Chapter Seven

That afternoon saw Dan parking in a visitor’s slot of Auckland Prison at Paremoremo on the North Shore.

Known as ‘Pare’, it included the main maximum security unit in the country. Home to nearly 700 prisoners, the East Wing Maximum Security Unit housed some of the worst criminals in the country. It was in a remote rural area, a group of ugly concrete buildings surrounded by high wire fences and copious amounts of razor wire. Guard towers with tinted windows manned each boundary.

Dan had been there a number of times previously, and knew the routine.

He checked in at the main Reception, was directed to the East Wing, and underwent the standard pat-down and metal detector check. He had emptied his pockets before he entered, carrying just his keys which were placed into a clear plastic bag, labelled and held at Reception. He was issued with a visitor’s pass which he clipped to his shirt.

‘And he’s expecting you,’ a guard told him, checking off his name on a clipboard. ‘You’re not his lawyer though?’

‘No mate.’ Dan shook his head. ‘I’m definitely not his lawyer.’

The guard looked at him questioningly.

‘I put him here.’

The guard nodded.

‘I thought you were a cop.’

Dan shook his head again.

‘Used to be. Now I’m just a visitor.’

The guard led him through a corridor to the interview rooms, every step of the way being monitored by CCTV and the heavy steel doors buzzing open electronically. He showed Dan into a small cold concrete room with a barred window, a basic table bolted to the floor, and two plastic chairs. A camera in a corner of the ceiling recorded visual for security purposes, but not audio, since these rooms were often used by inmates and their lawyers.

Dan stood and waited a couple of minutes until the prisoner was brought in.

Alan Monty Baker was nearly 40, tall and broad shouldered, with arms pumped by regular workouts. Ink covered most of his visible skin and a large spiders web adorned his neck. His dirty hair was in a Mohawk and his front teeth were grey and crooked.

He was a patched member of an outlaw motorcycle gang, a heavy P user and a pure-bred psychopath. His upbringing had been a matter of survival in a series of foster homes and institutions, where the young boy had been easy prey to the predators he’d met. Once he was old enough, he returned the favours he’d received to anyone who crossed his path.

He had used a loaded shotgun to ‘tax’ another drug dealer of a $72000 Holden Monaro, threatened to shoot Dan during his trial, and got nine and a ½ years jail.

The miracle was he’d never killed anyone. Yet.

He met Dan’s gaze and grinned mockingly.

‘De-tec-tive Crowley,’ he drawled out, ‘long time no see.’

He pulled out a chair and sat down. The guard indicated to Dan that he would be outside and partially closed the door.

Dan stayed where he was, standing with the light from the window coming in from behind him, his hands casually in his pockets.

‘How’ve you been, Baker.’

Baker grinned again.

‘Sweet as, sweet as. All good.’

Dan nodded, pacing himself.

‘Still in max though, I see.’ He cocked an eyebrow slightly. ‘Been misbehaving?’

Baker shrugged non-committally.

‘It’s all good. It’s home.’ He bared his grey teeth. ‘I’m due to go down to medium. Not long to go now though and I’ll be out.’

He smirked.

‘Walkin’ the streets again.’

Dan ignored the obvious attempt at a wind up.

‘You been writing letters, Baker?’

Baker considered him for a moment then grinned again.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Have you?’

‘I said, why’s that?’

They eyeballed each other across the room.

‘Just answer the question,’ Dan told him flatly.

‘What, someone wrote you a letter and you think it’s me?’

‘Did you?’

Dan could feel the tension rising in the room, and deliberately kept his hands in his pockets, forcing his fingers out flat rather than into fists, so he seemed more at ease. Anything Baker could pick up on, he would feed off.

‘What if I said yes?’

Baker said it as a challenge, mockingly, and Dan’s moustache twitched.

‘What did it say then?’ he asked, and Baker’s eyes flickered, immediately telling Dan that he wasn’t the guy.

‘Did I say I’d written it? No.’

‘Huh.’ Dan had read psychological reports on Baker, and knew him well. He knew he didn’t like being mocked or belittled.

Dan sneered at him, and saw Baker’s nostrils flare.

‘You’re so predictable, Crowley. You come in here all high and mighty, trying to play head games with me, standing up so you’re above me, with the light shining in my eyes.’ Baker tried his own sneer, but he’d lost it now and they both knew it. ‘Loser.’

Dan gave a harrumph and shook his head as he headed for the door.

‘You’re an idiot,’ he muttered as he walked past Baker.

The prisoner was immediately on his feet and grabbing at him with both hands. Dan ducked and side stepped, missing a swinging haymaker, turning into Baker. He slammed a hard right jab into Baker’s left kidney, buckled Baker’s left leg from behind with his knee, and grabbed hold of his Mohawk and shoulder.

Taking two steps to the side he swung Baker across the room and threw him into the wall face first. There was a loud crunch and a spray of blood as Baker’s nose broke, then the guard was rushing into the room and getting between them.

‘He attacked me as I left,’ Dan stated clearly, ‘it’s all on camera.’

Baker swore through the blood flowing steadily down his face and moved his front teeth gingerly with his tongue. A large mark on his forehead would soon be an impressive lump, and tears filled his eyes from the pain in his face.

‘I’ll get you for that, Crowley,’ he snarled, and lunged at him again.

The guard held him back and Dan turned to the camera, holding his hands out to his sides expressively, an innocent look on his face.

Two more guards arrived and as they handcuffed Baker, Dan held his gaze steadily.

‘How soon did you say you were going down to medium security, Al?’ he asked.