It had been the worst night Sir Ben could remember since his mum’s dementia diagnosis. The episode two years ago when his neighbours had been so concerned about the screaming that they’d called the police was bad enough. Thankfully, one of the officers’ fathers had been going through the same terrors so he understood. With everything that was happening, the last people he needed banging on the door and asking all sorts of awkward questions now was the Old Bill.
Previously he’d been able to calm her down. Not last night though. She’d grown more and more terrified, so much so that he couldn’t get near her until six that morning. Given how short-tempered he was at the best of times, even he realised that it was not the greatest idea to call the doctor right now, but he couldn’t carry on like this.
Dr Blaketon answered in two rings.
‘Trevor, I need you round here pronto,’ said Sir Ben, as soon as the call connected.
He heard a sigh, then, ‘Ben, I’ve got a full clinic this morning. If it’s urgent, dial 999.’ 200
‘Not good enough. I’m sure your NHS patients will understand. You’ve no idea the night she’s had and I need you to prescribe her something.’ As he paced the landing, he caught sight of the wreck he looked in the mirror.
‘I’ve told you before, there really is nothing I can do. She has dementia and all we can do is manage the symptoms.’
‘Then come and manage them or I might have to review the sponsorship we provide to your private practice.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Not at all. I just want to make sure my investments realise a reasonable return.’
Just then an almighty scream jolted Sir Ben from his rant. ‘Coming, Mum,’ he called, then back to the doctor, ‘Here in thirty minutes Trevor, or else.’
After about fifteen minutes of him settling her, she fell asleep. Sir Ben dashed off for a quick shower and change of clothes before Trevor arrived.
He’d only just pulled on his blue polo shirt when the gate buzzer sounded. Sir Ben checked the app on his phone and, without a greeting, pressed ‘open’ and watched the doctor drive in. He reached the door before Trevor and grunted a gruff ‘Morning.’ Trevor was equally curt but both knew where the balance of power lay.
‘She’s asleep now, so let’s talk,’ said Sir Ben, leading the way to the drawing room.
‘I really am in a hurry. I wasn’t joking when I said I had patients waiting.’
Sir Ben pretended he hadn’t heard that and, with a flourish of the hand, invited Trevor to take a seat on the two-seater settee. He remained standing.
‘Now listen. I don’t want any of this “we can only manage the symptoms” nonsense. We’ve spoken before about the US treatment. All I need is for you to certify her physically able to travel, then we’re off.’
Trevor paused, as if trying to find the words. ‘There is no robust evidence that this so-called treatment is beneficial to anyone, let alone someone with such advanced dementia as your mum. It would be professional negligence of me to green-light her to fly. One, I don’t think she’d survive the flight 201and two, the invasive procedure the treatment involves would be useless at best, but I’d suggest pointlessly cruel.’
Sir Ben walked behind Trevor’s position on the settee, with the sole intention of putting him on edge. ‘If you’d spent a night like I did last night you’d know how arrogant that comment is.’ He paced back round so he was two feet in front of Trevor, forcing the doctor to crick his neck to make eye contact. ‘I’m going to take her. All I need you to do is sign whatever it is you need to sign, and I’ll sort the rest.’
He saw Trevor’s eyes flit round the room. ‘Can’t you buy your way round that? I don’t mean to sound impertinent, but surely with your wealth, you can. Yes, it’s likely to be six figures by the time you’ve factored in return flights on a fully staffed critical care air ambulance, pre and post op care, the procedure itself and convalescence but, come on. You can afford a few extra quid to waive the need for my signature.’
It took every sinew Sir Ben had to stop himself from exploding.
‘Now listen here, you little worm. My financial situation is nothing to do with you, so sign this off as being clinically necessary and leave the rest to me.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. The doctors across the pond are ready and waiting, so grow a pair and do your bit or start looking for another investor.’
