was a tiny Nokia tucked into the side of his left shoe.

He let himself into the secure corridor and walked to the remand block. The Nokia was a pay-as-you-go model and he'd put a hundred pounds' credit into its account. Carpenter was paying him ten grand for the phone. And he'd promised a further two grand for each battery and a hundred pounds for every ten pounds' worth of credit. He was a good earner, was Carpenter. It was just a pity that he was a remand prisoner. Within the next month or so he'd be either walking out a free man or off to serve his sentence in a dispersal prison. The gravy train would be over, as far as Carpenter was concerned. The officer smiled to himself. But there'd be other Carpenters. There always had been and there always would be. Men with the means to pay for the little extras that made their time behind bars just that little bit more bearable.

The prison officer had earned more than thirty thousand pounds from Carpenter over the past month. The money was paid in cash on the outside by a man he'd never seen. There was a small park close to the officer's house in Finchley and he took his dog there for a walk every evening when he wasn't working nights. If he had a message from Carpenter he'd tuck it into a copy of the Sun and drop it into a waste-bin near the park's entrance. He'd do a circuit with his spaniel and by the time he got back to the bin the Sun had been replaced with a copy of the Evening Standard with an envelope full of used banknotes inside it. The officer kept the money in a safety-deposit box in west London under an assumed name. He wasn't stupid: he knew that the Home Office ran regular checks on prison employees to ensure that they weren't living beyond their means. He had no intention of touching it until long after he'd left the service.

He had no qualms about taking money from Carpenter or prisoners like him. It was one of the perks of the job. Like the unquestioned sick days. And the regular overtime. Backhanders from prisoners were just another way to boost his income. And if it meant that Carpenter was causing trouble on the outside, then it was the fault of the cops for not doing their job in the first place.

Shepherd had booked a shower so as soon as he heard the doors being unlocked he picked up his towel. Lee was sitting at the table, eating cornflakes and drinking tea.

An eye was pressed to the spyglass, then a key jangled. Rathbone pushed open the door. Shepherd started down the landing towards the showers but Rathbone called his name.

Shepherd stopped. Rathbone went over to him, swinging his key chain. 'You're on the cleaning crew as of today,' he said.

'That's good to hear,' said Shepherd.

'Not for Jurczak it's not.'

'Yeah, terrible what happened to him, wasn't it?'

'He was barely off the spur before your application for the job hit the bubble,' said Rathbone.

'I needed work,' said Shepherd. 'I was going stir-crazy locked in all day.'

'It was working its way through the system,' said Rathbone. 'I was pushing to get you into one of the workshops.'

'No need now,' said Shepherd.

Rathbone's eyes narrowed. 'I hear you gave Needles a going-over, too.'

'He's a big boy, I'm sure he won't go crying to the governor.'

'You putting in an application to be the hard man on the spur, Macdonald?'

'Didn't know there was a vacancy,' said Shepherd.

'I thought you were better than this.'

'Better than what?'

'Throwing your weight around. Playing the hard man.'

'Do I look hard to you, Mr Rathbone?' Shepherd smiled amiably.

'All I know is that one prisoner's in hospital, another's limping around the ones, and you've got one of the prime jobs on the spur.' Rathbone jerked his head towards the shower room. 'Off you go, then.'

When Shepherd got there three prisoners were already showering and another half-dozen waiting. He joined the queue. He was surprised at the speed with which he'd been given the cleaning job. It had taken less than twenty-four hours for Digger to get fixed him up as Jurczak's replacement. Tony Stafford ran the block, which presumably meant that he must have approved the placement. Did that mean Stafford was taking backhanders from Digger? And if Digger could get jobs approved through Stafford, what else could he do? Maybe Carpenter wasn't bribing an officer, maybe he had just plugged into Digger's contact. Carpenter paid Digger, and Digger paid his man. But did that mean Stafford was also passing messages to Carpenter's men on the outside? If so, he was an accessory in the murder of Jonathon Elliott.

Shepherd washed quickly, then headed back to his cell. A prison officer he hadn't seen before stopped him, a man in his early fifties with greying hair. 'You've got visitors this afternoon,' he said. 'Your wife and boy.'

'What time?'

'Two o'clock.'

'Where do I go?'

'Wait at the spur entrance just before two. Prisoners move to labour at one thirty, then you'll be taken to the visitors' centre.'

Shepherd thanked him, then went back to his cell.

Lee had dressed and was cleaning his teeth. He rinsed his mouth and spat as Shepherd laid his towel over the end of his bunk. 'How did you get the cleaning job, then?' asked Lee.

'Paid Digger on the out,' said Shepherd. 'Like you said.'

'How much?'

'A monkey.'

'Five hundred quid? Bloody hell.' Lee grinned. 'Still, you rob banks so I guess cash isn't a problem, right?'

'I'd have paid anything to get out of this bloody cell,' said Shepherd. 'No offence.'

Lee threw on an England football shirt to go with his Adidas tracksuit bottoms, and Shepherd went with him to the bubble where the prisoners were assembling to go to the workshops. Craig Rathbone was there with a clipboard, ticking off names. 'Macdonald, down on the ones. Mr Healey'll show you where the cleaning supplies are.'

Shepherd went downstairs.

Healey glowered at him. 'I knew you'd be trouble, Macdonald,' he said. 'You step out of line and you'll be straight off the crew and back in your cell.'

Another prisoner walked up to Healey and nodded. Then held out his hand to Shepherd. 'Charlie Weston,' he said.

They shook hands. 'Bob Macdonald,' said Shepherd.

Weston was in his sixties with white skin and bloodless lips. His receding hair was almost white and he looked as if he hadn't seen the sun in years. Healey unlocked a cupboard containing mops, metal buckets and bottles of cleaning fluid. Plastic baskets of cloths and brushes stood on a shelf. 'Start down here,' said Healey. 'Someone was sick by the pool table yesterday evening.' He walked up the stairs to the bubble.

'That's it?' asked Shepherd.

'We're left pretty much to ourselves,' said Weston.

'There's six on the cleaning crew?'

'That's right.'

'So why are only you and me doing any work?'

Weston laughed drily. 'Sledge is in the showers. Hamster's cleaning the kitchen with Ginger.'

'There's a guy up on the threes supposed to be helping us, right?'

'Don't know, mate.'

'Carpenter, right?'

'Suppose so.'

'Why isn't he here, then?'

Weston moved over to Shepherd and put his head close. 'Gerry Carpenter does what he wants,' he said, out of the side of his mouth.

'He bought his job, right? Same as you and me.'

'Him and Digger have got an arrangement.'

'Like what?'

'Hear no, see no, mate,' said Weston, tapping the side of his nose.

'You've lost me, Charlie. Does he work with us or not?'

'Sometimes he cleans up on the threes. Sometimes he's down here. He chooses where he works. None of my business. I just do as I'm told. If I were you, I'd do the same.'

Shepherd and Weston cleaned the floor of the ones, then went up and did the twos. There was no sign of the other cleaners. At eleven forty-five they heard the buzz of returning prisoners and by midday the ground floor was packed again. The floor that Shepherd and Weston had cleaned was soon scuffed and dirty.

Shepherd picked up his dinner - a tired lamb chop, mashed potatoes and carrots, with an orange - and ate it in his cell. Lee came in with his food.

The cell doors were locked and the roll-call was taken, then the doors were unlocked again.

Shepherd and Lee went down the landing to the bubble. Craig Rathbone shouted for all those expecting a visit to go over to him and checked names against a list on his clipboard. One prisoner was missing. Carpenter. He looked up at the stairs. Carpenter was walking down slowly. He was wearing a white linen shirt and pressed chinos, and his hair was neatly combed. Bill Barnes was there and nodded at Carpenter. Carpenter nodded back, but said nothing as he joined the group.

Rathbone unlocked the barred door leading out of the spur and held it open. The prisoners filed through. There were more prisoners in the secure corridor, escorted by officers, men from the other two spurs on the block.

Shepherd fell into step beside Carpenter. 'How's it going?' he asked.

'Yeah, fine,' said Carpenter.

'My first visit, this. The wife.'

'Good luck.'

'I think it's tougher for her than it is for me.'

'That's the punishment,' said Carpenter. 'It's not about bars on the windows and crap food, it's about keeping us away from our families.'

'Yeah, but we're not even guilty. That's what's so shit unfair.'

Rathbone drew level with Shepherd. 'You got your compassionate visit,' he said. 'You'll be in a private room.'

'Thanks, Mr Rathbone.'

'Good luck,' he said, and walked ahead of the group.

'Compassionate visit?' said Carpenter.

'Yeah. The missus is threatening to divorce me,' said Shepherd. 'I didn't want her mouthing off in front of everyone.'

'You having problems?'

Shepherd looked at him. He didn't want to tell Carpenter anything about Sue. Even though she was coming in as Angie Macdonald, it was still a risk. But Carpenter was interested, and he was also a husband and father so it might be a way of getting closer. 'You know what wives are like,' he said.

Carpenter frowned. 'How did you know I was married?'

'That's what visits are for, right? For the wives? Plus you're wearing a wedding ring. Elementary, dear Watson.'

Carpenter pulled a face. 'Mothers come sometimes,' he said.

'My mother's written me off.'

'Can't understand where she went wrong?'

'You know what I gave her for Christmas last year?' said Shepherd. 'Five grand in readies. Told her to buy herself something nice. My dad told me she gave the money to the RSPCA. Go figure.'

They turned right. More prisoners joined the crowd. Several new arrivals began to chat to prisoners from other blocks. Shepherd figured it was one of the few occasions when prisoners from different blocks could mix.

'How's your wife taking you being inside?' asked Shepherd. He asked the question lightly, knowing that he was crossing a line. It was a personal question and the way that Carpenter reacted would determine which way the investigation went from that moment on.

'She's not happy,' said Carpenter, 'but she blames the filth, not me.'

Shepherd's heart pounded. It was an offhand remark, but it was a confidence shared. A sign that a bridge was being built. 'My wife says it's my own stupid fault. She wants the house, the car, everything. And my kid,' he said.

'Get yourself a good lawyer,' said Carpenter. 'You've got to fight for what's yours.'

'Your wife's not giving you grief ?'

Carpenter smiled. 'She knows I won't be here long.'

'You're not tunnelling, are you? I think that's the only way I'll be getting out.'

Carpenter chuckled. 'You need a better plan than that.'

'Is that what you've got? A plan?'

'I'm not going to let them send me down for fifteen years, that's for sure.'

'Bastard judges.'

Carpenter shook his head. 'Don't blame the judges. All they're doing is following the rules. It's like blaming the referee because your team lost. The way I look at it, it's your own fault for getting caught. And the cops' fault for catching you.'

