Grief Encounters (14 page)

‘No, Maggie.’

‘You were wondering if he knew where she lived.’

‘Something like that. Prisoners get funny ideas about women visitors. I didn’t want to alarm her, but it would scare the willies out of me, living up there.’

‘Do you think she’s in danger?’

‘I doubt it.’ I pulled my big diary out of the bottom drawer as Maggie turned to leave. ‘Don’t go,’ I said. ‘Let’s make a call.’

Gwen Rhodes is the governor of Bentley prison, and an old friend. She’s big and handsome and we hit it off right from the start. I’ve never taken her out, but we’ve fought the same corner a few times on various committees and share an interest in sport. Gwen played netball for England and I had trials in goal with Halifax Town juniors. As Brando nearly put it: I could’ve been a defender. I found her number and she answered third ring.

I said: ‘Hello Gwen, it’s Charlie Priest. Sorry to come through on this line but I’d like a word, when you can.’

‘Hello, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘This is a surprise. Can I ring you back shortly?’

As I put the phone down Maggie asked: ‘Who’s Gwen?’

‘Gwen Rhodes. Governor of Bentley.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You have a private line to the formidable Miss Rhodes! You never cease to amaze me.’

‘Yeah, well. I’ve known her a long time. She has a bit of a crush on me.’

‘And what have you on her?’

‘Nothing. She’s just a friend. But who knows, one day…’

Three or four minutes later she rang me back. ‘How are you keeping, Charlie?’ I switched the phone to loudspeaker, so Maggie could listen.

‘Not bad, Gwen, but working hard, as you are, no doubt.’

‘Yes, you’re certainly keeping us fully employed. As the old lags say: “Three to a cell, luxury!”’

We chatted about the perils of growing older and the merits of retiring to a place in the sun, with Maggie rolling her eyes at me across my desk. Eventually Gwen said: ‘So what can I do for you, Charlie? I presume it’s not a social call.’

‘Peter Ennis,’ I said. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Peter Paul Ennis was our longest serving inmate. What’s he done now?’

‘Peter Paul,’ I echoed. ‘Is that his name? I suppose that’s why they called him the Pope.’

‘Yes. And his initials are PPE, so he just had to stick an O in there.’

I said: ‘Wait a minute, Gwen. Did you know he called himself the Pope?’ 

‘Of course. Everybody called him the Pope.’

‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed. ‘We just spent a month looking for the Pope and you knew who he was all the time.’

‘Well you should ring more often, Charlie. I’ve no sympathy. So what’s he done?’

I told her about Magdalena and she was silent for a while. Eventually she said: ‘He was a model prisoner, but we fool ourselves, don’t we? We find it difficult to believe what some of our fellow men are capable of.’

‘Give me some details, please,’ I asked. ‘What was he in for?’

‘Bank robbery. Let me look him up… Here we are… July 1978. He pulled off the York and Durham bank robbery on the Thursday before Wakes Week. Got away with nearly half a million. Don’t you remember it?’

‘Hmm, vaguely, but I’d be in Leeds, then. So how long did he serve?’

‘He was sentenced to twenty-five years. It was a particularly nasty robbery – he doused a bank clerk in petrol and threatened to ignite her – and none of his share of the money – which was most of it – was recovered. He pleaded not guilty, refused to cooperate and settled down to serve his full term, without remission. Now he’s a free man and we have no idea where he is. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

‘And there’s still the half a million spondulis somewhere,’ I added. 

‘Quite.’

‘Blimey.’

‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘I’ll be grateful if you can email me the relevant stuff, please, Gwen. And there is one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re right. We should talk more often. How about dinner one night next week? Somewhere a bit nice; my treat? What night would suit you?’

‘Sorry, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘Friday I fly to Canada. Taking the train ride through the Rockies. I’ll be gone three weeks.’

Across the desk Maggie was nearly choking.

‘Now I’m green with envy,’ I replied. ‘Can I see your photos when you come back, then?’

