Lying Ways, page 26
Then the bombshell. Despite Burton being discharged from the military in 2008, they’d still reported on him, and he was investigated by the Royal Military Police on several occasions, with regards to a series of unlawful killings in Iraq between 2008 and 2018. A decade was a very long time, and Kelly noticed that Burton’s post-military file was thicker than his the one when he’d been a decorated and respected corporal.
She stopped when a photograph of a body flicked on to the screen. She stared at it; for a few moments she was unable to pull herself away to read the text that accompanied it. When she did, she learned that the photograph was of an Iraqi soldier who’d double-crossed the British, leading to a massacre in a local village. Burton had been employed by a protection company that safeguarded workers who travelled to the oilfields every day. The rogue Iraqi soldier had been taken from his family in the middle of the night. It was unclear how many local Iraqis were involved, but Ian Burton definitely was. Civilians lived in fear of both local Taliban warlords and the British, and they often had to choose sides. It was under these impossible circumstances that the soldier had paid the price.
Burton had taken matters into his own hands and the picture proved it. The soldier was tied to a tree, and his injuries were horrific. It looked as though scores of paramilitaries had got hold of him, but the report stated a suspicion that Ian Burton was involved but was never held accountable due to lack of evidence and credible witnesses.
Kelly was dumbstruck. The guy was a fully paid-up member of the fucking nut brigade, so how the hell had he ended up working in a care home?
The system had made Ian Burton what he was today, but instead of making it right, they’d tried to hide him, and it had backfired. Perhaps the MOD had washed their hands of him. She seemed to remember Johnny telling her that funding for soldiers like Ian Burton was woefully lacking. His record ended two years ago. Had he simply run back to daddy?
She closed her iPad in frustration and listened to Cassandra Spelling barking orders into a phone. Kelly felt the anxiety in her body that came with impotence. Sitting inside this tiny box, waiting for something to happen, was intolerable. She checked the police computer on her iPad and saw that there was no news on the hunt for Burton.
‘We haven’t had any contact yet,’ Cassandra told her. ‘But the phones will be dropped in ten minutes. Eventually, they’ll make their way to those in charge. They always do.’
‘Always? You’ve had this situation before?’ Kelly asked.
‘Not exactly – I’m talking about the way these situations pan out in general. It’s behavioural science. Most of the men inside will have no desire to carry on this revolt. They’ll want out. As time passes, only the hard core will remain, and then we’ll find out what this is all about. Our priority is establishing the negotiator cell, but to get close enough, we need those phones to open a channel.’
Kelly nodded her understanding. ‘Has there been any word from those officers coming out?’ she asked. She knew that Tom Gorman had made it out. What a way to start a new career, she thought.
Cassandra shook her head. ‘Not a word about Nathan Appleton, or your girl. I’m sorry. We’ll know soon, I’m sure,’ she said.
‘And the missing officers and the governor?’
‘Nope.’
She looked at Chief Constable Harris, who was in deep conversation with the chief negotiator. Andrew shouldn’t be here, Kelly thought. But she wasn’t about to raise it now. The time necessary to find a replacement as senior as Andrew, together with the paperwork involved, and the sensitive explanations as to why he should be replaced, could mean the difference between Kate surviving and not.
Chapter 51
Ian Burton had been recommended the practice of meditation twelve years ago when he’d left the armed forces. It hadn’t gone well. The act of sitting in silence, allowing thoughts and feelings to come and go, but not exploit or live them, was excruciatingly painful. It had proved impossible for him and he’d given up almost the day he started. Why have urges and ambitions if one was not supposed to follow them through? Why else be a part of human existence if not to compete, satisfy and dream? It was all nonsense. His counsellor had recently recommended he give it another go.
He’d never learned the subtle art of controlling one’s emotions.
He believed that the pursuance of compulsion was central to the human condition, nothing else. What happened to other people as a result of those desires was immaterial. People got hurt all the time. Families disintegrate, flesh is torn apart and minds shatter; that’s life. Only the weak made room for those who couldn’t keep up. The earth would be inherited by the warrior.