'Yeah, that's the truth,' said Shepherd. 'If I ever found out who grassed me up, I'll kill them.'

Carpenter flashed him a sidelong look. 'You were grassed?'

'Must have been,' said Shepherd. 'Everything was sweetness and light and then suddenly the cops are everywhere. Armed cops, too, so they knew we were tooled up.'

'Any idea who set you up?'

'I was the new guy on the team. Could have been anybody. I'll find out, though. If it takes me for ever, I'll have the bastard.'

'Won't get you out of here any faster.'

'So what's your plan, then?'

Carpenter tapped the side of his nose. 'Need to know,' he said.

'And I don't,' Shepherd said. 'Right.'

The prisoners were escorted into a waiting area. There was a door at the far end where two male officers searched them, then handed each a yellow sash and ushered them through the door. Shepherd and Carpenter joined the queue.

The search was far more thorough than it was for going into the exercise yard. Every inch of Shepherd's front, back and sides was patted down, and he had to open his mouth and stick out his tongue, then flick his ears forward to show he had nothing concealed there. The officer made Shepherd run his hands through his hair, then handed him a bright yellow sash.

'Going cycling, are we?' Shepherd asked, and grinned over his shoulder at Carpenter. 'See this, Gerry? I'm off for a bike ride with the wife.'

The unsmiling prison officer nodded at Shepherd to go in. The visiting room was huge, the size of a tennis court. There was a balcony above the door from where an officer with a bored expression looked down on the rows of chairs and tables. There were already more than a hundred visitors, some sitting, some standing, waiting for their loved ones. Most were women and almost half had children with them. The tables were lined up in five rows, A to E, and each had four plastic chairs round it. The chairs could be moved but the tables were screwed to the floor.

A young red-headed woman, with a small baby strapped to her chest, was jumping up and down and waving. Her husband, who seemed barely out of his teens in a prison-issue tracksuit, waved back, then went over to a raised desk where a female officer checked his name against a list. Shepherd went over to her and gave her his name and number. 'I'm supposed to have a private visit,' he said.

She ran her pen down her computer printout. 'Room five,' she said, and pointed to the far end of the room.

As Shepherd walked between the tables he saw CCTV cameras in the four corners of the room. They were moving, focusing on individual tables, watching silently as husbands embraced wives, fathers cuddled small children and kissed babies. Several men were crying unashamedly, tears streaming down their faces as they held their wives.

Three officers were walking among the tables, their faces impassive as they watched the prisoners take their places. If they saw a man getting too passionate they'd tap his shoulder and tell him to sit down. The prisoners had to sit on the right-hand side of the table, the visitors on the left.

In one corner of the room a booth sold soft drinks and sweets, and there was a play area for young children, minded by a couple of cheery middle-aged women.

The door to room five was open and Sue was already sitting at the table, Liam saw Shepherd first and ran towards him, arms outstretched. 'Daddy, Daddy!' he shouted.

Shepherd picked him up and squeezed him. 'Hiya, kid,' he said, and kissed him.

'When are you coming home, Daddy?' asked Liam.

Shepherd kissed him again. 'Soon,' he said.

'Today?'

'No, not today, but soon.'

He put Liam down and held out his arms for Sue. She smiled, but he could see how tense she was. He held her and she slipped her arms round his waist. 'God, I've missed you,' he said.

'It's your choice, being here,' she said, and he heard resentment in her voice.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'I didn't realise how horrible it was.'

'It's prison,' he said, trying to smile. 'What did you think it'd be like?'

'You hear stories, don't you, about them being like holiday camps?'

'That's open prisons,' said Shepherd.

'What's this, then?'

'Category A. It's high security.'

'But you haven't had a trial or anything. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?'

'It's the system, love,' said Shepherd.

'Why are you in prison, Daddy?' asked Liam. 'Were you bad?'

Shepherd knelt down and put a hand on his son's shoulder. 'I've not been bad, Liam, but you mustn't tell anybody about Daddy being here.'

'It's a secret?'

'That's right.'

'I won't tell, Daddy.'

Shepherd ruffled his hair. 'Good boy.' Sue took a colouring book and some crayons out of her bag, put them on the table and Liam sat down with them. Shepherd stood up. 'Thanks for coming,' he said to his wife. 'Did Sam Hargrove bring you?'

'He sent a driver. He's waiting for us outside. How long is this going to take, Dan? How long are you going to be in here?'

The room had a glass window so that prison officers could see inside, but no one seemed to be taking an interest in Shepherd.

'A few weeks, maybe.'

'Isn't it dangerous?' she whispered, not wanting Liam to hear. She sat down at the table. She was wearing her ten-year-old sheepskin jacket, the one she always wore when they went out walking, faded blue jeans and scuffed boots. Prison casual. But she'd taken care with her makeup and was wearing her long blonde hair loose, the way he liked it.

Shepherd shook his head. 'It's a remand wing,' he said. 'Everyone's on their best behaviour because they want to getout.'Hewouldn'ttell herabouthisrun-inwithNeedles. Or about breaking Jurczak's leg.

'Some of the women waiting to come in were saying that there was a suicide last week.'

'Not on the remand wing, love,' said Shepherd.

'What's it like?' Sue asked.

'Boring, most of the time.'

'Do you have a cell of your own?'

Shepherd smiled. 'I wish. But it's got a television.'

'You're joking!'

'It's no big deal,' said Shepherd. 'Keeps the inmates quiet.'

'And are there fights and things?'

Shepherd laughed. 'Of course not. It's not like the movies. We don't hang out in a yard having knife fights. We only get to exercise for forty-five minutes a day and we're searched every time we go in and out.'

He sat down opposite her and they watched Liam colour a pirate ship, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Sue frowned. 'Where did you get that watch?'

Shepherd glanced at the flashy Rolex. 'Hargrove.'

'It's horrible.'

'I know. It's part of the cover.' He showed her the thick gold chain round his neck. 'This too.'

'You look like a . . . I don't know what you look like.'

'It's not for long.'

'You owe me for this, Dan Shepherd. You owe me big-time.'

'I know.'

'I miss you.'

'I miss you, too.'

'I mean it, Dan. They're not just words.' Her eyes moved to Liam. 'He's not sleeping either.'

'This is important, love.'

'It's always important, though, isn't it? It's always the big one. The guy who's got to be put away. And then, once he's gone, there's another. And another.'

'That's why it's important. If they're allowed to get away with it, what sort of world would it be?'

'But it's always you, isn't it? It's always you taking risks. First with the Regiment and now with Hargrove and his have-a-go heroes.' She leaned across the table. Shepherd could see that she was close to tears. 'You're an addict, Dan. That's what it is. You're an adrenaline junkie.'

A prison visiting room wasn't the place for a discussion about his career, or his psyche, Shepherd knew. And he didn't want to argue with her, especially not in front of Liam. There was another reason, too: in his heart of hearts he knew she was right.

Shepherd ruffled Liam's hair. 'You okay, kid?'

Liam nodded.

'We'll go fishing, when I come home.' He turned back to his wife. 'Your mum and dad okay?'

'They're fine.'

'You haven't told them . . .'

'Give me some credit, Dan. How long have I been a policeman's wife?' She sighed, then answered her own question. 'Too long.'

'Do you want anything? A drink? Biscuits?'

'No, thanks.'

'I'm going to have to ask you to do something,' said Shepherd.

'I don't like the sound of that.'

'The reason we got the private visit is because everyone thinks you want to divorce me.'

Liam's jaw dropped. 'You and Mummy are getting divorced?'

'Oh, God, no!' said Shepherd. He picked up his son and cuddled him. 'It's just a joke. Like a play at school. Pretending.'

Liam frowned. 'You're pretending to get a divorce?'

'That's right.'

'But you're still coming home, aren't you?'

Shepherd kissed him. 'Of course.'

'What's going on, Dan?'

Shepherd put his son down in front of the colouring book and waited until the boy was absorbed again before he answered. 'Carpenter's outside.'

'The man you're after?'

Shepherd nodded. 'He's got a visit from his wife.'

'So?'

'So if you and I fake an argument, it gives me a chance to get closer to him.'

'How?'

Shepherd could see she wasn't happy with the idea, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. He leaned across the table and took her hands in his. 'If he sees us argue, it gives credence to my legend. My cover story,' he whispered. 'If you go out cursing me, I can start spilling my guts to Carpenter. Husband to husband.'

'And what about . . .?' whispered Sue, gesturing at Liam.

'We'll say it's a play,' he said.

'I like plays,' said Liam.

Shepherd tapped the colouring book. 'You've missed a bit,' he said.

'I can't believe you want to use us like this.'

'I'm not using you,' said Shepherd, but even as the words left his mouth he knew it was a lie.

'Isn't it bad enough, you being away like this?'

'The sooner I get what we need, the sooner I'll be back home.' An officer walked by the window, picking his nose. 'Please, just do this one thing for me.'

'But it's not one thing, is it? It's always like this. Out all night, whispered phone calls when you're home, you coming back battered and bruised. Now you're dragging me and Liam into it.'

Shepherd sat back in his chair and sighed. She was right. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Did you know he'd be having a visit today?'

'No,' said Shepherd.

'So it's just a coincidence that you've both got visitors at the same time?'

'Absolutely.' As soon as the word left his mouth, Shepherd wondered if it was the truth. Hargrove had fixed up Sue and Liam's visit to Shelton. Had he known that Carpenter's wife was due today? Hargrove knew that Shepherd was having a compassionate visit in a private room so he wasn't putting Sue and Liam at risk, but he had given Shepherd the chance to get closer to Carpenter.

'He's got children?'

'Three. Boy and two girls.'

'Why would a family man do what he does? Doesn't he know the damage drugs do?'

'He knows, he just doesn't care.'

'But everything he has, everything his family has, is based on the misery of others.'

'I don't think guys like him give it a second thought,' Shepherd told her. 'When you talk to them, they regard drugs as just another commodity. It's like they're running an import-export business. They buy product, move it from place to place and make a profit on each deal.'

'So he's no conscience? No sense of right and wrong?'

'If you talk to guys like him, they usually say they're no different from cigarette companies. They say that nicotine is addictive, and that cigarettes kill far more people than any class-A drug.'

'They should just legalise everything and have done with it.'

Shepherd grinned. 'Yeah, but what would I do then?'

'Spend some time with your family, for a start,' said Sue. She reached across the table and stroked his cheek. 'You should be at home. With us.'

'Soon,' said Shepherd. 'I promise.' He pressed her hand to his cheek.

'What do you want me to do?' she asked.

Shepherd took her hand and kissed it. 'Are you sure?'

'If it gets you out of this hell-hole quicker, I can hardly say no, can I?'

