The Dead Ex(67)

It wasn’t until I’d reached the staff loo and locked the door behind me that I allowed the tears to flow. Mum. As a little girl, I’d pretended to cope with the separation when she’d been in hospital and eventually her death. I’d wanted to be strong for my dad. So I knew all too well what these toddlers – and their mothers – were going through. If I could only help one girl, it would be something.

Yet, when I asked my superiors, there was nothing that could be done in this particular case. Long-term fostering was the best they could offer, but adoption might well be on the cards. It depended on committees, etc., etc. Any decision had to be in ‘the child’s best interests’.

I decided I’d break the news to Sam myself. It was the least I could do. But when I went to see her, she was out, walking Jimmie round the grounds.

Meanwhile, I had a lot to learn in my new role. A prisoner had to be shipped out (moved quietly overnight to another prison) for having a mobile phone. Another was on hunger strike because, she told me, she wasn’t allowed to go to her mother’s funeral. This seemed unfair to me until Jackie, one of the senior prison officers who had been really helpful when I’d arrived here, told me that the woman’s mother had died five years ago and that the deceased was actually her cousin three times removed.

‘Prisoners love funerals because it means they can get out for the day,’ she explained. ‘But I respect the fact that you’re not afraid to make a stand. Know what the others say about you? You’ve got breasts and balls.’

‘Hope that’s a compliment,’ I said, half-joking.

She’d touched my arm briefly in a chummy fashion. ‘It is. By the way, we’ve started an all-girls squash ladder in the new gym block. Fancy joining us?’

Great. It was just what I needed. There’s nothing like physical exercise to block out the stuff we have to deal with. Afterwards we sometimes had a coffee together. My new friend was conscientious like me but also fun. And she could stand up for herself. ‘Clear off,’ she’d say to some of the male married officers who made passes at her. ‘Or I’ll tell your wives at the next social.’

Privately, I sometimes wondered why she hadn’t found someone. Jackie – or ‘blondie’ as some of the guards called her – was one of those women who looked good even when she wore her hair pulled back off her forehead for work. As a friend, she was a breath of fresh air. Bright. Intelligent. And with a wicked sense of humour. One day Jackie confided that she’d broken off her engagement to an officer in a previous prison. He insisted she kept the ring so she sold it to go on a solo break-up holiday to Thailand.

‘Good of him, wasn’t it? He was generous like that. It did make me wonder briefly if I’d done the right thing but then I had a really intense weekend with this Australian bloke in Bangkok who completely wiped the ex out of my head.’ She shrugged, and for the first time I detected a flash of vulnerability. ‘I expected to meet someone else by now. But I haven’t. The opportunities are few and far between in this place. None of the single blokes here do it for me.’

Privately I considered her attitude to be short-sighted and rather silly. I was still focused on my career and thought the right man would just fall into my lap at some point. It certainly wasn’t a priority right now. But I comforted her and even went to a few singles dating nights with her. It felt great finally to be making some friends. I was doing a job I loved and had found a group of people who understood me.

Then, about three months later, the phone rang in the middle of the night. There was a ‘situation’. No details were given, but my presence was ‘needed’.

My house – which came with the promotion – was in the staff estate block, a short walk away. Just as well my uniform was ready to put on for the next day.

The Main Gate (as we call the inside area where staff and visitors sign in and out) was quiet; not good, considering how many people were there. Three officers. A medic. Chairman of the IMB. My heart sank. The latter would only have been called at this time of night if something very bad had happened which needed an independent witness. An ambulance had slid up outside too. No siren.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Samantha Taylor,’ said one of the officers, stepping forward.

It took a second for the name to register. Then I got it. Samantha with the bluebird tattoo and little Jimmie.

Numbly, I followed him. Why weren’t they going to the mother-and-baby unit? Of course. The boy would have gone for fostering or adoption now. Sam would have been moved to an ordinary cell.

The knocks behind the doors on the landing were persistent. Furious. Demanding. ‘What’s going on?’ shouted one woman.

‘Tell us,’ screamed another.

One cell door was open. A visibly distraught prison officer was standing outside. ‘I found her. She’d been upset ever since she got here. But then tonight she went quiet. Thought I’d check everything was all right but when I went in, I found her …’

The officer stopped. No need for him to say any more. There was the chair. And there was the body on the ground, still with the blue cord round her neck.

‘I cut her down. But she was gone.’

The man’s eyes were red. ‘Same age as my daughter. Couldn’t cope without her kid, she couldn’t. Do you know how she did it?’