And don’t tell her you’re dating a victim’s brother just yet.
For a mad, dumb second, I think of asking Dyer’s advice on that. I nearly do, too, but she cuts in again, saving me from myself.
‘And I think you should take the lead with Pope, OK? Let’s see some of that famed Cat Kinsella potential.’
*
There are very few places that can’t be cheered by the sun, or at least elevated a little above the grey of their norm. From graveyards to building sites, from car parks to schools, everywhere looks better with a shot of vitamin D.
And yet Belmarsh on a summer’s day is as bleak as Belmarsh on a winter’s morning. The high stone walls. The razor-wire fences. The sense of hopelessness that clouds all beauty. The inherent jumpiness that chills the air, even when temperatures tip past thirty.
I don’t like prisons, which might seem as obvious a statement as ‘I don’t like raw chicken’. But it’s not the obvious things for me; the nerves, the fear, the pin-sharp awareness that on a good-to-bad guy ratio, you’re ser-iously outgunned. It’s more the realisation that in my world, all roads lead here. That my job, my vocation, is geared towards this – these concrete volcanoes, these boiling pots of rage. And don’t get me wrong, this is what most deserve. While a few might deserve better, there’s plenty who deserve worse.
Still, it’s hard to feel good about it. To bask in the grimness and consider it a job well done.
‘Twenty minutes,’ warns Dyer as we’re processed through reception; bodies and fingertips scanned, clothes searched, possessions locked away. ‘Pope’ll want to chat. We’re a novelty, remember? A break from the routine. There’s a chance he’ll say anything to keep our interest, so be mindful of that. If we’ve got nowhere in twenty minutes, we leave.’
We’re led across a courtyard at the heart of the red-brick fortress – four three-storey blocks, each split into three separate wings, where overworked prison officers do daily battle, curtailing the movement, whims and demons of far too many prisoners.
‘Oh, we get all sorts in here,’ explains our bald, insufferably chatty PO, as we trail him through a series of locked gates and doors until we reach House Block 1, the home to Belmarsh’s long-term and lifers. ‘We’re a high security prison, see, but also a local one, which means we get the lot – shoplifters, terror suspects, debt-dodgers, paedophiles. I’ve worked with them all.’ Halfway down a corridor, we come to a stop outside a door. His hand hovers over the handle, key primed by the lock. Lowering his voice, he says, ‘Give me a lifer, like your boy in there, any day. They’re not just passing through, see. They’re trying to make some sort of a life for themselves, so they tend to keep their heads down, toe the line.’
‘By killing another inmate?’ says Dyer, pleased to shut him up.
The PO shrugs. ‘Whatever he did up North, he’s been a good boy here.’
Presumably, on account of being a good boy, Jacob Pope isn’t in handcuffs. Just the standard maroon tracksuit and a pair of trainers so white they’re luminous. He stands up as we walk in, a shocking show of chivalry given the lack shown to his girlfriend.
Tall and lean, with eyes the colour of spring grass, Jacob Pope could have been a model. He could have been anything, if you ask me. Men this handsome tend to have an easy ride through life, picking the low-hanging fruit and the highest opportunities, but unfortunately for Pope, he picked crime, or crime picked him, and twenty bad decisions later, he’s eating his porridge next to a serial killer.
We shake hands, introduce ourselves. Pope sits only after we do, the overhead light illuminating one singular imperfection – a small but angry gash across the centre of his forehead.
‘What’s that, Jacob?’ I ask, tapping my own in the same spot. ‘Were you talking instead of listening?’ His face is blank. I let out a little laugh. ‘Sorry, just something my grandad used to say. It means have you been fighting?’
He’s smiling too. ‘Good one. “Talking instead of listening.” I’ll have to remember that.’ He extends his arms above his shoulders, pushing up and down. ‘Not fighting – bench-pressing. There’s only two things keep you safe in prison and it ain’t the screws, I can tell you.’ I look intrigued although I know the answer. ‘Good hearing and a good physique. Can’t do much about the first but plenty about the second. And this . . .’ He traces the cut with his index finger. ‘Did one too many reps, got a bit shaky, dropped the weight.’
‘Ouch.’ I grimace. ‘Taking the old “no pain, no gain” a bit too literally there.’
‘Ain’t that the truth? Screws weren’t too quick to help me, though – that’s another truth for ya. Makes me miss The Mansion. Who’d have thought a London boy would prefer it up North?’
He’s definitely a London boy. I looked it up on the way over. But he isn’t quite the gangster-boy the ‘ain’t’s and ‘ya’’s would have you believe. Daddy worked in shipping, while Mummy did the school run back and forth to Kingston Grammar – the school he was finally expelled from for biting a teacher on the face.
‘You preferred Frankland to here?’ I ask, all casual curiosity, like I’m after holiday recommendations. ‘’Cos you must have known they’d move you after . . .’
‘Preferred’s a bit strong,’ he says, talking over me. ‘You’re just swapping shit for shite, really. Food’s as rank. Mattress is just as lumpy. It’s good that my mum’s nearer for visits, but I got more respect up there, you know – and they’d have carried me down J-wing shoulder-fucking-high for killing that bastard, Masters, that’s the truth. Proper fucking nuisance, he was.’ His fingers open and shut, miming mouths snapping open. ‘Never shut up, did he? On and on and on and on.’
‘What about?’
‘Loads of things. D’ya know he once told me that he nearly let that Stephanie one go. She was a bit chunky for him, that’s what he said. He was going to say, “Sorry, I’ve just let the room, you’re too late” and let her get on her way. But then he saw she was wearing these sexy red heels and he thought, fuck it, just like that. Mad, innit? Those shoes got her killed.’
Dyer’s chewing the side of her cheek, channelling waves of pure hate across the table.
I move things on. ‘Did he ever talk about Cambridgeshire? Ever mention a village called Caxton?’
He shakes his head, uninterested.
‘OK, so what else? You spend a lot of time cooped up in your cells, the chat must be flying when you get together.’
‘We call them rooms now, not cells. The word “cell” is dehumanising.’ He’s saying it to wind me up but I apologise immediately to avoid giving him the satisfaction. ‘Look, he talked about anything and everything. If it wasn’t his sick fantasies, it was DIY, or fishing, or the problem with multiculturalism.’
‘I’ve worked with a few people like that. I didn’t stab them through the lung though.’
‘Then their fantasies weren’t sick enough.’
‘Care to share them?’ I say it brightly, showing no fear, no hesitation about the filth he might divulge.