Hard Return Page 3

  Jason jabbed towards the CCTV feed showing Alby pacing the small holding cell.

  ‘The one who’s meant to be in prison with him.’

  Bryn turned to the nearest computer terminal and pointed at the screen. ‘This is Alby Collins’ criminal record.’

  It was completely empty.

  ‘That can’t be right…’

  ‘He marched right in here, off his head on speed, and asked to speak to you. If it hadn’t been for the desk sergeant swearing up and down and blind that he knew him, I would’ve thought it was a prank.’

  Bryn called up Lewis Jones’ criminal record. Or, at least, what should’ve been Lewis’ record. Like Alby Collins, all his past sins had been forgiven and forgotten. What the hell was going on here?

  ‘Try mine,’ Jason said.

  He called up Jason’s record – but no, all his convictions, including his prison sentence, were dutifully noted and catalogued. Even the arrest warrant from Frieda’s spiteful phase was there.

  ‘Something’s wrong.’ Jason watched Alby pace – back and forth, back and forth. ‘I can’t see either of them making a deal. Lewis is on the side of the light now, but he’s no snitch. Neither is Alby. Who would offer that kind of pardon anyway?’

  Bryn hesitated a moment, before speaking. ‘Amy—’

  ‘No chance.’ Jason didn’t even look away from the screen. ‘Not with Frieda owning all her tech, and Owain looking over her shoulder.’

  He knew he sounded bitter, but he relied on Bryn not to push. He likely didn’t want to talk about his former colleague either, especially given how he'd betrayed them all to get into bed with Frieda and the National Crime Agency.

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘With me.’

  ‘He’ll never talk to you.’ Jason wasn’t judging. It was just facts. ‘Stand outside the door – he won’t even know you’re there. Alby isn’t the brightest, especially not when he’s high.’

  Bryn nodded slowly. Jason could see him calculating the time it would take for them to intervene if Alby tried anything, but Jason could handle him.

  ‘Don’t offer him anything.’

  Jason laughed. ‘Alby and I aren’t exactly tight. What could I give him anyway? Nothing better than what he’s already got.’

  Without waiting for Bryn, Jason started down the corridor. He knew this place as well as any copper, finding his way to the cell, and waiting for the uniform to let him in. Bryn was trusting him to fly this one solo, even though he knew the perp. He wouldn’t break that trust.

  ‘Y’alright, Alby?’

  Alby Collins looked far from all right. He had always been a small man, but now he was gaunt, as if he'd been stuck in la-la land for days, weeks even. He had stopped pacing and was staring at Jason with a mixture of hatred and disgust. The last time they'd seen each other was in Swansea Prison, where they'd briefly shared a cell, and Alby had let Jason know exactly how much he despised him.

  ‘Coppers must have you on a tight leash to get here so fast.’

  Jason stilled his body, fighting not to react, to lash out. What was on that tape that Amy listened to? I am a stone resting on the bed of the river.

  ‘You want to talk or not?’

  ‘I’m doing you a favour, I am. Least you could do is act polite.’

  Jason resisted the urge to roll his eyes, to shove Alby with his shoulder, remind him who was a leader and who was a follower. But it wasn’t like that anymore, was it? Alby didn’t need him anymore, didn’t respect him.

  Or did he? Jason could see the tautness of his frame, waiting for the blow, waiting for things to fall back into place again. To be led. To be part of something.

  Jason slammed his shoulder into Alby’s, nudging him into the wall hard enough for a startled ‘oof’ to escape his mouth. He heard stirring from outside the door, but hoped Bryn had the sense not to intervene. To trust him to handle this.

  ‘Come on, Alby. We both know Lewis sent you. Tell what you know or get out.’

  Alby avoided his gaze, squirming to get away, like a rat in a trap.

  ‘You don’t own me.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jason released the pressure on him, just a little, before bringing him close once more. ‘But up here?’ He tapped on Alby’s temple. ‘I still got you.’

  He released him fast, watching him stumble, before turning his back. Giving him time to control himself, regain respect. They had always pretended not to see him cry, to let him prove himself a man. They were bastards back then.

  ‘He didn’t send me – not like that. But he needs you, Jay Bird. He needs help.’

  Jay Bird. The old nickname brought it all back, the role he'd been playing suddenly real again. Running with Lewis at the head of the pack, owning these boys and knowing they were responsible for them all. Bleeding from the nick of a Swiss Army knife on the banks of the Taff and becoming brothers beneath the moon.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Alby?’

  He was jittering again, the shock of Jason’s shove mixing in with the last gasps of the speed. He paced the cell, over and over, making it feel smaller with every step he took. Constantly moving, running his palm over his face, again and again.

  ‘I don’t know. Some place in the country. An army place.’

  ‘With Lewis?’

  ‘Him, and the others. All cons. It’s an experiment.’

  Jason couldn’t make any sense out of Alby’s words. What was this drug-fuelled nightmare Alby had conjured up? What was its relationship with the truth?

  ‘What do they do there?’

  ‘It’s the Project. I can’t say nothing else. I was there weeks before they voted me out.’

