A Private and Convenient Place

A

private &

convenient

place

An Inspector Hood Novel

MICHAEL G T STOKES

Copyright © 2018 Michael G T Stokes

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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For Anna and Harry

‘I swear by Almighty God that I will keep this jury in some private and convenient place. I will not suffer any person to speak to them, neither will I speak to them myself concerning the trial this day without the leave of the court unless it be to ask them if they are agreed upon their verdict.’

- Jury bailiff’s oath

‘Wickedness is always easier than virtue; for it takes a short cut to everything.’

Dr Samuel Johnson

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter fifty-six

Reviews of Blackmail

Prologue

Spring 2000

Michael Doyle lay naked and still on the cold tiles of the shower block on level two of Draycott Heath Prison. The blood oozing from the wound on his leg was gradually turning into a trickle as it was washed away by the powerful jet of water descending from the shower head above. He had, he supposed, briefly lost consciousness when the blade entered his right thigh. As he started to come round, the disembodied screams and random shouting coming from the nearby landing streamed into his consciousness. Noise. That was a regular feature of prison life. Even at dead of night there was always someone creating a disturbance. But this was late-afternoon. This was the quiet period on D wing as the inmates returned from their work details. What had happened to him? Had he been attacked? Then he remembered. He moaned audibly, and noticed the crudely fashioned handle of the weapon in the hand of a fellow prisoner. He winced in pain and cursed. In his weakened state he was unable to turn his head. Dudley Manning, who was now bending over him and assuring him that all would be well, seemed to be the only other person present. Slowly but surely Doyle regained focus. His leg was still throbbing but the pain was gradually becoming tolerable. Manning examined the blade before tossing it into the shower gutter, the rush of water carrying it several feet towards the drain. He stood and switched off the shower then crouched down and tied a towel firmly around Doyle’s upper thigh using the cord from his prison issue dressing gown to secure it in place. Doyle nodded his appreciation and tried to get to his feet but the pain in his leg forced him down again. Manning advised him to stay where he was and covered his abdomen with the dressing gown in an attempt to preserve a modicum of decency. The alarm was now sounding which seemed to increase the racket from the landing. Prison officers would be arriving soon.

‘You’ll be fine, Michael,’ Manning assured him, but he did not sound too confident. ‘You’re in shock, but I don’t think it nicked the femoral artery. You’d better stay where you are though. The screws will be here any moment. I’ve already pressed the alarm.’

‘Where is everybody?’ asked Doyle, blearily. ‘I’m sure there was someone taking a shower when I came in here.’ He looked down at his leg. Blood was beginning to seep through the towel. He began to panic, placing his hand over the wound and flexing his leg to ensure he could still move it.

‘It’s still bleeding. Are you sure it hasn’t cut through anything important? It didn’t half hurt when you pulled it out. Funny thing is, I hardly felt it when it went in.’ There was a note of panic in his voice.

‘That’s to be expected,’ came the reply. ‘You passed out. They’ll have you in hospital in no time to check you over, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be OK.’

Doyle responded with a lengthy and self-indulgent groan.

* * * *

Chapter One

Draycott Heath Prison had been open for only eighteen months. A modern category ‘C’ establishment, it housed just under six hundred inmates. Situated close to the peak district, it was within striking distance of the major urban settlements of Sheffield, Nottingham, Stoke-on-Trent and Derby. None of the serving prisoners was considered particularly dangerous. Many of them were approaching the end of their sentences and had been transferred to Draycott prior to being sent to open conditions and eventual release on licence. It was its proximity to these cities that had caused the Home Office to use it as a temporary remand prison for those in custody attending trials in the local Crown Courts. This meant that some potentially high-risk individuals were passing through, although they were supposed to be separately accommodated from the sentenced inmates. As had happened many times before, this edict from London proved impossible to enforce. The pressures on the system were extreme and never ending.