By 8.00 a.m., Jo and Bob were on what was paradoxically labelled a semi-fast train to London, with Gatwick Airport being the only stop between Brighton and East Croydon. She’d hate to experience the slow option.
Once she’d spoken to Bob, he’d immediately jumped at the suggestion but with one alteration to her plan. After his last attempt to get to Croydon, they were not driving. She let him have that one concession, even though it did mean they were severely restrained in how much planning they could do among the crowded commuters. At least they got seats across the aisle from one another.
As the Sussex, then Surrey countryside passed the window, they kept 202the conversation light, keeping off any subject that would give away their jobs, let alone their mission. Once the Gatwick passengers had boarded, the carriage was so packed that every patch of floor space was taken. They could no longer see each other despite being about eighteen inches apart. Finally, the conductor announced the next stop was East Croydon, so they struggled to their feet and ‘excuse me’d their way to the nearest door.
As soon as the train stopped they were off, battling through the opposing press of passengers who seemed to think the world would end if they didn’t embark that very second. Bob had Googled the best route to the court and it seemed walking would be quickest and had the bonus of giving them some plotting time.
On the way, Bob reminded Jo that she’d be unlikely to meet Darren and that they should focus on getting the solicitor to deliver the most impassioned and reassuring speech of his life, so that the magistrates had no choice but to grant bail. There was no chance of getting the charges quashed at this point, but getting her husband out would be the first battle.
When they reached the white concrete utilitarian slab of a building with Croydon Law Courts carved in the stonework, a small crowd was milling around by the steps. Jo walked past them and pushed the door.
It was supposed to open at 9 a.m., but twenty minutes later it was still locked with just a security guard reading a paper on the other side of the smoked glass. Jo had had enough. It could have been the worry about Darren. It could have been lack of sleep. It could just be her utter hatred for jobsworths.
She curled her fist and banged on the glass so hard it jolted the man from his Daily Mail. ‘Get your warrant card out,’ she muttered to Bob as she thrust hers against the window. The guard folded his newspaper, put on his hat, slid his chair back and ambled to the door.
Instead of opening it, he pointed at a sign, taped drunkenly to the glass. Jo looked at it. Court Closed Until 9.30 a.m. Smoke Alarm Testing. Jo shook her head. She mouthed ‘Open the fucking door.’ 203
To her surprise, the guard complied. ‘We’re not open for another ten minutes.’
‘I can see that.’ She held her card out again and Bob did likewise. ‘Chief Superintendent Howe and DI Heaton. We have an appointment.’
‘Who with?’
Jo reached in her bag and pulled out her phone. ‘Never mind, I’ll call the district judge myself. While we’re at it, what’s your name?’ She squinted at his name badge for effect.
‘Er, look, it’s OK. I’ll let you in. I’m sorry but …’
‘I know … Samuel. You had your orders. Thank you.’ She and Bob rushed past him before he had second thoughts. As they walked across the atrium Jo checked behind and saw Samuel was back at his desk taking in the Mail’s latest outrage. She spotted a court listing, glanced down and saw Darren’s name straight away. ‘Court one, Bob. Let’s go.’
Once they found the courtroom they were surprised to find it not only open but someone already in there, a pile of files stacked in front of them. As the frazzled young lady dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit was sitting furthest from the dock, she was likely to be the prosecutor. And by the look of her, she was in no mood to chat. Jo risked one question. ‘Excuse me, do you know if the defence for Mr Howe is here yet?’
The woman huffed then looked up. ‘Sorry, who are you?’
Bob stepped in. ‘DI Heaton. We just need a word.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry I’ve no idea who that might be. I’m agency counsel and, as ever, I’ve been dumped these remand hearings this morning. Do forgive me, I must get on.’
‘Sure. His name’s Mr Springer in case you need to know.’
The barrister looked up again. ‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.’ She immersed herself straight back into her files.
