nursing home of sorts. It had begun its life in the nineteenth century as a private mental hospital for the well-off, but in its latter days had been a home for the ‘confused and elderly’. It had belonged to Tony Bassani, in the days when he had run several nursing homes along the coast. It had closed years ago and been bought by a ‘shell corporation’. The shell corporation was registered to an empty tenement flat in Dundee, but there were other ghostly shells behind that. ‘Like the dance of the bloody seven veils,’ Tommy said. Tommy and Andy had no idea what happened beyond the Dundee shell – the legal side of things was Steve’s domain. Tommy, always the happy-go-lucky sort, thought their ignorance might be protection, Andy doubted that ignorance had ever protected anyone.
Jasmine and Maria peered doubtfully at the building. Most of the windows were boarded up. The peeling paint was a depressing shade of institutional magnolia. There were bars on most of the windows, although it reminded Andy not so much of a prison as a bonded warehouse – somewhere where you stashed goods until they were ready to be sent on. Which was kind of what it was.
‘This sillerburtches?’ Jasmine asked, frowning.
‘It’s better inside,’ Andy said. ‘You’ll see. Come on now, out of the car.’ He was a shepherd with two reluctant sheep. Lambs, really. To the slaughter. His conscience sprang up again and he hit it back down. It was like playing whack-a-mole.
Someone tapped on his window, making him flinch. Vasily. He had Tommy’s Rottweiler on a short chain and the girls started making little twittering noises. They didn’t need to worry, the stupid mutt was just for show.
‘Don’t worry, Brutus is a pussycat,’ Andy said, although they didn’t understand a word of what he said. ‘Come on, girls, let’s be having you. Chop, chop. Time to start your new life, eh? A home from home.’
Wuthering Heights
Morning in the prison dubbed Monster Mansion by the tabloids. The smell of institutional breakfast – a bouquet of egg and porridge – was still permeating the wretched halls of HM Prison Wakefield, making Reggie feel nauseous.
They’d been expecting to find Prisoner JS 5896 in the hospital wing as he was supposedly at death’s door, but they were shown into an ordinary interview room. A warden brought them a coffee each and said, ‘He’s being fetched now, he’s a bit slow.’ In this depressing, blank-walled room the smell of breakfast had been overlaid with the piney scent of commercial disinfectant as if someone had recently thrown up there. The coffee was gruesome, but at least it provided some kind of sensory antidote.
The object of their attention eventually shambled in, heralded by a kind of clanking, metallic noise that for a moment made Reggie think that their interviewee must be in shackles. Wakefield was a high-security prison but it turned out that Michael Carmody was free of restraint, other than being tethered to a large oxygen cylinder on wheels.
‘Emphysema,’ he wheezed, collapsing into one of the hard chairs at the table. A warden stood guard at the door but it seemed unlikely that Michael Carmody was about to make a bid for freedom. The only way he was getting out of this place was feet first.
‘Mr Carmody,’ Ronnie said. ‘We are here today because certain new information has been brought to the attention of the police in regard to your case. A number of individuals have been named who were not part of the original investigation into your crimes, for which you are now serving a prison sentence.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed,’ Carmody said sarcastically.
Despite his scornful attitude he was a shadow of the man he must once have been, Reggie thought. She had seen photos of him when he was in his mayoral pomp, and even in the mugshot after his arrest – when, let’s face it, most people didn’t look their best – he had still looked hale and hearty, albeit florid and overfed. Now his cheeks were sunken and the whites of his eyes were a sickly yellow. He must be into his eighties by now, of course. A harmless old-age pensioner, you would have thought if you had encountered him in the street.
‘We believe that you may be able to provide us with some information about the individuals we are investigating and we would like to ask you some questions. Is that all right, Mr Carmody?’