My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (13 page)

So it wasn’t too much of a leap to suppose that one such incident might have led one of Sam’s rivals to contract a hit on her once she’d been released.

And, if someone had threatened Sam, perhaps that explained why she hadn’t been sleeping, and why she
hadn’t attempted to make her flat into any kind of home – because she’d been planning to run.

But who made the threat?

Most of London seemed to disagree with Hawkins’ line of investigation; they had been convinced by mounting media assertions that the killer was a discarded ex, somehow sufficiently incensed to use Valentine’s Day as symbolic backdrop to his impassioned revenge. For various reasons, Hawkins couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility, so she still had a small team working to identify ex-lovers and intimate friends, but intuition told her not to ignore less obvious avenues. Hence this visit to the place where Philips had spent the last six years of her life.

Hawkins hadn’t expected an easy time when she’d lined up interviews with several key inmates at Holloway, mainly because convicts generally weren’t that keen on the police. But she’d been hoping to obtain slightly more information than she had so far. Her tactic had been simple: talk to potential perpetrators first. Of course, they’d admit to precisely bugger all as far as anything they were involved in, but Hawkins had hoped at least one of them might be prepared to burn a rival.

No such luck.

Then she’d moved on to the most notorious gossips in Holloway, the people who made it their business to know everything about everyone, and had no qualms about sharing the facts – for a price, of course, typically
in the form of increased privileges, maybe even early release.

She’d been given three names: Sandra Martin, Tyra Shore, Dorothy Clarke.

Over the last three hours Hawkins had tried to persuade each woman to divulge anything they’d known about Sam and who she’d fallen out with during her time at Holloway. She wasn’t proud of it, but she had ended up playing each one off against the next in a game of scandalmonger one-upmanship.

It hadn’t helped.

Either some sort of criminals’ honour was muting her subjects or they really didn’t know. None would even
speculate
as to who had attacked Philips on at least one occasion inside.

Hawkins had just one more interview lined up, a final chance for Holloway to provide the answer. But she wasn’t holding her breath.

The wall of innocence she’d hit so far only increased the chances that Sam’s killer came from an entirely different pool of potential suspects. As Hawkins sat there at the window, the rest of her murder investigation team were tracing Brendan Marsh’s family and friends.

It was important to remember that Samantha Philips herself had been a cold-blooded killer. Her pre-meditated actions had ended a life. Revenge, as Hawkins knew from personal experience, was a powerful incentive. But, regardless of whether Brendan Marsh was a rapist or not, there were people out there who cared
about him. Others who might have wanted Philips dead.

Hawkins spun in response to the recently familiar sound of a heavy metal lock being disengaged, almost turning an ankle between the floor and the footrests on her chair for the second time that afternoon. She swore. Her joints, now thirty-five years old, didn’t resist abuse as effectively as they once had. She really needed to break her habit of wearing heels for work.

Twenty yards along the corridor, Amala Yasir was being ushered through a gate by one of the female wardens, who then secured it behind her and trudged away.

Yasir’s rubber-soled flats squeaked loudly on the polished floor as she approached; her charcoal suit and plain high-necked shirt accurately reflected her straight-laced character. In contrast, Hawkins’ caramel above-the-knee skirt and white chiffon blouse had drawn wolf whistles from a group of women prisoners they’d passed on the way in. Despite the wheelchair.

Hawkins regarded her younger subordinate. Yasir’s parents were from Malaysia and Pakistan, although many would have called her exotic appearance striking, rather than beautiful.

‘Wow.’ Yasir made an exasperated face as she re-joined her commanding officer. ‘Remind me to hold it next time, will you, chief? It takes an age to get
anywhere
in this place. Nearest loo’s seven locked gates away.’

Hawkins heard another door slam in the distance. ‘No wonder the guards are so miserable.’

They both looked up as muted voices became audible along the corridor and, seconds later, four people rounded the corner to Hawkins’ right. Up front was a huge female warden whose cropped hair perfectly depicted her as someone you didn’t mess with. Flanking the group was another guard, smaller and less imposing but still stony-faced. And, between them, the two people for whom Hawkins and Yasir were waiting.