Jo and Bob took a seat in the public area at the back of the court and waited. It was a bit late to realise they had no idea what Darren’s solicitor looked like and despite both frantically searching the web, they were still none the wiser when the three magistrates paraded in and court started. 204
It reminded Jo of her days as a detective constable when the court clerk – or legal advisor as they were now called – seemed to pick the running order from a tombola and, more often than not, her cases were last.
With each defendant called, a different defence solicitor rushed in, bowed to the bench, apologised and made a half-hearted attempt to get them bail. The overworked prosecution counsel gave no sign that she’d only picked these cases up an hour ago, such was her grasp of the facts and the quality of her advocacy.
As each decision went the prosecution’s way, Jo felt a deeper and deeper dread. Granted, most of those who preceded Darren were drug-addicted recidivists for whom prison was probably just an occupational hazard, but at the moment it was CPS 9, Defence 0. What troubled her even further was that none of the defeated solicitors had introduced themselves as Mr Springer. Surely he wouldn’t be a no-show?
Finally, the legal advisor called, ‘Darren Howe,’ before phoning down to the cells to repeat his name.
Five minutes later, the door at the back of the dock opened and in walked Darren, flanked by two heavily tattooed custody officers. He looked like she felt. Red-eyed, anxiety and terror plastered across his face and in clothes which gave the impression he’d worn them for a week. He glanced around the court and she gave him what she hoped he’d receive as a reassuring smile. He just nodded and looked forward.
Suddenly the back door to the court crashed open and in ran a wiry, middle-aged man in a crumpled green linen suit with a Bobby Charlton comb-over, a battered brown leather shoulder bag swinging behind him. He nodded his head in the most perfunctory of bows and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Your Worships. I was delayed in another court. I’m Mr Springer for Mr Howes. If you’ll give me a moment.’
The chair of the bench, a robust-looking woman with tightly pulled-back blonde hair, said, ‘The court does not appreciate you being late and disorganised. Ms Morgan can open while you sort yourself out, then, if 205you must, you can make any application you see fit.’ She turned to the prosecutor. ‘Ms Morgan.’
By contrast, the prosecutor was eloquent, respectful and to the point. She reminded the magistrates that this was a matter that could only be heard in the Crown Court, so she invited them to send the case there, then trotted through the facts.
Were Jo not so coached in courtroom etiquette, she would have called several points of order. Ms Morgan couldn’t even name the officer who was supposed to have sold Darren the information regarding the raid, couldn’t quantify how much he’d been paid, and as for the hamper? Really? If this was it, then any half-decent defence counsel would shred it on the first hearing.
Then Springer stood up and she was snapped back to reality.
‘If it pleases Your Worships, I would like to make a bail application on behalf of Mr Howes.’
‘I think your client is called Mr Howe,’ said the bench chair.
‘Yes, quite. Mr Howe. As I was saying, my client has no previous convictions and, until recently, had a steady job. He’s a family man with a permanent address where he lives with his police officer wife who, I might add, is a chief inspector in Sussex Police.’
‘Chief superintendent,’ whispered Ms Morgan to his right.
‘Yes, that’s correct. In any case, my client is prepared to surrender his passport, observe a curfew, wear a tag and report to the local police station. You do not need to remand him in custody as there is no risk of reoffending or interfering with witnesses.’
Jo waited for him to continue, but he sat down. Was that it?
Ms Morgan stood up. ‘Your Worships, contrary to what Mr Springer says, Mr Howe presents a substantial risk of committing further offences and interfering with witnesses. His wife is, as the court have heard, a chief superintendent of police, who is suspected of leaking information to him and has ingratiated herself into court today.’ She glanced round.
How the hell did she work that out? Bob put his hand on her arm, 206presumably sensing she was about to do or say something that would Exocet her career.
‘Insofar as interfering with witnesses, for now only Mr Howe knows who those witnesses are so it’s impossible for the police to ensure he would be complying with any condition you may impose. I agree, in normal circumstances he would be unlikely to abscond, but given the seriousness of the charge and its likely sentence should he be found guilty, a man of his means could be driven to desperate measures.’
