Ultimatum

Sixty-three

20.50

Fox sat on the bunk smoking a cigarette and listening to the faint sounds of violence drifting through the prison like music to his ears.

The cell they’d put him in didn’t have a TV so he could no longer see what was happening in the outside world, but it didn’t matter. He knew it would be bedlam out there as the government tried to show they were in control of a situation when they quite clearly weren’t. He smiled. It felt good to experience power again. He knew the police were desperate for any information he could give them — all the more so now that the name he’d given Tina Boyd had produced such dramatic results. But that was the reason he’d chosen Tina. Unlike so many coppers these days, she got things done.

Fox had always been a patient person. As a child he’d been able to sit for hours fishing with his father at the lake near their home, knowing that if he waited long enough, a trout would bite, because in the end one always did. It was a trait that had served him well during the long monotonous days he’d spent in prison.

But as he sat there now, he was finding it hard to stay calm. All his months of planning rested on what would happen in the next few hours. There was still so much that could go wrong. And in his heart, he knew that this was his one opportunity. He’d played all his cards. Now he would have to wait and see whether they trumped everyone else’s or not.

In his office, Governor Jeremy Goodman stared at the phone on his desk, listening to its high-pitched ringing. At the still very productive age of sixty-four he was actively considering retirement for the first time in his life. He’d worked in the prison system for more than thirty years, the last ten of which had been spent running Westmoor, and he prided himself on the safe, peaceful environment he’d fostered for the prisoners during that time. And now, suddenly, all his good work was being destroyed, as the prisoners repaid his work with a destructive and ultimately pointless riot, which had now spread to two of the prison’s wings.

Knowing he could avoid it no longer, he picked up the phone. The person at the other end was the Home Office minister Alan Harris, an irritating little man with a ‘hang ’em and flog ’em’ approach to criminal behaviour which was entirely unsuited to a modern, progressive society.

After a cursory attempt at pleasantries, Harris got straight down to business. ‘We’re moving Prisoner William Garrett,’ he said in a nasal voice that grated on Goodman every time he heard it.

‘On whose authority?’

‘The Prime Minister’s. The paperwork should already have arrived in your email account. An armed police escort with copies of the paperwork will be arriving at the prison in the next fifteen minutes.’

‘Are you sure about this, Minister? Prisoner Garrett is perfectly safe here. He’s in protective custody, well away from the disturbance, which we’ve contained in two wings. We also have Tornado Teams and riot police en route, the first of which should be here any minute.’

‘But you’ve also had two attempts on Garrett’s life, Governor, and the last one was less than an hour ago. I’m sorry, but whatever you may think, your facility, for all its progressive policies, is simply not secure enough. And we can’t afford to lose this prisoner.’

Goodman bristled at the way he was being spoken to by a jumped-up little twit like Harris who was obviously taking real pleasure out of the situation, even though it was clear that with three attacks in London in one day he was hardly on top of things either.

‘Prisoner Garrett will be ready,’ he said curtly, and ended the call without waiting for a reply.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked Officer Thomson, the most senior of the prison officers on duty, as Goodman put down the receiver. Thomson was stood to attention, with his hands behind his back, looking every inch the military man he’d once been.

Goodman sighed. ‘Prisoner Garrett is being removed. You need to go and get him ready. And make sure you give him a full body search. I don’t trust him an inch.’

Thomson frowned. ‘Where are they taking him, sir?’

‘I don’t know. And to be perfectly frank, I don’t care. He’s someone else’s problem now.’