The next day Alan was driving back to Harriet’s across a frozen fen, on a cold winter’s afternoon. Even though it was barely mid-February, the sun, when it did manage to appear between rainclouds, had begun to acquire a little warmth. But not today, which had been dank and overcast. Bloody miserable. By rights, Alan ought to have been feeling optimistic. After all, the two babies were an unusual discovery: puzzling and unexpected. But there was something about them that he found profoundly unsettling. The way they were found, bundled into a bag. Behind this, there lurked another thought: had this also been Sofia’s fate, to be broken up and discarded?
He’d set his mobile to silent, as Brutus was too noisy to hear a ringtone anyway. And now it was vibrating in his shirt pocket. Rapidly he pulled into a field gateway and answered. It was DCI Lane. At last.
‘Hi Richard, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. We need to talk. It’s about Ali.’
‘Great minds and all that,’ replied Lane. ‘Norman Grant phoned me last night. They’ve been having security problems…’
Alan’s heart sank at these words.
‘Oh no, Richard,’ he broke in, ‘don’t tell me tomorrow’s cancelled.’
‘No, relax, Alan,’ Lane continued, ‘It’s just a heads up. It looks like our friend Ali might be smuggling mobile phones into the prison. No concrete proof as yet, but we’re looking into it at our end.’
Oh that old scam, Alan thought. But Ali, why was he doing it? He suspected it was about more than just making money.
‘I thought the authorities had said they were going to stamp it out?’
‘Supposedly yes, but there are ways and means. Anyhow, it would seem there’s a turf war inside Blackfen…’
The signal out in the Fens can be terrible and now the line was breaking up.
‘What, for control of the phone supply?’
‘Among the prisoners, yes. There’s also tension among the staff between outside security consultants, who are backed by the Governor, and the in-house people. So nobody seems to be talking to anybody.’
Alan had little time for internal politics, either from the inmates or the staff. He cut straight to the point.
‘So how will it all affect me?’
‘Indirectly, from what Grant said. They’re having to tighten up on everything. Especially on any opportunities for one-to-one communication between inmates and outsiders.’
‘In case phones get smuggled in?’
‘Yes, that’s the idea.’
‘So how on earth am I going to get to speak to Ali? I must see him face-to-face.’
‘I agree. I’ll see what strings I can pull.’
‘Great, thanks, Richard. But there’s something else…’
‘I’m sorry, Alan, this line is terrible. Let’s catch up tomorrow evening when you’re done.’
‘I’m not sure it can wait…’
As he spoke, Alan became aware that the line had died. He looked at the screen: no signal. Had Lane heard him? No telling.
And then the truth of the matter hit him. It was obvious, how could he have been so bloody stupid? If Ali was behind the mobile phone scam, he could easily communicate with the outside world. Ordering an arson attack was simply a matter of, quite literally, pressing a button.
Nine hours later, Alan was back on the road. He pulled wearily down on Brutus’s heavy steering wheel and drove into the prison car park for the second Lifers’ Club session. All the way across the South Holland fens he’d been trying to work out his options. Any sane person with a modicum of self-preservation would simply walk away. Scrap the entire course. He could easily pretend to Grant and Lane that Paul had read him the riot act about taking time off. Of course this would be a big white lie because, as ever, Alan had been at pains to insist to Paul, like all his other clients, that he would be working for PFC as a freelance. But Lane and Grant wouldn’t know that. At all events, he thought, it was an option, but one of last resort – a nuclear one. Before he took that drastic step he needed to see Ali again. He wouldn’t challenge him directly, he wasn’t that naïve, no matter what Lane might think. But he’d find a way of bringing up the subject of the fire and see how Ali reacted. That is, provided he was allowed to talk to him at all.
Once inside the prison, he was assigned an escort officer. On his previous visit, the officer had been friendly and they had chatted away amiably. But not this time. Now the man was taciturn. They also seemed to be taking a different route to the classroom used in the previous session. Maybe, Alan wondered, they’d been allocated a new place, because the A-level course audience was going to be smaller than the introductory slide show. He suggested this to his guide.
‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘Administration have decided that we’re to be in a smaller facility. More secure. Better camera surveillance.’
This didn’t sound good. Alan was dubious:
‘But it is a proper… a proper classroom, is it?’
‘So they tell us, sir.’ This carried the implication that whatever ‘they’ told the staff was of little worth. He continued: ‘But it’s what we’ve been given.’
The conversation had ended.
After what seemed like an interminable trek through identical brightly lit corridors, they arrived at a classroom. Alan looked around him. It was a small space and the seating wasn’t raked, like for the previous session, neither were there any windows. It felt claustrophobic and airless. The acoustics were flat, too. It would be hard work addressing an audience here, even a small one. But what the hell. Resigned, Alan went over to the projector and plugged in his laptop, then stood back and waited for the class to enter.
This was going to be less of an ‘occasion’ than the first session, and normally this would have made Alan relax; but not now. In fact, it seemed to have a slightly different effect. He felt low. Lifeless.
A side door opened, and the Education Officer, who he now knew quite well after many phone calls, entered.
‘They’ll be here shortly, Alan.’
He stood beside Alan. They said nothing.
They stood there for what seemed like a quarter of an hour, but was probably nearer five minutes. Eventually the man beside him spoke in a low whisper.
‘Sorry about this…’
‘That’s all right.’
What else could he say?
‘It’s been odd. The place has been weird all day. There’s been a security flap. Something to do with illicit mobile phones. Education is based in Bedford, so we’ve only heard rumours, but when I set out this morning word had it that everyone here is brassed off.’
‘Seems odd,’ Alan replied under his breath, ‘surely phones and prisoners don’t mix, do they? Or are the officers taking a cut of the business?’
‘There may be some of that, although I’d be surprised if it were the officers. More likely part-time staff. Cleaners, kitchen assistants, that sort of person. No, the problem seems to have been the way they’ve handled it.’
‘What, the Governor?’
‘Yes, him – and the Administration. It’s common knowledge he’s not very popular with the staff. A bit heavy-handed. They say he talks down to them. La-di-da. You know how it is.’
Alan was about to reply when he was cut short by the flashing red light. He counted the prisoners into the room. There were nine of them. So he hadn’t even started and three students had already dropped out. He tried not to take it personally, but his pride was wounded. He knew it was ridiculous, after all three less students meant more individual interview time. More time with Ali.
He spotted Ali immediately. He had anticipated that the younger man might try to avoid his gaze, but he didn’t. Their eyes met and Ali’s stare was intense and unsmiling. It was neither defiant nor threatening. If anything it was worse: it told him absolutely nothing. Deadpan.
But that stare had done the trick.
Alan straightened and almost shuddered; he’d been hit by a massive shot of adrenalin.
As the students settled down, the Education Officer handed Alan a full list of their names, plus a few notes they’d prepared themselves, about their outside interests. Nothing was said about the inmates’ crimes, or sentences.
The Education Department had agreed that each session would begin with an hour’s talk on a particular subject, followed by an hour and a half ‘contact time’, when the students would do practical work with artefacts which Alan would provide. During this time too, Alan would have one-to-one interviews with each man, when they’d discuss the previous month’s essay, and any other problems to do with the course.
As this was the initial A-level session, there were no essays, so Alan had intended to use the interviews to learn why each student had decided to enrol. Or at least that’s what he’d told the powers that be.
The Education Department stipulated that a table and two chairs should be set to one side of the classroom. They’d be positioned close by a panic button, so there’d be no need for closer supervision, as there would be at least one officer in the room. That was the theory. The practice was different.
Alan gave his set piece lecture: starting with a rapid historical introduction to archaeology, which lasted for about half his allotted time. Then he drilled down to detail. He wanted his class to realise what the modern subject could achieve and he used the notes Harriet had given him on DNA, and the analysis of burial rites to estimate the extent and rate of possible Saxon incursions. It was heard in respectful silence and he couldn’t judge how well, or how badly, it had gone down. Then, precisely one hour after he had begun speaking, he finished.
