Wasted Years cr-5 Read online

  Mickey was on hand when the Mansfield branch of the Abbey National was held up one busy Saturday. It was Goofy, though, who placed a suitcase beside the protective screens on the counter and informed the nearest cashier that it contained a bomb. None of the staff felt like testing the possibility that it was just a bluff. Nor did they appreciate suggestions that the whole thing was a publicity stunt on behalf of EuroDisney.

  The most recent robbery, three weeks ago now, took place in the inner city, Lenton Boulevard, just as the sub-post office was opening for the day. The door was locked from the inside and, while a line of grumbling customers grew along the pavement, the staff were tied to one another, shut inside a cupboard and warned that if they tried to get out or raise the alarm, shots would be fired through the door.

  Four robberies: close on half a million pounds.

  Five men: all wearing gloves, instantly disposable clothing, masks. All armed.

  Between three and five cars, stolen days in advance, used on each occasion.

  Threats of violence, so far not carried out.

  Some of the stolen money had surfaced in places as far apart as Penzance and Berwick-on-Tweed; most of it, it was assumed, had already been laundered abroad for a fat commission.

  Operation Kingfisher had been set up after the second incident; between thirty-five and fifty officers had been involved. All of the information gathered had been entered by civilian operatives on to disk and checked against the Home Office’s central computer. Possible links were being followed up in Leeds, Glasgow, Wolver-hampton. Known criminals implicated in similar raids were being tracked down and interviewed. Comparisons with similar robberies in Paris and Marseilles were being made. Flight manifests at East Midlands and Birmingham airports had been checked.

  Sooner or later, somebody would make a mistake; so far, no one had. Resnick hoped it wouldn’t be some building society clerk or bank teller acting out of bravery or panic, a misplaced sense of loyalty to his employers.

  “You know what, don’t you, Charlie?” Cossall said as they were leaving, best part of two hours later.

  “What’s that, then, Reg?”

  “What this lot reminds us of. That bloody business-when was it? — ten year ago.”

  But Resnick didn’t want to be reminded. Not then or ever. Refusing Cossall’s offer of a quick pint in the Peacock, he slipped into a pub on High Pavement he rarely used and where he was unlikely to be known. That bloody business ten years ago. Never one to drink in the middle of the day, Resnick surprised himself with two large vodkas, one sharp after the other, with the tonic he had bought to dilute them still open and unused when he pushed his way back on to the street.

  Three

  Peter Hewitt farmed several hundred acres in what had once been known as Rutland-the smallest county in England. To those families whose roots had taken long before local government rationalizations, it still was. To them, Hewitt was an outsider, welcomed guardedly. He represented new blood, new stock, new ideas.

  Hewitt had not always been a farmer. Brought up, as farm children always were, to take his share of the work from an early age, he had turned his back on the land at seventeen and gone to sea. As an officer in the Royal Navy, he had served in the Falklands campaign, a lieutenant commander on HMS Argonaut. Along with other vessels, his ship had come under heavy hostile fire in Falkland Sound: her fellow frigate, the Ardent, had been sunk with the loss of over twenty lives; the Argonaut had been more fortunate-she had remained afloat and only two of her crew had died.

  Only.

  The word teased Hewitt cruelly still.

  He thought of the parents of these men when they heard the news; thought of chance and misfortune, stability and flow, the sea and the land. As soon as he was able, he left the navy.

  Hewitt’s father had retired: rather, the recession and rheumatoid arthritis had retired him. Now he lived quietly in a cottage in Northamptonshire, grew vegetables, kept goats, grew lonely. Peter had bought a farm near him but not too near; his intention had always been to go his own way. He had given this a great deal of thought and it seemed right that his methods and means should be as organic as good business sense and the land would allow.

