The Dark Side of the Street

Chavasse grinned impudently. ‘See you in court, inspector.’

He was still laughing as they took him downstairs.

3

Maximum Security

The governor of Fridaythorpe Gaol put down his pen and switched on the desk lamp. It was just after eight with darkness drawing in fast and he went to the window and watched the last light of day touch the rim of the hills across the valley with fire before night fell.

There was a firm knock on the door and as he turned, Atkinson, the Principal Officer, entered, a large buff envelope in one hand.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the new man is here – Drummond. You said you wanted to see him personally.’

The governor nodded and moved back to his desk. ‘So I did. Is he outside?’

Atkinson nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘What’s he like?’

Atkinson shrugged. ‘A gentleman gone nasty if you follow me.’ He opened the envelope and placed the documents it contained in front of the governor. ‘You’ll remember the case, sir. It was in all the papers at the time. Forty-five thousand and he almost got away with it.’

‘Didn’t someone inform on him?’

‘That’s right, sir – an anonymous tip to the Yard, but he was going to seed long before that. He was a Captain in the Royal Engineers – cashiered for embezzlement seven or eight years ago. Since then he’s been knocking around South America getting up to God knows what.’

The Governor nodded. ‘Not a very pretty picture! Still – a man of some intelligence. I’m thinking of putting him in with Youngblood.’

Atkinson was unable to conceal his surprise. ‘Might I ask why, sir?’

The governor leaned back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I’m worried about Youngblood – have been ever since he had that stroke. Sooner or later he’ll have another – they always do – and he’ll need specialised medical treatment very, very quickly. Can you imagine what would happen if he had such an attack in the middle of the night and died on us!’

‘That’s hardly likely, sir. He’s checked every hour.’

‘A lot could happen in an hour. On the other hand, if someone was there all the time.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m certain a cell mate is the best answer from our point of view and this chap Drummond should do very nicely. Let’s have a look at him.’

The Principal Officer opened the door and stood to one side. ‘All right, lad,’ he barked. ‘Look lively now. Stand on the mat and give your name and number.’

The prisoner moved into the room quickly and stood on the rubber mat that was positioned exactly three feet away from the governor’s desk.

‘83278 Drummond, sir,’ Paul Chavasse said and waited at attention.

The light from the desk threw his face into relief. It had fined down in the past three months and the hair, close-cropped to the skull, gave him a strangely medieval appearance. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man and the governor frowned down at his records in some perplexity. This was not what he had expected – not at all what he had expected.

But then, the governor’s paradox was that he knew nothing of prison life at all – what he saw each day was only the surface of a pond which Chavasse, in three short months, had plumbed to its depths in undergoing what was known in the legal profession as the due process of the law.