Michael Doyle, a convicted prisoner, was an exception to the general rule. He had moved rapidly through the system, from category ‘A’ to category ‘C’ despite his conviction for conspiracy to commit robbery. Sentenced to 15 years’ imprisonment, he had over 7 years to serve before he could apply for parole and release even then could not be assumed. But Doyle anticipated he would receive special consideration. Nothing had been formally agreed, but the information he had disclosed to Chief Inspector Hood had led directly to the arrest of Derick Duffy, who since his release from prison years before, had been living in South Wales under the pretended identity of Patrick Lafferty. Doyle believed he was only one of three individuals who were aware of this deception until he disclosed what he knew to Hood. The other two were Duffy himself and the late but unlamented master criminal, Gus Grayling.

After Duffy was arrested, Hood had deliberately implied that it was Grayling who had given him up. Whether Duffy believed him or not he couldn’t be sure, but Hood knew if it became known that Doyle had assisted the police in identifying Duffy, his life would be at risk. Duffy, in turn, had quickly betrayed his accomplices and reluctantly agreed to give evidence against them in the hope of reducing his own sentence. He had received a hefty discount in return, but his treachery was well known throughout the prison estate. No-one trusted him. Even some of the prison officers at Long Lartin gave him the cold shoulder. His presence in any establishment was an irritation and a trigger for trouble. He had been moved on three occasions already and would likely be moved again. Although his associates had eventually accepted their guilt, the mark of ‘supergrass’ was fixed and indelible and Duffy’s reputation would be forever compromised at the serious end of the criminal fraternity. He now spent his time in virtual seclusion, unhappy that he would be expected to give evidence in open court at the forthcoming trial of Julia Hamilton, Doyle’s erstwhile lover, but hoping his continued co-operation would result in a further reduction in the time he would have to spend behind bars. Giving evidence would certainly increase the likelihood of further incidents so long as he remained in custody. But he hoped that would work to his advantage. If the system could not protect him while he was in prison, the only alternative would be to discharge him and leave him to his own devices. He could but hope.

As for Doyle, only the governor of Draycott was aware of his special status and she was under instructions from the Home Office to maintain strict confidentiality. It was because of what she knew that she had concluded that Doyle was genuinely at risk of serious injury or worse if he remained at Draycott. While she knew he had given valuable information to the police, the precise terms of what he had disclosed had not been divulged to her or to anyone else. She knew nothing of Duffy and his companions in crime and was unaware of any significant link between them and Doyle. All she had been told was that if Doyle’s contribution were revealed his life would be in danger. It was this that had caused her to question Senior Officer McCabe’s assessment that Doyle’s stabbing might have been what he described as a ‘put up job.’ She had summoned Brogan McCabe to her office to discuss his concerns. As he climbed the stairs to the first floor of the administration building, it crossed his mind that something was being kept from him but he had no firm idea of what it might be.

He tapped briskly on the door but didn’t wait until he was invited to enter. He turned the handle and stepped inside. The governor looked up from her desk at the far side of the room and beckoned him forward. Her office was pleasant enough, spacious and functional. Painted in a restful shade of pastel pink, a few of the prisoners’ more accomplished artistic efforts were displayed on the walls alongside a photograph of the governor standing with the Home Secretary when he had visited six months before.

Jane Robson was not yet thirty-five. An attractive slim woman with long, auburn hair tied up in a bun, she had a degree in sociology from Durham University and a Masters in criminology from Nottingham Trent. Joining the Prison Service after a gap year touring various penal institutions in the United States, she had been quickly promoted. Regarded by her superiors as possessing huge potential, she was dedicated, progressive and keen to improve the rehabilitation of the offenders in her charge. She was also ambitious and well aware of the statistical evidence. Over 45 per cent of criminals re-offended within weeks or months of release. There had to be a better way, or so she believed. To that end she had introduced a more liberal regime which allowed the inmates more freedom, longer periods of association and greater opportunities for education and self-improvement. Those who established a consistent pattern of good behaviour were allowed to wear their own clothes instead of the dull prison uniform. She saw little point in locking them in their cells for most of the day which staff shortages had forced on those in charge at her first prison. Her approach had been supported by London and quietly endorsed by the Home Secretary. But now she had the embarrassment of a prisoner in hospital with what could easily have turned out to be a life-threatening injury – a prisoner she had known was potentially vulnerable. She anticipated, too, that there would be voices raised in high places that this was the foreseeable consequence of her over-relaxed if enlightened reforms.

