Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(83)

There was already a long queue of prisoners in the waiting room. They fell silent as Miles made his way to the front, where he greeted Matron warmly.

‘Good morning, Miles,’ she replied to one of the few inmates she ever addressed by his first name. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘A dizzy spell, matron. And a slight headache. I wonder if I could trouble you for a couple of paracetamol?’

‘Of course. I’d also suggest that you lie down for a couple of hours until you feel better. I’ll give you a chit excusing you from work today.’

‘Thank you, matron. I think I’ll take your advice.’

She handed him two paracetamol, a glass of water and a slip of paper. After he had swallowed the pills and pocketed the chit, he gave her another warm smile, before making his way back past the long line of inmates and out of the surgery to carry out the second part of his plan. At least another twenty prisoners had overheard their conversation and, more importantly, Matron’s sage advice.

Once he was outside, he glanced at his watch. Still thirty minutes before he could make his move. He headed back towards C block rather than in the direction of the library, where his deputy already knew he wouldn’t be reporting for work that morning. If anyone should ask, he’d tell them Miles was resting in his cell on Matron’s advice.

On reaching his block, he reported to the duty officer, explained why he would not be going to work, and showed him the chit Matron had given him.

‘I’ll make sure no one disturbs you, Mr Faulkner,’ said the young officer. ‘I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ Miles was pleased to see him make a note of the time in his logbook.

Miles made his way slowly up to the second floor before walking to his room at the far end of the corridor, known as the penthouse suite. Once inside, he closed the door and took his time changing into his gym kit, before pulling on his prison-issue jeans and a thick grey sweater. He paused to look out of the window, and reflected on the events of the past month. Warwick had been as good as his word: within days of their meeting, he’d been transferred to Ford open prison, where he’d quickly established with both the officers and his fellow inmates that if they needed a bob or two for any small luxuries that were normally difficult to obtain, he was a man who understood about supply and demand.

Miles had the only room in the block that overlooked the South Downs. He’d acquired it after its previous occupant found ￡50 in his canteen account. Another ￡50 ensured that the chief librarian was happy to become his deputy and do most of the donkey work, while he read the morning papers and made or received the occasional phone call – another privilege for which cooperative guards were suitably rewarded.

It was during a call from Lamont earlier in the week that he discovered Booth Watson had visited his bank twice in the past month and, even more worrying, had moved his treasured art collection from CFAS in Nine Elms to a warehouse on an industrial estate near Gatwick airport. Ever since Miles’s meeting with Mai Ling, he had known it could only be a matter of time before …

By the time Lamont next phoned, Miles had a plan in place and explained in detail the role he would be expected to play. It would be another week before he could put his plan into action. After Warwick’s warning, he was only too aware of the risk he would be taking.

Miles stared intently out of the window, watching, waiting. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the local Hare and Hounds cross-country club appeared on their morning run, the Hares striding out in front, followed by the Hounds trying to catch up with them, and finally came the also-rans, bringing up the rear.

When the first runner appeared on the horizon, Miles slipped out of his room and checked up and down the corridor before locking his door. A wing cleaner who was standing guard at the top of the staircase gave him the thumbs up. Miles made his way down the stairs to the ground floor, pushed open the fire escape door and jogged across to a clump of trees a few yards outside the prison grounds. He stripped off his sweater and jeans, hid them under a bramble bush he’d selected the week before, and waited for the also-rans to make an appearance. He knew he had to choose his moment carefully, because the seventy yards between the prison boundary and the path was the most likely time when one of the guards could spot him.

As the next group of runners came into view, he jogged across the dangerous ‘no man’s land’ and fell in behind them while making no attempt to catch them up. He hoped to be nothing more than another dot on the landscape.

The group turned left when they reached the main road, while Miles turned right. After a couple of hundred yards he spotted a blue Volvo parked in a layby, its engine running.

He opened the back door, slid inside and lay flat on the back seat as the car sped off. He didn’t move until the prison was out of sight.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Lamont, without looking around.

‘Morning, Bruce,’ Miles replied, sitting up and pulling a freshly ironed white shirt over his gym vest. ‘Is everything ready?’

‘They’re all waiting for you. Time is our only problem,’ he added as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Don’t break the speed limit,’ Miles warned him as he slipped off his shorts and pulled on a pair of grey flannel trousers. ‘Don’t forget, if we’re stopped by the police, I won’t be the only person going back to prison.’