As a result of his cascading emotions, thoughts also plagued him and made his body twitch. A tiny knot of regret tormented him: he’d let his father down, again. And now he had no choice but to disappear and go to ground.
He was vexed.
It hadn’t been his choice to live like this. A feeling of injustice washed over him and he could have screamed out loud with the frustration of it all. They were supposed to be living in a free country. Fat chance of attaining that now the police had been led to believe he’d done something wrong. He thought of his father, incarcerated unfairly, and how he’d wanted to do something to make him proud, and now it was ruined. He’d had a chance to make everything right again, but he’d let everybody down. He never could get it quite right, and always seemed to upset people who wanted to do things another way. He’d proved, time and time again, that his way was effective. People talked when Ian asked them to. He had a rare and exclusive gift for getting information out of people who didn’t want to talk, and he felt unappreciated.
His counsellor said that revisiting the past and allowing himself to let go of the trauma was a kind of therapy, but the guy was a hippy. He was some kind of mountain expert who’d found nature after too many tours of Iraq.
He packed a bag sulkily and the overwhelming desire to act out took hold of him. There was no explanation for what went on inside his head when his compulsions took over. They just did. He could taste it, and he could feel it. His body had to move around to expel thoughts of diversion. Did he have time?
It was like an intense craving, one so intoxicating that nothing would satisfy him until he’d seen it through to the end. He wanted – no, needed – to consummate his desire. Only that one thing could quiet his head and give him the satiation he required to move on.
It wouldn’t take long. He had everything he needed. His father would never know.
The TV mumbled in the background. He had it on to calm his nerves, as he found that silence stimulated him too much. Noise was the balm that could mean the difference between physical action upon his urges and maintaining a quasi-equilibrium which prevented it.
He glanced at the TV and saw men on a rooftop. He stopped what he was doing and walked towards the screen. He turned up the volume. He heard the words ‘HMP Highton’ and stopped dead in his tracks. The sweater he was holding fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He trod on it as he moved closer to the set. The men were holding banners and dancing, making silly juvenile gestures for the cameras. Journalists were lining up to give commentary, and Hallsenna Moor was awash with photographers and satellite vans.
He listened, transfixed, as Sky News gave their version of what had happened inside the prison. He began to panic and grabbed his phone, staring at it, not knowing what to do. On TV, prisoners were forcing somebody onto the roof; the man looked vaguely familiar. He was hurt, and he struggled to keep up with the youngsters pushing him to the top of the building.
Then it was announced that the man was Brian Taylor, governor of Highton, and Ian dropped his phone.
The screen went to the female presenter, who was stood in a remote area of the moor, with the prison in view behind her.
Suddenly he forgot about the prison. Instead, he watched as her hair flew in her eyes and she wafted it away with a gloved hand. He studied her face and imagined it pleading with him. He reached out and touched the flat screen, his fingers moving over her soft cheeks. She wouldn’t keep still and Ian tutted. He turned his head and he realised that she reminded him of a woman he’d been tasked with protecting in Iraq. He hadn’t managed to keep to his task and things had turned out rather differently to how his bosses expected. The woman had ended up dead and thrown by the side of a road, like rubbish out of a car window. The people who did it to her had their reasons. The fact that Ian had allowed it, and participated, never came to light.
But that was years ago. The woman before him now kept a poker face, just like the woman in Basra. She’d enjoyed a rather unchained existence under Saddam Hussein, like a lot of women in modern Iraq. But once the war kicked in and the Sunnis returned to power in many areas across the country, fundamentalist laws set about restricting those freedoms, and women, like the one he saw die, suffered the most. They’d enjoyed having their own motor vehicles, university degrees, businesses and leisure pursuits. Not so after 2003. Swathes of them left, but many couldn’t. His ward was the wife of a prominent politician and she was protected to an extent, but after a time, she couldn’t be seen as having special privileges. She reaped what she sowed.
