Chapter 42 Bronzefield
However, friendship is about giving as well as receiving, and it’s important to help those in need, especially when they are also unstable and know incriminating information about you.
For these reasons, with my car being valeted, I find myself on a train heading out towards HMP Bronzefield, reading about its esteemed history of caging violent and deranged women.
Access to prison is not all that different from visiting a poorly run doctor’s surgery.
It took several hours on the phone on Tuesday and Wednesday.
The building itself is reassuringly familiar in terms of cheap decor, worn out posters, deformed plastic chairs, and uncivil receptionists.
There are various restrictions on entry, including a body search and a metal detector, but this is no worse than the entry procedure for the House of Lords.
The restricted items list runs to two pages, and I assure the stern and glum guard that I do not have a nail file, firearms, or a spare prison uniform about my person.
I’m allowed no more than ten pounds in cash, with which I am told I can purchase refreshments from a vending machine.
I’m almost certain that I will not make use of this facility.
I’m led by another surly guard (it’s clearly part of their training) to the secure visiting unit, which is run by volunteers.
I wipe the chair with a cloth I’ve brought for the purpose, but the stains are indelible, so I refrain from putting my whole weight on the seat.
I’m blessed with strong thigh muscles and work weekly on my core so, while inconvenient, it’s not uncomfortable.
I see Cait walking towards me. I have to say that the prison uniform does her slight frame no favours at all, and she doesn’t look like she is sleeping well or eating sufficient quantities of fruit and vegetables.
‘How are you, darling?’ I say, expecting more gloom and self-pity.
‘I’m pretty good,’ says Cait, and she actually smiles.
‘Good?’
‘They all think I killed my abusive husband and set him on fire. They clap when I walk by.’
‘Clap?’
‘Yes, and whoop. It’s quite nice. I’ve even got a nickname.’
‘Which is?’
‘Flame. It’s a reference to burning Owen to death but also to my hair, obv.’
‘Clever,’ I say.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she says, looking directly into my eyes. ‘You killed a man and you’re free, and I didn’t kill anyone and I’m in prison.’
‘But you’ll plead innocent,’ I say, though this defence is probably the tried and failed approach of all 527 inhabitants of Bronzefield.
‘I didn’t shank him,’ she says. I raise one eyebrow. She’s obviously cohabiting with someone who’s taught her the required lingo.
‘Of course you didn’t. We presumed he’d killed himself.’
‘Me too. But my solicitor tells me Owen couldn’t have done it. There was no knife at the scene. Whoever did kill him was a rank amateur or they didn’t care. They should’ve put the knife in his hand, if they wanted it to look authentic.’
I’m about to explain how difficult to achieve that might be if the knife in question was contaminated from another murder, but I realize this might compromise my position.
‘Not everyone has your professional knowledge of police procedures and autopsies,’ I say.
‘No, you’re right there,’ she says. ‘I’ve already helped three women in here with their cases. These women know nothing about forensics and the police, Lalla. They’re taken advantage of.’
‘Well, you’ve always been community-minded, Cait.’
‘Worst thing is, I don’t have an alibi. They’ve got me at the scene. And they have all those threatening texts he sent me. I just don’t understand how he died.’
‘Oh, Cait, there must be a way to find out what really happened.’
She nods. ‘I know. They say he bought the petrol, but . . . this is the bit they went on and on about. He had severe burning on his crotch.’
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘It means they think he attacked me, and I defended myself, then cut his neck and burned him.’
‘Christ.’
‘It does look like he was with some woman . . . on my bed. Do you think he was trying to make me jealous? I don’t understand it at all.’
‘Unless someone was there to hurt him,’ I say. ‘Someone he owed money to.’
Cait’s eyes brighten. ‘You mean someone threatening to kill him?’
‘Exactly. A gangland boss who wants to make an example of him. I’m sure the police will look into his gambling debts.’
‘They’ve no interest in looking for someone else. I’m a slam-dunk,’ she says, and sniffs like an old lag. I also think there’s a new Estuarine twang to her diction.
‘But no one can seriously think you could’ve done it,’ I say to reassure her.
‘Why not me? He could’ve pushed me to it. I hated him enough.’
‘But you didn’t kill him,’ I say.
‘The papers think I did it. Pushed to it by years of domestic abuse. They know about the time I had to use a knife to protect myself against him. They’ve already been to my family, school friends, work colleagues – scoured social media.
Trial by the public, it is. One of my school friends told the journalist I threw a netball in her face once.
They reported it as evidence of bouts of rage. ’
‘Sporting incidents aside, Cait, a jury will see that you’re a gentle soul.’
‘Not sure I like that version of me any more. In here, I’m a killer.’ She stares at me, her teeth gritted. ‘And it feels good to be that person, you know – rather than the victim again.’
We sit for a moment in silence, as Cait or Flame continues to try on her new identity.
It’s not impossible for me to imagine. I transformed myself too.
I was homeless, penniless, and depraved.
I screamed into the void. But it doesn’t do you any good in the end so I made a decision.
It’s your story. You decide which character you play, so don’t have to choose the victim, you can choose the hero.
‘My solicitor thinks I might’ve even been framed. That someone connected with Owen tried to make it appear like a lover did it.’
‘Look, Cait, just so I know – did you tell anyone about the other little incident?’
She shakes her head.
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t for you, Lalla. I tried to tell my solicitor about it, and he put his finger to his lips and said, “If you tell the police about another violent incident you’re involved in, it certainly will not help your case. Don’t incriminate yourself.”’
‘Good advice,’ I say with some pleasure. I had no idea my improvisation would work out so well, although I do feel a pang of something in my gut when I see Cait’s situation.
‘Exactly. So, I can’t tell them, can I? It’s just so weird,’ says Cait.
‘Two dead bodies, both stabbed. One in your house, one in my house. What are the chances of that?’ She looks up at me and her pupils suddenly dilate.
I fear that simple-minded Cait has just joined the dots into the shape of yours truly.
‘What is it?’ I say, as casually as possible.
‘Maybe the deaths are connected,’ she says, jabbing a dirty finger at me.
‘I don’t see how,’ I say.
‘Maybe Owen’s the link. Or they’re both linked to someone else. Or something else.’ She pauses. Something is swirling in her mind.
‘What are you thinking?’ I say.
‘Secret crime syndicate,’ she says, casting glances left and right and speaking in a low tone. ‘My cellmate, she knows everything. Been in and out for fifteen years. She’s an assassin for a crime syndicate. That’s totally confidential, by the way.’
‘It’s unlikely that they’ve bunked you up with an assassin, Cait. She’s probably in for nicking a pack of fags.’
‘She’s a killer, Lalla.’
‘Well, regardless of her crime, you didn’t tell her about Jason, did you?’
Cait shakes her head, then unhelpfully says, ‘Not directly. I just suggested that there might be another body somewhere.’
‘I wouldn’t advise taking old lags into your confidence, Cait.’
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘She doesn’t think Jason Mercer was a burglar at all. She thinks he was a leg-breaker.’
‘A what?’
‘Owen owed money to some bad people. He said something might happen to him. I think Jason Mercer was the muscle trying to track him down to get the money.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘But in this scenario, why was he in my house, not yours?’
‘I think he might have been following me to find Owen.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But Mercer died before Owen. Doesn’t that kind of destroy the theory? A dead man couldn’t have killed Owen.’
Cait stares at me in silence. Her mouth curls up a little. She nods. ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d solved it.’