The Death of the Elver Man (5 page)

‘My poor boy, he’s no killer. Half the time he don’t even kill them fish proper. They was still moving around when they police gets there. I ask yer, how comes there’s no blood on him then ’cepting that bit on his shoes? They said he’s washed it off but I know they can tell now even after
washing
. And to be honest, he’s not a great one for that is Kev. He was still all muddy from that fishing.’

Alex nodded sympathetically and nibbled at her biscuit. It was very old and very stale. She tried a sip of tea to wash away the taste and wished she hadn’t. Clearing her throat as she tried to marshal a suitable response she glanced at Ada and suddenly realized she was crying. Great fat tears rolled down her face and fell into her tea cup. Alex put her own cup on the floor and reached out to steady the woman’s shaking hands.

‘’Tis not right! My poor little lad, they knows it’s not him but they’ve got him now. Don’t reckon we’ll stand no chance of getting him back. He hates bein’ inside. Always out in all weathers he is. He’s not got no chance locked up with them evil men.’ She sobbed, sniffed loudly and sobbed again.

‘And I can’t even go see him. ’Tis so far, Bristol. There’s no bus nor nothing!’ She finished with a wail.

Alex fumbled in her case and pulled out one rather
crumpled
tissue. Mrs Mallory took this feeble offering, soaking it with one huge blast from her nose. Note to self, thought Alex, get better tissues. She felt something nudge her leg and flinched as another dog, a long haired lurcher speckled in grey and tan leaned on her foot, mouth open to steal the
biscuit
she had left on her saucer.

‘So I ended up offering her a lift when I go up to see him,’ she admitted to Lauren the next morning. Lauren threw her a look of withering scorn.

‘Now how do you suppose she’s going to get in without a visiting order? Kevin can’t read you know, so he don’t send them out.’

‘Oh shit, I didn’t think of that. How does she usually manage?’

Lauren sighed and pointed to a row of folders on a shelf by the window.

‘The tacky green one on the right,’ she said.

Alex reached up and took the folder. It was labelled ‘KM: VO’, and inside was a bundle of form letters, neatly typed and signed, requesting a visit with Kevin. Lauren held out her hand and took a blank form.

‘He’s in Bristol isn’t he – right. What day you planning to go?’ She typed in the details, addressed an envelope and flipped the finished letter into the post tray.

‘Now you have to go back and tell her to expect the order,’ she instructed. ‘The Mallorys have a nasty habit of burning anything official looking as soon as it lands through their door.’

Alex groaned. She was already heartily sick of the Levels and still could not find her way out from that eerie, flat
landscape
. She knew one road – and it was only wide enough for one car. Once again she had driven straight on from her visit to Mrs Mallory, emerging somewhere near Glastonbury.

‘Isn’t there a map or something,’ she asked. Pauline looked up and laughed at this.

‘There’s a map, sure. We call it the “Edgar”, but you’re welcome to a copy if you want.’

‘Edgar?’

‘For Edgar Allan Poe,’ said Lauren. ‘You know, “Tales of Mystery and Imagination”.’

‘More like “The House of Usher”, out there,’ commented Paul Malcolm, leaning over the counter. ‘Hi Alex, how’s it going with Brian?’

Alex was working frantically, trying to finish up her notes from her day in court when a call came through summoning
her to Garry’s office. He gave her an approving glance as she knocked and entered.

‘That’s much better,’ he commented taking in her skirt, blouse and jacket. ‘That’s how a probation officer should dress.’

‘Just the women though,’ said Alex, and regretted it the instant the words left her mouth. Garry frowned.

‘Of course, just the women. What are you implying?’

‘Sorry, nothing. Nothing – it was just a bit of a joke Garry.’

Her Senior did not seem to find it very funny and
continued
to frown in her direction.

‘Well, I suppose you have different ideas, coming from London.’ Again the sneer in his voice. ‘But I hope you will settle down soon and start to do things our way.’

He reached into his desk and pulled out a pile of folders, thrusting them over the desk at her.