The woman on TV continued to talk. Ian had already made up his mind.
He forgot about what his father had told him, and never gave another thought to what might be happening inside the prison. He left his bag unpacked and open on the bed.
He walked out of the flat, on loan as a favour from somebody his father knew. He went to the garage round the back and unlocked the car. He got in and set off, along the A595 from Workington to HMP Highton.
Chapter 52
Rickie sat in one corner of the central rotunda, alone, concentrating on drowning out the noise of the mob. He’d hooked up a radio to a generator. He was waiting for the right time to make contact with the police, so he could play the role of his life: as mediator to the innocent fellas caught up in the dreadful events of the last few hours. Somebody had managed to get a huge flat-screen TV working and images flicked across it, muted by blood sports. He held the radio to his good ear and tried to listen to Bay Radio news. The riot filled every station. A smile spread across his face when it was reported that the governor had been dragged onto the roof. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, he thought to himself.
He noticed the TV screen change out of the corner of his eye and sat up sharply when he saw a photograph of a female police officer flash up. It wasn’t the detective who’d interviewed him, it was somebody called Kate Umshaw. He got off his chair and went across to the set to turn the volume up fully.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ he bawled at the crowd at the top of his voice. A few fellas turned around and began hushing the others. The two latest competitors, battling it out for kudos and prison status, were interrupted, and those heckling them on peered across to Rickie to see what the fuss was about. Slowly, men began encircling Rickie and the TV screen.
‘What’s up?’ one asked.
‘This is what’s up,’ Rickie said, standing in front of the crowd, pointing to the screen. ‘We’ve got a female copper in here somewhere, hiding out, thinking she hasn’t been spotted yet.’ Next, a photograph of the English teacher came on screen and Rickie held his hand up for quiet.
‘It’s saying he forgot something and he came back for it. His wife is distraught.’ Rickie feigned sympathy and mimicked a woman crying, rubbing her eyes. The men laughed.
‘Who reckons they’re in the library?’ he said. He’d got their attention. A cheer went up.
‘What should we do, Rickie?’ one asked.
Rickie took the TV remote and tapped it gently between his hands. He heard a few of the men discussing what they’d like to do to a woman, after years of being denied. It was predictably desperate, and even Rickie closed an eye. His brain worked fast. He’d have to protect this woman if he was to get anything for himself, but how to contain men’s urges? They probably didn’t have much time to act. He knew how it would go: the police would slowly fence them into a location of their choosing, as prisoners grew weary of the conditions. The Strangeways riot of 1990 had lasted twenty-five days. Rickie hoped they wouldn’t have to last that long without fresh water, heating and decent food. He hadn’t planned on it. He needed to find CM Fawcett to find out what was going on, and arrange some kind of negotiation.
He asked around to see if anyone knew where the CM was. In turn, men asked one another and finally, someone was located who knew where he was last seen.
‘In the SO’s office of A wing, Rickie.’
A wing was in the direction of the library. Rickie noticed the stony silence and jutted his chin. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t make it. He got hit hard, Rickie.’
Rickie tutted. ‘Never mind, lad. He was an arsehole anyway.’ In fact, with CM Fawcett out of the way, that just left the governor with enough knowledge to allow the truth to surface, and from what he’d heard on the radio, he might not make it, especially with his weak heart.
As if on cue, the electricity was cut. The water pump stopped too and the pipes that had been badly damaged and leaking everywhere stopped their gushing. Next, they’d have no batteries for phones, and no food. Rickie wasn’t stupid, he knew that a protest like this could only hold up for a few days. This was no Strangeways, where centuries-old wings, crumbling and lethal, might prevent penetration from outside agencies. Highton had undergone major refurbishment and was now a fully modernised prison. The lightweight material moulded into the walls and floors made it difficult to completely destroy them. Worthy barricades of rubble were therefore out of the question.