But she had no intention of letting this incident jeopardise her career.So, she looked, as always, to Brogan McCabe for support. Indeed, she was very much reliant upon him. He did not fully share her philosophy, but neither was he opposed to many of the changes she had instituted. A wily Scot of forty-four, he could not have had a more contrasting start in life. He had certainly come up the hard way. His father had died when he was seven years old and his mother had struggled valiantly to bring him up along with his three younger siblings. He had left school with few qualifications and after several dead-end jobs had joined the army. He served with distinction for thirteen years in the First Battalion Royal Scots, reaching the rank of sergeant-major. Following an injury to his leg during the Gulf War, he’d been invalided out of the services and forced to start over again. After making an almost complete recovery, he’d joined the Prison Service as an ordinary officer and made steady if unspectacular progress. Recently promoted, he was transferred to Draycott Heath as a senior officer. He prided himself on knowing almost everything that was going on in his prison, as he liked to call it, and was known for his no-nonsense approach. But he’d learnt to respect Jane Robson and although he would never have admitted it, quite admired her. She, in her turn, trusted him implicitly and rarely interfered in his day to day management of the prisoners. But she had not told him anything about Doyle. Not even her three deputies were trusted with that information.

As McCabe approached, she stood up and walked around her desk, perched on the edge and invited him to sit down, an indication that this meeting was to be as informal as possible. McCabe could not avoid looking admiringly at her long, slim legs stretched out before her. He coughed, but declined her invitation to sit. He preferred to stand, almost to attention. Jane Robson smiled but could not hide her concern that her senior officer might be working things out for himself. He was no fool and had always wondered how Doyle had managed to move so quickly through the system. Prisoners never went from ‘cat A’ to ‘cat C’ as fast as Doyle had. His suspicions had caused him to scrutinise Doyle’s file with particular care and he had cross-examined the assistant governor in charge of administration but had found nothing to support his misgivings. But there had to be more to it, hadn’t there? Something was not quite right. Of that he was certain. Was Doyle, perhaps, a supergrass? That thought had crossed his mind, fleetingly, more than once, but he had dismissed it as unlikely. It would have explained everything, but if he were, why had he not been told? He was the most senior officer in the prison. He was the one who walked the landings, not the governor or her deputies. He was the one who needed to know if a prisoner presented a potential problem. An informer on the landing always spelt trouble and that was the last thing he needed in an under-staffed prison. He decided to probe Jane Robson, but gently. He would be able to judge from her reaction whether his suspicions had any substance.

‘It’s my gut feeling,’ he told her. ‘Doyle is probably the most seriously convicted man here. Violence is virtually unheard of, except in the remand wing. I reckon he did this to himself or was in cahoots with Manning. And remember, ma’am, Manning has medical knowledge. He was a dentist – until he was struck off for fraud – he’d have known about the femoral artery – and how to avoid it. And the two of them were as thick as thieves. They’re always together except on their work details.’

The governor was not convinced. She couldn’t imagine Doyle taking such a risk.

‘But would a dentist normally know about the femoral artery?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am. But I know that Manning borrowed our only copy of Gray’s Anatomy from the prison library last month.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘Brushing up his medical knowledge he said.’

The governor noticed the sceptical look on Brogan’s face as he spoke. She frowned but it occurred to her that if she went along with his suspicions, it might save her from divulging the true position.

‘Do you know, Brogan, that never crossed my mind,’ she said, seemingly quite openly. ‘But it was a terrible risk to take, wasn’t it? If the blade had gone in half a centimetre to the left it would have severed the artery and he’d have bled to death before anything could be done for him. And besides, what would his motive be in injuring himself? He was as good as gold when he was taken to hospital. He certainly hasn’t attempted to escape.’

McCabe almost scoffed.

‘That’s as may be. But I have a feeling in my water that he’s up to something. And he’s still got a fair stretch to do, even on full remission. There’s another thing, too. Doesn’t it strike you as decidedly odd that whoever did this stabbed him in the leg and left the weapon for us to find? Why in the leg? If he was taking a shower, it would have been easier to stab him in the back. And why didn’t he take the weapon with him? If Manning hadn’t thrown it into the shower gutter, we might have obtained some useful DNA from it.’

