Unlawfully At Large, page 2
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
According to his wankstain solicitor, he couldn’t make another bail application unless a substantial change in the circumstances surrounding his case occurred – like that was going to happen. Depressingly, his trial wasn’t scheduled to be heard at the Bailey until late August, which seemed a lifetime away.
But there was still hope, and if everything went according to plan, he would be a free man by the end of the week.
Winston had ostensibly been produced in order to be further questioned about drug-related offences – at least that’s what the production order said, and what the screws at The Ville had been told but, of course, it was a complete lie.
He had been produced in order that he could escape.
As soon as the second bail application had been refused, Winston had started exploring other ways of getting out, and it hadn’t taken him long to come up with a viable plan to regain his freedom.
He had set the wheels in motion in early December by having his puppet solicitor approach the drug squad with a cryptic suggestion that it might be in everyone’s best interest if they arranged to visit him at The Ville as soon as possible.
His solicitor, Oliver Clarke, was a man with a serious drug dependency and far fewer ethics than most of the criminals he represented. At Winston’s behest, he had claimed his client was in a position to provide them with all the information they needed to shut down a multi-million-pound drug operation being run by one of the UK’s largest crime cartels. Clarke had also implied that Winston had enough dirt to put several influential cartel members away for a string of unsolved murders, all of which were drug-related. If the right deal were to be tabled, Winston might be willing to turn Queen’s Evidence and testify against them.
Clarke had met with DS Frank Skinner, the detective who had run an unsuccessful operation against Winston’s gang the previous year. Unable to resist such a juicy proposition, Skinner had booked a legal visit for the following week.
When they’d met, facing off against each other across a Formica prison table like a couple of poker players, Winston had laid it on thick for Skinner, who was, in his opinion, an ineffectual copper who spent his waking hours dreaming of glory that would never be his.
Winston had bragged that he could – if properly incentivised – unquestionably help Skinner to put away some of the UK’s biggest crime bosses.
Of course, Winston had absolutely no intention of selling anyone out. It wasn’t that he had reservations about becoming a super-grass; he simply didn’t possess a fraction of the information that he’d claimed to hold.
Following the initial contact, there had been three further visits to assess his suitability. Winston had worked incredibly hard during these interactions, sowing little seeds of hope here and there, manipulating conversations to make himself look good, and drip-feeding Skinner little titbits of information that resulted in the drug squad making a few minor arrests.
As soon as they started talking about producing him for a proper debrief, he knew that they had taken the bait. This was great news because security procedures inside HMP Pentonville were far too tight for him to attempt a breakout from within. An escape while being transported to a police station, on the other hand, was an entirely different proposition. Generally speaking, the police tended to use normal cars or mini-vans to collect prisoners in, and they usually only provided three escorts.
Of course, the police weren’t totally stupid; for security reasons, they were never going to let him know the exact date and time that they intended to produce him in advance, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. Once housed at a police station, he would have unrestricted access to his bent solicitor, who could then pass information about his return date to his associates.
Using his unscrupulous solicitor as a conduit, Winston had sent word to his nephew, Deontay Garston, to start organising the breakout. Within a week, Deontay had reported back that everything was in place. All he needed now was the details of Winston’s return journey and the name of the police station he would be departing from.
After what seemed like an eternity, the people carrier finally pulled into the back yard of Forest Gate police station and drove around the back of the building to the custody entrance.
As it pulled up next to a caged-off area outside the redbrick building, Winston experienced a crippling bout of stomach pain. This was the worst so far, and it took his breath away. He leaned forward to disguise his discomfort, knowing that he couldn’t say anything to his escorts in case they decided to return him to The Ville for medical treatment and reschedule the production for another date.
The pains had started a couple of days ago, but during the past twenty four hours, they had grown steadily worse. At first, he’d assumed it was either a minor stomach bug or something that he’d eaten, but when no one else on the wing complained about being ill, he had begun to fear it might be something far more serious.
Winston prayed that, whatever the ailment was, his body would hold on for a few more days before succumbing to it. That was all the time that he needed to break out of jail and flee the country.
◆◆◆
To say that Detective Inspector Tony Dillon was unhappy was a massive understatement. The former competitive powerlifter was seething as he tried to digest the unsavoury news that Jack Tyler had just fed him. “I can’t believe this,” he said, not for the first time. “What do they think they’re playing at?” As he spoke, he paced up and down Tyler’s office restlessly, reminding Tyler of a caged animal.
“They must think they’re going to get something really big out of him,” Jack said from behind his desk. “It wouldn’t be worth their effort otherwise.”
Dillon grunted his disapproval and scrunched his shovel sized hands into fists. “That low life piece of shit probably thinks he can trade information for time off, even though he’s looking at a life sentence for what he did.”
During their pursuit of him two months earlier, Winston had shot one of their colleagues, Colin Franklin, in the chest. Had it not been for the fact that Colin was wearing his Met-vest, he would probably have died. As it was, Winston had gone on to shoot a young British Transport Police officer twice, and it was a miracle that the boy – PC Jenkins – had survived. He was still off sick, recovering from his injuries.