‘Yes, Charlie. That’s something to look forward to. I’ve bought a new camera especially for the holiday. Look after yourself.’

‘And you, Gwen. Bye.’

As I pressed the loudspeaker key to break the connection Maggie said: ‘That bit about men in prison having funny ideas about women visitors. Do you think the opposite is true?’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Well, do men on the outside have funny ideas about female governors?’

‘Haven’t you anything to do?’ I demanded.

I was putting details of Maggie’s report in my murder log when Mr Wood came in, fresh from Ted Goss’s memorial service. He looked as if he’d lost a tenner and found a teapot lid. I kicked the spare chair out for him and asked if he’d like a coffee.

‘No thanks, Charlie. I’m OK.’

‘We’ve got developments on the Magdalena enquiry,’ I said. ‘We know who the Pope is, now all we have to do is find him.’

‘Good. Good.’ He sat down and ran a hand through what was left of his hair.

Services for suicide victims are always
extra-harrowing
, even when you don’t know them too well. I said: ‘You look knackered, Gilbert. Was it a bad do?’

‘Oh, so-so, Charlie. There were a couple of lighter moments, but it makes you think, doesn’t it? A man like him devotes his life to the community and all he gets is a recycling bin named after him. It’s not much for a lifetime’s work, is it?’

‘It’s more than we’ll get.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Footprints on a frosty lawn, Gilbert. That’s all we’ll leave behind. And they’ll disappear as soon as the sun rises.’

‘That’s a good one. Who said it?’

‘Dunno. I must have read it on a calendar. So what’s brought this on? You didn’t know Mr Goss all that well, did you?’ 

‘It’s turning into a bloody mess, Charlie. That’s what.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I got collared at the bun-fight by Edwin Turner. Do you know him?’

‘I know of him. He was Goss’s agent, wasn’t he?’ I’d seen his photo in the
Gazette
dozens of times, usually alongside his master at the opening of a skateboard park or cancer clinic.

‘That’s right. He’d been going through Ted’s papers. As you can imagine, there’s a whole load of stuff to be attended to. He’s left a right mess behind. He’s been sifting through his papers for weeks, shredding most of it. All the constituency business, stuff like that. Some of it’s confidential, some highly personal.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘People turn to their MP as a last desperate resort.’

‘On the day he found the body,’ Gilbert went on, ‘he came across this.’ He reached into his inside pocket and handed me a folded letter.

I recognised the Union flag logo instantly, and written underneath it in Roman type was the name of the august journal that had sent it:
Britain 2000
. I checked the date and saw that it had been sent about five weeks ago. Ted Goss had been dead for a month. It was addressed to the Hon Edward Goss, MP, at his home in Heckley, and said: 

It was signed with a cross by the editor.

‘He hanged himself, didn’t he?’ I asked.

‘With a belt, from the stair rails.’

‘You’d have to be desperate to do something like that.’

‘Yes. It’s hardly premeditated. He left a couple of notes, in one of which he said all allegations against him involving downloading indecent images were untrue.’ 

What was it Mandy Rice-Davies said during the Profumo case: ‘Well he would, wouldn’t he?’ And young Daniel had said something similar.

‘What does he want you to do?’ I asked.

‘Buggered if I know, Charlie. Hush the whole thing up, I suppose. I don’t know where they get their ideas from about how much clout we have, especially these days.’

I said: ‘Superintendent Swainby had similar allegations and threats made against him. There’s a lot of it about. So why haven’t
Britain 2000
published the story?’

‘Edwin has discovered that Goss took out an injunction against them publishing, a couple of days before he died.’

‘I told Swainby to do that. How have you left it?’

‘I haven’t made him any promises, Charlie. Said we’d look at it, that’s all.’

‘OK. Leave it with me.’ I wasn’t making any promises, either. All I could do was have a word with the agent, tell him the bit I knew and suggest he issue a strenuous denial. Mud sticks, but dead men don’t bleed.

