The Death of the Elver Man (3 page)

‘Newt?’ asked Alex.

Eddie nodded, ‘Yep. Like the pond lizard? Word is he can climb a sheer wall as if his hands and feet stick to the surface. He’s smart, quick and charming and so far he’s run rings round the entire county police force. Derek Johns got pulled for a bit of dodgy lead theft but he’s due out again any day and this is going to hit him very hard. He adores his boys despite being such a nasty piece of work so be careful and play it absolutely by the book. For some reason, Newt is pleading guilty and you’ve got him so you get to do the report. Lucky girl.’

Alex opened her mouth to protest the ‘girl’ when Paul interrupted.

‘I’d go as soon as possible,’ he said, his face serious. ‘They’ve let Newt out on bail to be with his mother so you have to visit the Johns’ home and that’s better done without Derek there. He’s a bit – volatile, especially where the boys are concerned. And there are whispers about this whole
business
. It seems the police were waiting for them. Someone’s “bubbled”. Wouldn’t like to be them when Derek gets out.’

He took the file and flipped through it. ‘No, I’ve got most
of this already,’ he said to Eddie. ‘I’ll go and see Iris Johns, offer our support if she needs it. I had a bit of contact with Biff last time he was excluded from school. He was placed in the special unit for a while and we got on quite well the times I was visiting. Poor lad.’ He shook his head. ‘There’ll be hell on about this. Someone didn’t do their job properly at the station.’

Eddie nodded as Paul got up to leave.

‘Hang on,’ said Alex. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve missed something here. What’s going on with this family?’

Eddie looked at her with sad eyes. ‘They were caught
coming
out of a post office down the other end of the county,’ he said. ‘No way were they going to walk from that regardless of their father’s “connections”. The boys were separated at the station and Biff was locked up alone. Someone decided to let him stew, so they just left him. They found him in the
morning
, dead. He’d hanged himself with his blanket.’

Mindful of Paul’s advice, Alex arranged to see Billy ‘Newt’ Johns the next afternoon and spent an unsettling evening skimming through the file for his father, Derek Johns. It made uncomfortable reading. Derek began as a snatcher – grabbing bags and purses and running away – whilst still at school. He’d been excluded permanently for assault when he was thirteen, after beating another boy unconscious and then punching a teacher in the face when she tried to intervene. The next few years were filled with shoplifting, petty theft and drunk and disorderly charges until he was sent to
borstal
for burglary aged fifteen. On his release he surrounded himself with like-minded people, loud, arrogant men who took what they wanted and did what they liked. He’d spent over half his adult life behind bars and his two sons ran wild, skipping school to shoplift, stealing fruit and eggs from local farms and drinking home-made cider, known as ‘natch’, to the locals.

Natch, Alex knew, was a problem particular to this part of the country. Brewed by many farms and small-holdings, it
was sold in gallon containers to anyone with the few pounds it cost. Over half of her younger caseload had committed their offences under the influence of Natch. She’s never tried it herself and had no intention of indulging. Some ‘natural ciders’ reportedly had eight units of alcohol in a pint. By her reckoning this made a gallon container as potent as a bottle of whisky – and it was consumed with relish by children as young as ten.

Neither Biff nor Newt had any criminal record apart from Newt’s collar for shoplifting a handful of sweets then he was eleven. Cryptic notes from Social Services suggested this was mainly because they had never been caught, or by the time anything came before the magistrates the witnesses forgot vital and incriminating details. Maybe that was why Biff hung himself, she thought. No chance of escaping this time and no father to protect him, he was heading for some kind of secure unit or Young Offenders provision. Newt was about four years older – he’d be off to ‘proper’ jail somewhere and Biff would have to fend for himself. He must have been
terrified
if killing himself was the better alternative. She turned out the light and tried to settle into sleep, but the unfamiliar sounds of the river outside her window kept her awake and she lay on her back, eyes open as she tried to get the thought of young Biff Johns out of her head.

