It took Nick over five hours to reach Colchester MCTC, as the former POW camp was officially called. Known as the Glasshouse, it was the only remaining military prison for UK forces after one in Hong Kong was closed in the mid-seventies. He got the full spiel from the Adjutant who greeted him on arrival.
He learned more about the facility’s work to retrain recalcitrant troops, but very little about Pete Tawney’s period of incarceration there. Eventually, the staff passed Nick on to the padre, a big bluff man with the look of a professor more than an army officer.
“Well, detective, I’m not sure I can be of much help to you.”
Nick suppressed a sigh at the now-familiar opening gambit. “To be honest, sir, that’s been the line since I got here,” he said with candour. “At the moment we know nothing about this guy Tawney except what’s in his official record. We’ve no feel for the man. You’ve met him, at least. Anything you can tell me might help.”
The padre sat with his chin propped on his linked hands for a moment, considering, then got to his feet.
“Walk with me.” He led the way briskly out of his office and along a stripped-down corridor. Their footsteps echoed on the mirror-polished lino. They didn’t speak again until they were outside, crossing an immaculate open area.
“The thing is, Mr Weston, Tawney was a bit of a problem for us.”
“What kind of a problem? Troublesome, you mean?”
“Not at all.” The padre frowned, eyes on the immaculate gravel a few feet in front of his boots. “You have to understand the philosophy behind this place,” he said at last. “The name is a bit of a clue, I suppose—although we come under Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Prisons, we’re actually a Military Correctional Training Centre.”
Nick nodded, barely hiding his impatience, and the padre went on. “We can have over three hundred men and women here at any one time, from every branch of the services. Some of them are here for summary offences and will eventually return to their units. While they’re here, in A Company, they receive ongoing training. And for those detainees, I have to say, this place does its job. Very few re-offend.”
“And the others?” Nick asked.
The padre offered a tired smile. “Ah, yes,” he said. “In C Company we have the violent offenders, or those awaiting transfer to civilian prisons. But over half our detainees are in D Company. They’re the ones who will be discharged at the end of their time with us—usually dishonourably. For them, there is little by way of preparation for return to civilian life. I’m afraid we have few resources available to provide the skills they need to cope with the outside world. Many are simply marking time until they get out.”
“And where was Tawney while he was here?”
“That’s the thing. Under normal circumstances, for the nature of his offence, he would have been in A Company. His record up to that point was exemplary—a decorated and highly skilled soldier. There were many who believed he was fully justified in his actions. Only one two-hour visit a week is permitted, at the weekends, but he had no shortage of visitors. Men he’d served with, usually. I don’t believe he had family. He should have had a relatively easy time of it here.”
Nick had already emailed the list of Tawney’s visitors back to Penrith from the Adjutant’s office. “But?”
The padre sighed. “Tawney was coming up for his end of contract at the time he was sentenced and I understand he made it clear to his commanding officer that he would not be re-enlisting. After that, well”—he shrugged—“I’m not sure they knew quite what to do with him.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“No more than other detainees. Many feel too intimidated to ask for help or advice through official channels, so I provide personal as well as pastoral care, but Tawney struck me as a rather self-contained individual. Did his time without complaint. Never caused any trouble. We had some rather interesting discussions.”
“What did you talk about?” Nick asked. “Providing it’s not privileged information, of course.”
A faint smile touched the padre’s lips. “Not at all. Books, mainly. The majority of detainees have a very low standard of education, can barely read and write, but Tawney was surprisingly erudite for a man who’d never been to university.”
Nick, who’d also never been to university, hid a smile. “Did he give any indication why he’d decided to quit?”
“I understand there was talk of him being removed from sniper duty—temperament issues, rather than skill,” the padre said slowly. “Indeed, he once told me he’d finally had enough of following orders that made no sense to him, something of that sort.”
“Did he say if he had anything lined up after he got out?”
“No, now you come to mention it.” The padre paused, turned towards Nick with troubled eyes. “We have an advisor comes in from Colchester Jobcentre and those facing discharge are strongly encouraged to see him, to discuss their future options.” He gave Nick the rather sad smile of a man who realises he might have done more. “Tawney never showed the slightest inclination. Now I come to think of it, I always rather got the impression he had something already planned.”