'Thanks, love.'

'You haven't told me what you want me to do yet.'

'I need Carpenter to think we're on the rocks,' Shepherd said. 'You can storm out and through the visitors' room. Curse me something rotten. Tell me you'll set your solicitor on me.'

'Oh, Dan! I can't.'

'I'll know you won't be serious.' Shepherd ruffled his son's hair. 'What about you, Liam? Do you want to play a game?'

'What game?'

'When you go Mummy's going to shout at me. We'll say goodbye and then when we open the door Mummy's going to pretend she's angry with me.'

'And she'll be acting?'

'That's right. Like in a play. Is that okay?'

'Sure.'

'Chip off the old block, isn't he?' said Sue, but Shepherd could tell she didn't think it was a particularly good thing.

'You're definitely putting on weight,' said Bonnie playfully. She was sitting with Carpenter in row E, close to the wall. She had been to the canteen, run by volunteers from the Women's Voluntary Service, and got them Diet Coke and KitKats.

'I told you, it's the food in here,' said Carpenter, 'and I'm lucky if I get to the gym four times a week.'

'You said they let you use it every day.'

'Yeah, but if they don't have enough staff they don't open it. And the screws here are forever taking sickies. One of the perks of the job.'

Bonnie patted his stomach. 'Sit-ups,' she said. 'You don't need a gym to do sit-ups.'

Carpenter laughed. 'Soon as I'm out you can put me on a diet,' he said. He pushed the two KitKats towards her. 'These won't help.'

'You think I'm joking?'

'Honey, I'll be so glad to be out I'll eat anything you give me.' He sipped his Diet Coke. At the table next to him a West Indian prisoner was cuddling a baby, smothering its tiny face with kisses. His right hand slid inside the child's nappy. A couple of seconds later he coughed and he used the same hand to cover his mouth. It had been done so subtly that Carpenter doubted that any of the officers would have seen the drugs transferred even if they'd been watching. Carpenter looked up at the CCTV cameras. None was pointing in the West Indian's direction. The baby started to cry and he handed it back to the mother.

'I wish you'd let the kids come and see you,' said Bonnie.

Carpenter shook his head firmly. 'No way. I'm not letting them see me in here.'

'They're not stupid, Gerry. They know what's going on.'

'It's one thing to know I'm in prison, it's quite another to see me in here.' He flicked his yellow sash. 'Wearing this thing, sitting at a table that's screwed to the floor, goons in uniforms watching every move we make. I don't want them seeing that.'

'What if they sentence you?' asked Bonnie. 'What if you get sent away for fifteen years? Does that mean you won't see them for fifteen years?'

'That won't happen,' said Carpenter flatly.

'It might.'

'Trust me,' said Carpenter.

'What are you up to, Gerry?'

'You don't want to know.'

'Yes, I do.'

'No, Bonnie. Because if I tell you what I'm doing you become an accessory and there's no way I want you in the firing line.' He reached over and held her hand. 'It's bad enough there's one of us behind bars.'

'Bloody cops,' said Bonnie. 'If they'd played fair this would never have happened.'

'They're worse than the criminals,' laughed Carpenter. 'Don't worry, love, it's being sorted. I promise.'

They heard a commotion at the far end of the room and turned to see what was happening. A blonde woman with a small boy in tow had thrown open the door to one of the closed-visit rooms. 'I hate you!' she shouted. 'I hope I never see you again, ever! You can rot in here for all I care!' She stormed towards the exit, dragging the child after her.

Carpenter saw Macdonald rush to the doorway and call after his wife, but she ignored him. Macdonald cursed and kicked the door. A guard walked over and told him to calm down. Macdonald put his hands in the air. 'Okay, okay,' he said.

'Who's that?' asked Bonnie.

'New guy,' said Carpenter. 'Bob Macdonald. He's in for armed robbery. That was his wife just walked out on him. She wants a divorce.'

'I know how she feels.' She reached over and took his hand. 'Joke,' she said.

'It better had be a joke,' he said.

'They say it's harder for the families than it is for the men in prison,' said Bonnie. 'And they're right.'

'That's why most wives walk away, if it's a long sentence. "Stand by your man" just doesn't come into it.'

'Don't think you're going to get away from me that easy,' said Bonnie. 'Till death do us part, remember.'

She looked into his eyes and he could see that she meant it. But Carpenter knew that if he was locked up for fifteen years her fierce intensity would gradually die away. Eventually visits to him would become a chore, and no matter how much she loved him now there'd come a time when she wanted, or needed, a warm body beside her at night. She'd get a new husband, the kids would have a new father. And Carpenter would join the ranks of the sad old lags with no lives on the outside to look forward to. He shivered. No way was he going to allow them to keep him inside. 'I'd wait for you, too, if you were in prison,' he said, and laughed.

There were still five minutes to go before visiting time was over and Carpenter and his wife chatted about their children. From time to time Carpenter looked across at Macdonald, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, glaring at anyone who made eye-contact with him. The prisoners weren't allowed to leave until all the visitors had gone, so Macdonald had to stay where he was until the end. Carpenter sympathised with the man, having to stand there after his wife had hurled abuse at him in front of everybody.

Eventually, over the Tannoy, a disembodied voice announced that all visitors had to leave. Some of the women groaned. Carpenter stood up and held his wife, kissed her cheek, then hugged her. 'Won't be much longer, love,' he said.

Children were crying and officers moved through the tables, telling visitors they had to go. Several of the younger prisoners were crying too, clinging to their wives and swearing undying love.

Bonnie kissed Carpenter's lips, then headed for the visitors' exit. He went over to join the line of prisoners waiting to be searched. Bonnie gave him a final wave as she reached the door, then blew him a kiss. He blew one back.

Macdonald joined him in the line.

The search on the way out was even more thorough than it had been on the way in. Two West Indians were taken away, protesting loudly.

'What's the story with them?' Macdonald asked Carpenter.

'Caught on camera, probably,' said Carpenter.

'Doing what?'

'Kissing their wives,' said Carpenter. 'Bit too long, bit too deep. Probably transferring drugs. Didn't go well, then, your visit?'

'You heard, yeah?'

Carpenter grinned. 'Bob, everybody heard her parting shot.'

'She's well pissed off at me.'

'Sorry,' said Carpenter.

'Not your fault,' said Macdonald. 'But thanks.'

Carpenter reached the front of the queue and Rathbone patted down his arms and legs, then sent him out into the secure corridor to wait for the rest of the men from the remand block. Two minutes later Macdonald joined him. 'She's set on divorce. There's something going on, something she's not telling me about.'

'Another man?'

'Maybe. Could just be her mother winding her up. It'd be different if I could talk to her on the out, but being here just makes it worse.'

'That was your boy?'

'Yeah. Says she's going to file for custody.'

'She'll probably get it, you know that.'

'Fuck.'

'It's just the way it is,' said Carpenter. 'Cons don't rate highly when it comes to parental rights.'

'Yeah, well, until I'm found guilty I'm not a con. I'm a remand prisoner.'

Carpenter wasn't sure what to say. Macdonald had been caught red-handed and a policeman had been shot. They'd throw away the key. But he knew how Macdonald felt. Angry. Hurt. Betrayed. And Carpenter knew how he'd react if Bonnie ever threatened to leave him and take the children with her. His reaction would be quick, vengeful and permanent.

Net curtains fluttered at the sitting room of the house next door. It would be Mrs Brennan, a spinster in her eighties, the road's resident busybody. Alice looked across at her husband. 'Can't we even tell Mrs Brennan what's going on?' she said. 'She's going to think we've been arrested.'

'It doesn't matter what anyone thinks,' said Roper, swinging a suitcase into the back of the van.

Through the sitting-room window he could see Ben and David playing with their Gameboys. All he had told them was that they were going on holiday. The time for explanations would be later, once they were safe.

There were four Church cars parked on the road outside the house, and there was a white Transit van in the driveway, its rear doors open.

'Where are we going?' asked Alice.

'A safe-house,' said Roper.

'Our own home was supposed to be safe,' said Alice. 'That's what you said - they'd never find out who you are or where you live.'

'And I was wrong,' admitted Roper. 'What do you want me to do, Alice? Open a vein? I'm trying to fix this as best I can.'

'You're not fixing anything. We're just running away and you won't even tell me where.'

'Because I don't know,' said Roper, exasperated. He was being truthful. As soon as he'd opened the envelope Ben had given him he'd phoned his boss in Drugs Operations. Within thirty minutes there had been a dozen men in and around his house. The envelope contained three photographs. One of Ben arriving at school. One of David leaving school. And one of Alice taking out the rubbish, wearing the faded pink housecoat she'd had for years. There was no note. There was no need for one. The meaning was crystal clear.

Raymond Mackie, the head of Drugs Operations himself, was on Roper's doorstep less than an hour after Roper had made the call, promising him the earth. Roper would be protected, so would his family, and Mackie would make sure he found out how Roper's cover had been blown. First things first, Roper and his family would be moved to a Customs and Excise safe-house. Roper hadn't asked where, it wasn't important. All that mattered was to get as far away from the family home as possible. Mackie had brought a bouquet of flowers with him and presented them to Alice as if he were there to celebrate her birthday. Alice had dropped them into the dustbin as soon as Mackie had left in his chauffeur-driven Rover.

'What about the children's schools?' asked Alice.

'For God's sake, Alice. Carpenter knows where they go to school.'

'So their education is put on hold? For how long?'

Roper felt a surge of anger towards his wife. He wanted to shout at her, scream at her, shake her until she saw sense, but he fought to control himself. He knew it wasn't really Alice he was angry with. She hadn't let the family down. She hadn't put their lives on the line. Sandy Roper was angry with himself.

Two men in anoraks came out of the house with black bin-liners filled with clothing and threw them into the van. 'We've put boxes in the kitchen, Mrs Roper,' said one. 'Can you fill them with any kitchen stuff you want?' he said.

'What about the stuff in the freezer?' asked Alice.

'I'd leave it,' said the man. 'I'm not sure if there's a freezer at the new place.' Roper didn't know his name but Mackie had sworn on his mother's grave that the only personnel involved in the transfer to the safe-house were men he knew personally and that he would trust with his own life.

'What about the children's bikes?' asked Alice.

'I wouldn't recommend that the children be outside, frankly,' said the man.

Alice turned to her husband. 'See? They're going to be prisoners. We're all going to be prisoners.'

The Customs men went back into the house. Roper put his arms round his wife. She was trembling. 'I'll make this up to you, Alice. I promise.'

'Damn this Carpenter,' hissed Alice. 'How dare he ruin our lives like this? How dare he?'

