The rules of the High Security Unit at Belmarsh prison didn’t apply to him. The doors to the prison cells accommodating the Category A prisoners, deemed too dangerous to associate with the rest of the prison population, were not opened until 8 a.m. Peter Olivier, prisoner number A0743TP, had been out of his cell since 6.30 a.m. He had brushed his teeth and taken a shower alone, before changing into a brand-new navy Nike tracksuit and a black pair of Air Force 1 trainers. He had worn the regulation prison-issued maroon tracksuit only once in the two and a half years he had been a prisoner. The first care package containing clothes, toiletries and books had arrived forty-eight hours after he had been escorted in as a remand prisoner.
He could have watched the breakfast news on the small television in the corner of his room, but he preferred not to have his morning routine disturbed by the 38-year-old drug trafficker in the cell next door who couldn’t handle prison life and screamed and banged his head against the wall every morning. Olivier had left his cell and was sitting alone in the recreation room opposite the forty-six-inch television screen.
‘It was coffee you were after?’
A prison officer was holding a steaming mug. Olivier smiled, his pale skin crinkling around piercing blue eyes. This officer was new. Olivier could smell the cotton fresh spray starch emanating from his shirt.
‘Coffee is absolutely perfect. Thank you very much, sorry – I didn’t catch your name.’
‘It’s Paul.’
‘Ah, that’s it. Paul. Just wait there, will you?’
The officer stood still as Olivier leaned back, blew the steam off the cup and took a sip.
‘Hmm, it’s a little bit heavy with the hazelnut syrup, but it will do. You couldn’t do me a favour and pass the control? It’s far too early in the morning for that Piers twat.’
Olivier grinned as the officer handed him the remote control.
‘Now, what is going on here?’ Olivier said to himself as he switched the channel to BBC One where the local news had begun. The reporter was standing on Greenwich Pier.
‘Investigating officers have now confirmed that the body of a young man found on the riverbank yesterday morning just a few metres behind me, has been formally identified as Daniel Kennedy. It has been confirmed by the senior investigating officer that this is a murder investigation; however, she did not confirm local rumours that the body of Daniel Kennedy had been found dismembered.’
‘That’s an awful way to go,’ said the prison officer, who hadn’t moved. ‘How could someone cut him—’ Paul stopped as Olivier turned slowly to face him and smiled.
‘You are a very funny man, Paul. I doubt that it’s a rumour, though.’ Olivier approached the TV as a photograph of Daniel Kennedy appeared. He cocked his head to the side and tapped the screen three times.
‘Why do you look familiar, son?’ he asked.
‘A press conference with investigating officers has been scheduled for this afternoon. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Anjelica Henley has appealed for any witnesses to contact the Serial Crime Unit. The contact details should be appearing on the screen.’
‘Paul, did I hear that correctly? Did that reporter say “Henley”?’
‘Henley, Henman. I’m not too sure.’
‘I’m pretty sure that she said Henley.’ Olivier picked up the control and turned off the TV. ‘And my girl is now an inspector.’