Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(36)

It was, altogether, a grim place to spend a Tuesday lunchtime, but needs must.

“Here we are again,” Hassan said, with irrepressible cheer. “Bet this brings back memories, eh, Ryan? How many jokers did we throw in here, I wonder?”

“Lost count,” Ryan said, without rancour. It was not a source of pride to him to know that he’d been responsible for removing a person’s liberty; it was more a question of justice, and of righting wrongs. He was neither lawmaker, policy-maker, politician nor penal reformer but, if he was, he might have suggested a different system of justice altogether. Since he wasn’t, he was forced to operate within its existing parameters.

“How many have they got in here?” Phillips asked, as they made their way towards the entrance. “Six, seven hundred?”

“Try doubling that,” Hassan said. “The prison was built to hold five hundred and twenty, but now you’d be lucky to keep the figure under twelve hundred. Is it any wonder the place is infested?”

On which ominous note, they began making their way through a series of security gates, a process which could sometimes take up to half an hour before they’d even set foot inside the main building.

They were nearing the final checkpoint when a deafening alarm began to sound.

“What’s happening?” Hassan asked of the security guard, over the din. “Has there been an escape?”

The guard looked nonplussed. “That’s the emergency alarm,” she explained. “Probably another attack, or casualty. I’m afraid I can’t let you go in.”

Ryan felt an odd sort of prickle trail down the base of his spine, and he turned to his old friend.

“John, I need you to find out what’s happened in there,” he said, urgently. “I think it might be something to do with Lareuse.”

“You’re paranoid,” Hassan said, and was only half joking. “It’s probably nothing. Who would waste time over some forger? In here, it’s gang warfare—”

“Please,” Ryan repeated. “As a favour, to me.”

Hassan held up both hands. “All right, all right,” he said, and leaned forward to speak to the guard again. “Look, we’ve got an appointment to speak to one of the inmates and these officers have come all the way from Northumbria to do that. Any chance you could let us—”

“No,” the woman said. “Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to take it up with the Duty Governor. Rules are rules. I can’t let anybody in now, because the place has been locked down. The only way you can go is back the way you came.”

“So much for your reputation,” Ryan said, under his breath. “Time was, you’d have charmed the birds from the trees.”

“I’m older now,” Hassan said. “I only charm birds that are already on the ground.”

Before they could decide what best to do, he received a call on his mobile.

“Hassan? Yes—yes…how? No, it’s all right. I’m already here. I’ll secure the scene in advance of the CSIs arriving.”

A moment later, he ended the call and looked between the pair of them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and all trace of humour had gone. “You won’t be able to speak to Mathieu Lareuse now—he was found dead in his cell, only a few minutes ago.”

“That was quick,” Phillips muttered.

Hassan pressed his face to the reinforced glass of the security window once again.

“The reason for entry has changed,” Hassan snapped. “DCI Hassan, DCI Ryan and DS Phillips, responding to a report just received by Scotland Yard. We understand one of your inmates has been murdered.”

The security door buzzed open, and they rushed inside.

*

There was no need to construct a notion of ‘Hell’, Ryan thought, when there was already a perfectly good approximation, right here on Earth.

The interior of Pentonville Prison was every bit as unappealing as its reputation promised, but they weren’t concerned with the décor. In the few minutes it had taken them to cross the courtyard from the security office, one emergency siren had stopped and another had started, this time to signal that a riot was underway. Officers had been mobilised to shut down the prison, wing by wing, and the atmosphere in the reception area of the main building was chaotic.

“Hey!” Hassan called out to a couple of the prison officers, who streaked past them dressed in full riot gear, on their way to B Wing. “Where’s the Duty Governor?”

“Pro’ly hidin’ in a bloody bunker!” one called back, over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in ’ere! Get aht!”

Hassan swore, and turned to Ryan and Phillips with a worried expression.

“Look, man, I think there could be a full-on riot. This isn’t the time—”

Ryan needed no further persuasion. They were not trained prison officers; they wore no protective clothing and were otherwise not equipped to be anything other than a burden to an already over-worked staff. He also had a wife and child to consider, and wasn’t prepared to put himself in unnecessary danger, nor run the risk of leaving his wife without a husband and his daughter without a father.

Not for this.

They beat a hasty retreat, Hassan speaking quickly down his mobile phone to report the situation and put the rest of his team on notice that it would be a while before they could gain safe access to the crime scene. Eventually, they re-emerged onto Caledonian Road, which might have been a million miles away from the disordered violence they had just left.