Roper stroked the back of his wife's head. The photographs had been a warning, but Carpenter must have known there was a good chance that Roper would report the contact immediately and that the Church's reaction would be to close ranks and protect him and his family. Roper knew Carpenter better than almost anybody: the man was meticulous in his planning. The photographs had been Carpenter's first attempt to stop him giving evidence in court, and Roper was sure it wouldn't be his last. 'It'll be okay,' Roper whispered, as he stroked his wife's hair. 'Once the case is over and he's behind bars for good, it'll all be back the way it was, I promise.'

A man in a grey suit was standing at the front of the car. He hadn't offered to help carry any of their belongings out of the house and had acknowledged Roper with nothing more than a curt nod as he'd climbed out of one of the Church cars. He stood at the gate with his hands at his sides and his eyes never left the road outside the house. A gust of wind tugged at his jacket and Roper saw the butt of a semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. He hugged his wife closer so that she wouldn't spot it. Roper was beginning to wonder if things ever would be back to the way they were before he'd helped bring down Gerald Carpenter. For the first time he realised he was scared of what Carpenter could do to him and his family. And for the first time he was doubting that the Church would be able to protect them.

Shepherd was mopping the ones when Hamilton came up to tell him that his lawyer was there to see him. The officer escorted him to the visitors' centre and showed him into the soundproof room, where Hargrove was waiting.

They shook hands as Hamilton closed the door. Shepherd could see from Hargrove's expression that something was wrong. He sat down and waited for the bad news.

Hargrove wasted no time. 'We've lost the tapes that Elliott and Roper made,' he said, sitting down opposite Shepherd. 'They've been wiped.'

'What?'

'Someone got into the evidence room and ran a high-powered electromagnet over them.'

'How the hell could that have happened?' said Shepherd.

'If we knew that, we'd have the guy in custody,' said Hargrove.

'I thought anyone who went into an evidence room was logged.'

'They are. But we don't know when it happened.'

'For God's sake,' said Shepherd, exasperated, 'what's the point of me putting my head in the lion's den if you lot can't even take care of the evidence you've got?' He pushed himself out of his chair and paced the room. Hamilton was watching through one of the windows. 'This is fucking unbelievable, it really is. He's killing off agents, threatening witnesses and destroying evidence, and you lot are sitting around with your thumbs up your arses.'

'That's not quite the position, Spider.'

'It looks to me like it's exactly the position,' said Shepherd. 'How the hell could someone get into a locked evidence room and destroy tapes?'

'We only found out yesterday because the CPS wanted to check part of Roper's transcript. The tape was blank so we checked the rest. All blank.'

'And you don't know when it happened?'

'The last time they were used was when Gary Nelson had them for his authenticity check. That was four weeks ago. There have been hundreds of officers in and out of there since. We're on the case, Spider. The room was covered by CCTV so we're going through every minute of tape. Plus we're interviewing every officer who logged into the room. We'll find out who did it, but it's going to take time.'

'Nelson's the forensics guy who was threatened, right?'

'That's him. He's now in the Algarve with his wife and says he isn't coming back until Carpenter's behind bars.'

'Sounds like he's the only one with any sense,' said Shepherd. He rubbed his face. 'So where does that leave us?'

'Elliott's evidence is now useless. The transcripts alone aren't worth anything. Losing Roper's tapes isn't the end of the world because we have the transcripts and Roper can back them up.'

'Unless Carpenter gets to Roper.'

'That's not going to happen,' said Hargrove.

'You know, I'd have a lot more faith in that if Elliott wasn't dead and the tapes hadn't been wiped.' Hamilton was still watching through the window so Shepherd sat down with his back to him.

'I've got something I want you to think about,' said Hargrove. 'Totally up to you but it might make things a bit easier, case-wise.' Shepherd looked at Hargrove expectantly but didn't say anything. 'You could wear a wire,' said the superintendent quietly.

Shepherd's jaw dropped. It was the last thing he'd expected to hear Hargrove say. 'You are joking, right?'

Hargrove shook his head. 'If you could nail Carpenter on conspiracy, we'd have him on your evidence alone.'

'You know where I am, right?'

'Yes, Spider,' said Hargrove patiently. 'I know.'

'The guys in here are Cat A. They're professional criminals, most of them. They'd spot a wire a mile off.'

'Not necessarily,' said Hargrove. 'We could get something special from the technical boys. A recording device that looks like a CD player or a Walkman, maybe.'

'And if someone finds out what I'm doing?'

'Then we pull you out.'

'If I got caught in here with a wire you wouldn't have time.'

'Just give it some thought,' said Hargrove. 'I'm not forcing you to do anything you don't want to.'

'What's the state of play on Carpenter's case?'

'He's got another court appearance next week, but his case won't be heard for another two months, and that's without his lawyers playing silly buggers. Could be four months.'

'So he's got four months to get to Roper.'

'That's one way of looking at it. The other way is that you've got four months to nail him.'

'I'm not going to be in here for four months!' said Shepherd.

'As soon as you've had enough, all you've got to do is say.'

Shepherd sat back and folded his arms. He knew that the superintendent was right. He was in Shelton by choice, and it was his decision how long he stayed there. But that didn't make him feel any more comfortable. 'I think you should have a closer look at Tony Stafford,' he said.

'Because?'

'Because that five hundred quid you gave to Digger's sister bought me a place on the spur's cleaning crew.'

Hargrove took his black notebook from his jacket pocket and started scribbling.

'The guy's name is Tompkins,' said Shepherd. 'Everyone calls him Digger. He's in for another murder, shot a Yardie. The Operation Trident guys should have the full SP on him. I went to see Digger to tell him I wanted a place on the cleaning crew and he told me to get five hundred pounds to his sister. Next day I was on the crew. Tony Stafford runs the block so any jobs have to be approved by him.'

'He could have rubber-stamped someone else's request, couldn't he?'

'Sure. We need a look at the paperwork. Gosden should be able to do that for you.'

'We'll put the sister under surveillance. If Digger's paying off a prison officer, she might be acting as a conduit.' Hargrove scratched his ear with his pen. 'Does Digger have much to do with Carpenter?'

'I haven't seen them together, but Carpenter keeps himself to himself.'

'Stafford could be Digger's man, Carpenter could have someone else.'

'Yeah, I know.'

Hargrove closed his notebook and put his pen away. 'Are you okay?'

'So far. But it's hard work.'

'I never thought it'd be easy, Spider.'

'You know what worries me most?' Hargrove raised his eyebrows. 'If I talk in my sleep,' said Shepherd. Hargrove smiled, but Shepherd was serious. 'I can control what I do and say when I'm awake, but I could say anything while I'm dreaming. What if I dream I'm talking to you? Or Sue? I've no control over my dreams.'

'Have you ever talked in your sleep before?' asked Hargrove.

'There's a first time for everything.'

'What about moving to a single cell? I could talk to Gosden.'

'Absolutely not. If I move I'll have to make it happen myself. There's too much status attached to a single cell. If I get it gratis it'll be a red flag that something's up.'

'So you'll ask Digger to fix it?'

'My cellmate says Digger's the one to arrange it. I've already raised it with Carpenter. He said to put in an official request to Stafford. Be interesting to know how Carpenter got a single.'

'I could ask Gosden.'

'Might be an idea. Check the paperwork for his move with the paperwork for my job on the cleaning crew. See if there's a match.'

'I'm on it, Spider.'

Shepherd was tired. The previous night someone on the ones had been crying. The night staff hadn't thought it serious enough to intervene and they'd just let him get on with it. It had been almost dawn before he'd stopped. Now Shepherd appreciated just how tough prison was. In-cell televisions and a choice of menu didn't make the confinement any easier to bear. No one had shouted at the crying prisoner to shut up, because every man on the spur had known exactly how he felt.

Shepherd woke up and looked at his watch. Seven thirty. It was Saturday, his first weekend behind bars. There was no work at weekends, and no breakfast packs in the cells: breakfast was served at the hotplate. Shepherd had found himself waking at seven thirty every morning, a few minutes before the prison officers started the roll-call. He lay on his bunk, waiting for the spyglass to flick open.

Lee got up and padded barefoot to the toilet. He groaned and urinated. He was in mid-flow when the spyglass flicked open. 'I'm on the bog!' shouted Lee. The spyglass snapped shut.

Shepherd let Lee wash and clean his teeth at the basin before he got down from his bunk. The cell was so poky that there was barely enough room for two men to move around at the same time. Whenever possible he kept out of Lee's way, staying on his bunk. He also let Lee have ownership of the television's remote control, although both of them were paying the weekly rental.

As Shepherd washed and shaved, Lee sat on the chair and flicked through the television channels. News programmes and children's television. 'Why's there nothing on in the mornings?' asked Lee.

'Because most sensible people are lying in,' said Shepherd. He changed into a clean polo shirt. Weekend lie-ins were a Shepherd tradition, when he wasn't away on a job for Hargrove. He'd go downstairs, make a pot of tea and some toast, pick up the papers from the hall, then get back into bed with Sue. Liam would join them, and he and Sue would lie together munching toast and reading the papers while Liam looked at the comics.

The prison regime at the weekends was less restrictive than it was during the week. There was association in the morning and afternoon, but the cell doors were locked earlier, at five fifteen instead of eight o'clock. That meant a full twelve hours banged up.

Shepherd had applied to be on the gym list for Saturday and Sunday, and Lloyd-Davies had told him he'd made it on the Saturday list. Just. Eight prisoners from each spur were allowed to use the gym in each session and Shepherd had been number eight.

The cell door was unlocked at half past eight and Shepherd went down to the hotplate with Lee. There was already a queue of a dozen men there, which they joined. There were three hotplate men, watched over by the middle-aged West Indian female guard, Amelia Heartfield. Everyone used her first name and, even when she was giving prisoners an order, she did the same. She was always smiling and seemed to enjoy talking to them. In return they never gave her any grief. From time to time prisoners would let off steam on the wing but Shepherd had never heard anyone curse or shout at Amelia.

Shepherd picked up two plastic trays and handed one to Lee. The hotplate men worked efficiently, doling out the food: one sausage, two pieces of bacon, a scoop of scrambled egg, a tomato, a spoonful of beans, half a slice of fried bread. Two slices of bread.

Shepherd reached the head of the queue, but as he was about to hold out his tray a figure appeared at his shoulder. It was the prisoner with the shaved head from the threes, Carpenter's man. He nodded at Shepherd and pushed his tray forward. 'Two sausages, well done. Four rashers of bacon, crisp. Four slices of bread.'

One of the hotplate men put the bacon and sausage on the plate and handed him a side plate with four slices of bread. The man nodded again and headed for the stairs.

'Who is that guy?' Shepherd asked Lee.

'That's Gilly,' he said. 'Gilly Gilchrist. He's in for GBH.'