Jack shrugged. “According to Andy Quinlan, even if he doesn’t get his sentence significantly reduced, he won’t end up going into general population with all the other scumbags if he turns QE, and if he becomes a super-grass, he might not even serve his time in prison.”
Dillon spun on him, the huge muscles of his neck straining against his collar.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, eyes narrowing to the size of slits. “Why should turning Queen’s Evidence or becoming a super-grass guarantee him an easy ride?”
“It’s not that, Dill. HMP wouldn’t be able to guarantee his safety, which is why people who turn QE end up in segregation, and super-grasses normally end up being housed in police stations that no longer have a working custody suite, like the one at Woodford Green.” Tyler snorted derisively. “Can you imagine that? He would be looked after round the clock, literally waited on hand and foot – it would be like he was staying in a bloody hotel.”
Dillon’s face darkened. “Don’t tell me that,” he said. “my blood pressure’s already climbing through the roof.”
Tyler stared at him with sympathetic eyes. “Well, I’ve spoken to George Holland, and he says there’s nothing we can do about it. He phoned his oppo at the drug squad to see if he could find out what they’re up to, but the man was unwilling to go into any detail for fear of –” he made air quotes “– compromising operational security.”
After the call, Holland had wryly explained that the turn of phrase had been managerial speak for ‘fuck off and mind your own business.’
Tyler was a pragmatist; he figured that if George Holland couldn’t get to the bottom of it, then he and Dillon stood no chance. The trouble was, from the determined look on his square-jawed face, Dillon wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“I’ve got a mate – well an acquaintance to be precise – who works at the drug squad. His name’s Frank Skinner, do you know him?”
Jack shook his head. The name didn’t ring any bells with him. “Can’t say I do,” he said.
“We were on a Project Team at SO7 at the same time. He’s a miserable sod, and a bit of a tosser if I’m completely honest, but he owes me. I’m gonna give him a discreet call and see if he can shed any light on this.”
Jack considered this and concluded that it might be worth a shot. “Go for it,” he said, and then decided to add a word of caution. “But remember this: we’ve done our bit. We arrested him and put him behind bars. If it’s been decreed from on high that Winston is super-grass material, there’s nothing we can do about it, no matter how unpalatable that might be.”
Dillon’s face sagged. “I know,” he said, “and it makes me sick to my stomach.”
Chapter 2
Wednesday 5th January 2000
Claude Winston awoke in agonising pain. His body was covered in sweat, and he barely made it to the metal toilet in the corner of his cell before he threw up.
The room was spinning and he felt like he was going to pass out. The pain in his lower stomach was so unbearable that he couldn’t even stand up straight. No, no, no, he thought, fighting off the panic, this can’t be happening. If I’m ill, the escape will have to be abandoned and I might never get another chance.
He had no idea what time it was, but he could tell from looking through the thick frosted glass of his cell window that it was still dark outside. Winston staggered back to his cot and flopped down on the shiny blue plastic mattress. Perhaps it would pass if he just laid down for a while. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, doing his best to ignore the searing pain in his stomach and right side.
◆◆◆
Trish Raven was the early turn civilian gaoler at Forest Gate, and when she conducted the first of her hourly checks at seven o’clock that morning, she found Winston unconscious on his bed, his chest covered in vomit. For a moment, she thought that he had chocked on it and was dead, so completely still was he. Then, as she stood there, gagging at the smell and trying not to panic unduly because a death in custody had just occurred on her watch, he groaned out loud and threw up again.
Thank God! Trish thought, moving forward cautiously. She was so relieved that, if he hadn’t been so smelly – and possibly contagious – she might actually have considered hugging him.
“Mr Winston, are you okay?” she asked. It was a stupid question, she realised because he obviously wasn’t. When he didn’t respond, she reluctantly moved closer to check his vitals. There was no time to don a pair of rubber gloves, and she hoped that whatever ailment he was suffering from wasn’t catching.
“You really don’t look too good,” she said, seeing the film of sweat that covered his unnaturally grey face. He was burning up, too, and he didn’t respond when she shook his shoulder, nor when she pinched his ear lobe. From what she could remember from her first aid training, that meant his GCS – Glasgow Coma Scale – score was very low and he required urgent medical treatment. “Shit,” she said under her breath and rushed out to call the custody sergeant. He would know what to do.
◆◆◆
When DS Frank Skinner and DC Patrick Donoghue, his ginger-haired, freckle-faced sidekick from the drug squad, arrived at Forest Gate police station at nine o'clock that morning to start interviewing Winston, they received a nasty surprise.
“He’s not here,” the custody officer informed them without looking up from the record he was hurriedly updating in an illegible scribble that would have done most doctors proud.
The custody suite was heaving as half-a-dozen overnight prisoners were being prepared for the G4 security van to take them off to court, and a ripe odour of sweaty bodies mixed with farts and alcohol tinged breath pervaded the area they were congregated in.
“What do you mean, not here?” Skinner demanded, looking totally perplexed. In order to produce an inmate from prison, the station used to accommodate him had to be on an approved Home Office list, and one of the conditions of the production order was that he would be housed there, and nowhere else.
