“no education”. I’m a walking encyclopedia, Tyler, you’d be surprised. Go on, ask me how to spell silhouette.’
But Sam’s mind was still on that collection of low, mean-looking buildings and the unseen inmates entombed within. ‘Just think of all the wasted talent, wasted intelligence just rotting away inside that place. There’s boys in there could have been surgeons, or architects, or airline pilots, if only they’d been born a few miles across town where kids have a chance. Artists, writers – a future prime minister, who knows?’
‘Future prime minister? From round here? There’ll be a bird in Number 10 before there’s a Northerner,’ Gene growled.
‘Maybe there will be a bird. And one who is a northerner. There’s a thought for you, Guv.’
Gene snorted contemptuously and shook his head. ‘I know what’s going on in that grubby little brain of yours, Tyler. The only northern bird you want to see on top is your bit of prospective crumpet.’
‘I take it that offensive epithet refers to our colleague WDC Cartwright? Guv, why can’t you and the other boys in the department just get used to the fact that people sometimes have what the grown-ups call relationships?’
‘Just keep your mind on the job we’ve come here to do,’ Gene barked. ‘If we find a hint that Andy Coren’s death wasn’t an accident, and that he ended up in that crusher for any other reason than him and his brother being a couple of useless dopey donuts, then Annie’s put us on the right track. She’ll have earned her brownie points for the day. That should loosen her knickers, Sam – get you one step closer to the ol’ pinball machine.’
‘Jesus, Guv, the way your mind works.’
‘Ain’t no different from yours, Tyler, except I’ve got what it takes to make DCI.’
‘So have I!’
‘When you’re old and grey, most like. But until then, Tyler, you’re just my little trained monkey. Now, then – best behaviour. We’ve arrived.’
Gene brought the Cortina to the front gates and sounded the horn. They waited.
‘It’s like a picking up a date,’ he observed.
‘If that’s our date, Guv, you’re welcome to him,’ said Sam, as a gate officer appeared, dressed in black warder’s uniform with a fierce peaked cap. The man’s face was hard and angular, with a flat, broken nose and small, unfriendly eyes.
Police IDs were flashed, and the gates were unlocked. As the Cortina nosed through, Gene stuck his head out of the window.
‘What’s going on there?’ he asked, indicating a set of roofless, broken buildings at the east wing. ‘V-2 come down on you, did it?’
‘Demolition,’ said the gate officer in a surly voice. ‘Pulling down the old kitchens and boiler house.’
‘That’s where the junk was coming from that ended up in Kersey’s Yard,’ said Sam. ‘Andy Coren’s escape plan wasn’t bad, Guv. He saw a chance and he took it.’
‘And then buggered it up,’ Gene growled. ‘Unless somebody else made sure it was buggered up for him.’
Gene parked the car outside the reception area and clambered out. Sam followed him. Beneath a weather-beaten sign that said ‘HMP FRIAR’S BROOK’ stood a heavy door, which the gate officer now began to noisily unlock with yet another key on his chain.
I don’t want to go inside there, Sam thought suddenly. He felt icy panic, as if something terrible awaited him within those drab, grey walls.
‘What’s up with you, Tyler?’
‘Nothing, Guv.’
‘Got the fidgets? You should’ve gone before we set off.’
‘I said it’s nothing, Guv.’
‘If you’re going to get spooked by a spot of kiddies’ porridge, Tyler, you should never have come along. I’d be better off with Ray.’
‘Guv, just leave it.’
The gate officer rattled his keys and the heavy door clanged open, revealing a hallway with a tiled floor and whitewashed walls. It reminded Sam of a public toilet.
‘Get yourself ready, Tyler,’ Gene boomed, slapping his palms together and rubbing them briskly. ‘If you think the outside of this place is grim, wait until you breathe the air in them cells. Parfoom de Borstal. The heady aroma of BO, spunk and bunged-up khazies. And that’s just the staff who work here.’
The gate officer glared at him from beneath his peaked cap. ‘Watch it, plod.’
‘DCI!’ retorted Gene, patting at imaginary pips on his arm as he swept by. Sam hurried after him. Behind them, the door clanged shut, with a power and finality that sent a cold shiver running along Sam’s spine. It was as if he himself were an inmate, arriving within the walls of this terrible place, doomed never to see the outside world again.
Get a grip, Tyler, for God’s sake, he told himself firmly, and followed the Guv’s lumbering hulk as it swaggered off ahead of him.
Sam and Gene were escorted by a warder along an interminable corridor. Far from reeking of filth and sweat, the air was thick with the pungent smell of detergent. Everything was scrubbed and polished, obsessively so.
Up ahead, they saw one of the inmates. He was a frail, spotty-faced boy, dressed in denim dungarees. He listlessly mopped the floor. But, the moment he eyed the guard approaching, he made a show of working hard.
How old is he? Sam thought. Fourteen? Fifteen? What sort of life’s brought him to this awful place? And what kind of future has he got in store?
As Sam approached, he noticed a ragged piece of brown cloth stitched unhandily to the front of the boy’s shirt. But, when Sam tried to get a closer look, the boy turned away, averting his eyes and keeping his face towards the wall.
‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the warder, and he indicated an oak-panelled door. The sign on it read: ‘J. W. FELLOWES, PRINCIPAL GOVERNOR’.
‘I suppose we’d better knock,’ said Gene, flinging the door open straightaway without warning.
Mr Fellowes, the borstal governor, sat behind his large desk. He looked up, startled. He was a balding man, rotund and soft-skinned, more at home with civil servants than hardened inmates.
‘Don’t wet ’em, it’s just us,’ said Gene, holding up his ID. He sniffed the air extravagantly. ‘At least your office don’t honk of Dettol.’
‘What’s going on here?’ stammered Fellowes. ‘Are you arresting me or something?’
‘I apologize for my superior officer, Mr Fellowes,’ Sam said, positioning himself in front of Gene to try to block him. ‘This is DCI Hunt. My name’s DI Tyler, Manchester CID, A-Division.’
From behind him came a tight, clipped, richly Scottish voice. ‘A dramatic entrance, gentlemen. Ill mannered, unprofessional – but dramatic, I’ll