The governor nodded.

‘That’s certainly worth thinking about. But if it were another prisoner, he’d have anticipated a search of his cell, wouldn’t he? So he would’ve had to have got rid of it somewhere or risk being found with it. And you found nothing. Perhaps that was the clever thing to do, to leave it in the shower block. As for the leg injury, whoever did it presumably knew nothing about the cardiovascular system. Probably watched too many cowboy films, you know, where people get shot in the leg but carry on as if nothing much has happened to them.’

She half-laughed, but uneasily. McCabe considered the governor’s reasoning. He knew quite a lot about leg injuries. It was a bullet lodged in his left leg that had brought his military career to an end. But the governor’s analysis did make some sort of sense. It was true. He had organised a full search of every cell on the landing and turned over those on the other three landings, but nothing suspicious had been discovered. And, as he expected, no-one had said anything to assist. No-one had seen or heard a thing. But the injury being to the thigh still worried him. If this were not down to Doyle, it was obviously not an attempt to kill but an attempt to injure. A warning, a threat of more to come, perhaps? It fitted Doyle being an informer to a tee. ‘Yes, ma’am. That’s a possibility,’ he said, giving nothing away.

‘Any idea where the weapon came from?’

‘It was a sharpened screwdriver blade, pushed into a piece of wood which was adapted to form a sort of handle. There’s a detachable screwdriver blade missing from the workshop – and Doyle works in there on a regular basis.’

‘Along with over seventy-five other prisoners, of course.’ She adjusted her position on her desk and frowned.

‘Yes, ma’am. And we’ll get nowhere interviewing any of them, that’s a certainty.’ He considered his options and decided to bite the bullet. ‘I’ve always wondered about Doyle. What’s a career criminal like him doing here? He was ‘cat A’ until a few months ago. He should be in more secure conditions, surely?’

He waited for the governor’s response. She looked down briefly as she considered her reply. She appreciated it was mainly down to McCabe that the reputation of Draycott stood so high. In a system where the statistical record counted for so much, her future would be determined by the continued smooth running of the prison. She also knew she was being considered for a move to headquarters in London and she had no intention of damaging her prospects of advancement. But McCabe was like a dog with a bone. He wasn’t going to give up on his theory without a struggle. But she had her orders. She would have to go along with his suspicions even if it might mean telling him a deliberate lie.

‘As you know, Brogan, we take whomever we’re sent. We have no control over it, but there may be something in what you say. I’ll check with HQ and see if they can shed any light on this.’ She paused. ‘I agree his rapid change of status is unusual. There must be some reason for it?’ She paused again. ‘Although he committed a serious offence, he had no previous convictions – nothing of significance anyway - and we’ve had some pretty serious offenders in here before.’

Brogan McCabe nodded, but she could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t find that a convincing explanation. He shifted from one foot to the other as a recurrent twinge in his left leg made its presence felt.

‘That’s true, of course. But what’s to be done with him? I don’t want him becoming a catalyst for trouble. I have three officers off sick this week. We haven’t the staff to manage someone who might become a target.’

The governor hesitated. McCabe had obviously worked out that Doyle was no ordinary prisoner and nothing she said would persuade him otherwise. Then he put it to her directly.

‘You don’t think he was sent here because he’s an informer, do you?’

He looked her directly in the eye. Her expression did not change. McCabe persisted. ‘But surely, ma’am, if that were the case, we’d have been told about it?’

She did her best to keep a straight face.

‘Unless he’s a supergrass, of course,’ she replied, drawing in her breath. ‘If he falls into the category, they wouldn’t even tell me!’ She thought from McCabe’s reaction she had just about got away with it. ‘You’ve looked at his file I suppose? He’s in here for armed robbery isn’t he?’

‘Yes, ma’am. He pleaded guilty - eventually - and received a pretty stiff sentence – fifteen years.’

‘So it doesn’t look like he dropped anyone else in it? If it had been a brown envelope job, presumably he’d have received a reduced sentence.’