The first was a scrawny long-term inmate called Jean Coker, who Hawkins was hoping might reveal some insight into Philips’ time inside. The second was a manicured white man in his late forties who had earlier introduced himself as Pierce Reid, Head of Prisoner Counselling and Reintegration for the London area. The expensive suit had retained its composure throughout the day, but after having sat in on all six interviews with prisoners, the counsellor himself appeared to be flagging. He broke off from the group as the two guards shepherded Coker into the interview room and closed the door.

Reid came over to them, checking his watch. ‘Can we keep this one brief, Detective? It’s the weekend.’

‘We’ll try,’ Hawkins told him. ‘Although I can’t promise anything. Go if you want.’

He frowned. ‘I’d love to, but it’s procedure these days to have a counsellor present in all police-led interviews with inmates. I thought I mentioned that.’

‘You did,’ Hawkins said, not really interested. ‘But if
you’re shooting off right after this one, there are a couple of questions I need to ask you about Sam.’

Reid had appeared in the room with each inmate and disappeared with them directly afterwards. This was the first opportunity she’d had to talk to him alone.

He sighed. ‘If you must.’

‘How well did you know Samantha Philips?’

‘I only met her once.’ Reid slid his hands into his pockets. ‘When I carried out her pre-release assessment. She never requested to see me, or any other members of the counselling team, during her sentence.’

‘So who
did
she confide in?’

‘Perhaps no one,’ Reid said. ‘As you requested, I did some preliminary checking prior to your arrival, but nothing came up. Obviously, not all the prisoners are keen to answer questions from
the establishment.
’

Hawkins nodded. ‘Did she receive any hate mail?’

‘I found no evidence of any,’ the counsellor replied. ‘The prison screens for that sort of thing, mainly to protect the inmates from harassment, but there’s nothing on Miss Philips’ record about any having arrived, even when she first came in. I suppose thirty-something rapists like her victim don’t warrant public sympathy. Even the challenged individuals who become obsessed with dangerous men tend to prefer their idols with a pulse. It’s often the subject of psychological debate, but I don’t believe Brendan Marsh was sufficiently notorious to have inspired a so-called fan to murder in his name.’

‘What about allies?’ Hawkins fired in when he paused. ‘Who did Sam get on with?’

‘I could be wrong,’ Reid continued, ‘but it appears that Miss Philips spent most of her sentence in solitude, and I don’t mean of the institutionally dispensed variety. Apparently, she made it through a six-year sentence without forging any of the standard alliances.’

Yasir’s eyebrows dipped. ‘
Standard alliances?
’

‘Yes.’ Reid glanced around, as if he were about to reveal who had shot JFK. ‘Any longer than a few months in here is difficult for
anyone
, but to do it without establishing certain … loyalties … is nigh on impossible. Yet all my sources – for example, guards with the confidence of certain inmates – say that Philips remained genuinely unaffiliated throughout her stay. And, before you ask, she certainly wasn’t keen on the wardens either.’

Yasir still looked confused. Hawkins was about to explain when Reid obliged.

‘Usually, prisoners go one of two ways. Some cling to the system at first, treating the wardens like police officers, often withdrawing everything the prison library has on penal law. They think that, if they abide by every rule, the system will protect them. But that delusion doesn’t tend to last. The smarter ones recognize straight away that, when you’re in Rome, it’s better to be Caesar’s friend, so they join one or other of the “families”. That’s my own term, but the rival factions I’m talking about are definitely real.’

‘Do you think that’s how she ended up fighting?’ Hawkins asked.

Reid frowned. ‘You assume there has to be a reason behind such violence. Disorder in prisons isn’t a male-only phenomenon, Detective. In my experience, women are as bad, if not worse.’ He motioned towards the interview room. ‘Look, we aren’t allowed to keep the inmates in session for longer than half an hour. You’ve already had five minutes, and Coker won’t be getting any more compliant in there.’

‘You’re right,’ Hawkins conceded, still determined to capitalize on her fleeting time with the counsellor. ‘But surely you can give us
some
insight into Sam’s character.’