'But he fetches and carries for Carpenter?'

'He's not a butler,' said Lee. 'He's muscle. Haven't you noticed that he's never far away from Carpenter on the spur? When Carpenter goes out into the exercise yard, Gilly goes with him. During association Gilly goes wherever Carpenter goes.'

'Did Carpenter pull a thorn out of his paw?'

Lee frowned, not understanding. 'What?'

'Why does he work for Carpenter? It's not a gay thing, is it?'

'Don't let Gilly hear you say that, he'd rip your lungs out. He's got five kids, has Gilly. He's short of readies so Carpenter pays him on the out.'

They carried their trays into the cell. Lee sat at the table while Shepherd climbed up on to the bunk. The scrambled egg was rubbery and the beans were cold, but he ate them anyway.

At nine o'clock Shepherd heard doors clanging. 'Now what?'

'Lock-up,' said Lee, slotting sausage into his mouth. 'It's just for an hour while the screws get on with their paperwork. They'll unlock the gym list at ten fifteen and it's all doors open at ten thirty for association and exercise.'

Shepherd wiped his plate with a piece of bread. 'Why don't they give us a schedule, tell us what happens when?'

'That'd be too logical,' said Lee. 'Anyway, you soon get into the swing of it.'

'Who told you, though?'

'Guy who was in the cell before you had been here five months.'

Rathbone appeared at the door. 'Okay, lads?'

'Fine, Mr Rathbone,' said Lee, raising a forkful of beans.

'You're on gym list, Macdonald. Friends in high places?'

'Miss Lloyd-Davies put my name down,' said Shepherd.

'Just so long as you didn't break anybody's leg.' Rathbone closed the door.

Lee switched on the television and flicked through the channels. 'Can I ask you something?' he said.

'Sure.'

'Jurczak. Did you really break his leg?'

'He fell,' said Shepherd. 'We were having a chat and he fell.'

'But his knee was all smashed up.'

'He fell awkwardly,' said Shepherd, and laughed. It was important that he played the hard man with Lee. Lee was clearly a blabbermouth, so anything Shepherd said to him would be common knowledge on the spur. 'Let me ask you something,' he said. 'Who really runs the spur? Everyone says Digger, but they tug their forelocks when Carpenter's around. And at least Digger goes to the hotplate himself.'

'Different strokes,' said Lee. 'Digger's got muscle, right. If Digger wants you to do something, he tells you. He says jump, you say how high, right?'

'I've gathered that.'

'But Carpenter's got money. More money than you can shake a stick at. He doesn't have to threaten anybody. He just buys what he wants.'

'Through Digger?'

Lee's brow furrowed. 'What's your interest in all this?' he asked.

Shepherd held up his hands. 'Hey, just want to know who does what, that's all.'

'You're not thinking of taking him on, are you?'

'Digger? Or Carpenter?'

'There's got to be a daddy on the block. Always is. But Digger'll fight for what he's got.'

'What about Carpenter?'

Lee grinned. 'Carpenter doesn't have to fight.'

'Yeah, he doesn't look hard.'

'That's the point. He doesn't have to be hard. But he can have you sorted, inside or out. Cross him, and there's half a dozen guys on the spur who'd stick you for what he can pay them on the out. The screws know it too, which is why he's allowed to take liberties. You know he's on the gym list most days?'

'How does he manage that?'

'Buggered if I know.'

'What about his single cell? Did Digger get that for him?'

'No idea, mate. Why don't you ask him?' He frowned. 'Hey, I'm not getting on your tits, am I?'

Shepherd laughed. 'Nah, you're fine. I could just do with some privacy, you know?' He cleaned his plate, put it on top of the wall cupboard and lay back on his bunk. Other than the odd titbit from Lee, time spent in his cell was wasted time as far as his investigation was concerned. The only occasions when he could talk to Carpenter were on cleaning duties, out in the exercise yard, in the gym, or walking down the secure corridor. But the difficulties were compounded by the fact that his quarry spent much of his time in his cell, even when he was free to move around. It was all very well getting block gossip from the likes of Ed Harris and Lee, but if Shepherd was going to put a stop to Carpenter's wrongdoing he was going to need hard evidence. Soon.

Rathbone opened the cell door at ten fifteen and told Shepherd to wait at the bubble. Shepherd had changed into his prison-issue tracksuit, but when he got to the bubble he could see that he was underdressed. Bill Barnes was there in a brand new Reebok tracksuit and trainers. Three other prisoners, all West Indians, wore pristine sportsgear and thick gold chains round their necks. They grinned at Shepherd's attire. He flashed them a tight smile. He didn't care what he looked like: he just wanted to get rid of some of the energy that had been building up over the past few days.

He looked up at the threes. Carpenter was coming down the stairs, wearing a red Lacoste shirt with white shorts, socks and trainers. He was carrying a bottle of Highland Spring and a small white towel. He looked like a well-off businessman on the way to his local fitness centre.

Rathbone came up to the group as Carpenter arrived. The prison officer ticked off the eight names on his clipboard, then took them out into the secure corridor.

Shepherd hoped to talk to Carpenter on the long walk to the gym but before he could get next to the man, Barnes fell into step beside him. 'How's it going, Bob?'

Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Carpenter was walking at the rear of the group, talking to Rathbone.

'When's your next court appearance?'

'Not sure,' said Shepherd.

'You've got to appear before a judge every two weeks when you're on remand,' said Barnes. 'At least it's a day out. You okay for puff?'

'I'm still not smoking, Bill. Not tobacco and not wackybacky.'

'What about booze?'

'You can get booze in here?'

'Sure, home brew. I've got a couple of pints on the go at the moment.'

Shepherd laughed, thinking Barnes was joking.

'I'm serious, mate,' said Barnes, earnestly. 'I've got a mate in the kitchen who pinches yeast for me. You put it with a bit of fruit and water in a Ziploc bag, throw in some sugar, and Bob's your mother's brother. I've got some cider that'll be ready in a few days, and orange and pear that's ready to go. Once it's fermented we put it in 7-Up bottles and sell it. Get me two packs of Marlboro and I'll let you have a bottle.'

Shepherd wasn't that desperate. He liked a drink, sure, either beer with the lads or a good bottle of wine with Sue, but it wasn't the alcohol he enjoyed so much as the company.

'Suit yourself,' said Barnes. 'After you've been inside for a few months you'll want to get high, one way or another.'

They reached the gym. Rathbone searched the prisoners one by one, a perfunctory pat-down of their arms and legs. Shepherd followed Barnes in. A couple of dozen prisoners from the other blocks were already there. It was a big room, packed with equipment - half a dozen bikes and four good-sized treadmills along one wall, four rowing machines, two multi-gyms, and in one corner a weights section with half a dozen benches.

The West Indian prisoners immediately went over to the weights area where half a dozen others were standing around talking. They were greeted with high fives and clunked fists. No one seemed interested in lifting any weights.

Carpenter was still outside so Shepherd went over to the multi-gym and started doing some gentle stretching exercises. A balcony ran the length of one wall and a bored prison officer stared down at nothing in particular.

Carpenter came in and went over to one of the treadmills. Shepherd didn't want to appear too obvious so he stayed on the multi-gym, working on his arm and chest muscles. Rathbone and another officer stood at the entrance, chatting. Barnes was on a bike, pedalling for all he was worth.

Shepherd revelled in the exercise. He'd been doing sit-ups and press-ups whenever Lee was in his bunk but there was something therapeutic about working against the machine with its steel-grey weights and chrome pillars. He worked his upper and lower arms, his shoulders, then did a series of leg stretches.

He looked over at the treadmills. Carpenter was still there, running fluidly, his breathing regular and even, his towel draped round his neck and his bottle of Highland Spring in his right hand. There was an Arab on the machine next to him, an obese man with a thick moustache who was bathed in sweat even though he could barely manage a fast walk. As soon as the Arab climbed off, Shepherd went over to take his place.

He nodded at Carpenter and started off at a slow jog, giving his muscles a chance to get used to working.

Carpenter upped the speed of his machine but he was barely breaking sweat. He took a swig from his water bottle. He was staring straight ahead as he ran. Shepherd figured he was probably imagining green fields ahead of him, not a blank white wall. Shepherd increased the pace. It had been over a week since he'd last been on a run and his muscles were burning already. It felt good to be moving again, though. His trainers thumped down on the machine's rubber tread and he increased the pace again. He glanced across at the control panel of Carpenter's machine. Carpenter was running at almost twice Shepherd's speed. And while Shepherd was running on the level, Carpenter's was set at an incline of ten per cent. He didn't seem aware that Shepherd was running alongside him.

Shepherd altered the incline so that it matched Carpenter's. The machine whirred and he had to drive himself harder to maintain the same speed. The adrenaline kicked in and he stopped being aware of his feet hitting the treadmill. He increased the speed again, to match Carpenter's machine, and the two men ran in synch.

Carpenter glanced at Shepherd's control panel, then jabbed at his speed button. The pace picked up and he started breathing heavily. Shepherd smiled to himself. Carpenter was clearly competitive, and he was more than happy to take him on. He increasedhis speedagainto match Carpenter's, and fell into the other man's rhythm. They ran together for ten minutes. Then Carpenter increased his speed. His mouth was open, his arms pumping as he ran.

Shepherd matched his speed and settled into the new rhythm. He knew he was close to his maximum; he was a distance runner, not a sprinter. But Carpenter was also close to his limit, and he seemed to be tiring quickly.

Shepherd knew he could outlast Carpenter - stamina was his strong point, always had been - but he was trying to win the man's confidence, not humiliate him. Sweat was pouring down Carpenter's face, and his Lacoste shirt was soaked. Shepherd let his own breath come in unsteady gasps, and faked a stumble. He powered on, but let his feet slap on to the rubber tread and his knees go weak. He reached out and slowed down his machine, panting. He stole a glance at Carpenter, who was smiling grimly.

Shepherd slowed his treadmill to a walk, wiped his face with his hands, still faking exhaustion, then stopped his machine and climbed off.

Carpenter ran for another full minute, then slowed to a jog.

Shepherd bent over, then dropped into a crouch. Carpenter grinned and stopped his machine. He stepped down, wiping his face with his towel.

'You're fit, all right,' said Shepherd.

'Just practice,' said Carpenter, stretching his legs.

'You know, in the old prisons they used treadmills as hard labour. Nowadays they're a privilege. Progress, huh?'

Carpenter chuckled.

'You're in the gym every day, pretty much, aren't you?' asked Shepherd.

'Pretty much.'

Shepherd straightened up. 'How do you manage that?'