  It sounded like some bizarre version of Big Brother, but the wildness in Alby’s eyes conveyed fear as well as intoxication. He believed this shit, even if it was total fantasy. For now, Jason had to play along, if he was to have any hope of getting useful information out of him.

  ‘Can’t Lewis just get voted out then?’

  ‘They need him. But it’s worse than that. It’s not just a test anymore. Somebody died.’

  His eyes were wide now, dark pupils erasing his pale irises, pleading with Jason to believe him and do something, anything.

  ‘They killed Mole, and they’ll kill Lewis next.’

  Chapter 6: Ice Cream Friday

  It was time for Owain to leave.

  He stood awkwardly in the centre of the living room, seemingly waiting for Amy to say something. She got up from her desk, closing her NSA-issue laptop, and moving closer to him – yet still a world away. That gap would never be bridged now. It hurt too much.

  ‘I guess you’re going then.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is it somewhere exciting?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  She knew, but she was grasping for something to say. She wasn’t sorry to see him leave. She didn’t want to thank him for his service or tell him he’d be missed. What did you say to someone who had essentially been your prison guard for over a year? Who had once been your friend, and then betrayed you?

  ‘Good luck with it then.’

  His closed face softened a little and she could almost see the old Owain, who wore floppy brown hair and bounced with excitement. The man who’d been replaced by this hard, bitter creature with a military-style haircut and a military-style attitude.

  ‘You know I never wanted this.’

  ‘You did it anyway.’

  ‘I thought I could...’ He glanced up at the lampshade for a fleeting moment. ‘I thought I was protecting you.’

  Amy laughed, surprising herself with the ugly sound. Owain wasn’t the only one who was chock-full of bitterness. She wanted to rail against him, call him naïve and a fool. Tell him that she knew the truth – that he had done this for himself, for his career and his reput
ation, to better his life at the expense of all of theirs.

  But she didn’t say any of those things. She didn’t want to be cruel.

  ‘Goodbye, Owain.’

  He looked like he would say something else, try to justify himself, convince her that he really cared. But his face closed off again, and the old Owain was gone.

  She turned her back on him, returning to her laptop and pretending to work. She ignored his mumbled goodbyes, the closing of the door, the ending of it all. She ignored the pricking of her eyes and the slight tremble in her hand. She didn’t want to feel anything. She didn’t want him leaving to matter to her.

  It was dark when Jason returned, carrying with him the smell of Indian takeaway and the faint salt air of Cardiff Bay. She mechanically left the laptop and fetched spoons and plates, as Jason laid the greasy containers on woven mats. Almost domestic. Familiar, yet not comfortable.

  She could feel that he had something to say, something that couldn’t be said. They knew they were being watched, monitored. Amy knew why Owain had looked up at the lampshade – he knew where Frieda’s eyes were in the flat, knew she was listening in.

  ‘How’s Lewis?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s...he’s been transferred.’

  She tried to read his expression, but he was intent on arranging his plate, not meeting her eyes over the lamb samosas.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘A special programme of some kind. Good behaviour, something like that.’

  Something was very, very wrong. Amy wanted to seize hold of him and make him talk, find out every inch of the problem. Then, they could solve it, together. As they had always done before. Before Frieda and Owain and stilted, meaningless conversations.

  They ate in front of the television, in silence, neither watching what was on the box or tasting the food they placed in their mouths. Longing to speak and to hear but trapped in a place where to be known was to be targeted. She could only see one chance to learn what Jason knew, and it meant confronting the darkness, reliving old fears, surviving under the stars.

  Amy finished her food – and lied. ‘I fancy a walk.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, too quickly, reading her mind.

  They abandoned their plates and pulled on coats as they opened the door, every second counting. How far could they get before Frieda mobilised? What were her limits without Owain?

  They reached the ground floor. Amy barely had time to take a breath before they were through the doors and out into the night. She knew she could survive outside, but the night brought its own demons.

  The familiar black sedan had its engine on, ready to move. But they were on foot and, for now, that gave them an advantage. Jason took her arm, as they walked briskly, as if driven by the cold and not dodging potential spies.

  ‘Ice cream?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Cadwaladers had a place over the water. If Frieda’s people wanted to get close, they would need to send in an operative. And they still had the walk.

  They crossed the road and headed for Roald Dahl Plass, where a car could not follow them. The light from the windows of the Wales Millennium Centre made Jason’s face seem stark, haunted, the brass armadillo watching over them but only keeping away the worst of the darkness that surrounded them among the tall pillars of the plaza.

  ‘Bryn picked up Alby Collins,’ Jason murmured. ‘He said Lewis has been taken to some weird military place.’

  Alby Collins. One of old Jason’s gang contacts, last seen in Swansea Prison. From what she recalled, he was a shit-stirrer destined to always be someone’s lackey. She had never understood why Jason had been friends with them, but charismatic leaders always needed followers.

  ‘What kind of military place?’

  She heard the fear in her voice, and knew she was reacting to the look in Jason’s eyes more than the words he was speaking.