‘You’ve been here six months now, seven I think it is, so we will be increasing your case-load until you reach the norm. As you know, we try to break new officers in gently.’

Alex took the files and tried to hide her dismay. She was already struggling to cope with the twenty or so probationers allotted to her, especially as she was now on the court rota and expected to attend, suitably dressed of course, for one full day a week.

‘There are a few old hands in there – see what you can do with them but don’t get your hopes up,’ said Garry, waving his hand in dismissal. ‘Oh yes, and a transfer from Exeter office. We’ve no details yet but there’s an address. I’d like you to make contact with him at once. Thank you.’

He had turned his attention back to his desk before she reached the door leaving her to struggle with the folders and the handle, which was sticking as usual. One of the joys of an old and poorly converted building she had decided.

Well, that was not one of his best pep-talks she thought as she hurried back to her room. He really should work on his motivational skills. She dropped the folders on her desk, sank
into her chair and surrendered to the misery that flooded over her. Lauren found her, damp eyed and hunched behind the desk, having failed to get an answer on the internal phone.

‘It’s too soon to expect you to carry a full case-load,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to have a year before you build up to that. What’s he given you?’ She rummaged through the files sorting them into three piles as she went.

‘Hopeless cases,’ said Lauren tapping the first stack. ‘Give them a month with weekly calls and take ’em back to court. No point in wasting time ’cos they’re not going to attend and they’ve probably already breached their parole. They’ve just not been caught yet.’

She turned to the second pile. ‘These are your real work. Mainly young lads on first or second offence, a few come up from Social Service nannying like Brian.’ She caught sight of Alex’s face. ‘They not all like Brian, you know. And actually I do think you’re doing him some good. He’s been quite polite since you had a little word with him and he’s actually come in almost sober a couple of times.’

She turned her attention to the last folder. ‘This ‘ent right,’ she said, opening it to show a single piece of paper with a note attached. ‘This is supposed to be a transfer, some bloke from Exeter out on licence from Dartmoor, but there’s nothing but a name, address and this scrawly old signature. It’s not even on proper paper so I can’t tell which office it’s from.’

Alex took the page and examined it. There was a name – Andrew Michael Hinton – and an address she did not
recognize
. Someone had scribbled something at the bottom which looked like ‘Agg B. P/L?’ She couldn’t make it out properly as there was a bold, clear stamp across it saying ‘TRANSFER TO: with ‘Highpoint’ written in pencil.

‘I’m not sure you should just go out there,’ said Lauren. ‘’Tis out on the Levels, way past the Mallorys’ place. Used to be Ada’s family home, way back. I thought it’d fallen down years back. Maybe you should get him to visit first. We don’t even know what he was in for, nor how long he got.’

Alex knew she was right, but Garry had practically ordered
her to see this Andrew Hinton as soon as possible and she was reluctant to question his instructions any further.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘I worked shifts in some of the
nastiest
hostels in London. I know how to take care of myself and how to avoid trouble.’

Lauren looked unconvinced. ‘Well you go during the day and let us know when so we can check you’s back safe,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t think he should be sending a woman out there alone at all.’

The assumption that she was somehow weaker, more
vulnerable
than her male colleagues, coming straight after
Garry’s
comments on her ‘unsuitable appearance’, drove all the sense from Alex’s head. She was sick of people telling her this was not a job for a woman. She’d had enough of that whilst training and still heard it from her family when she phoned home every week.

‘Rubbish,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ll pop out this evening. I’ve got my map and I want to get this sorted at once. Thank you Lauren.’

Lauren stood up, stung by her tone, and walked to the door. She stopped and turned but Alex glared at her and said, ‘Thank you Lauren. Good night.’