  In addition to the acreage given over to crops, Hewitt kept a herd of Friesian cows and had several contracts to provide organic milk. His wife, Pip, ran a profitable farm shop. Together, they encouraged local groups and schools to visit the farm so that they could explain their methods. Spread the word. Hewitt found himself increasingly in demand as a speaker in various parts of the country, occasionally in Holland or even France.

  This work, as an ambassador for organic farming, he took seriously, just as he did his time as a school governor, his stint as a JP. If you take something from the community, he told friends less convinced, you have a duty to put something back. It was the way he felt about the land. It was why he had accepted the invitation to be on the Board of Visitors at the local prison without hesitation. Part of his duties there was to serve on the Local Review Committee, whose recommendations were forwarded to the Parole Board.

  This was why he was driving in today, beneath low skies, to interview a long-stay prisoner whose application for parole was due for review. Showing a callous disregard for the safety of others, you were prepared to threaten and use violence in the pursuit of personal gain. Hewitt had read the judge’s summing-up before leaving the house. The man he was going to see had been found guilty on five separate counts and sentenced to fifteen years. The nature of the offenses, the use of violence, meant there would be no automatic release once two-thirds of that sentence had been served. After ten years, however, there was the question of discretionary parole.

  Hewitt slowed as the side road leading to the prison came in sight, checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, signaled his intention clearly.

  The moment he walked through the twin doors and heard them close behind him, Peter Hewitt felt something leave his body. He would not regain it until some hours later, pacing the fields of his farm, marveling over visible horizons.

  “Good one for you today, sir,” the warder remarked. “Very nice fellow, I’m sure.”

  Prior was sitting in a room without view or natural light: plain wooden table, metal chairs with cloth seat and back. He scarcely glanced up as the door opened.

  “One thing we didn’t succeed in teaching him,” the warder said, “manners.”

  “Thank you,” Hewitt said. “We shall be fine.”

  As the door was being closed, Hewitt introduced himself and offered his hand. Sitting, he took out the packet of cigarettes he had bought that morning at the village shop and slid them across the table. Box of matches, too.

  Prior said thanks and helped himself, lit up, and looked at his visitor squarely for the first time.

  “You understand, of course, the importance of this interview?” Hewitt asked.

  Something of a smile floated at the back of Prior’s eyes. “Oh, yes,” he said.

  Prison had stripped weight away from him, made him strong. It was that way for some, a few; those it didn’t institutionalize or weaken, break down. The ten years had grayed Prior’s skin to putty, but it was tight; the muscles of his legs and arms, chest and back were strong; the eyes were still alive. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretches, curls. Concentration. Save for one occasion, whenever he had been tempted to lash out, respond, overreact, he had thought about this moment, this meeting. He had kept himself largely to himself, waiting for this: the possibility of release.

  “Before I can make a positive recommendation,” Hewitt was saying, “I have to be convinced in my own mind that you have no intention of offending again.”

  Prior held his gaze. “No problem, then, is there?”

  Hewitt blinked, shifted the position of his chair. “The offenses you committed …”

  “Long time ago. Different life.” Prior released smoke through his nose. “Wouldn’t happen again.”

  “It did then.”

  “What I thi
nk,” Prior said, “people change.”

  Hewitt leaned forward, leaned back.

  “You believe that, don’t you?” Prior said.

  “Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Well, then …” this time the smile was unbridled. “There you go.”

  “Have you thought,” Hewitt asked after some moments, “about work, finding a job?”

  “Used to be a chippie …”

  “Carpenter?”

  “Joiner, yes. That’s my trade.”

  “Good, good. I’m sure your probation officer will try to find something for you. After all, having a skill, a real skill, it’s what so many men in your position sadly lack.”

  Way this is going, Prior thought, better than I could have hoped.

  “You’ve friends on the outside?”

  “A few.”

  “That might be willing to help you find work?”

  “They might.”

  “And you’ve a wife.”

  “No.”

  “Surely you’re married?”

  “Legally, maybe, but no. Not any more. Not really.”

