Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(85)

“No. She told an odd story about that,” said Gary. “Peter had a friend in Manchester, Altrincham, I think she said, near where he lived. He owned a chemist’s, but on the side, he was one of those people who would process dodgy photos, under the table like, for a fee.”

Kate and Tristan froze and exchanged a glance.

“Did she say what this friend was called?” asked Kate.

“No, but apparently he was an ex-copper. That’s how Peter got to know him.”

“Bloody hell,” said Kate. “That’s Paul Adler, the guy who owns the chemist in Altrincham.”





50

Since his visit from Enid, Peter had put the next part of the plan in motion. The orderlies and doctors who worked in the hospital were smart and observant, and rules were strictly enforced. Sharp objects were forbidden, and anything that could be sharpened or fashioned into a weapon was banned or strictly monitored; toothbrushes, combs, and razors were given out for use in only the bathroom and then collected and disposed of. All cutlery was plastic and given to patients just to eat their meals and collected back up and accounted for when plates were returned. If anything went missing, the patient and the patient’s room would be searched thoroughly until it was found. Any foods or snacks that were wrapped in silver foil were also banned, and even toothpaste after one patient had sharpened the flat edge of a tube of Colgate and slashed one of the orderlies.

As the years and months of his incarceration passed, Peter had been granted little perks here and there, for pockets of good behavior: books (soft paperbacks with no staples) and a radio (housed in thick form-molded plastic and checked regularly). The previous year, his collection of books had become so large that he had put in a request to have a bookshelf in his room. After lots of paperwork went back and forth, it was agreed that he would be allowed to choose a small bookshelf and pay for it through his prison account. It had to be a model that would be glued together, and he wasn’t allowed to assemble it himself. When it arrived flat packed, a request had been put in for one of the maintenance staff to come and assemble it. It was around this time that Great Barwell had outsourced maintenance work.

On the morning of the bookshelf being assembled, Peter was taken out of his cell to give the maintenance worker access. He never met whoever did it, and when he returned, he found his bookshelf waiting for him. It was about waist height and had been fitted in beside his sink. The orderly had checked it over and searched the room again to make sure no tools had been left in the cell, and then Peter was locked in for the night.

It wasn’t until Peter tried to move the bookshelf to beside his bed that he saw the maintenance worker had fixed it to the wall with a thin metal bracket.

Peter had stacked his books on the shelf and used the top to store more books and paperwork. The bracket had gone unnoticed and unseen, even throughout the past four or five cell checks.

Peter had taken up smoking again. Matches were cheaper than buying a lighter, so he bought cigarettes and a box of matches from the hospital shop, and the next time he went for a cigarette, he was doled out a few matches. He used two and tucked one behind his ear, managing to get it back to his room without it being detected.

Every morning, toothbrushes were given out with breakfast. They were used when patients went for a shower, and orderlies collected them up again the moment they were finished. Three days previously, when his toothbrush came through the hatch with his breakfast, he took it out of his cellophane and cleared off the top of his bookshelf. He opened his window and struck the match on the sill. And held the end of the toothbrush to the flame for a few seconds. He extinguished the match and threw it out the window. He then went to the bracket on the back of the bookshelf and pushed the melted plastic end of the toothbrush into the head of the screw fixing the bracket to the wall. He held it there for a few minutes, and when he pulled it away, the plastic had set hard. He now had an improvised screwdriver.

He kept the window open to clear the smell of burning plastic and quickly unscrewed the metal bracket from the back of the bookcase and stashed it inside the plastic housing of the radiator knob. He lit his second match, held the flame against the end of the toothbrush, then flattened out the impression of the screw on the sill of the window.

He then went about his morning, showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth. Winston collected the toothbrush when he was done, and it was thrown in the recycling bin. Throughout the next three days and nights, Peter worked at filing down the keen edge of the bracket on the bars outside his window until it was razor sharp.



On Sunday afternoon, Peter had his regular group therapy session with Meredith Baxter. The sessions were held in a small room next to her office. Peter’s group comprised the five long-term prisoners on his corridor: Peter; Ned, the blind pedophile who delivered the mail; Henry, a morbidly obese child killer; an arsonist called Derek whose meds rendered him a drooling zombie; and Martin, a schizophrenic.

Martin was seen as the riskiest of all the patients, and despite his size—he was tiny and weighed only forty-five kilograms—his strength was remarkable. Peter had once witnessed one of his meltdowns outside the bathroom, where Martin hooked his fingers under the waistband of his jeans and tore them off his body in one movement. Peter had tried this back in his own cell when he was wearing an old pair of Levi’s, and he just couldn’t do it.

They filed into the room just after eleven a.m., and they were checked over by three orderlies and their clothes patted down. Peter had the bracket tucked behind his left ear, under the spit hood, where it was kept in place with the stem of his glasses, matching the curve. He could feel it cold and sharp against his skin.