McCabe sighed. ‘I suppose he would. They only got one of the others – and he pleaded too – out of his league he was. Picked up a twelve stretch. He’s still at Nottingham, I’ve checked. There were at least two others involved but they’ve never been apprehended.’

The governor smiled. Her little ruse seemed to be working. She had learnt long ago that hinting at the truth could frequently close down a discussion that might otherwise lead to an embarrassing standoff. She sought to put McCabe further off the scent.

‘So, there must be another explanation for his change of status? What about Manning? Should we be looking at it from his angle?’

McCabe shook his head.

‘I doubt if he has an angle. He’s been granted parole and will be released the day after tomorrow. The deputy governor didn’t get anything out of him when he was questioned. And his parole had come through before this happened. I can’t see how he could have any advantage out of it. Mind you, he might have been offered something. Doyle is pretty well off from what I hear.’

‘But he wouldn’t risk putting his parole in jeopardy, surely?’

‘Probably not, but it would depend on what he was offered if he is involved. A struck-off dentist won’t have much to look forward to on the outside.’

‘They didn’t know each other before they came here?’

‘Doesn’t look like it. Doyle’s from Leicester and Manning practised in Leamington Spa. I’ve been over both of their files. No indication of an earlier connection. Manning’s quite a bit older than Doyle and has no criminal connections, as far as we know.’

‘He was questioned by my deputy, wasn’t he? There were no inconsistencies?’

McCabe almost chuckled.

‘None! Manning’s account coincided in every respect with Doyle’s, which is suspicious in itself, of course.’

‘And he may have saved Doyle’s life? Didn’t he form a tourniquet from a towel and the cord from his own dressing gown to stem the bleeding?’

McCabe shook his head.

‘That’s what he wants us to think. Right little hero he would have us believe. We know now that Doyle was never really in danger. Nothing vital was damaged. If it was a put-up job, Manning would have had to do what he did to make it look like the real thing.’

‘As I recall, he said he’d gone for a shower and found Doyle semi-conscious on the floor.’

‘That’s what he says. Strange thing is, no-one else seems to have been about. And the showers on Level Two are usually very busy after the inmates return from their work details.’

‘Perhaps the word had gone out?’ said the governor, knowingly.

‘Perhaps.’

Jane Robson decided to bring the meeting to a conclusion. She had achieved all she could. She walked slowly towards the door and opened it slowly.

‘I think we should proceed on the basis that you may well be right, Brogan. We can’t do anything about it now. Manning will be gone in a couple of days, which is probably a good thing. He’s become very close with Doyle and if Doyle does remain here it’s best that such a chummy relationship is ended. But keep an eye on him. If he is up to something – although I can’t think what it might be – I want to know about it. I’ll make my report to HQ. It’ll be up to them to decide whether he should be moved.’

‘Let’s hope he is. Whatever the truth of the matter, I don’t want him here any longer than necessary. If this really was an assault, it could happen again. Best to get him transferred.’

She opened the door fully and held it as McCabe passed through.

‘Thanks, Brogan. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.’

Much relieved, she sighed as he left the room, but she recognised that there was a risk that he had guessed why Doyle was at Draycott. At least she’d been spared telling him a direct lie. But if she were right and McCabe had rumbled her, it leant a degree of urgency to her next move. So, following procedure to the letter, she spoke again to her contact at the Home Office with a strong recommendation that Doyle should be transferred. It was up to them, of course, to decide his eventual destination.