‘Phone call, Alex,’ called Lauren, as she pushed through the front door the day after the Easter break. She waved a hand in acknowledgement and pointed upwards to indicate she’s take it in her room. She hauled her overloaded briefcase across the reception area as Lauren said, ‘Just transferring you now’, into the telephone. In her room she dropped the case onto the desk and groaned as the contents spilled out over it and onto the floor. Snatching up the receiver she tried to sound calm and professional.

‘Hello? Alex Baker here.’

‘’Morning,’ came an unfamiliar male voice. ‘You are the probation officer for William Johns I understand?’

Alex had to think for a moment – William … of course, Newt.

‘Yes that’s right. I’m due to visit him later this week. Sorry, you are …?’

‘Chaplain McCausland, Dartmoor prison. I’m calling to let you know you’ll have to reschedule. I know sometimes the authorities forget to inform people with appointments so I thought I’d make sure you knew.’

Alex felt her heart race, memories of Biff flooding through her head.

‘Knew what please?’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

‘Why, about the escape. Young William’s in solitary for two weeks but you should be able to see him after that. Though he’ll be on special measures for a bit, silly boy.’

Newt had been dismayed at his sentence. He’d hoped that by pleading guilty he’d be treated more leniently, especially in light of what his brief referred to as ‘this poor young man’s tragic family circumstances’. Unfortunately the judge was not swayed by this, remained unconvinced of his well-acted
penitence
and actually hinted he was fortunate not to receive a longer term. The only concession made was the speed with which his case had been handled. Pleading guilty helped to move things along but the prosecutor had pushed for a quick trial and sentence. Derek Johns was due for release in the next few weeks, he told the judge behind closed doors. The family had a history of witnesses developing total amnesia or conveniently vanishing just before they came to give evidence. Much better get it all sorted out before Johns could organize his supporters and colleagues. Everyone except Newt agreed this was for the best.

Two years was bad enough but two years in Dartmoor was a real blow. Newt had hoped for Pucklechurch though he was just over the age limit for a Young Offenders Institution. Even Bristol or Exeter would have been okay – not too far for his mother to visit. But the prisons were filling up, space
was at a premium and the only berth available on the day of his sentence was the grim Victorian mausoleum that was Dartmoor.

‘Don’t worry Mum,’ he’d said at their last meeting, ‘I’ll be alright. Just you hang on until Dad gets out.’ He watched her walk out of the visiting room, her face streaked with tears, and realized she looked old. Like a little old woman
struggling
to face the world alone. Anger burned in his heart and he vowed to find out who had set them up. Someone had – the police were there almost before the alarm was triggered. And that someone was responsible for his little brother’s death. Newt seemed much calmer, more easy-going than the rest of his family but when he did finally become angry he could be just as dangerous and now he was very, very angry.

Dartmoor was a shock, especially as his experience of prison was limited to a few hours in a police cell and his time on remand awaiting sentence. It was cold, it was grey and it smelt. There was no privacy, little to do and precious little dignity to his life for the first few days and he was relieved and grateful for the protection offered by one of his father’s
colleagues
. Big Bill Boyd was a stalwart of Derek Johns’ ‘
organization
’ and he took Newt under his wing, explaining the system and introducing him to the people he needed to know in the prisoners’ hierarchy. Big Bill had access to his own sophisticated channels of communication and one morning as Newt queued for his breakfast the man next to him passed him a tiny slip of paper. Newt carried it in his pocket until he could read it late that night by the sliver of light that shone through his window. It was a message from his father telling him to keep his ears open for any information regarding the disastrous post office job. There was a rumour going around the Levels that a tip-off had come from a warder at Dartmoor and Derek Johns wanted to know if it was true. Newt read the note twice before spitting on it, chewing it up into tiny shreds and swallowing the pieces.

The next morning he began a concerted charm campaign on the warders, the teachers and the Chaplain, with the sole
aim of worming his way on to the outdoor details. It took him a few weeks but as the cold weather continued to bite, several men dropped out of the garden projects on the prison farm and Newt stepped forward, an eager volunteer. It was a job for a ‘trusty’ and by rights Newt shouldn’t have been eligible, but he’d been well behaved, hard working and in every way a model prisoner. He got the placement.