Lauren shrugged and left, leaving Alex feeling more
miserable
than ever, guilty and slightly apprehensive. She looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering in the distance. Well, there was nothing for it, she had to go or lose face entirely. She would apologize in the morning, she thought, as she watched Lauren climb into her specially modified car and drive away into the gathering gloom. There was no time to go home and change either, she realized, cursing her own temper. Stamping on the clutch and banging the gear stick she set off to meet this mysterious new parolee as the rain began to fall around her.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come back to this place. Sure, he had some good memories – holidays and sunny times when he’d been a kid, the early years with the warmth of a family and times spent with his sweetheart in this front room or the little garden out the back. Still, it was not a good idea going back to places where he was known. It was just he didn’t have many choices in his life now. This was the only place he could think of where he might get some news, call in a few favours. He was supposed to be Andrew Michael Hinton, but as soon as he got the bad news about his health he knew he had to be Kevin’s dad, at least this once in his life.

He stared out of the window and scowled at the clouds mounting into grey, sullen hills on the horizon. He hated the rain, hated being cold and he’d been cold a lot of the time recently. Dartmoor was a dour and bleak place for those confined within the walls of the Victorian prison. He turned from the window and searched the ceiling, trying to locate the source of a steady dripping sound. The cottage was in a poor state of repair and the roof was leaking. There was
a movement outside and his attention fixed on the muddy track leading to the cottage’s front door. A battered blue motorcar turned in and wallowed slowly over the potholes towards him. He knew who it was before she got out of the car. Alex’s eccentric Citroën was already a standing joke in local criminal circles.

Alex slid to a halt some way from the front door and leaned back into the seat cushions. Despite being only too familiar there was still something slightly unsettling about the slow descent of the car body as the suspension deflated. For months she had fought the urge to get out and check the car was clear of the wheels before moving off and several younger
probationers
had taken to hanging around the car park first thing in the morning or in the evening to watch her arrive or drive off. That showed you how little there was to keep them
entertained
she thought grimly as she opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Her left foot landed in a pothole, the water oozing into her impractical ‘court’ shoes.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ she muttered to herself as she tried to twist free of the clinging mud without falling face first into the surrounding ooze. She pulled herself upright, slammed the car door shut and staggered up to the cottage door. Actually ‘cottage’ was a rather flattering description, she decided. Several windows were boarded up, the roof sagged alarmingly on one side and the brickwork
surrounding
the front door was crumbling away. One good shove, she thought, and the whole front would cave in. She tapped on the filthy glass, one eye on the porch balanced precariously over her head. There was no response and as she stepped back she noted there was no smoke from the chimney or light inside any of the rooms. She really ought to check the back, just in case, she thought, as the rain trickled down her neck, but the brambles and nettles crowding the old wooden gate off to the side decided her. The first call was made, there was no-one there and she could come back later when she was dressed for the task.

Inside the house, standing back from the filthy
windows
, his eyes followed her every move. There was a tense moment when her car misfired, stuttering in the heavy rain, but finally she bumped and rolled her way out of sight and he felt himself relax. Turning to the hearth he considered
lighting
a fire, balancing his yearning for comfort against his need for secrecy, when the front door opened and it all became academic.

‘Hello Frank,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Fancy seeing you back here.’

He turned to face his old neighbour, the person he least wanted to see in the whole world.

‘Derek, now look, let’s just sit down and talk about things, right?’

Derek Johns shook his head as he reached behind him. ‘I don’t think there’s much to talk about d’you? You’re a grass, Frank Mallory. You got out by selling my lads to the police and now you think you can come back here and pick up where you left off, just like that. Not going to happen, boy. My youngest, he hung himself. You know ‘bout that? All on his own, locked up at night in the cells, they didn’t keep no eye on him like they’re meant to. By the time they found him he was gone. My Iris, she had to go identify him, look at him with his face all bruised and his eyes near popping out of his head. Do you know about
that
then Frankie-boy?’

Frank backed away, his hands raised as if pleading. Derek pulled a knife from his pocket and moved towards him, slow, smooth steps like a cat stalking its prey.

‘So now your boy’ll know what it’s like. He’s in Bristol ain’t he? Nasty lock-up, Bristol. Reckon they might take to a little lad like Kevin – know what I mean?’