At that point an additional officer entered the room and helped the two others arrange the furniture. It wasn’t at all what Alan had imagined: instead of a cosy table and two chairs they dragged the lecturer’s desk-cum-table to one side and placed chairs at either end, a generous two, maybe two and a half metres apart. An officer was standing at the centre of the long table that separated the two chairs. He looked like an ex-military man. He stood stock still, legs slightly apart, hands behind his back, staring into the middle distance. All he lacked was a sentry box.
When the arrangements had been completed, an officer announced to the Education Officer in a very loud voice:
‘Interview arrangements now in place, SIR!’
Visibly deafened by this, the Education Officer flinched and, turning to Alan, muttered under his breath:
‘Christ, this is going to be hard work. It’s all part of the security row. You must see the Governor before you go home. Please. We can’t do a damn thing like this.’
In a much louder voice he announced to the class:
‘As this is to be a full A-level course, our specialist teacher Mr Alan Cadbury has asked to have some ten minutes for individual interviews with each student.’
He was cut off by one of the officers who whispered something in his ear. The room went silent. Then he resumed.
‘I have been reminded that due to current operational difficulties, all unaccompanied one-to-one contacts will have to cease. So supervision will be in place and the interviews will be reduced to just two minutes.’
When he had finished, the officer nodded his approval.
Alan’s adrenalin was now surging, red hot and furious. How the hell was he going to get anything out of Ali in this situation? He took a deep breath. Stay cool, he told himself. Take your time and choose your words wisely.
At the final planning session Alan and the Education Officer had decided to break with tradition and not order the individual sessions alphabetically – an attempt, pathetic in the current circumstances, to make the process ‘less mechanistic’. So there were two other inmates before Ali. The first was a university student who was completely at sea in prison. He had long given up trying to relate to others and his replies were terse, his eyes to the ground. Alan made a note of his name for future sessions. The next man was confident, but very poorly educated; Alan couldn’t decide if he’d been let down by the education system; again he made a note of his name, with the simple query: ‘Thick?’
Ali Kabul was next. And it didn’t help that Alan was now very frustrated. Ali detected Alan’s mood, instantly. Slowly he smiled. Alan got the impression that Ali was enjoying seeing him so fed up.
Sitting at opposite ends of the table, Alan could clearly read Ali’s body language: he was very confident. Alan deliberately adjusted his posture. He sat up, leant forward and placed both his hands on the table: a gesture of control, he hoped.
He looked down at the sheet before him.
‘Tell me, Mr Kabul, why did you join this course?’
‘You know why.’
The officer standing between them cleared his throat, then continued to stare straight ahead. His presence had the effect of a reinforced concrete wall between them.
Ali paused briefly before Alan replied.
‘I’d like to hear it from you, directly.’
‘I like old things.’
‘Is there any specific aspect of archaeology that you’d like to focus on?’
‘Oh, you know, dead bodies.’
Alan felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. Ali was actually taunting him. The officer was right there, right next to them, and he just didn’t care.
He was goading Alan on, daring him to mention Sofia.
OK, thought Alan, if he really wants to play it like that…
Alan leant forward, and spoke to Ali in a softer, more informal tone.
Almost as if he was confiding in him.
‘I’m sorry the lecture was a bit disappointing.’
Ali shrugged.
‘It was all right.’
‘I had limited resources. My house burnt down a few days ago. I lost half my books.’
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘Language, Mr Kabul,’ warned the officer.
Alan willed him not to intervene.
Ali was leaning forward in his chair now. He looked shocked. He seemed genuinely concerned.
‘What happened?’
‘The police suspect arson.’
Not strictly true, thought Alan. Or at least not yet. But he wanted to ramp up the pressure.
Ali was shaking his head, part angry, part incredulous.
‘You got out OK?’
‘Luckily, I wasn’t there when it happened.’
‘Right, so whoever did it just wanted to scare you, not kill you. That’s something, I guess.’
The prison officer was staring straight ahead still, but there was an intensity to his gaze that suggested to Alan that he was listening with every fibre in his body. Alan was aware that they were skating on very thin ice indeed.
‘Anyway, back to the course. Is there any period that you are particularly interested in?’