  ‘Alby was pretty off his face. He could only say it was a compound, locked down, and run by some bloke called the Governor. Men come in, men go out – voted out by each other.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know. Alby said it was a secret – something called “the Project”.’

  ‘That’s not sinister at all.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Bonus – someone’s been murdered. My best mate is trapped in some fucked-up military game with a murderer.’

  Amy stopped, but Jason marched her on. They didn’t have time for shock, for curiosity, for anything but action. Frieda wouldn’t allow them to be unmonitored for long.

  ‘Do you have a plan?’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The words were out before she’d thought them through. It was ridiculous, absurd. She was in recovery, not bulletproof. How would she infiltrate a men’s prison compound?

  It was Jason’s turn to freeze in surprise, but she carried them forward half a step before his bulk stopped her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ His voice was urgent, filled with a meaning she couldn’t quite discern, as he cupped her shoulders in his hands.

  ‘Yes. We’ll find a way. I know…how much Lewis means to you.’

  He drew back, nodded once, and then propelled them on again. The moment was broken, and she’d been the one to break it. They couldn’t afford moments.

  ‘We need to find a way in.’

  ‘Can Bryn help?’

  ‘Will he want to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Their words snapped back and forth between the gusts of wind coming off the way, brief but more significant that anything they'd said to each other for a year. Amy knew she had to focus on the task in hand, but she wanted to savour this feeling of closeness, of returning to their old ways – being a team again.

  ‘What about Cerys?’

  ‘I don’t know if she has the access.’

  ‘I can help.’

  ‘What about...her?’

  Frieda’s eyes were everywhere and Amy didn’t have any device that was currently unmonitored. She and Jason both carried NCA-issued phones as part of their deal with Frieda, for this poor imitation of freedom, and they had to assume all their calls and messages were under surveillance. The NCA were probably attempting to listen in right now, but the Friday night crowds were in their favour, so much so that they could barely hear each other.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amy admitted, finally.

  ‘Then, we do this the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘We need Bryn.’

  Amy hated relying on anything outside of the technological but operating off the grid was the only way they would be able to this safely. When Jason had shown her The Wire, she had been disappointed at the lack of promised technology, but she now understood the significance of anonymous telephone boxes, ‘burner’ phones, and conversations out in the open air.

  Cadwaladers was in front of them, alluringly bright and warm after the chill night, with a few couples and friends enjoying sundaes and waffles after dinner or before the bar. However, a pair of uniformed police officers were currently heading towards them on the walkway.

  ‘Miss Lane? It’s after curfew.’

  Amy checked the digital watch on her wrist – 20:33.

  ‘I have half an hour,’ she said.

  The officers exchanged glances.

  ‘That’s not the information we were given,’ one said hesitantly.

  The other made a move to grab Amy’s arm, but Jason stepped between them.

  ‘Curfew is 9pm. Check again.’

  They were drawing attention now. Usually, Amy would balk at the gathering crowd, the proximity to the water, the feelings of being too small and too trapped all at once. But her blood was already up, simmering in anger at Frieda’s casual manipulation of the truth. Her curfew was 21:00 to 06:00, but Frieda knew that. She
was just showing her authority, her ability to check anything they did if she so wished. Just in case they were plotting, considering taking advantage of Owain’s absence for, well, anything at all.

  ‘We have our instructions,’ the cop said, like an automaton. ‘Stand aside.’

  ‘We’re getting our ice cream first,’ Amy said.

  ‘Ice cream?’

  The police officer was clearly confused. Had they thought she was making a run for it? She almost burst out laughing at the thought of her jumping into a speedboat and racing off into the night, to the Côte d’Azur, or Monaco, or wherever exiles went.

  Amy pointed at Cadwaladers.

  ‘We’re going for ice cream. Would you like some?’

  Chapter 7: Overheard Heddlu

  The cake in the canteen was very bad. At least it gave Cerys an excuse to eat it very slowly.

  She saw Bryn first, awkwardly nodding to his former colleagues, painfully aware he was the most senior officer in the room. He sank into the chair opposite her and tried to make himself disappear, shoulders hunched up and head down.

  ‘Cerys.’

  ‘Bryn.’

  ‘It’s, uh, good to see you.’

  ‘You too. Oh look, there’s Catriona!’

  The red-headed detective sergeant wove her way through the tables at speed, also trying to be inconspicuous. Cerys wasn’t sure if this was their normal canteen routine or if they were both acting weirdly because she’d texted them about helping her on their day off, and they’d put two and two together to make a conspiracy.

  Catriona Aitken had never been Amy and Jason’s biggest fan, but after Owain abandoned them for Frieda’s empty promises, she’d finally seen them all for the law-bending but genuine people they were. Which is why Cerys had asked her to come in on this.

  Catriona sat down next to Bryn and nodded to them both.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she said, and it sounded almost genuine.

  Cerys opened the plastic container that had once held her peanut butter sandwiches and offered it to them. Inside, her phone sat on top of a sheet of tin foil, with a short note:

  PHONES BUGGED. NEED HELP. JASON SAYS HI.