Carpenter took a long drink from his water bottle but his eyes never left Shepherd's. Shepherd didn't look away, but kept an amused smile on his face, knowing that Carpenter was weighing him up. Carpenter wiped his mouth with his towel. 'You know how I manage it,' he said.

'Digger?'

'That and a broken leg should do it,' said Carpenter.

'There's only eight on the spur allowed at any one time, right?'

'That's the rule.'

'And Digger can get me on the list every day?'

Carpenter grinned at him. 'You'd have to ask him about that. Just don't try to get my slot.'

Shepherd pulled a face. 'Wouldn't want to screw things up for you.'

'You won't,' said Carpenter. He went over to a bike and climbed on. As he started pedalling, Shepherd climbed on to one next to him.

Both men cycled in unison, but this time there was no competition.

'Heard from your wife?' asked Carpenter.

Shepherd shook his head. 'I reckon it'll be her solicitor I hear from.'

'She seemed pretty angry.'

'Be different if I was outside,' said Shepherd. 'If I could just talk to her without the bloody screws looking on. The whole thing is bound to turn her against me, isn't it? The wall, the bars, the searches, the drugs dogs.'

'I've told my kids not to come,' said Carpenter. 'No way I want them seeing me in here.'

'Yeah, I wish mine hadn't brought my lad in. Especially if that's the last time he sees me. Hell of a memory. His dad behind bars with that stupid yellow sash.'

'You'll see him again,' said Carpenter. 'Fathers have rights.'

'Not if I'm sent down for twenty,' Shepherd said. 'By the time I get out, he'll have forgotten me.'

Carpenter didn't say anything. He took a drink from his bottle.

'You seem pretty calm about your situation,' said Shepherd.

Carpenter shrugged. 'No point in letting off steam in here,' he said. 'Throw a tantrum and they'll either drug you up or put you in a cell with cardboard furniture.'

'If it looks like I'm going to do twenty, I'll top myself.'

'You adapt,' said Carpenter.

'Fuck that,' said Shepherd.

'How would killing yourself make it any better?'

'Now you sound like Ed Harris. I mean it, I'd be better off dead.'

They pedalled in silence for a while. Shepherd wanted to keep Carpenter talking but without appearing over-eager. The West Indians had split into two groups and were lifting heavy weights.

'Your wife seemed okay,' said Shepherd, eventually. 'About coming to see you in here, I mean.'

'She knows it won't be for ever,' said Carpenter.

'But what if you don't get off ?'

Carpenter snorted softly. 'It's not about getting off. If I get in a courtroom, I'm buggered.'

'So what's your way out?'

Carpenter flashed him a sideways look. 'Why are you so interested?'

'Because if I don't come up with something, I'm fucked.'

Carpenter looked at him, his eyes hard. Then he nodded slowly, as if he'd decided he could trust Shepherd. 'How much money have you got on the outside, tucked away?'

'A fair bit.'

'You'll need more than a fair bit. Getting out from an open-and-shut case costs.'

'I've got a few hundred grand offshore. Even the wife doesn't know about it.'

'How good is the case against you?'

'I was caught red-handed. I wasn't carrying but there was a shotgun inside the warehouse.'

'Witnesses?'

'I think one of the guys is grassing.'

'That's where you start,' said Carpenter. 'You have to get him out of the equation.'

'Buy him off, you mean?'

'Whatever it takes.'

Shepherd's heart was racing. This was what he'd been working towards. It was why he was behind bars. 'Are you talking about something else?'

'Like I said, whatever it takes.'

'And what about the evidence?'

'You make it go away.'

'What - like abracadabra?'

'Like paying someone to make it go away.'

'You can do that?'

'Anyone can do it, providing you've got the money and the right person to give it to.'

Shepherd was pedalling slower now. 'The cops have got the shooter,' he said.

'So a cop can make it go away.'

'And you've got people who can do that?'

'We're not talking about me,' said Carpenter, 'we're talking about you. You find out where the shooter's kept and then you get to someone in the station. Or an officer on the case.'

'Oh, come on,' protested Shepherd. 'That's Fantasy Island.'

Carpenter put his hands on the bike's handlebars and concentrated on pedalling. Shepherd realised he'd offended him. 'I mean, do it wrong and I'll end up on corruption charges,' he said.

'So don't do it wrong,' said Carpenter. 'Put out feelers. You don't do it yourself, obviously. You get someone on the out to make the approach.'

'What do you reckon it would cost? To get rid of evidence?'

'Hypothetically?'

'Yeah.'

'Thirty grand. Forty, maybe.'

Shepherd stopped pedalling. 'Forty thousand quid?'

'That's why I was asking if you had ready money. You can't piss around, Bob. And buying off a cop has to be a hell of a lot cheaper than buying off a judge.' He grinned again. 'Hypothetically.'

Shepherd carried his lunch tray back to the cell. Cottage pie, chips and baked beans. Chocolate pudding and custard. It was no wonder that so many men on the spur were overweight.

Lee was still in the queue down on the ones, but Shepherd sat on his bunk and toyed with his food. The conversation he'd had with Carpenter had been a big step forward. He had been far more forthcoming than Shepherd could have hoped. He'd practically admitted to paying off cops on the outside, and come close to suggesting that Shepherd bribe a policeman and kill a witness. Shepherd's word on its own wouldn't be good enough to get a conviction, though. He'd have to do what Hargrove wanted and wear a wire. But that would be taking one hell of a risk.

He ate a forkful of cottage pie. It was greasy and tasteless, the potato lumpy and cold.

Another problem was getting on the gym list regularly. That would mean persuading Lloyd-Davies to put him on it or paying off Digger again. Shepherd had to know when and where he'd be talking to Carpenter: it would be far too dangerous to wear a wire all the time. And what would he do with the wire when he wasn't wearing it? There was hardly any space in the cramped cell, and it would be next to impossible to keep it hidden from Lee. Hargrove had suggested he use a recorder made to look like a CD player or Walkman, but it had to be functional or Lee would be suspicious. And Shepherd was all too well aware of how often equipment malfunctioned. He'd experienced everything from leaking batteries to microphone feedback. Usually on an undercover operation he'd have back-up close by so that if something went wrong he could be pulled out, but that wasn't possible in Shelton.

Shepherd had confirmation that Carpenter was killing witnesses and destroying evidence, but he didn't know yet how he was doing it and who was helping him. Shepherd suspected it was Tony Stafford, but Hargrove was going to want proof. Hargrove knew exactly how dangerous it would be for Shepherd to wear a wire, but he'd still asked - because he knew that if Carpenter wasn't stopped more people would die on the outside until he got what he wanted. His freedom.

Healey appeared at the door to Carpenter's cell. 'Got your papers here, Carpenter,' said the prison officer.

'Thanks, Mr Healey,' said Carpenter. He went to the door and took them. The Daily Mail, the Daily Telegraph and the Guardian. 'What was the hold-up?' As a rule the papers arrived before dinner.

'Short-staffed today. We didn't have anyone to check them. The post's running late too.'

Carpenter took his papers over to the table and flicked through the Guardian. The spur always seemed to be short-staffed on Saturdays. The officers didn't like working weekends. The envelope was in the City section. He ripped it open and took out a single sheet of paper. The tapes had been wiped. Now only Sandy Roper stood between him and freedom. And Kim Fletcher was on the case.

A prisoner appeared at the door. It was Andy Philpott.

'Got your papers, Mr Carpenter.' He handed Carpenter The Times and the Mirror.

'Thanks, Andy,' said Carpenter.

'Got your cappuccino, too,' said Philpott. He put a box of sachets on Carpenter's bunk.

Philpott was in his early twenties, remanded on burglary charges. Fifty-seven offences. Despite being a prolific housebreaker he had little in the way of money to show for it. His savings had soon gone to pay his lawyers, and now his wife and small child had to rely on family income support. He used his prison allowance to purchase items Carpenter wanted from the canteen, and Carpenter paid his wife on the out, ten pounds for every pound spent inside. It was an arrangement that suited them both. Philpott wasn't a smoker and didn't have a sweet tooth, and he was prepared to survive on prison food if it meant his family had an easier life.

'Appreciate it,' said Carpenter. As Philpott left, Digger arrived at the cell door.

'Okay if I come in, Gerry?' asked Digger.

'Sure,' said Carpenter. He waved at the chair. 'Please.'

Digger sat down. 'Drink?' Carpenter had a selection of bottles and cans on his table including Fanta, Coca-Cola, 7-Up, orange juice and sparkling water. He also had tea-bags, coffee, the cappuccino sachets and two flasks of hot water.

'OJ's fine,' said Digger. Carpenter poured him some and handed the glass to him.

'How's things?'

'Fine,' said Digger. 'There's a new guy on the ones bringing in crack next week. He's done hard time before so he knows the score. His girlfriend can regurgitate at will, he says.'

'More detail than I needed.' Carpenter laughed. 'How much?'

'He says twenty grams but I'll check he's not pulling a fast one. We're taking thirty per cent but if it becomes regular we'll take more.' Digger reached into the pocket of his tracksuit and gave Carpenter a gold band. 'There's the ring you wanted.'

Carpenter took it, pulled a face, then placed it on his pillow. 'What happened to Jurczak?'

'Got stamped on. The new guy, Macdonald. He wanted to be on the cleaning crew.'

'Sounds like he got what he wanted.'

Digger shrugged. 'Macdonald came through with five hundred. Someone had to get the job, seemed easier to give him what he wanted.'

'Is he going to be a problem?'

'I can handle him.'

'Is that what Needles thought?'

'He caught him by surprise.'

Carpenter laughed.

Digger's face hardened. 'He hit him while he wasn't looking.'

'Is Needles letting bygones be bygones?'

'It's personal so I'm not interfering. If he wants to stick Macdonald, that's his call.'

'I don't want the spur locked down because there's blood on the floor,' said Carpenter. 'If it turns into a gang war, we'll all suffer.'

'Macdonald's a loner, he won't have anyone backing him up. But I hear what you're saying, Gerry.'

'What do think of him, this Macdonald?'

'Keeps himself to himself unless there's something he wants. Then he goes for it.'

'Is he into you for anything?'

'Doesn't smoke, doesn't do drugs. Isn't interested in betting. Hardly ever uses the phone. Doesn't even spend at the canteen.'

'The man's a saint?'

'It's like he's not even here.'

'Doesn't look like a hard man, but Needles is no pushover.'

'Macdonald's hard, all right, even if he's not big.'

'But you can handle him?'

'I won't be fighting him. What he wanted wasn't unreasonable. And he paid the five hundred straight away. Needles was taking liberties, so more fool him.'

'Who paid?'

'Some guy on the out. Said he was his uncle. Turned up at my sister's with the readies in an envelope.'

'Notes okay?'