But Ali wasn’t listening.
‘I can’t believe you lost your books, man. That really sucks.’
He looked genuinely upset. In that moment, for the first time since they’d re-met, Alan saw the Ali that he used to know was now gazing straight at him.
The officer coughed and looked at his watch.
‘Your time’s up, Kabul.’ He glanced down at the list on his clipboard, ‘Tell Evans he’s next. Jump to it, lad!’
At the end of the individual sessions, as the students were filing out of the room, the Education Officer came up and told Alan that the governor was keen to see him, if he could spare the time. This was what Alan wanted, even though he was now desperate to be out of the place and back at Harriet’s.
He was feeling as low as he could remember. He’d come hoping for clarity of some sort, but now he felt more confused and muddled than ever. He stared vacantly at the wall and waited, while one of the officers was detailed to escort him to Grant’s office. Then they set off.
After five minutes of walking along identical corridors, all brightly lit by overhead strip lights, they passed through a double-locked door into the Administration Block. Alan was aware of a sudden relaxation in the atmosphere. His escorting officer could read it in his face:
‘It gets you every time, doesn’t it?’
‘What, d’you feel the change too?’ Alan replied, surprised at this.
‘Yes, I do. Every time. But it’s worse for the secretaries and people on this side. Some of them refuse point-blank to come over to our side. They won’t budge from out of here.’
And with that he closed and locked the heavy door behind him.
The wheels of Blackfen Prison, like so many British civil institutions, were lubricated not so much by harsh discipline, as by endless cups of tea, the latest of which was placed before Alan and the Governor by his Personal Assistant, who then returned to her desk in the anteroom.
‘So I see here,’ the Governor glanced down at the sheets of paper before him, ‘that you’ve got nine students. That’s good. Very good. You must have made your introduction last month highly enticing. I certainly enjoyed it.’
Alan looked suitably modest.
‘I did my best. But having got nine, can I expect to keep them all?’
‘As a rule, yes, you can – unless of course they don’t come up to scratch and you decide to drop one, or more, of them. That happens quite often. And if somebody isn’t coping, it’s better to shed them. You can do it quite gently, but if they’re obviously struggling, it just adds to the other stresses of prison life. You’d be doing them no favours if you kept them on.’
There was a quiet knock on the door, and Grant’s PA came in to remove their tea things. The Governor was thumbing through his files.
‘Right,’ Grant began, ‘those lists. Who do we have here?’ He ran his finger down the page. ‘None of them have been assessed as dangerous, but of course they wouldn’t be here in the first place, if they were little angels. Have a look for yourself.’
He handed Alan three sheets of print-out. Alan went through the motions of reading them through.
‘I’m slightly interested in this chap, Ali Kabul.’
He held up the notes and pointed to Ali’s name. The governor looked down at the files.
‘Ah yes. He arrived last year…’
Alan decided it was time to come clean. Or at least partially.
‘I could swear,’ he broke in, ‘I’ve seen him before.’
‘Oh really?’ The Governor was obviously interested. Alan guessed it wasn’t often that teaching staff were acquainted with inmates. Again he referred to his notes.
‘It says here, he was convicted at Leicester Crown Court for murder.’
‘I was on a dig at a place called Flax Hole, in Leicester, back in February 2002 at the time of the murder and this young man…’
‘Are you sure it was him? Young…’
Alan suspected he was going to say ‘young Asians’, but thought better of it. ‘Youngsters can look very similar, especially if they’re wearing those hoodie things.’
Alan sympathised with Grant’s brief moment of discomfort, again those cultural prejudices, lurking just beneath the surface. No-one was immune, not even the most well-meaning prison Governor.
‘He never wore a hoodie, but I got to talk to him on several occasions. He was a pleasant young man. Very intelligent and yes, I’m certain the man I saw this afternoon was him.’
‘Quite certain?’
‘Absolutely. He visited the site several times. He also showed a real interest and ability. I’d have employed him, if I could, but he was already running a small delivery business.’
Alan paused briefly then continued, ‘I also met the victim, his sister Sofia, too.’