  “Ten years, it’s a lot to withstand. It takes a very special woman …”

  “Oh, she was that, all right.”

  “Was? She isn’t …?”

  “I haven’t seen her. Don’t know where she is.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Prior shook his head. “One of those things. Can’t put in the sort of time I have, expect everything to stay the same.”

  Hewitt was thinking what he would do if for any reason Pip left him. A partnership, that was how he referred to it when he was making his after-dinner speeches, a partnership in which my wife is the strongest part.

  “What I want to do,” Prior was saying, “start my life over again, do things right, before it’s too late.”

  “Of course, I understand.” Second chances, second lives, they were very much what Peter Hewitt was about. One of the two men killed on board the Argonaut had been celebrating his eighteenth birthday that day. No second chances in his life. Hewitt hated the waste, the brave waste.

  “Exactly,” he said again. “I do understand.”

  Prior looked into his face directly, held his gaze. “Good,” he said several seconds later. “Good. Because too much of my life has been wasted. There are things I want to do while I still have the time.”

  Four

  Darren knew about prisons. YOIs anyway. Young Offender Institutions. Places like Glen Parva, where, if you didn’t find a way of topping yourself in the first few months, chances were you learned enough to graduate into the big time.

  Glen Parva: that’s where he’d met Keith. Walked into his cell, free time, thinking to scrounge a snout and there was Keith, all five-five of him, struggling to loop his towel around one end of the upturned bed.

  “What the fuck d’you think you’re up to?” Darren had yelled. One thing for certain, what Keith hadn’t been doing, devoting himself to spring cleaning.

  Keith’s only answer had been to hide the towel behind his back and blub: tears like some six-year-old caught offing sweets from the corner shop.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Darren had said, sitting on Keith’s bunk. “Give these bastards the satisfaction of cutting you down. How much longer you got to do, anyway?”

  “Couple of months.”

  “You’ll get through that.”

  Keith hung his head. “I won’t.”

  Darren looked at him, pathetic little bugger, sticky-out ears and soft skin and hands like a child’s. No wonder they’d been at him again in the showers, gang-banging him most likely, smearing smuggled-in-lipstick round his mouth before making him suck them off.

  “S’okay,” Darren had said. “I’ll look out for you. Anyone tries anything, let them know they got to deal with me.”

  Keith was looking at him in wonder. “Why d’you want to do that?” he asked.

  Darren had seen this film once, staying at his sister’s, Sutton-in-Ashfield, Western it’d been. This soldier, cavalry spurs and saber and yellow stripes, big deal, he saves the life of some Indian chief and after that the Indian follows him everywhere, waiting for the chance to do the same for him. Some kind of crazy blood brothers. Shit! That wasn’t what it was like with Keith and him. Reason Darren hung around with Keith after they were released, nothing to do with that old bollocks. What he put up with Keith for, there wasn’t nothing Keith didn’t know about cars. No car he couldn’t nick.

  Crossing towards the parade of shops, lunchtime, Darren looked at his watch: one fifty-four. If Keith was late, he’d take his legs off at the knees. Laughing aloud: poor sod was any shorter he’d be underground.

  Keith had cased the multi-story from top to bottom: nice Orion worth making off with, owner obligingly leaving the parking ticket sticking out of the ashtray. All Keith had to do at the exit was hand over a quid-as cars came, this was cheap at the price.

  What he hadn’t reckoned on was road works on the ring road, single-lane traffic, and there he was, trapped behind some geriatric in a Morris Minor-nice motor, though, well looked after, likely worth more now than when it was new.

  Keith knew full well Darren would be less than happy. No way he was going to make it on time now. Working the horn wasn’t going to make a scrap of difference. Boring, aside from anything else, not even a radio to listen to. Almost the first thing he’d noticed, sizing up the car, some bastard’d already had the radio away, torn wires all over the place, owner too tight to get it replaced.

  The road suddenly widened and Keith stood on the accelerator. Too close to two for comfort: Darren wasn’t going to be worth speaking to.

