Love You Dead

78 Wednesday 11 March

Few police officers liked entering a prison on any kind of business. There was always the lurking fear that if you were unlucky enough to be inside the locked compound when a riot kicked off, you would rate even higher than the nonces and the prison officers as the biggest object of hatred and the No. 1 target.

Both Glenn Branson and Norman Potting, in the back of the French police car, were thinking this as they were driven through the tall gates into the wire-mesh enclosed outer perimeter of the Centre Pénitentiaire de Saint-Quentin-Fallavier some kilometres from the city, shortly after 7 a.m. on a damp, chilly morning. To the two Englishmen, the utilitarian modern building looked more like a factory on an industrial estate than a prison. Their driver, who had picked them up from the hotel earlier, was friendly enough, attempting to converse in his very limited English, and they had tried to respond in their even more limited French. But neither Potting nor Branson was in a chatty mood; they were both suffering badly from the previous evening.

Knowing they had to be up at sparrows, they should have been sensible and had an early night. Instead, at a restaurant close to their hotel which their French hosts had suggested, they had downed beers, followed by a bottle of cheap red wine, then a second, as Potting had poured his heart out over the recent loss of his fiancée, and Branson, in turn, had reminisced on his failed marriage and the subsequent death of Ari. Then when they’d returned to their hotel they’d stayed up well past midnight downing cognacs, while Potting confided his fears to Branson about his recent prostate cancer diagnosis, and of having surgery.

Branson had at least eaten fairly sensibly last night: fish soup t hen steak and chips. Potting had gone for escargots in garlic butter and then what he had thought was akin to an English banger, after looking it up on Google Translate, forgetting Grace’s warning to Branson about Andouillette. He had nearly gagged from the stench that had risen from the plate when it had been presented to him. But, hungry, and numbed by the alcohol, he had dutifully consumed it. Now it was all repeating on him, and his stomach felt like it had turned into a tumble dryer.

The plan, in as much as they had been able to understand from their driver, was to witness the collection, by three officers from the UK Extradition Unit, of Edward Crisp from his cell in the hospital wing, accompanied by the prison doctor because of Crisp’s broken arm from his skiing accident. The doctor would accompany Crisp in the prison van, which was waiting in front of them, to the nearby Lyon-Saint-Exupéry Airport, where they would escort him back to England aboard a British Airways flight at 10 a.m.

Both British detectives were chewing gum to mask the reek of alcohol on their breath. They followed the Extradition Unit members and a prison officer in a black uniform and sturdy boots, clutching a bunch of keys, through a series of double doors, each being locked behind them as they entered the prison’s interior.

Glenn Branson’s main experience of prisons had been the grim Victorian one just outside Brighton, in Lewes. This one, despite being more modern, had the same claustrophobic feel, with bars, grilles and bare walls, the same slightly rank smell. Potting, who had mumbled about badly needing a toilet, ambled a few steps behind him along a corridor lined on both sides with cell doors. There was a smell of cigarette smoke. A male voice shouted out something in French, which was ignored.

They stopped outside a door. The prison officer slid back an inspection hatch and peered in, then indicated to Branson and Potting to take a look too.

Despite his pounding head, Glenn Branson felt a beat of excitement as he peered at the motionless, slumbering man inside, facing the wall, his head obscured with a blanket.

Two other prison officers materialized from the far end of the corridor. The one they had followed in turned to them and said, ‘Attendez!’

He unlocked the door and went in, accompanied by the other two officers and the doctor, and approached the bed.

‘Got to find a toilet,’ Potting whispered to Branson. ‘Bloomin’ stomach’s on fire.’

‘We’ll stop on the way out, Norman.’

Then they heard a shout from inside the cell. ‘Non! Non! Ce n’est pas possible!’

Branson stepped in and saw the first officer pull the blanket back. Then he stood stock-still, staring in disbelief. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’