* * * *

To the Governor’s surprise, the response was immediate. Robson was informed that Doyle was to be moved to a category D prison in Essex. She smiled to herself when she received the call. Doyle must have been something very special for the Home office to react so swiftly. He’d be safe there, she was told, mixing with fraudsters and minor sex offenders. But before he could be transferred there was a further incident. The day after his return from hospital, he was found, semi-conscious, at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Again, there were no witnesses and the CCTV camera recorded only the latter stages of his descent. Doyle claimed he had been pushed and there was no doubt that his left ankle had sustained a hairline fracture. The X- ray was clear. Jane Robson made a further urgent report to the Home Office. This time her concerns were expressed more forcefully. Even the cynical Brogan McCabe was re-assessing the position. He was now in two minds. He half-accepted that Doyle might be a target. He had discovered the link between Doyle and Julia Hamilton and had concluded he was going to give evidence either against her or in her favour – which, he couldn’t be certain. Obviously someone wanted him stopped. He had dutifully drawn his suspicions to the notice of the governor who had agreed to pass them on to London. She had no idea whether or not Doyle was going to give evidence at Hamilton’s trial, but she was pleased that McCabe had calculated that he was only a potential informer. Doyle was temporarily placed in solitary conditions for his own safety.

The Home Secretary, with uncharacteristic speed, reached what he was later to describe as a ‘holding position.’ With the trial of Julia Hamilton on the horizon and the inevitable publicity that would generate, he was taking no chances. Like previous holders of the office, the present Secretary of State was keen to avoid a ‘death in custody’ in respect of a prisoner who had made such a major contribution to the arrest and conviction of serious criminals. If he were to be murdered whilst in prison, an inquest would be directed by the coroner and the full circumstances would be revealed. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Any attempt to interfere would merely encourage the conspiracy theorists and the Press would have a field day. But the buck would stop with him. As one of the few who knew of Doyle’s disclosures, he would not escape responsibility and possible censure. So his course was clear. If Doyle could not be held safely in category D conditions in Essex – any further incidents would demonstrate that to be the case - his release from custody might have to be considered. The prerogative of mercy could be exercised or Doyle could be granted early parole and left to his own devices. The Home Secretary was convinced that information had leaked from somewhere and he was determined that neither he nor his department should carry the can. And if anything were to happen, far better it happened with him out of custody.

Chapter Two

Three months earlier

Chief Inspector Henry Hood was not a happy man. He had examined for the third or fourth time the limited number of statements he and his team of officers had assembled for the forthcoming trial of Julia Hamilton. On a personal note, he was more than a little disappointed that his anticipated promotion had not come through and, what was worse, showed no signs of doing so. His wife had recently given birth to his third child, a healthy boy they called Nicholas, so the increase in salary were he to be promoted to superintendent would have come in very handy. He had been advanced to the temporary rank of Acting Superintendent during the investigation of the kidnapping and blackmail conspiracy but that had been quickly terminated after Chief Superintendent Craven recovered from shingles and returned to work. Hood had remained in charge when the aborted robbery of the security van near Retford had been halted as he and his team moved in following information received from Alex Stringer. He had thought, not without good reason, that his success in arresting the whole gang as they attacked the security vehicle would have received appropriate recognition, but it was not to be. At least, not yet. His mood did not improve when his application to take off more than the three days he had been granted as paternity leave was also summarily rejected. The chief constable was quite insistent. He required Hood’s presence and full attention in ensuring that the case against Hamilton was as strong as possible. He dropped a very big hint that promotion, despite his earlier assurances, would be dependent on her conviction.

‘Let’s finish the job, shall we? Then we’ll see about promotion.’

The chief’s other prediction, in respect of himself, had seemingly proved more reliable. It was rumoured that he would be appointed CBE in the New Year’s Honours’ list, his reward for the capture, prosecution and imprisonment of the gang of kidnappers who had tried to blackmail Judge Campion by holding his wife and son hostage. Not that his personal contribution had been that significant. But he had persuaded himself - and others - that it was his overall direction of the inquiry that had produced results. He, along with Chief Superintendent Craven and Chief Inspector Hood had been invited to a reception at Downing Street at which the Prime Minister, no less, had praised his leadership skills in front of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and several other invited dignitaries. He had quickly convinced himself that without his contribution nothing of consequence would have been achieved. Craven and Hood knew otherwise but they were hardly in a position to contradict their superior officer.

In the locker rooms and police canteens throughout the East Midlands a different story was being told and the chief constable’s assumption of the leading role in the investigation was the subject of much mirth and insubordinate comment. It did little to improve his popularity but he was planning to retire in a few months’ time and he already had the offer of a directorship in a national security company safely under his belt. The word was that he must have received notification of his expected honour, probably at the Downing Street reception, in the form of a nod and a wink - nothing explicit of course. While it should have remained highly confidential, it was already being spoken of quite openly at police head quarters well before he made his annual trip to his holiday home in Florida. He was anticipating a very happy new year whatever the outcome of Hamilton’s trial.

