September 2017
Kevin Malone waited patiently while the expected court pronouncement came, held on remand. It was then a short but scenic trip to Lincoln Prison. He’d never been out that way before, so Lincoln Cathedral had been surprising in both size and architecture. Otherwise, it was all as expected, almost routine, all part of the long game that he was being paid well for, very well.
After the induction formalities, the suggestion being that he was undergoing enrollment into a revered university and not being banged up until trial, he was led to a cell, home for the duration. So far he’d seen nothing to bother him, but he knew to be aware, on his toes. If the remand had been expected by all, so was the possibility that a certain businessman might want to discuss his future wellbeing, or at least have someone on the inside to do it by proxy. He’d been assured that precautions against that had been taken, if they hadn’t then his own insurance policy should kick in.
His cell mate was a quiet lad, not a threat, he didn’t look capable of blowing out a candle on his own. He’d barely said a word when he’d seen Malone, showing an almost complete disinterest but no fear either, interesting. Malone wondered what he’d done to get a room booked in Lincoln. Experience had taught him that it was virtually impossible to make an accurate guess when it came down to fellow inmates’ misdemeanours, but that, eventually, it might come out. While it wasn’t wise to underestimate people inside, he quickly decided that Jason wasn’t going to bother him and he’d reciprocate.
The court system was now so slow that Malone knew he’d be waiting a very long time, all part of the deal, though. He had a roof over his head, was fed, watered, could use the gym and watch football on Sky. Apart from the lack of bar facilities and girls that he could rent by the hour when he fancied a change from the wife, it wasn’t so different to being back home. As soon as he could, he asked about learning a language, Spanish to be precise, and they’d seemed quite keen to find him something worthwhile to do. He wasn’t great at first, but he was getting better. Maybe he could ask about getting his fee paid in Euros?
Christmas came and went and they did their best to provide for the inmates’ spiritual needs, those that had them, but nothing untoward, happened, apart from a bit of verbal paddy-baiting. It didn’t make him angry and he gave as good as he got. It also didn’t make him any less aware of the possibilities, if anything he was more concerned that nothing had happened, he’d have expected at least a warning by now.
Another week and another round of the same questions from D.I. Bridger. Malone knew he’d need to deliver Collins soon, they were losing interest which meant they had enough to convict him, perhaps, but a part of the deal was to dirty Collins’ expensive hands as much as possible. Malone often wondered who was inside for Collins now, after his mole had been so efficiently and unexpectedly done. His people didn’t doubt that someone had been lined up for a pension-boosting income supplement.
The long days and even longer nights often made Malone wonder whether it was all worth it. He also wondered why the ‘reveal all’ at his first interview had been cut short, just as he was about to spill the beans. Was it the young bloke asking the questions who decided, or someone higher up? As soon as his missus gave him the codeword, it was all coming out for Bridger, he’d had enough pissing about.
Mark Dennis Books 