Derek aimed a vicious blow, the knife ripping through Frank Mallory’s raised hand and into his soft stomach. Frank gasped, jerking on the knife as Derek twisted and pulled upwards, gutting him like a fish. Frank collapsed making low, keening sounds as his chest and throat filled with blood. Derek turned away and stared out of the window until the
sounds stopped. Walking over to the hearth he aimed a final kick to the head.

‘Two down, three to go,’ muttered Derek as he rummaged through Frank’s pockets. Then he cleaned up the mess in the fireplace.

Alex was spared having to face Lauren the next morning. Driving out to the Mallorys’ place she mused on her wasted trip the night before, but the sight of Ada Mallory dressed for visiting the prison shook her out of her sombre mood. Like a galleon in full sail, she swept down the muddy path
resplendent
in vivid pink polyester. The whole outfit, complete with matching gloves and hat, was only marred by her sensible brown boots. Alex opened the passenger door and helped to prod and tuck her into the front seat. Closing the door
carefully
she reflected the ensemble was likely to generate enough static electricity to constitute a fire hazard.

‘Have you got the visiting order?’ she asked, as she squeezed into the space left behind the wheel.

Mrs Mallory opened her pink vinyl handbag and
rummaged
through it. There was a significant delay as she
emptied
most of the contents onto her lap before flourishing the brown envelope in triumph.

Alex looked carefully at the array of objects as they were packed back into the bag.

‘Um, I don’t think you can take some of those in with you,’ she said.

Mrs Mallory stopped and stared at her, the brim of her hat quivering with indignation. ‘What you mean then? ’Tis nothing bad I got. Just a few things I reckon Kev might need. Anyway, no
gennlemun
would go looking through a lady’s handbag.’

Privately Alex agreed, but the guards were not likely to be gentlemen, though they would need to be very brave to delve into Mrs Mallory’s handbag.

‘We want to see Kevin don’t we? So maybe we should just – be very sensible until we know how things work. He’s
in a proper prison now, on remand. It’s not like the Young Offenders places he was in last time. So maybe, well, I’d leave the penknife in the car. And the lighters.’

Mrs Mallory glared at her but removed the offending items and shoved them into the door pocket.

‘Anything else?’ she asked.

‘Well, he’s not allowed to take a packet of cigarettes, just smoke one with us ….’

Mrs Mallory pulled out more items and added them to the door.

‘So I suppose he can’t have no sweets neither?’

‘They might be okay – we’ll ask as we go in.’ Alex glanced at her passenger, who was turning an angry shade of red, and hurried on. ‘And maybe you should leave the scissors behind.’

‘Now you’m just being daft! They’s nail scissors, for his toes. Kevin suffers terrible with his toes.’

This was too much detail for Alex, who turned her full attention to the bumpy road. There was a moment’s silence before Ada Mallory burst out, ‘And why’re we goin’ this way anyway? ’Tis miles out of the way. You just take this left here, see, and follow Sedgemoor for a bit ‘til you get to the proper road.’

Alex turned left as instructed and found herself bumping along beside the huge canal cut over the years to help reclaim the rich peat lands of the Levels. The rest of the journey passed in silence as Ada Mallory brooded on her son’s plight and Alex, mindful of Lauren’s warnings, mused on hers.

There is a particular, peculiar smell to a prison which is quite unlike anywhere else. The first big hit is cheap, strong
carbolic
soap, used day after day on walls and floors until it seeps into every pore of the building’s fabric. Under this is the counterpoint of the transient beings, the sad and lonely men housed within this pungent environment. The smell of feet, sweat and a whiff of stale tobacco smoke hangs in the air, gradually gaining strength as the visitor moves further
into the institution. Alex hated visiting prisons but then she doubted many people enjoyed it very much. She parked in the official visitor spaces below the walls and had her warrant card out before she left the car. Within seconds an attendant pounced, ready to send them away to find a place in nearby streets or more distant car parks. His face fell when he saw her official status.

‘She’s with me,’ said Alex firmly, as she took Ada Mallory’s arm and hustled her away. The attendant hesitated but forgot all about them as another car pulled in to try its luck. Alex closed her ears to the raised voices behind her and guided her charge towards the gatehouse.

