mention of the name Peter Rochester – or Mad Mike Silver as he was more often known – ruffle his feathers. He poured more whisky, drank it in a gulp. ‘He may be in Gull Rock, but they say the lifers there get it easy these days.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘I hear they’ve even given him a Malacca cane to walk around with. Like he’s some kind of plantation owner.’
‘He’s crippled,’ she said. ‘So he needs a stick. To deny him that would be to deny him his basic human rights.’
Heck snorted as he drained his mug. ‘Human rights … he’s lucky he wasn’t in Gull Rock fifty years ago, when it was all treadmills and whipping-posts.’
‘Take it from me, Heck, there isn’t much happens around Mad Mike Silver that has anything to do with luck.’
‘Is he still stonewalling you?’
‘What else?’
‘So he hasn’t even dropped any of the bit-players our way yet … like Jim Laycock for instance?’
‘Even if he had, which he hasn’t – because the Laycock link is a total non-starter, Heck – I wouldn’t tell you .’
‘And no leads on Nice Guys’ underbosses overseas? Nice Guys’ operational bases? Dumping grounds for Nice Guys’ victims in the Baltic, the Med, the Caspian …?’
‘Heck, stop … okay!’
‘Well, you know my feelings on Mad Mike …’
‘Course I do. Which is why you’re going nowhere near him. Ever again.’
Heck put his bottle away, took his mug to the sink and washed it. ‘We’re all law-abiding people in here, ma’am.’ He grabbed up the few bits of paperwork he’d actually come in for, and crammed them into his sports bag. ‘We have a system, and we stick to it. We respect all human life – that’s why we do what we do.’ He headed for the DO door, turning once before leaving. ‘But there are definitely times when a lamppost and a good piece of rope wouldn’t go amiss.’
Gemma let that pass, nodding as he waved goodbye and listening to his footfalls recede down the corridor. Eventually, after the lift doors had slid shut, she walked back to her own office, where she closed the door behind her and stood staring at the mobile phone on her desk. Waiting tensely for a call which, in all honesty, she hoped would never come.
Chapter 6
It was just before midnight on September 19 when alarm sirens began sounding through the concrete corridors of the medical wing at HM Prison Brancaster, amber lights flashing at each electronically sealed checkpoint, the wards going into lockdown as the officers’ hobnailed boots hammered up and down stairs and gangways.
Medical emergencies were not uncommon in a jail where the inmates were exclusively the most volatile and unstable in the penal system. Despite Gull Rock’s tough but on-the-whole progressive regime, violent assaults among prisoners were a daily event, suicides occurred with regularity, and homicides were not infrequent. On top of that, there was grave ill-health: STDs were transmitted widely, while drugs were still smuggled in and often led to ODs; there were also a number of older men housed there – full-term lifers now in their seventies and eighties.
The upshot was that, though medical staff responded swiftly and efficiently if they thought someone might die, staff from other parts of the prison almost never came running.
Until now.
Until word got around that the casualty on this occasion was Inmate 87156544, real name Peter Rochester, also known as ‘Mad Mike Silver’.
For quite some time, Peter Rochester had been Britain’s unofficial Public Enemy Number One, and where the tabloids were concerned, a hate-figure on a par with Osama bin Laden. Even the chattering classes, those who habitually attempted to grapple with the psychology of ultra-dangerous offenders rather than condemn them outright, had difficulty finding anything positive to say about him. The problem was Rochester’s intellect. He wasn’t some drooling madman; he wasn’t bipolar; he wasn’t schizophrenic; he didn’t
‘That isn’t true.’
‘I hear they’ve even given him a Malacca cane to walk around with. Like he’s some kind of plantation owner.’
‘He’s crippled,’ she said. ‘So he needs a stick. To deny him that would be to deny him his basic human rights.’
Heck snorted as he drained his mug. ‘Human rights … he’s lucky he wasn’t in Gull Rock fifty years ago, when it was all treadmills and whipping-posts.’
‘Take it from me, Heck, there isn’t much happens around Mad Mike Silver that has anything to do with luck.’
‘Is he still stonewalling you?’
‘What else?’
‘So he hasn’t even dropped any of the bit-players our way yet … like Jim Laycock for instance?’
‘Even if he had, which he hasn’t – because the Laycock link is a total non-starter, Heck – I wouldn’t tell you .’
‘And no leads on Nice Guys’ underbosses overseas? Nice Guys’ operational bases? Dumping grounds for Nice Guys’ victims in the Baltic, the Med, the Caspian …?’
‘Heck, stop … okay!’
‘Well, you know my feelings on Mad Mike …’
‘Course I do. Which is why you’re going nowhere near him. Ever again.’
Heck put his bottle away, took his mug to the sink and washed it. ‘We’re all law-abiding people in here, ma’am.’ He grabbed up the few bits of paperwork he’d actually come in for, and crammed them into his sports bag. ‘We have a system, and we stick to it. We respect all human life – that’s why we do what we do.’ He headed for the DO door, turning once before leaving. ‘But there are definitely times when a lamppost and a good piece of rope wouldn’t go amiss.’
Gemma let that pass, nodding as he waved goodbye and listening to his footfalls recede down the corridor. Eventually, after the lift doors had slid shut, she walked back to her own office, where she closed the door behind her and stood staring at the mobile phone on her desk. Waiting tensely for a call which, in all honesty, she hoped would never come.
Chapter 6
It was just before midnight on September 19 when alarm sirens began sounding through the concrete corridors of the medical wing at HM Prison Brancaster, amber lights flashing at each electronically sealed checkpoint, the wards going into lockdown as the officers’ hobnailed boots hammered up and down stairs and gangways.
Medical emergencies were not uncommon in a jail where the inmates were exclusively the most volatile and unstable in the penal system. Despite Gull Rock’s tough but on-the-whole progressive regime, violent assaults among prisoners were a daily event, suicides occurred with regularity, and homicides were not infrequent. On top of that, there was grave ill-health: STDs were transmitted widely, while drugs were still smuggled in and often led to ODs; there were also a number of older men housed there – full-term lifers now in their seventies and eighties.
The upshot was that, though medical staff responded swiftly and efficiently if they thought someone might die, staff from other parts of the prison almost never came running.
Until now.
Until word got around that the casualty on this occasion was Inmate 87156544, real name Peter Rochester, also known as ‘Mad Mike Silver’.
For quite some time, Peter Rochester had been Britain’s unofficial Public Enemy Number One, and where the tabloids were concerned, a hate-figure on a par with Osama bin Laden. Even the chattering classes, those who habitually attempted to grapple with the psychology of ultra-dangerous offenders rather than condemn them outright, had difficulty finding anything positive to say about him. The problem was Rochester’s intellect. He wasn’t some drooling madman; he wasn’t bipolar; he wasn’t schizophrenic; he didn’t
Similar Books