'Do me a favour, Gerry, I wasn't born yesterday.' He drained his glass and placed it on the table. 'Thanks for the juice.'

'Thanks for dropping by.'

Carpenter picked up the wedding ring and examined it as Digger left. It was a simple band, twenty-four-carat gold. Inside was an inscription: 'Simon and Louise. For ever.'

Alice Roper popped her head round the sitting-room door and told her two boys to get ready for bed.

'What's the point, Mum? It's not like we've got school tomorrow, is it?' moaned David. 'It's Sunday.'

'It's almost ten,' said Alice. 'Do as you're told.'

'When can we go back to school?' asked Ben.

'Soon.'

'When's soon? Monday?'

Alice didn't know what to say to her children. They'd been kept away from school since the day Ben had been approached in the street and they'd had to move away from the family home. She didn't want to worry her children, but obviously they knew something was wrong. No school. Moving to a strange house. She didn't want to lie to them, but how could she tell them the truth, that men were trying to kill their father? 'I don't know, Ben. As soon as I do, so will you. Believe me, it's no fun having you under my feet all day.'

'I hate this house,' said David.

'You and me both,' responded Alice. 'Now bed. Both of you.'

Her husband was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands round a mug of tea that she'd made almost an hour earlier. The kitchen was tiny, about a third of the size of the one in their own home. Everything about the so-called safe-house was small, And there were only two cramped bedrooms so the boys had to share a double bed.

'Sandy, we can't go on like this,' said Alice. She sat down opposite him.

Roper looked up, his eyes blank, as if his thoughts were a million miles away. 'What?'

Alice waved a hand round the kitchen. 'This place. It's just not suitable.'

'It's temporary. And it's safe.'

The house was in the middle of a sand-coloured brick terrace at the end of a small cul-de-sac in one of the older areas of Milton Keynes, the anonymous new town some fifty miles to the north of London. The Church had also arranged to use a room in a house at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. The owners were being paid handsomely and had been told that the men in the room were Drugs Squad officers on a surveillance operation. From their position they could monitor everyone who entered and left the dead-end street. There were only two ways into the house: the front door, which was approached across a small paved courtyard separated from the road by a low brick wall, and the rear door, which opened on to a walled garden. Beyond the garden there was a school playing-field. Anyone approaching the rear of the house could easily be seen from the upstairs bathroom window, where a man from the Church was permanently stationed with binoculars and night-vision goggles. Roper could see the advantages of being in the house, but the rooms were small and, other than the garden, there was nowhere for the children to play safely.

'They won't even let me out to buy food,' complained Alice. 'I have to give them a shopping list, like I was an invalid or something. Half the potatoes they came back with this morning were rotten.'

'I'll speak to them about the potatoes,' said Roper. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes had dark circles under them. Neither had slept much the previous night. The man on bathroom duty had a smoker's cough and an irritating sniff, and the walls had little in the way of soundproofing.

'This isn't about potatoes, it's about living like animals,' said Alice. 'It's like we're the ones in prison here. Every time we want to use the bathroom we have to ask permission. I bet Carpenter has more freedom than we do.'

'It won't be for ever.'

'It feels like we've been here for ever already,' she said. 'This isn't fair on the children.'

'I know.'

'Why can't they go and stay with my parents?'

'Because if Carpenter knows who I am he'll know everything else about us. Every friend, every relative. Nowhere will be safe.'

'I can't even go for a walk.'

Roper leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, exasperated. There was a small damp patch above the kitchen sink. The house had been neglected for many years: the once-white paintwork had yellowed, the door handles on the kitchen units were loose and the gas cooker was caked with burnt grease. Alice had done her best to clean the place, but she was right, it wasn't suitable for a family - although with the best will in the world, Roper didn't see what he could do to remedy the situation. The purpose of the safe-house was protection, not comfort. And, as he kept telling his wife, it wouldn't be for ever. Gerald Carpenter wasn't being vindictive and his attempts to put pressure on Roper weren't personal. All he wanted was to keep his freedom, and once a judge had handed down a sentence that would be an end to it.

Roper's mobile phone rang. He stood up, grateful for the interruption. It was in the hallway, on a glass table with ornate brass legs. There was a regular phone on the table but the Ropers had been told not to use it. The only people who knew the number of the landline were the Church and it would only be used in the event of an emergency. Roper picked up his mobile. The caller had blocked his number. Nothing unusual in that. Most of his Church colleagues routinely withheld their numbers and when he was working undercover virtually every call he received was from a blocked number. He put the phone to his ear. 'Roper,' he said.

'How's it going, Sandy?' someone asked.

Roper frowned. It was a guttural voice with an accent he couldn't quite place. West Country, maybe, but flattened out from years of living in London. It wasn't a voice he recognised. The mobile was his personal phone so the only people who had the number were friends, family, and the Church.

'Who's that?' he asked.

'Someone with your best interests at heart,' said the man. 'What did you think of the pictures, then?'

Roper bit down on his lower lip. The call was almost certainly from a throwaway mobile and therefore virtually untraceable. Even with the full resources of the Church technical boys they'd only be able to pinpoint the general area where the phone was being used. If he could have recorded the conversation then maybe they'd have been able to pick up clues from the background noise but as it was Roper was helpless.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'You know what we want,' said the man.

Alice came out of the kitchen and stood behind him, evidently sensing that something was wrong. Roper turned away from her, not wanting her to hear. 'How did you get this number?' he asked. He didn't expect an answer but he wanted to keep the man talking until he could think of something to say, something that would help him identify the voice.

The man chuckled. 'How's the missus?'

'You can tell Carpenter he's wasting his time,' said Roper. Alice put a hand on his shoulder but Roper went into the sitting room. Through the net curtains he could see two Church bodyguards sitting in a blue saloon, but he knew there was no point in attracting their attention. There was nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could do.

'Tell him yourself when he gets out,' said the man.

Alice followed Roper into the sitting room and stood in front of him, her arms folded across her chest. 'Who is it?' she mouthed, but Roper turned his back on her.

'There aren't many ways you could have got this number,' he said. 'It isn't listed.'

'We've given you every chance to save yourself and your family any grief,' said the man. 'What happens next is up to you.'

'And what is going to happen?' asked Roper.

'Sandy?' said Alice, but Roper silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips.

'You know what happened to the cop. We can get to you just as easily as we got to him.'

'So why the phone call?'

'Last resort,' said the man. Roper could definitely hear a trace of West Country in his accent. 'We were told to look for alternatives. We'd offer you money but the word is that you're one of the untouchables, Sandy. Tell me I'm wrong and we can put six figures in your bank account tomorrow.'

'That's a possibility,' said Roper. If he could persuade them to transfer money into his account it would leave a trail the Church could follow, a trail that would lead, hopefully, to Carpenter.

The man chuckled again. 'Do I sound as if I've got "fuckwit" tattooed across my forehead?' he asked. 'We've had you well checked, Roper, and you've never got your hands dirty, not once. You and that cop are whiter than white.'

It was good to hear that a villain considered him incorruptible, Roper thought, even though that was what had put him in his present precarious position. 'Which leaves us where?'

'We've asked nicely. Now we're telling you. Let it be known that you've had a sudden lapse of memory. That's all you have to do.'

'I can't.'

'We understand how that would be your first reaction,' said the man. 'You're career Customs, worked your way up through the ranks, done your bit for Queen and country. Probably get a minor gong when you hang up your white hat for good. But you've got to understand who you are and who we are, Sandy, what we've got to lose and what you've got to lose. And is what you've got to lose worth what you're going to gain by seeing my boss stay behind bars? What do you win? You get the satisfaction of seeing a family man like yourself sitting in a cell for ten years. Fifteen, maybe. And what have you got to lose? Well, you know exactly what you've got to lose. How old are you now, Sandy? Fifty-three, yeah? Birthday coming up next month. Retirement on the horizon. Those years with your wife and kids, that's what you're going to throw away.'

Roper said nothing. His wife stood in front of him, deep furrows across her brow. 'Who is it?' she mouthed again.

'This is the last time you'll hear from us,' said the man. 'If we don't hear by tomorrow that you're refusing to give evidence, you'll be a dead man. That's not a threat, that's a promise.'

Roper put the phone down.

'For God's sake, Sandy, who was it?' shouted his wife.

Roper wanted to lie to her, to tell her that everything was fine, but he knew it was too late to tell her anything but the truth. So he told her. And when the tears came, he held her tight.

Shepherd had been asked what religion he practised when he was brought into Shelton and he'd answered truthfully: none. But religious services were one of the few occasions when prisoners from the different blocks got together and he wanted to see if Carpenter talked to anyone. Shepherd had asked to be put on the Church of England list. The Catholics were taken from the spur at nine fifteen for their service, and returned to their cells an hour later. Lee was also down for the C of E service so when their cell door was unlocked at ten thirty they both went down to the bubble. More than thirty prisoners were waiting to go to the service. 'Didn't realise we were in with such a religious lot,' Shepherd said to Lee.

Lee wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'This is the big get-together,' he said. 'It's when you chase up debts, catch the gossip on the other spurs, find out who's been ghosted in.'

'Ghosted?'

'It's when the screws move a troublemaker around at short notice. Shove him in a van and deliver him to another prison across the country.' Lee grinned. 'Carry on the way you're going and you'll maybe get ghosted one day.'

Carpenter came down the stairs from the threes with Gilly Gilchrist.

Lloyd-Davies checked off all their names on her clipboard, then unlocked the barred gate and walked them through to the secure corridor. Hundreds of other prisoners were on the move, all being escorted by prison officers.

At the entrance to the room where the service was to be held, the prisoners were given a thorough pat-down. Shepherd figured that religious services were the main opportunity they had for moving contraband between blocks so the guards had to be extra-vigilant.

He took a seat at the back of the room. There was seating for almost a hundred in front of a small wooden lectern and, in the far corner, a small electronic keyboard where a middle-aged woman in a flowery print dress and a wide-brimmed hat was playing a hymn.

Carpenter walked down the centre aisle and sat next to an overweight man with fleshy jowls, who was constantly wiping his face with a handkerchief. He had a gold earring in his left ear and receding hair cropped close to his skull. He whispered something to Carpenter, who nodded. The two men sat with their heads close together, deep in conversation.

Shepherd relaxed and ran through the thousands of photographs in his memory. He'd seen the man before, in a photograph, though, not in person. An arrest picture. Front and side view. Ronnie Bain. A major marijuana importer who'd been imprisoned for eight years after one of his gang turned supergrass. He was less than half-way through his sentence and had been labelled Cat A after two jurors had been offered bribes to bring in a not-guilty verdict.