  It had been a pizza place last time Darren had been there. Deep dish or thin ’n’ crispy. Hawaiian a speciality. Darren had made the mistake of having one once. Pineapple chunks that stuck in your throat like gobbets of vomit: ground beef and gristle a dog wouldn’t cock its leg to piss on.

  Before that, what? A Chinese chippy. Paki sweet shop. When he was a kid, one of them bakers where they sold stale cobs in bags of three, half price, the morning after-cheese and onion or turkey breast or haslet with a touch of Branston pickle.

  Across the street the Co-op offices had been bulldozed flat to make way for a spanking new DIY superstore-three floors of wallpaper, fake Formica, and self-assembly kitchen units that fell apart faster than you could screw them together. Darren had got a job there once, sixteen, humping great boxes about the back, ten quid and callouses at the end of the day, no tax, no questions asked. That had been before he had the good fortune to get himself nicked and sent away: before he had learned there were easier ways to make a living.

  Now there were signs plastered across the superstore windows-Everything at Half-Price-Must Go-Closing Down. The pizza place was boarded up: fly posters for Soul II Soul and Springsteen and The Fabulous Supremes LIVE at Ritzy’s torn and graffitied over. In the doorway, cardboard boxes and a nest of rags: somebody’s home.

  Out of the remaining six shops set back from the street, only three were still in business. A newsagent’s with metal grilles at its windows, a sign-No More Than Two Schoolchildren At Any One Time-taped to its door. A factory textile shop, direct from the makers to you, cut out the middle man, sold tea towels and shirts with little to tell the difference between them. Between those two, a sub-office of the Amber Valley Building Society, closed for lunch between twelve forty-five and two.

  It was now almost a quarter past.

  Darren looked across at the door, open sign hanging down; half a mind to go in on his own, get the business done. But then what? Legging it down the main road, sack on his back?

  He was flexing the fingers of his right hand when the blue Orion slipped into sight and eased towards the curb, Keith’s face just visible in the lower half of the windscreen.

  “What happened to you? Go by McDonald’s for a Big Mac and a chocolate shake?”

  “Chicken McNuggets.”

  Darren had
hold of the front of Keith’s T-shirt, like to choke him, before he realized it was a joke.

  “Anyone go in yet?” Keith asked, once Darren had let him go.

  Darren shook his head. They had watched the office carefully the past three days; not once had they had a customer between reopening after lunch and twenty minutes past the hour. It was now two seventeen.

  “Why don’t I dump the car?” Keith suggested. “Try again tomorrow.”

  “Like fuck we will!”

  Keith shrugged, not about to argue. He knew that tone in Darren’s voice all too well; had seen him break a glass in a youth’s face once, just for asking him was he sure he didn’t have a light?

  “The talking,” Darren said. They were crossing the patch of bricked-off earth in front of the shops, stepping between the dog turds.

  “What about it?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Keith nodded: as if he needed telling.

  Lorna willed herself not to turn her head towards the clock, up there on the wall between the aerial photograph of the High Peak and a poster advertising High-Yield Tessa returns. This was the part of the day that always dragged, right from when she got back after having her packet of Slimma Chicken and Vegetable soup for lunch, two pieces of Swedish crispbread with just a scraping of extra lowfat margarine, from there through to tea, four or four fifteen, Marjorie fretting over the kettle, leaving the tea bag in too long, shaking a tin of custard creams under her nose no matter how many times Lorna pursed her lips and waved them away.

  Marjorie back there now with Becca, practically fawning over her, turned Lorna’s stomach, that’s what it did. Becca in her smart little gray suit with its high collar and tapered skirt she wasn’t above sliding up her skinny legs whenever the area manager happened to pop in. Three years of elocution lessons and a polytechnic degree in Modern Languages and they’d made her acting branch manager about as soon as she’d finished her training. Two years older than Lorna, nothing more.