‘Could isn’t good enough, Ms Morgan.’
‘Of course, Your Worships. That said, the Crown object to bail given the substantial risk of Mr Howe reoffending and interfering with witnesses.’
She sat down, glancing again at Jo, giving a combative wink.
The magistrates did not even retire, they just whispered between themselves.
‘Stand up, Mr Howe. We are refusing bail in this matter for the reasons given by the Crown. We will send this case to the Central Criminal Court and you will be remanded in custody. Take him down.’
As he sombrely turned back to the door, Jo couldn’t help herself. ‘We’ll get you out. This is a stitch-up,’ she shouted. Before the chair of the magistrates could rebuke her, Bob bundled her out into the corridor and away.
The words ‘remanded in custody’ tripped over and over in Darren’s mind as he sat head in hands on the tiny bench in the court holding cell. He wondered whether he’d ever get used to the yelling and banging that rang out down here. Would it be quieter in prison?
How could they be sending him there though? Other than some debatable naivety in accepting a Christmas hamper, he’d done nothing wrong. At best this was a massive mistake, at most – and more likely – it was a monumental stitch-up.
When that useless solicitor Springer popped down to see him after the damage was done, the only good piece of advice he had was to stay silent 207about who he was married to. In the eyes of most prisoners, being married to a cop was only one step removed from actually being one.
The rattle of keys in the lock nearly caused his bowels to empty.
‘We’re off,’ came the command that courted no debate. Darren walked to the cell door and instinctively offered his hands out for cuffing. Once the guard checked them for comfort, he locked a linked set to his own wrist. ‘This way,’ he said, like Darren had any choice.
The breeze on his face during the few steps between the back door and the white van was possibly the last Darren would feel for the foreseeable future, so he sucked it in. After two breaths he was climbing into what he had been told was ‘the sweat box’.
The narrow corridor between the line of cellular pods was barely wide enough to walk down, especially with the security officer by his side. In a second, he was ushered into a tiny cubicle. The cuffs were removed and he sat on the moulded seat, a minute window to his right being the only feature. As the door was closed and locked, Darren lapped up the silence.
Seconds later that was broken by shouts. ‘I’ll rip your fucking throat out you filthy screw.’
‘Bring your mates,’ replied the guard, which just fuelled the idiot’s imagination as to what other atrocities he’d perform when he got out of there.
After a few less agitated travel-mates were locked up, the van drove off with the angry man still bellowing tirades to not only the staff but his unseen fellow prisoners too.
Darren had no idea how long the journey would take. In one way he’d like it to be long enough to bawl his eyes out and recover so no one spotted his weakness when it was time to de-bus. On the other hand, that near-accident he’d had when the guard had opened his cell door was not just down to fear. He was desperate for a poo.
Somewhere between an hour and a half and two hours later, the van seemed to have arrived. Through his needle-eye window, Darren couldn’t work out where they were but the stopping and starting suggested they 208were waiting for endless gates and doors to open, presumably following reruns of the same security checks at each. The gobshite in the back hadn’t let up throughout the whole journey but Darren had all but switched off from him.
When the van finally drew to a stop, Darren readied himself to be taken off. If he’d been frightened before, he was terrified now. He’d watched The Shawshank Redemption and that Sean Bean drama and hoped to God they were outlandish exaggerations of prison life. He’d always walked away from trouble, but he knew well enough that to show weakness here would be a death sentence.
It seemed to take another hour before he was finally unlocked.
‘This way,’ said the same guard who’d locked him in. He escorted Darren out and to a door marked Reception. Reception? He bet he’d be offered no complimentary cocktails and cold towels here. The door heaved open and Darren found himself stood in front of a gentle-looking, fiftyish, grey-haired woman sporting a white shirt, black epaulettes and matching trousers. The radio and flashing body camera clipped to the shirt-hoops reminded him of the police officer who’d investigated his burglary a couple of years ago.
