March 2014
The Right Honourable David McNaughton had had only one other appeal for the Royal prerogative of mercy in his three-year term as Lord High Chancellor. By the time the Lane appeal file got to him, it had been the source of considerable comment and he had much to read. He did this very carefully, his lawyer’s brain assessing each opinion and weighing up the likely public response.
Marcus Lane sounded like a particularly nasty individual, but had he had a fair trial, and was it possible that Witness A had had a vendetta against him? Was the conviction unsound? The prerogative was that of the monarch, but the Queen would be guided by his decision. As an added sweetener, Lane had offered to turn ‘grass’ on some of the other London gangs and give up information on guns, drugs and extortion. This was very tempting, and the police comments made it clear that the information would be extremely useful.
Still, the man was undoubtedly a hardened criminal and probably guilty of the crime. His father was not long dead, and he obviously wanted to reclaim his position as head of the Lane gang. Would the streets be safer if he was granted a retrial? McNaughton doubted it.
As the evening drew in, he packed his work away and asked his PA to order his car and driver. His constituency was in Wiltshire and he kept a London flat. The nights were still cold and he shivered, despite the heavy coat, as he walked down the steps towards the car.
His driver stood by the open rear door, an A4 white envelope in his hand.
‘Evening, John.’
‘Evening, sir. This was under the wipers of the car. It’s addressed to you and marked private and confidential.’
McNaughton hesitated and then took the envelope. ‘Thank you.’
He knew the rules – it could contain white powder, and he should leave it for his PA to open. But curiosity got the better of him. As the car lumbered through the crowded streets, he pulled the top tab off and reached inside. Three photos and a piece of paper slid into his hand. The photos were black-and-white candid shots of four children playing in the snow. His grandchildren. They were completely unaware that they were being photographed, and the laughing faces made his heart leap. Then he read the note: You know what to decide. Their safety is in your hands.
It was typewritten in Times Roman on a rectangular slip of paper from a notepad.
A strong visceral reflex hit him mid-chest, and his mouth seemed to fill with something sour. He swallowed the nausea down and thrust everything back into the envelope.
‘John?’
The driver turned his head and looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Change of direction: take me to the Met.’
Stephen Scott was incandescent with rage. He stood in his office and faced Melissa Lane. She sat very still and read the report in her hands. Finally, she looked up at him.
‘This is a lie. This has nothing to do with Marcus.’
Stephen struggled to contain his emotion. ‘I don’t think you quite understand. I’ve seen the evidence, Melissa. Someone sent pictures of the Lord High Chancellor’s grandchildren to him with a threatening note.’
‘And I’m telling you that that someone had nothing to do with Marcus!’
‘Maybe not, but it has almost certainly ruined any possibility we had of convincing the Lord High Chancellor that Marcus was unjustly convicted.’
She stood up. ‘Which is why Marcus would never condone such a thing. Someone has sabotaged us. I suggest you find another legal avenue to get my son released.’
She turned on her heel and walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she looked back at him. ‘And don’t ever address me in that tone again. Save your anger for the justice system.’
Melissa Lane called Tom McGregor and demanded that he find out who sent the photographs. The lawyer said they’d had a good case, a realistic chance of a retrial, and now that had gone. Someone had sabotaged the plan, and she wanted to know who. Someone was going to pay.
Tom reassured her that he was as devastated as she was and would put his best men onto it. Then he hung up and gave a small smile of satisfaction as he went back to his work.
Marcus had considered setting fire to his mattress or using the toothbrush he had been secretly sharpening to stab a guard. Eventually he had decided on a much bigger plan. The first step was a telephone call.
‘Marcus, good to hear from you. How are you?’
It was Tom McGregor. The sound of his voice brought a hundred memories flooding back into Marcus’s brain, and the inevitable questions: Why hadn’t he sent Tom to deal to Kelt? Why had he been so stupid?
‘Haven’t got a lot of time, Tom. Just thought I’d let you know it’s time to let my crackpot uncle loose. Soon as you can. Can you manage that?’ Marcus asked.
There was a pause on the line.
It occurred to Marcus that this was a call Tom had never expected to get. He wondered how comfortable his childhood friend had become.
‘Of course, give me a few days and I’ll let you know when we’re ready for him.’