Norman Grant got up from behind his desk and went over to a filing cabinet from which he withdrew yet another folder. He rapidly scanned it.
‘Ah yes,’ he said as he resumed his seat, ‘I remember this one well. Interesting case, Mr Ali Kabul. A bright lad. He joined us early last February and was sent here direct from Leicester Crown Court. It was one of the first of those unpleasant “honour” killing cases, but Kabul wasn’t caught and convicted until almost seven years after the killing.’
‘Why on earth did it take so long to arrest him?’
Alan knew the answer of course, but he was keen to see if Grant’s version of events tallied with Lane’s. Or if there was more to it; if Lane had been selective with his disclosure of information.
‘The usual thing. The entire family clammed up. Everyone had ridiculously over-watertight alibis. It was the murdered girl’s fiancé…’
He consulted the notes again and continued, ‘That shopped them. A young Sikh lawyer named Indajit Singh. He was convinced that his bride-to-be, Sofia, had been murdered.’
‘Presumably because he was a Sikh and their union would bring shame on the family.’
‘Precisely.’
‘They never found the body, did they?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not party to that level of detail.’
Alan doubted that very much. From Grant’s defensive body language he could tell that this was a sensitive area. And no wonder – a murder conviction based solely on a confession, without any forensic evidence, had to be a contentious issue.
Time to try a different line of questioning.
‘So how long did young Ali get?’ Alan asked.
Again, he knew the answer, but was keen to hear Grant’s interpretation of events.
‘Not as long as I’d have thought, to be frank. If he’s a good boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Parole Board don’t let him out in nine years, maybe even less.’
‘And is he a “good boy”?’
‘So far.’
The Governor paused. Then continued, ‘How can I put it? He’s an operator to his fingertips. And we have some grounds to believe he’s involved with illicit mobile phones. He certainly uses them. But then, sadly, so do most inmates.’
‘On what grounds? Have you been monitoring their calls?’
Grant smiled.
‘If we could do that we’d be able to cut the crime rate in the outside world by a record percentage. No. We just know that the smuggled phones originated from Leicester, which puts Kabul in the frame.’
‘You’ve traced their SIM cards?’
‘Oh no, nothing as simple as that. They never have personalised SIMs. To be honest I don’t know all the details, but it’s something the police have told us. And it’s been confirmed by independent security consultants.’
‘I must admit I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Ali was involved in the phone scam. Doing business seems to be in his blood.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘I offered Ali help to get a place at university but he turned it down in favour of setting up his own van delivery service.’
‘That confirms my impression of the man,’ Grant replied, pencilling a note in his files, ‘he’s someone who can organise people and things.’
‘He’s also clever. Very clever. So what I don’t understand is, if there was no concrete evidence against him, why would he confess and condemn himself?’
‘According to these notes,’ the Governor replied, ‘when he did confess he expressed great remorse for what he’d done. Apparently that affected the jury. According to friends and family he regularly attended the Mosque and would pray for forgiveness. They said he was even planning a pilgrimage to Mecca…’
‘How much of that do we believe – any of it?’
‘You tell me,’ the Governor replied. ‘I’ve no idea. But it would seem the jury bought it – or at least some of it. And then of course there was the question of his age – and that can’t be disputed, as he still possesses his Turkish birth certificate.’
‘So how old was he when he committed the crime?’
Grant referred to his notes.
‘One month the wrong side of eighteen. If he’d been a month younger, things wouldn’t have gone so hard for him.’
The Governor took the file over to his desk, where he sat down. Then the older man voiced what they were both thinking.
‘Honour killing. It’s so hard to believe in this day and age, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘But what are the chances,’ Grant said, focusing on Alan, ‘of you being there at that precise place and time? And then turning up here so soon after his arrival?’
This didn’t sound like an accusation, but Alan knew he couldn’t be too careful. He tried to sound casual in his reply.
‘To be honest, I’d have been surprised if I hadn’t been. Nearly all sites for redevelopment near the city centre are crawling with archaeology. And at the time we were being run off our feet.’
‘And the sites: I guess most are Roman, aren’t they? Like ours here?’