‘Remember, they may take some things from your bag but you get them back when we leave. Don’t make a fuss or they can refuse to let you in. You don’t want to disappoint Kevin, do you?’ She glanced at Ada whose face was wearing what she had come to think of as her ‘mutinous’ look.

‘Why do they all have to be so nasty?’ she demanded. ‘
Having
a lad in prison’s bad enough. Don’t cost nothing to be polite, show a bit of respect. ’Tis not necessary, all this
pushing
people about.’

There wasn’t enough time left in the day to try to explain the psychology of the prison service to Ada Mallory and
anyway
, sometimes Alex suspected pushing people about was one of the few perks of the job for some officers.

Alex presented her card and emptied her pockets, calmly waiting with her arms out as a female officer patted her down. She nodded as the guard warned her against passing anything to the prisoners but was allowed to take the packet of
cigarettes
and a small disposable lighter after being reminded she could only give Kevin one at a time, after the last one had been smoked right down to the butt. She stepped through the metal detector and watched anxiously as Ada plonked her bag on the counter. She had hoped her example would be reassuring but from the look on her face this was probably wishful thinking. Despite Alex’s warnings there were still
several
packets of cigarettes in the pink handbag as well as a
few boxes of matches. These went into a metal drawer along with the nail scissors, a nail file (what
had
she been thinking, Alex asked herself), a girlie magazine, two pairs of rather moth-eaten socks and the sweets. The guard shook his head at the haul as he handed it to his assistant. It was a struggle to get the drawer in the rack and closed, Alex noted with some amusement. The female attendant stepped forward and began patting at her coat rather cautiously. Ada drew herself up to her full height and stood rigid as the check was completed.

‘Could you, er, remove your hat?’ the attendant asked. She received the full force of Mrs Mallory’s fury directed through a single glare. Alex leaned round so she could be seen and made encouraging gestures, nodding hopefully. With a huge sigh Ada reached up and withdrew a long, lethal hatpin, a good six inches in length. The hat came off and was laid on the counter, the pin by its side as the guards looked at it in horror for a moment.

‘You’d better keep that safe too. Takes ages to fix it does and I’m wanting to see my boy now.’ With that she stepped through the metal detector and looked pointedly at the door barring her way. Alex caught the eye of the female officer as she turned to unlock the entrance and both of them struggled not to smile. As she set off down the corridor to the visitors’ room she heard, ‘Bloody hell – never seen that before …’ as the Gatehouse officers contemplated how close they had come to letting the pin, a truly deadly object in a prison, get past.

The visitors’ room was almost as unwelcoming as the Gatehouse. Despite attempts to make it seem less like part of the prison there was no disguising the blank walls, the
furniture
fixed to the floor or the all-pervading smell. Metal doors admitted visitors at one end and a trickle of prisoners at the other. The windows were covered with some sort of heavy plastic, designed to be shatterproof, and it had faded over the years so the little light that made it over the encircling wall was filtered and polluted to a sickly yellow. The refreshment bar offered grey tea or equally grey coffee dispensed by an
unsmiling volunteer in thin, squashy plastic beakers. It did little to lighten the mood. Every time the door opened the sounds of keys and chains echoed around the room,
rendering
normal conversation impossible. Alex sat next to Ada, waiting patiently for Kevin’s arrival whilst around them
families
settled to their meetings with questions, pleading, a few angry words, more questions until the sounds became one huge, desperate babble. Alex glanced at Ada and realized she was on the verge of tears. Hurriedly breaking in to the pack of emergency tissues she always carried in her pocket, she thrust several into the crying woman’s hand and was
startled
when Ada squeezed her hand in thanks. Then the door opened and Kevin sloped in, head down.

Ada rose to her feet and moved to embrace her wayward son but Kevin pulled away, dropping into a chair opposite and slumping over the table.

‘Oh, oh Kev…’ she began, tears flowing. Kevin turned his head away and stared at Alex.