His mind whirred. If they could get to the female copper and the teacher before they got out, or were helped out, they might prolong the affair to a reasonable conclusion.
‘Let’s pay a visit to the library,’ he said. They travelled down the long wing en masse, heading in the direction of the library. There was a frisson of excitement, as if they were going out for the evening.
They came to the corridor that housed the library, and Rickie held up his hand for silence as they approached. He went first and stood outside the library door. He could hear voices within. He banged on the door and went in.
Rickie stood in front of the small group sitting on the ground in a circle as if they were fucking telling bedtime stories. A few of the lads jumped up what they saw him. They were mainly juveniles, and a couple of old-timers, with some seasoned cons for flavour. But not one of them had thought to inform him of their find, and that pissed him off. He spotted the teacher and nodded his head. Behind him crouched the woman.
‘You’ve been missing out, lads. Sky News has just had this lovely lady plastered all over its screens,’ Rickie said.
‘She’s a teacher, boss,’ one of the young ’uns said. Rickie laughed hard, together with dozens of others behind who joined him. The woman glared at him, and Rickie was aware of her examining his scars. She knew who he was all right, because she was a fucking pig.
‘She’s not a teacher, lads, she’s a copper.’
Chapter 53
‘Who am I talking to?’ Mike asked. From the command centre, they’d managed to make contact with a group of prisoners huddled in a toilet block. Kelly and Cassandra stood close to the negotiator and Kelly fought her desperation to butt in.
‘Mickey Mouse,’ the convict replied.
‘I know you’re enjoying your freedom, pal. My job, believe it or not, is to find out if anyone is hurt and needs help. I’ve got nothing to do with the authorities. My name’s Mike. How many are in there with you?’ Mike said.
And so it began. It was a welcome distraction from the sight of the governor on the roof, being paraded by a handful of men wearing makeshift balaclavas over their faces. They’d be identified eventually from hands, hair and clothes. Whether Brian Taylor made it was in their hands. Kelly didn’t like the man but it was still painful to watch. He looked frail and ill, and terrified.
They all listened to Mike. Kelly knew that the process would be excruciatingly slow, and by the time they found Kate, they would have no idea what to expect. She wished it was her on the inside. At least she could try and work on Rickie Burton from the belly of the riot, rather than waiting on the sidelines. So far, Rickie hadn’t been identified as one of the men who’d left the premises. So he was still in there, no doubt pretending to be caught up in it all, but proving that in a court of law would be another thing altogether.
Kelly looked at her iPad every five seconds, hoping that somebody in her team would have updated her and found Ian Burton, either by some master stroke of luck or good police work, any would do. She felt so damn useless. Ian Burton wasn’t anywhere to be found. It was exasperating. She’d read in his military record that part of training for operations in Iraq was being able to melt into the local population when necessary; it was all part of the ‘hearts and minds’ campaign that turned to rat shit once civilians started dying in their thousands. In other words, he was a master at disappearing.
‘My name’s Aaron,’ she heard from the speaker. Mike had managed to get one of the lads to open up to him. It was progress. Cassandra ordered his file to be accessed immediately so they could get as much on him as possible, to know what they were dealing with. His details came up on the big screen. Aaron was eighteen years old and on remand for murder. His trial date was set for three weeks’ time and he’d served four months already. Cassandra got his details up on screen.
‘Aaron Lewis. His sister’s ill with cancer, she has regular chemo,’ she read aloud. Kelly listened. ‘He takes Nathan Appleton’s English GCSE class.’
‘We need to get the teacher on the phone,’ Kelly said. She couldn’t help herself. Cassandra could have reacted by calling her out in front of the whole room, but she didn’t, instead she validated what Kelly had said and agreed. The woman had nothing to prove and was entirely comfortable with her own command. Often, Kelly dealt with egos that were bigger than the sum of their parts, and it caused problems. Not so with this woman.