‘In here, sir,’ she said, ushering him into yet another holding cell.
‘Can I use the toilet?’
‘In a bit. Let’s get you booked in first.’
‘But …’
‘It won’t take long,’ she repeated, with a hint of a genuine smile.
It dawned on Darren that this was just a small taste of how every decision, every dignity, would be for others to bestow from now on.
Thankfully, he was only in the stifling cell for about fifteen minutes when he was called forward. In that time he’d resolved that compliance and keeping his head down was the key to survival. So, when the prison officer who’d replaced the kindly lady insisted on strip-searching him, making him crouch so he could peer at his anus, then sit on something called a BOSS in case he had the latest iPhone shoved up him, he just went with it. 209
The questions kept coming and coming. Was he depressed? What do you think? Did he use drugs? Not yet. Had he ever self-harmed? See above. Those were what he wanted to reply but instead he played a straight bat in the hope he’d be deemed a model prisoner and looked after.
Before long he had hooked his ID badge on and was carrying his bed pack and meagre provisions, following yet another prison officer.
Desperate for conversation, he asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘First-night centre is full so you’re going straight on the wing, I’m afraid.’ Darren had no idea what a first-night centre was but the wing did not sound like a good thing. He presumed he was being hurled straight into the fire.
As they marched around countless corridors and up and down steel staircases, the eerie sound of invisible men shouting, crying and screaming from behind cell doors made Darren want to throw himself off the landing. As they walked along what he worked out was the fourth floor, he sensed the eyes at the spyholes and made out the kissing noises. ‘Will I get a cell to myself?’ The officer just laughed.
If he’d been hungry he might have asked for food, but he guessed the answer to that would be the same.
Finally, they stopped outside one of the graffitied green doors. The officer looked in, turned the key and opened up. ‘In you go.’
Darren stepped inside and almost tripped over the shirtless man pumping out press-ups. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he stepped round him. The man didn’t miss a beat as the door slammed shut.
He sat on the bottom bunk and the man, without looking, said, ‘Top.’ Darren looked up and saw the bread-slice-thin mattress on the steel frame and chided himself for being so stupid. He put his pack on the bed when suddenly the man stopped and sprung up, offering a fist pump. ‘Ivan. No English.’ Darren wasn’t going to leave him hanging and as soon as the pleasantries were over, Ivan was on his bunk snoring.
He noticed the toilet surrounded by an opaque shower curtain in the corner, then looked round at Ivan. All of a sudden his bowels clamped 210shut. Call it stage fright, or just fright, he didn’t know, but he could never imagine shitting with an audience.
He climbed on his bunk and wrapped himself in the cheese-grating grey blanket. He guessed from the light straining through the A4-size barred window that it was about 8 p.m., but who knew? Did it matter? He would not be able to sleep. He looked at the paint peeling off the ceiling which was only a handful of inches away from his nose. The pale cream walls were pitted with what looked like blobs of toothpaste.
The noise from other cells was unremitting and he wondered how Ivan could sleep so soundly. Maybe he would one day.
He closed his eyes. His mind goaded him with images of Jo lying in their huge empty bed, sobbing at the void his stupidity had created and the future he’d cremated.
Then the boys came into view. He’d drummed into them for as long as he could remember that only bad people went to prison. How would he disavow them of that ridiculous distinction? What would happen to bedtimes? Their nightly story ritual? Baths and teeth-brushing? God, he needed to feel their sloth-like arms hanging round his neck as they battered him with kisses.
Oh to be called Daddy, darling, Darren, sweetheart. Oh to rewind the clock. Once the tears started there was no stopping them and he’d lost any will to try. He didn’t care if Ivan heard him. His world was over, so nothing mattered.
Suddenly a shout, echoing from the landing, froze him. ‘Fed fucker, we’re coming for you.’