‘Mum’s due here tomorrow week. She can confirm.’
‘Done.’
The line went dead. Marcus stood holding the receiver in his hand. It was audacious and complicated and exquisitely dangerous. He needed very good men, and he needed them to have nerves of steel. It would take a great deal of the family money –
‘Come on, motherfucker. Hang up if you’re done.’
The gruff voice cut across his thoughts, and he hung up the phone and swung around to face the inmate. No brains but lots of brawn. He nodded briefly and walked away.
Melissa Lane was on her way to visit her son. She sat in the back of the car and silently rehearsed what she had to say. What would Norman have thought of this? It was going to take a frightening amount of money, almost all of the fortune Norman had amassed, and it depended on precise timing and detailed organisation. Even then, there was a very good chance it might not work. But Marcus had to try, that she understood. He trusted Tom McGregor completely, so she had to, too.
An hour later she was sitting opposite her son. He was watching her, and his dark eyes were glowing with hope and anxiety. His hair was quite grey at the temples now, and he had distinctive lines on his face. Prison was ageing him.
‘Your crackpot uncle is on the loose again,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Needs to be somewhere more secure.’
‘We think so. Apparently the doctor said they’ll move him Friday.’
He nodded at her. ‘Friday sounds like a good day.’
Friday started like any other day in Belmarsh Prison. Inmates were unlocked at 8.15 and made their way to the dining area for breakfast. Except for cell 2034. Marcus had a wash, got changed, and then started a slow and methodical process of banging his forehead against the cell wall and yelling. Only the first few hurt; once the blood started to flow, it went numb.
After twenty minutes of continuous noise, two inmates came to see what was happening. As soon as one was near enough, Marcus grabbed him and put him in a choke-hold.
The man was small and light, and his feet dangled off the ground. He gave a squeal of rage before the arm around his throat severely restricted his oxygen supply. As his companion fled to raise the alarm, Marcus whipped out the toothbrush he’d sharpened to a blade and cut the flailing arm to the bone. Blood spurted out.
When the guards arrived two minutes later, Marcus opened his eyes wide at them. ‘Don’t come in! You come in and I’ll cut his fucking throat!’
The guards retreated and a siren blasted out.
‘What is it you want, Marcus?’
He recognised the governor’s voice and supressed a satisfied smile. The system was so predictable.
He gave a loud sob. ‘I have to hurt him. The voices in my head, they won’t fucking stop. If I kill him, they’ll leave me alone!’
The voice from outside was calm and reassuring. ‘We can make them stop, Marcus. Just let him go and let us help you.’
Marcus had relaxed his grip so that the terrified man didn’t actually die. Now he poked the face with the knife to make him squeal again.
‘I cut off a man’s ear once, Governor. Did you know that?’
The man squealed again. It was an exquisite sound, a sound Marcus had missed.
The governor coughed. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Marcus! Let me come inside and talk to you.’
Marcus waited for nearly a minute. ‘Okay. Just you.’
The suited middle-aged man stepped into the cell. Marcus saw his reaction to the blood – there was a lot of blood, everywhere.
He raised the knife to the struggling man’s eye. ‘An eye for an eye, Governor.’
‘No!’ The governor’s voice was a shocked cry. So much for calm and reassuring.
‘But the voices –’
‘I can make the voices go away, really, I can. Trust me, Marcus. You’ve been a model prisoner. We can fix this. We can send you to a place where they will make you well.’
Marcus glared at him and pressed the knife close to his prisoner’s eye. ‘Where?’
‘A hospital, a special hospital. Broadmoor. Your mother can still visit.’
‘I want to go now. Today. I want them to make the voices stop now.’
The governor nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. Yes, I promise you: if you put him down, you can go today.’
Marcus hesitated again. Could he trust the governor? Better to make certain of it. He thrust the knife into the unprotected eye and then threw the screaming inmate across the room. Both men scrambled out and the cell door slammed shut.
Four hours later Marcus was bundled into a prison van. He was the only occupant, and they put him in the rear inside compartment, the one closest to the back door. His hands and feet were shackled, his head was bandaged and the painkiller had taken away the ache. He leaned against the wall and smiled. Nothing to do now, but wait. Trust Tom, and wait.