‘What time does the delivery arrive?’
‘Five p.m. Sometimes a bit later. Never earlier.’
Joe absorbed that information for a few seconds. ‘OK. Here’s what’s going to happen. Hobson’s going to take me instead of you. You can tell him that if he doesn’t play ball, I’ll grass him up. If I’m still in this cell at five-thirty, you’ll both wish you never even heard my name.’
There was a hostile silence. Hennessey stuck his chin out at Joe. ‘I’m beginning to wish that already,’ he said. ‘Five o’clock. Be ready.’ He started limping out of the room.
Joe wasn’t fooled. He knew Hennessey had given in too easily, that he couldn’t be trusted. Joe wanted him to think that he, Hennessey, had the upper hand, that Joe was so desperate to escape that he’d do anything, believe anything. He strode after him, grabbed him by the back of the shirt and spun him round. ‘Listen to me,’ he hissed. ‘Hunter told me you’ve got a habit of knocking off your cellmates because you know you’re never seeing the outside again. If I’m still in here at five-thirty, I’ll know I’m never seeing the outside either. I guess then it’ll come down to which one of us can fuck the other up best. Is that a game you really want to play? Is it?’
He let go of Hennessey, who said nothing. He just smoothed down his shirt, gave Joe a look of utter contempt, then limped out of the cell.
Joe heard the key turn in the lock. His mouth, he realized, was unbearably dry, the nape of his neck soaked with sweat.
He’d played his only card. All he could do now was wait.
THIRTEEN
It was impossible to keep track of time in that cramped, windowless cell. All Joe knew was that one mealtime and several hours had passed. That meant it had to be approaching 5 p.m. Hennessey hadn’t returned. They only person he’d seen was the screw who’d dumped his meal tray in the cell and collected it thirty minutes later. No words, no eye contact. If Hennessey had this man in his pocket, there was no way of telling. He half expected a police officer or another lawyer to walk through the door at any moment. Nobody did. They knew, he supposed, that he wasn’t going anywhere.
He sat by the door, listening. Occasionally there were voices in the corridor outside, but they were muffled – he couldn’t tell who they belonged to or what they were saying – but that didn’t stop him trying. Hennessey was his only hope, but also the last person on earth that he could trust. But Joe’s eavesdropping yielded nothing.
It was during one of the frequent moments of silence, while he was pacing the room to keep warm, that the door suddenly clicked open. Nobody appeared. He approached it with care, half expecting an attack, which didn’t come, and slowly opened it wider.
The corridor was brightly lit with strip lights. The walls were beige – paint applied directly to breeze blocks – and the smell was antiseptic. The corridor extended about twenty metres – to his left there was a locked metal door, to his right the corridor turned a corner. Two men were standing opposite his celclass="underline" Hennessey and Hobson, the screw with the ginger moustache whom Joe had lamped during his first minutes at Barfield. His upper lip was swollen, and he had steristrips across the bridge of his nose. Hennessey was leaning heavily on his crutch and rolling a cigarette. Both men looked at Joe with cool hostility.
‘Time?’ Joe asked.
Hobson stepped forward and held up a pair of handcuffs. ‘Put these on,’ he instructed.
‘No.’
Hobson glanced back to an alert-looking Hennessey. ‘If anyone finds me taking a segregated prisoner unrestrained to the loading bay,’ Hobson whispered, ‘I’m fucked.’
‘Then you’d better make sure nobody finds us,’ Joe said.
Hobson shook his head in disgust. ‘Forget it,’ he said. He was looking at Joe, but clearly talking to Hennessey. ‘Just forget the whole fucking thing.’ He turned and stomped off down the corridor.
‘You got kids, Hobson?’ Joe called after him.
Hobson stopped, but didn’t turn.
‘Think they’ll fancy visiting their dad in prison? Mine was banged up. I didn’t bother with him after he went inside. And helping this piece of crap smuggle some tart onto prison property has to be worth a couple of years, hasn’t it?’
Hobson turned, his swollen face carved with even more hatred than before. ‘No one will believe you,’ he said.
‘If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have just opened my cell door. But it’s your call.’ He gave a shrug and stepped backwards towards his cell.
‘Do it, Hobson.’ The instruction came from Hennessey and Joe immediately noted that there was something calculating in his expression. Was he just eager to get Joe out of his hair? Joe didn’t think so.
Hobson was pacing back to them. He was sweating. ‘If I can’t cuff you…’
‘Hand them over,’ Joe said. He took the cuffs from Hobson and placed them round his wrists without locking them. It wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but at a glance he would appear to be restrained. He turned to Hennessey: ‘Give Hobson your crutch.’
The skin tightened around Hennessey’s eyes and for a moment he looked like he was going to argue. But he clearly thought better of it, and handed his crutch to the screw. He was evidently not nearly so lame as he pretended, because he was able to stand quite well without it. ‘When you get to the van,’ he said, ‘knock five times and she’ll let you in.’
Joe nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ he told Hobson.
Hennessey said nothing. He just lit his cigarette, blew smoke into Joe’s face, then turned and limped without much difficulty back down the corridor and round the corner. Before he disappeared from sight, however, he looked over his shoulder. He seemed neither nervous nor angry. More pleased with himself. Then he was gone.
He had something planned. Joe was sure of it.
‘The medical van’s arrived. They’re unloading now.’ Hobson wouldn’t look at Joe as he spoke. ‘You need to walk in front of me.’ He indicated the opposite direction to the one Hennessey had taken, towards the locked metal door at the end of the corridor.
Joe held his wrists against his stomach to stop the cuffs from slipping, and walked. When he reached the door he stepped aside to let Hobson open it.
The door led onto an alleyway about two metres wide, and the facing wall was at least ten metres high. Joe deduced that this was the exterior wall of the prison. Dried leaves had blown into the alleyway, along with old crisp packets and other bits of rubbish. This was evidently a little-visited part of the prison. It was raining quite heavily, but they were protected from the worst of it by the high wall. It could rain all it wanted as far as Joe was concerned. The more the better. It would keep people inside.
Hobson locked the door behind them, then nodded at Joe to walk down the narrow passageway. He didn’t like having the screw behind him, but he understood that it would look suspicious if Hobson didn’t have eyes on him at all times. They continued for twenty metres, Joe scanning ahead, though all he could see was a right-hand turn at the end of the alleyway, and all he could hear was the rain.
At the end they turned right. The corridor extended for just a couple of metres, then opened up into a tarmacked yard about fifteen metres square. Five metal catering bins, each a couple of metres high, were lined up on the far side of the yard, outside a set of closed double doors that Joe assumed led to the kitchens. The rain drummed noisily on the metal lids. Parked in the middle of the yard, ten metres away, was a white Transit van. ‘MediQuick’ was written in blue lettering on the side and the rear doors were open. Hanging back in the protection of the alleyway, Joe could see the legs of three individuals hidden by the open doors of the Transit. Then two inmates emerged from the protection of the doors, each carrying a cardboard box that Joe took to be part of the delivery, their faces sour on account of the driving rain. And following them, after they’d slammed the van’s doors shut, he saw Sowden. Unlike the inmates, he wore a black raincoat, with the hood up.