Hood appreciated, of course, that Julia Hamilton’s conviction was far from certain. She, alone, had pleaded not guilty and should have been tried the previous month, but events had determined otherwise. Following the birth of her son at the end of September, her health had deteriorated and she’d spent three weeks in hospital before being returned to HMP Holloway. The plan had been to take her to one of the London maternity units for her to give birth but the child arrived unexpectedly while she was walking to the secure vehicle that was to take her to the hospital. The circumstances of the child’s delivery were far from ideal and although she received the best available attention, a serious haemorrhage developed which required specialist treatment that could not be provided by the prison medical service. She was in no condition to give instructions to her lawyers so the trial had been postponed. A further bail application, based primarily on the adverse effect her detention was having on both her and her child, was rejected. She and her son remained confined to the mother and baby unit in that uncomfortable and notorious prison.

But the delay had, at least, given Hood additional time to try and uncover something that supported Derick Duffy’s account of events. He realised that the uncorroborated evidence of a professional criminal like Duffy was not the most secure basis for building a case against Julia Hamilton. To that end, every lead had been thoroughly investigated, but to no avail. The Crown’s case, apart from Duffy’s evidence, remained essentially circumstantial. Duffy had let slip when he was interviewed by Hood, that Joseph Hanlon had been at Grayling’s house when Julia Hamilton put her proposition to him, but he was not prepared to say as much in a written statement and he certainly wouldn’t repeat it on oath from the witness box. He had sense enough to realise that disclosing anything further about Hanlon would place him in even greater jeopardy. The fact that he had provided the evidence that had induced the pleas of guilty by Hanlon and the others was too well known and he was not prepared to put his life at risk by saying anything more about a man as dangerous and well connected as Joseph Hanlon. He had already been beaten up twice. He did not want to repeat the experience.

Joseph Hanlon was the former IRA man who, with others, had held Judge Campion and his family at gunpoint and directed the enforced removal of Mrs Campion and her young son in order to blackmail the judge into dismissing the case against Michael Doyle and Charlie Benson. At least that was how it was supposed to appear. He had been recruited by Grayling with whom he had previously been involved in serious crime, but neither man had ever been convicted of anything. He had also been the leader of the armed gang that had attempted to rob the security vehicle on the Ollerton road two months later, the gang that Hood had arrested. Now Hanlon was in Whitemoor Prison serving a sentence of thirty-nine years and Grayling was dead. Hanlon’s prospects of regaining his freedom before he, too, died seemed negligible.

Hood was almost resigned to the fact that he would have to rely solely on the evidence of Duffy when there were two unexpected breakthroughs. First, Detective Constable Raymond Craddock discovered a clip of CCTV from a camera in Hastings town centre that clearly showed Joseph Hanlon coming out of the railway station the day before the meeting between Julia Hamilton and Gus Grayling. He had travelled from Ireland on a false passport - that had already been established long ago – and the quality of the CCTV was excellent. There was no doubt as to his identification. But despite many hours of scrutiny, there was no sign of Julia Hamilton on any of the tapes examined by Craddock. While this sighting implied Duffy was probably telling the truth when he said that Hanlon was in the house when the meeting occurred, it shed no light on how Julia Hamilton had arrived there. If only Hanlon could be persuaded to co-operate! Secondly, and of greater significance Hood had received information from the Metropolitan police that the late Gus Grayling’s telephone had been subject to continuous monitoring for several months over the spring and early summer of 1999. It was Detective Sergeant Andrew Hooper who had come up with this little gem. He had been on a course with some Metropolitan officers in November. In the bar, after the day’s proceedings were over and the delegates were relaxing in the usual fashion, one of the team that had been bugging Grayling’s telephone volunteered that the master criminal had been under investigation in respect of an anticipated major drugs importation from Holland. Mention of Grayling’s name had alerted Hooper so