The custody sergeant smiled grimly. “He was rushed to hospital earlier with a suspected burst appendix. Luckily, Dr Mackintosh, the on-call FME, was already in the station when the gaoler found him unconscious in his cell and, after examining him, an ambulance was called straight away. The Duty Officer’s not best pleased, though. Three officers from early turn had to go with him as escorts.”
“Shit!” Skinner said, drawing the word out. He ran a calloused hand over the stubble on his dimpled chin as he considered the implications of this. He would have to notify his boss and the prison Security Governor, neither of whom would be any more pleased than the Duty Officer had been. “What hospital did they take him to?” he asked.
“The Royal London in Whitechapel,” the custody sergeant said.
Skinner swore. His plans for the day, and possibly the week, had just been blown right out of the water.
“Let’s get straight over there,” he gruffly told his colleague.
As they headed for the door, he pulled out his chunky Motorola mobile phone and pulled the small extendable aerial up; he wasn’t looking forward to the two calls he would now have to make, but there was no point in delaying them. Unfortunately, as there was no signal in the custody area, it looked like he would have to do just that. Cursing the stupid phone for having no signal, and Winston for having the temerity to fall ill on him, he slipped it back in his jacket pocket. He would try again when they were on their way to the hospital.
When they reached the car, a Vauxhall Vectra, Donoghue turned to Skinner. “There’s no rush, is there?” he asked, rubbing his oversized stomach. “Only I was thinking we could nip off and get a bite to eat before setting off for the hospital. Sounds to me like they’ll be taking Winston straight into surgery, so what’s the point in us tanking over there and then having nothing to do but twiddle our thumbs for the next hour or two?”
Skinner gave him a look that would have curdled milk. “Get in the car,” he ordered.
Donoghue’s face sagged as he pressed the button on the fob to release the central locking. With a sigh, he lowered his lumbering figure into the driver’s seat, which creaked under his weight. “Looks like breakfast will have to wait, then,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
◆◆◆
When Dillon arrived at the hospital at half-past-four that afternoon, he found a subdued looking Frank Skinner sitting alone outside a private room on the third floor. His potato-like head and square chin had about the same amount of dark stubble on them, and a fleshy hand that was festooned with gold rings was alternately rubbing one and then the other. The podgy fingers were stained yellow from nicotine, Dillon noticed, and the nails had been chewed down to the quick. Skinner projected an aura that was more akin to dodgy bookmaker than a cop, and Dillon felt confident that, beneath the shirt and tie, there would be a thick gold chain draped around his chavvy neck.
Opposite the bench on which the drug squad officer was sitting, two serious-faced uniform officers were standing guard outside the room’s entrance, one either side of the door.
“What are you doing here?” Skinner immediately asked, glaring at him suspiciously. His voice was deep and raspy, a legacy from all the cigarettes he had chain-smoked over the years.
Ignoring the hostility, Dillon sat down next to him, forcing him to bunch up to make room.
“I phoned KF’s custody suite to ask for you a little while ago, as you weren’t answering my calls,” Dillon said angrily, “and they told me I’d find you here. Imagine how surprised I was to find out from them that Winston had been rushed to hospital this morning, bearing in mind that you bloody well promised to give me an update if anything significant happened.”
When he’d called Skinner the previous day, the drug squad man had been disingenuous over Winston. He’d started off by spouting the usual ‘we’ve produced him as a matter of routine to see if he’ll give us any TICs,’ story, but Dillon had known that was complete bollocks and had told him so in no uncertain terms.
TIC is a police acronym for ‘taken into consideration.’ The process involves prisoners putting their hands up to the previously unsolved transgressions that they’ve committed over the years. In exchange for their full and frank confession, the police submit a report to the court requesting that these matters be taken into consideration when passing sentence for other offences, instead of also charging them with the additional crimes. The courts could still choose to impose consecutive – or back to back – custodial sentences for the offences being taken into consideration, but normally they were dealt with by means of a concurrent – served at the same time – sentence. In other words, a man charged with two burglaries but having a further ninety taken into consideration would only receive custodial sentences for the two charged burglaries; he wouldn’t incur any additional jail time for the TICs, although these would be shown as guilty findings against him on the Police National Computer.
“No, honestly, we just thought he might want to get a few things off his chest as he’s likely to be doing a fair bit of porridge,” Skinner had insisted. He wasn’t the brightest spark that Dillon had ever worked with.
“Yeah, right,” Dillon had replied, making no effort to conceal his cynicism. A burglar, a car thief, even a street robber might want to clear their slate and ask for other offences they had committed to be taken into consideration, but not a class A drug importer or a man charged with two attempted murders.
From Dillon’s perspective, the phone call had terminated most unsatisfactorily, with Skinner promising to get back to him if anything significant came out of the production or if there were any unforeseen problems. It had taken him less than a day to renege on his promise, and Dillon chided himself for being foolish enough to expect anything else from a shifty fat fucker like Frank Skinner.