Alan welcomed the opportunity of deflecting attention away from himself and back onto Grant’s interest in archaeology. Ratae Corieltaurum, Roman Leicester, was a major centre.
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘but the Roman City had large extra-mural suburbs too. And there’s also plenty of Saxon and medieval stuff around, not to mention post-medieval and industrial sites. I began as a Site Supervisor with the City Archaeological Unit. I had a two year contract. I supervised dozens of projects, large and small. Then I set up with another man and we did Flax Hole together.’
‘So not for the City Unit?’
‘No. We did it ourselves.’
The Governor was interested. He obviously had a huge appetite for archaeology of any period:
‘What sort of dig was it?’
‘Not exactly drawn-out. Three weeks, as I recall, but a good one. Can’t say we found any bodies so we barely made it into the local papers. It was an industrial site. Shallow, clay-lined pits filled with lots and lots of evil-smelling organic mud. Foul stuff. You simply couldn’t wash the stink off your hands.’
‘It sounds to me like the name of the place was a bit of a clue. Presumably those stagnant pits had something to do with rotting of flax – don’t they call it retting?’
‘Spot on. Normally flax-processing happens in the wetter parts of Britain, like around Manchester or in Belfast, so to find it that far east was important.’
The Governor referred to the file for a final time, before taking it back to the cabinet. ‘That’s odd…’ he muttered, half to himself, then louder, to Alan: ‘There’s no mention anywhere here of the dig. When precisely did it happen?’
‘It was the first winter I worked with my own small team – and that was 2002. I’d guess it was late winter, because I spent most of January with the City Unit on a far more interesting Roman site near the Jewry Wall.’
‘So you were almost certainly working there when the murder happened?’
Alan’s attempts to fudge the issue proved useless. He should have guessed that Grant would be a stickler for the facts.
‘Well, it’s starting to look that way. Must admit, it rather gives me the creeps… not a very nice feeling at all.’
Alan paused for a moment, as if reflecting on the past.
‘Yes, of course,’ Grant said gently. ‘You’re not hardened to these situations like the rest of us. I apologise.’
‘It’s hardly your fault. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘Just let me know if you need anything. More support. More student supervision. We’d hate to lose you over this.’
Alan saw his chance and he leapt on it.
‘Actually, it’s not really a matter of more supervision.’
Alan paused and then held out his hands in a gesture of appeal.
‘I’m having a great deal of trouble making one-to-one contact with the students.’
‘Due to the security crack-down?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Oh dear,’ Grant replied, sighing deeply, ‘some of the staff think I’m accusing them. But I’m not.’ He paused, then continued, ‘But rules are rules and when I’m warned by outside authorities that something’s happening in my prison I have to follow a set of strict Home Office guidelines. I’ve had to raise our Security Level by two points and that has all sorts of unwanted consequences. For everyone, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s just that it makes things very difficult – almost impossible – if you’re trying to get through to students.’
‘Yes, I’m so sorry.’
Alan adopted the pose of an over-anxious teacher, desperately keen to ‘connect’ with his students.
‘These aren’t ordinary students. They’re at a huge disadvantage before we even start on the course work. So somehow I have to get through to them. Establish motivation: the will to succeed, if you know what I mean. The thing is, it’s impossible to talk at all freely if there’s an officer standing directly beside you. Would it be feasible to arrange something slightly less obtrusively secure?’
Grant stood silently, frowning. Then he replied, ‘I’m sure you’ll realise that presents us with very real problems. One-to-one interviews with prisoners of this category aren’t easy to arrange under any circumstances. Let alone during a security alert…’
‘What,’ Alan broke in, ‘even if there are panic buttons, cameras and everything else?’
‘Yes, even then. We’re worried about a hostage situation.’
‘What about a partition?’ Alan suggested, ‘or a grill? Like in the main visitors meeting area.’
Grant pondered for a moment.
‘Yes, that would probably be our best bet. Under those circumstances the officers could remain outside.’
‘D’you think you could fix that up? For next month?’
The Governor smiled. He clearly wasn’t going to let Alan push him.
‘I’ll do what I can.’