Two prisoners gave out hymn books, which were passed from hand to hand along the rows. Shepherd settled back in his seat, folded his arms and looked round the room at the murderers, drug-dealers, paedophiles and terrorists. There were huddled conversations going on everywhere, and despite the body searches Shepherd saw notes and small packages being transferred from mouth to hand and from hand to mouth.

The elderly minister announced a hymn and the congregation shuffled to its feet. A Welsh prison officer standing at the door led the singing, his deep baritone echoing round the room. Shepherd did his best to keep up but he wasn't familiar with the hymn. Bain and Carpenter were singing. So was Lee, who was sitting among a group of men in their twenties, all wearing the England football strip and sporting a variety of tattoos, predominantly bulldogs, the cross of St George, and blood-tipped daggers. They were all singing at the tops of their voices, heads tilted back, mouths wide open. They made Shepherd think of wolves howling at the moon.

There was no work on a Sunday but Shepherd was let out of his cell after lunch to help clean the floors on the spur. He worked with Charlie Weston and met Hamster and Ginger for the first time. Hamster was a lanky West Indian with a speech impediment that made him sound as if he was talking with his nostrils pinched together. Ginger was dressed from head to foot in Manchester United gear, including a baseball cap, team strip, wristbands and trainers with the team's logo on them. It was Ginger's sole topic of conversation as he worked. There was no sign of Carpenter.

Shepherd spotted Lloyd-Davies walking along the spur, her head down, deep in thought. 'Ma'am?' he said.

She looked up, frowning.

'Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but is there any chance of me getting on the gym list this afternoon?'

'Bit short notice,' said Lloyd-Davies.

'I keep asking but I'm told the list is full.'

'Everyone wants to go to the gym. You have to take your turn. Anyway, you all get three hours of association today and the exercise yard is open. Do a few laps of it.'

'Some people don't seem to have a problem getting on the gym list every day.'

Lloyd-Davies squinted at Shepherd. 'What are you trying to say?'

'Just that some guys are in the gym every day but I'm having to get down on my knees for one session a week.'

'You've only been here a few days,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'These things take time. And under prison rules you're only entitled to an hour a week in the gym. Anything above that is a privilege, not a right.'

'Yeah, well, it looks to me as if some prisoners are getting more privileges than others.'

'That's the whole point of the privilege system,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'Carrot and stick. Gym time is one of the carrots we offer.'

'So, how do I go about getting more carrots from you, ma'am?' said Shepherd, grinning.

'Stop giving me grief, for a start.' She grinned back. 'I'll see what I can do.' She pointed down at the floor. 'You've missed a bit.' When he looked down she chuckled. 'Made you look,' she said, and walked away.

Carpenter finished his cappuccino and placed his cup and saucer on the table. The coffee was a pale imitation of what Bonnie made for him at home but, then, she had a two-grand state-of-the-art coffee-maker that Carpenter had had shipped from Italy. He'd put in a request to have a coffee-maker in his cell but the governor had turned it down as a safety risk. It was a nonsense ruling, but so many prison rules owed nothing to logic. Prisoners weren't allowed kettles, but they were allowed Thermos flasks of hot water. From an electrical point of view, a coffee-maker was no more of a danger than the television sets the prison supplied. Carpenter had applied to buy a larger model for his cell but that application had been refused - another nonsense ruling - but a DVD player had been approved. Now all he had to do was to accumulate enough money in his account to buy it. He was on enhanced status, which meant he had thirty pounds a week to spend. There was nothing he could do about his phone calls, which had to be paid for from his account, but he could reduce all the other drains by getting other people to make purchases for him. All the food and drinkin the cell came from other prisoners. Carpenter placed orders and they brought it to his cell. He reimbursed them on the out, at a rate of ten to one.

Carpenter strolled out of his cell and leaned over the rail. Prisoners were lining up to be searched before going out into the exercise yard. Carpenter hated the yard. It reminded him of his schooldays. Turfed out of the classrooms for an hour to burn off excess energy so they'd be good little boys when lessons resumed.

Carpenter pushed himself off the rail and walked down the stairs to the ones. Several inmates nodded at him - anyone who'd been on the spur for any length of time knew who he was. Carpenter didn't plan to be behind bars long enough to have to build relationships. He'd bought Digger, and that was all he needed.

Hitchcock's cell was opposite the pool table. The door was open, but Carpenter knocked. 'Okay if I come in?' he asked.

Hitchcock was lying on his bunk. 'What do you want?'

'A chat,' said Carpenter.

'I just want to be left alone.'

'Difficult objective to achieve in here,' said Carpenter. He walked in and closed the door. It was a double cell and Hitchcock was on the top bunk: he rolled over so that he was facing the wall. Carpenter took the ring out of his pocket. 'I think this is yours,' he said.

Hitchcock twisted round. His mouth opened when he saw the wedding band. He rolled over again and took the ring from Carpenter, staring at it as if he feared it might disappear at any moment. 'Where did you get it from?' he asked.

'Thought you might want it back,' said Carpenter.

Hitchcock slipped on the ring. 'That was the first time it's been off my finger since I got married,' he said. 'Are you married?'

'Fourteen years,' said Carpenter.

'Why are you in here?' asked Hitchcock.

Carpenter wagged a finger at him. 'Prison etiquette. You never ask a man what he's done. If he tells you, that's fine. But you never ask him.'

'I'll remember that. Sorry.'

'There are other rules,' said Carpenter. 'Like you never step into another man's cell without being invited. And you always repay a favour. Nothing comes free in here.'

Hitchcock looked at the ring. Realisation dawned on his face. 'How much do I owe you?' he asked.

Carpenter smiled. 'Money isn't a currency in here, Simon.'

'But you want something from me?'

'You're a quick learner. Don't worry, Simon, I don't want anything major, just the FT.'

'The FT?'

'The Financial Times. Monday to Saturday. And The Economist every week. You place an order with the office and they'll have it delivered from the local newsagent. Soon as it arrives you bring it up to my cell. I'm on the threes. The top floor.'

'How do I pay for it?'

'Comes out of your allowance,' said Carpenter. 'Can't see you getting into trouble so you'll be enhanced, which means you get thirty quid a week to spend.'

'But I need that money to call my wife.'

'You'll have enough for that. You need anything else Digger can get it for you and you pay him on the out.'

Tears welled in Hitchcock's eyes. Carpenter knew his demands were unfair but he felt no sympathy for the man. In prison you were either a sheep or a wolf. Carpenter and Digger had come in as wolves and recognised it in each other. Even the new man, Macdonald, had shown his strength within days of arriving at Shelton. But men like Hitchcock had vulnerability stamped on them. Victim. Soft target. And if Carpenter didn't take advantage of him, others would.

'This is a nightmare,' said Hitchcock. He sat on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands.

'You've got money outside, right?'

Hitchcock nodded.

'So use it. Digger's the man to help. You want a single cell, Digger can arrange it. You want a decent job, you see Digger.'

'He's the big black guy, right? He's the one who stole my ring. And my St Christopher.'

'He runs the spur. He can take pretty much what he wants.'

'Why don't the prison officers do something?'

'This isn't nursery school. You can't go running to the teachers.'

'I spoke to one of the officers. He said he could write up a report saying what had happened, but that if he did Digger would . . .' He tailed off. 'This is a bloody nightmare.'

'Which officer?'

'Hamilton. The young guy.'

'He was giving you good advice. If he'd taken a report it would have gone to the governor and you'd have been branded a grass. Grasses don't last long in prison.'

'So I just have to do what he says. Whatever Digger wants, he gets?'

'You can try standing up to him, but he's big and he's got a lot of muscle. Or you pay him for what you want. You're lucky, Simon. You've got money. The guys who've got nothing still have to pay him. One way or another.'

Carpenter headed for the door.

'Gerry?' Carpenter stopped and turned. 'Thanks,' said Hitchcock. Tears were running down his cheeks.

Carpenter felt a rush of contempt for the man. 'Just remember the FT,' he said.

Shepherd was watching two prisoners, in yellow and green Jamaican football strips, play pool when he saw Carpenter come out of Hitchcock's cell and head for the stairs. He caught up with him as he reached the twos. 'Gerry, can I have a word?'

'What's up?'

They stood together at the railing, looking down on the ones. It was just before three thirty, which meant that tea would be served in just over an hour. Lock-up would start at five fifteen, which meant another fifteen hours stuck in their cells. Another fifteen hours with Lee, watching mindless television. Fifteen hours during which Shepherd's investigation remained in limbo.

'What we were talking about yesterday - in the gym?'

'What about it?'

Shepherd looked about him to check that no one was within earshot, and lowered his voice to a whisper: 'I've got to get out of here, it's doing my head in.'

'There's none of us in here by choice,' said Carpenter.

'I'm going crazy. I couldn't do a year inside, never mind a ten-stretch.'

'You adapt,' said Carpenter calmly.

'Fuck that!' spat Shepherd.

'Don't get pissy with me, Bob. I'm just telling you how it is.'

Shepherd gripped the rail so tightly that his knuckles whitened. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I've just had as much as I can take, that's all.'

'That's why we go to the gym. Burn off the excess energy.'

'That's okay if you know you're heading out. I'm going down for a long time, Gerry. Unless I do something about it.'

Carpenter shrugged. 'I've got problems of my own.'

'But you're dealing with them, right?'

Carpenter's eyes were icy. 'How do you know?'

Shepherd looked back at him, keeping his breathing regular, suppressing all the tell-tale signs of nervousness. He looked him right in the eyes, smiling slightly. Just a regular guy, shooting the breeze, not an undercover cop interrogating a suspect. He hadn't made a mistake. Bob Macdonald didn't know for sure that Carpenter had been killing witnesses and destroying evidence, but after the conversation they'd had in the gym it was a fair assumption. 'You're too laid-back,' said Shepherd. 'You know you're out of here.'

'Maybe I've just got a good lawyer.'

'If you had a good lawyer, you wouldn't be on remand. No, you're making it happen, right? Like you said yesterday, you're taking care of it on the out.'

'If I am, that's my business.'

'You've got to help me, Gerry.'

'I don't have to do anything.'

Shepherd put a hand on Carpenter's arm. 'Look, I've got people on the outside who can help me, but it's getting to them that's the problem. My lawyer's as straight as they come, he won't pass on messages - not the sort I'm going to need to send - my wife wants nothing to do with me, and they listen in to all phone calls. I'm fucked, unless you can help me.'

Down below, two men in aprons wheeled in the hotplate and plugged it into a power point. According to Lee, Sunday tea was the major meal of the week: roast beef or roast turkey and all the trimmings.

'Why would I help you, Bob? Where's the up-side for me?'

'I can pay.'

'I don't need your money.'

'But I need your help. I just need you to get a message out for me. A note to the guys who can get things sorted.'