‘OK, listen up,’ I began, Tuesday morning, to the gathered troops. ‘Thanks to the diligence of one of our number we now have a name for the Pope, plus his fingerprints, DNA and mugshot. He’s called Peter Paul Ennis and was released from Bentley a year ago after serving twenty-five years for armed bank robbery.’ A murmur of astonishment ran through the room at the sudden leap forward we’d made in what was beginning to look like a hopeless case.

I told them that the focus of our activities was now on finding Ennis. The file from Gwen Rhodes had arrived on my computer and I’d run off several copies. One item of interest was next of kin. He had a younger brother living near Doncaster. I delegated six officers to mount round-the-clock surveillance and sent them off: two to Donnie, four home to get some rest.

In my office I rang my opposite DI in Doncaster just to clear things and then looked for numbers for the ex-prisoners’ associations. Thanks to the Internet I soon had about a hundred to look at. Liberty couldn’t or wouldn’t help me, and neither could the Howard League. I was the enemy. The National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Prisoners were sympathetic but disinclined to turn their database over to me. I rang a friendly probation officer and he suggested contacting the Blue Sky Trust, who touted themselves around the northern jails, and I eventually found myself talking to someone who said he was the regional coordinator.

Unfortunately he wasn’t inclined to coordinate my enquiry with his list of names and addresses, so I told him in full Technicolor and blow-by-blow detail about Magdalena’s injuries and said we were only interested in eliminating Peter Paul Ennis from our enquiries.

He agreed to look.

He looked.

No, sorry, they didn’t have him on their books.

Big deal.

Gwen had included a list of his associates in prison, and the names of the six others in the gang. They’d served terms up to eight years and were paid
£
10,000 each for their help, most of which had been recovered. Ennis’s share,
£
370,000, had never been found. I wrote addresses down, sent officers off to locate them, requested other forces to keep a weather eye out for him. According to the file he was an occasional follower of greyhound racing, so I looked up the local tracks and asked about their next meetings.

I tried to estimate what I was earning in 1978 and compared it with my present salary. Some rough mathematics told me that Ennis’s haul was now worth in the region of
£
2,000,000. Unless, of course, it was hidden in a suitcase under the floorboards, in which case it would still be worth
£
370,000. In 1978 it would have made him a rich man, now it would just about buy him a decent house. Did he lie in his bunk for twenty-five years worrying about inflation? Probably not. 

Edwin Turner arranged to meet me at Ted Goss’s house and was already there when I arrived. It was on the end of a three-story terrace that had been renovated at great expense, with most of the ground floor given over to office space. The size of the room puzzled me for a few seconds until I realised that a wall had been knocked through and it incorporated next door’s front parlour, too. There were two workstations with flat screen monitors, and all the other paraphernalia associated with a busy office, including a bank of filing cabinets and a small meeting room with a table and six chairs. Turner himself was a fussy little man with
bottle-bottom
spectacles and a pale, scaly complexion. He blinked constantly behind the thick lenses, as if he’d just been released from a cupboard. I could imagine him printing posters for the current regime and distributing them door-to-door, along rain-swept streets.

‘What happened to Mrs Goss?’ I asked, after he’d given me a brief look-around.

‘She’s in long term care,’ he replied. ‘Alzheimer’s.’

‘That can’t have made things easy for him.’

‘No.’

‘What about secretarial help?’

‘Part-time, but we’ve laid her off.’

‘So what have we here?’ I asked.

‘This is the secretary’s desk,’ he told me, ‘where all the party business was conducted. That one was reserved for Ted’s personal stuff and low-level constituency business.’

‘Where did you find the letter from
Britain 2000
?’

‘In a drawer.’

‘Which drawer?’

‘Hmm, the middle one.’

I sat in the MP’s chair and pulled the appropriate drawer open. It was filled with envelopes of various sizes, plus a box of stamps and a ream of posh headed notepaper. A Montblanc fountain pen lay on it, ready for the quick, impressive signature.