Reid shrugged. ‘Like I said, Detective, I spent just twenty minutes with the woman, shortly before she was released, and during that meeting I talked far more than she did. But, in my professional opinion, she was ready and wanted to leave. Whether that had anything to do with specific people or conditions here in Holloway Prison, I couldn’t say. And, anyway, providing you can get her to talk, the lady in that interview room knew Samantha far better than I did.’

‘Okay.’ Hawkins reluctantly allowed the conversation to be curtailed. ‘Let’s see what Coker knows.’

The small, windowless room was still clogged with stagnant smoke when Hawkins, Yasir and Reid entered. Unlike in the allegedly free world, prisoners serving
time in British prisons were still allowed to light up indoors; a liberty of which all of the afternoon’s interviewees had made the most.

Yasir wheeled Hawkins’ chair over so that she could face Coker across the table in the centre of the room, and retook her seat on the remaining edge, opposite Reid. A small tin ashtray sat between them, already overwhelmed by the twelve or so butts which had helped infuse the day’s earlier conversations.

Their wiry subject sat in the fourth wooden chair, cuffed wrists on the table, hands clasped together as if protecting a good poker hand. Her arms bore the same dense tattoos as the rest of her body, heavily inked motifs that crept over her skin like marauding foliage. She was easily late fifties, although her emaciated frame suggested that most of those years had been sustained by prison food. And if her vest
had
ever been washed, there were likely few who could claim living memory of the day. But Hawkins recognized Coker’s intelligence immediately. It wasn’t just the depth behind the eyes that studied them, the message in her body language and expression was clear.

You’re afraid of me.

The two guards stood against the wall behind Coker, opposite the door, making it six of them in what was best described as a generously sized cupboard, with dingy grey walls and a carpet harder than most of the inmates.

Hawkins took her time flicking the brake on her
chair, playing down the fact that they were already pressed for time. Her hope was that, having been brought straight out of solitary confinement, where she’d apparently spent the previous three days, at least Coker was unlikely to know anything about Philips’ demise.

The inmate spoke first, in a rough London accent. ‘Cough up, then.’

‘Excuse me?’ Hawkins kept her response neutral. There was no point antagonizing the woman.
Yet.

‘Let’s not fuck about, love,’ Coker said without humour. ‘Make with the cigarettes so we can get started, yeah?’

‘What makes you think –’

‘That the other girls didn’t bring their own?’ The convict waved at the overworked ashtray. ‘Because I taught them better than that. You get summoned for interview like this, it means someone needs your help, so go empty-handed and milk the opportunity. Chop chop.’

‘Fair enough.’ Hawkins produced the packet of Marlboros she’d purchased especially for the purpose, extracted one, and held it out.

‘More like it.’ Coker took the cigarette, and Yasir leaned over to light it for her. ‘Leave the pack.’

Hawkins dropped the box on the table, watching the prisoner settle back and take a few quick drags, holding the filter to her lips with both hands, the cuffs heavy on her wrists like outsize jewellery.

‘So’ – Coker tipped her head back and blew out a long, thin trail of smoke – ‘who are you?’

‘Met Police. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Antonia Hawkins, and this is Detective Sergeant Amala Yasir.’

‘Okay,’ Coker smirked. ‘Though you could have saved us all half an hour by just saying “Filth”
.
’

Hawkins didn’t rise. ‘We understand you shared a cell with Samantha Philips for eighteen months prior to her release.’

The prisoner sniffed, watching the end of her cigarette burn for a moment before she looked back at Hawkins. ‘Yeah, so what?’

‘So you know each other pretty well.’

‘Depends how you mean. We shared a crapper, so I know her bowel movements better than most, but I wouldn’t say we were mates.’

Hawkins eyed her. ‘Apparently, you were the nearest thing she had in here to a friend.’

‘Probably.’ Coker took another long drag. ‘But that ain’t a title you had to fight for.’ She exhaled fresh smoke, which rose to join the opaque cloud hanging near the ceiling. The smaller guard suppressed a cough. In contrast, Hawkins savoured the fug, wondering why she hadn’t missed cigarettes until now. She hadn’t succumbed since before the attack. Obviously, that had nothing to do with putting an end to her previous sporadic guilty indulgence, but perhaps
any
brush with death was sufficient to make you reassess your daily conduct.