For three weeks Newt shivered in the biting wind as he dug, hoed and weeded around the vegetable gardens. The garden workers were issued with overalls and donkey jackets but the wind cut through the layers of clothing and by the end of each day Newt’s hands were blue and stiff with cold. He was seriously considering chucking it for something indoors – even sign painting would be preferable – when he got his first piece of luck. He was leaning on his hoe out of sight of the warders, who were huddling in the relative warmth of the greenhouse door. As he glanced around he spotted a familiar figure. Newt turned his head slowly, looking around casually whilst allowing his eyes to run over the man being escorted to an unmarked van, through the fences and across the road. The man was older than he recalled, thin and unhealthy looking and he’d lost most of his hair, but Newt was sure. He watched as Kevin’s dad, Frank Mallory, was helped into the van, his bag placed in the boot before being driven off towards the town.

‘Bastard,’ came a mutter next to him. Newt glanced to his left at the prisoner who had materialized next to him. The man nodded and then spat into the line of cabbages Newt was supposed to be hoeing.

‘Fucking grass,’ the man added. Before he could say any more there was a call from the warders, who emerged from the greenhouse warmed and eager to spur their charges on to greater efforts.

Newt spent his social time drifting around the open landings, exchanging a few words, offering his cigarettes around and fishing for tiny snippets of information. By the end of the
week he had enough to piece together a reasonable story. Frank Mallory had washed up in Dartmoor several months ago. A petty thief of weak character and few connections, he was the butt of numerous practical ‘jokes’. After several weeks he was transferred to the Infirmary and thence on to the VP wing. Although it was supposed to be a secure and safe environment, news and gossip about the Vulnerable Prisoner block still leaked out into the main population and Frank’s transfer had raised a few eyebrows – he wasn’t a sex offender, drug dealer or a disgraced copper so why was he there,
people
were asking. Frank, a nonentity most of his life, was the subject of intense speculation. It was obvious to all that he was ill, very ill and he was desperate to secure a release on compassionate grounds, but his history worked against him. Every time he was released he re-offended, mainly dumb, petty crimes involving little or no skill, imagination or even profit. He was separated from his wife, never saw his family and had nowhere to go. It was doubtful he would survive long on the outside, so limited was his experience of independent living. Better he stay in prison where he was warm, fed and looked after was the general consensus, but Frank had one great burning desire. He wanted to spend next Christmas, his last Christmas, as a free man. He wanted to see Kevin once more and give him a present, some small token to
balance
against the years of abandonment and neglect. He was a driven man and was willing to do anything to make his dream come true.

In his first few weeks, Frank picked up snippets of talk from the general population. Most were of no use to him but he started out on the same landing as Big Bill and he heard him boasting of Newt’s exploits. Three post offices turned over, all at night with the culprits getting away clean – the coppers were desperate for a break in the case. Frank was careful. He knew the Johns gang could reach him even in Dartmoor, and they were noted for their imaginative brutality, but the
information
was a gift he could not ignore. He took his chances with a soft word to the prison doctor and eight weeks later
he was in the back of a plain blue van, a new identity in his pocket and a place on a secure protection scheme awaiting him. He glanced back at the prison as he drove away. He knew he’d never go back inside. He might just make it to Christmas if he was lucky. He didn’t see Newt’s eyes
following
him down the road, he didn’t know Biff was dead and he had no idea Derek Johns was out of prison and looking for the man responsible.

In one of those sudden climatic shifts, Dartmoor was flooded in sunshine for most of February. Warm breezes blew in from the Gulf Stream and walkers and climbers were often sighted following the trails across the moor and through the village. Newt, on his outside work party at the prison farm, bided his time, lurking by the pig-pens until a fight broke out on the other side of the gardens. As the warders hurried over to separate the culprits he stripped off his jacket and overalls, shivering in the breeze. Dressed in white prison vest and navy boxer shorts he looked at first glance like one of the occasional joggers, lean and hardy runners who used the footpaths and trails for
long-distance
training. Slipping under the fence and crouching until he was clear of the garden area, Newt set off at a steady pace for the village a mile down the road.