listlessly mopped the floor. But, the moment he eyed the guard approaching, he made a show of working hard.
How old is he?
Sam thought.
Fourteen? Fifteen? What sort of life’s brought him to this awful place? And what kind of future has he got in store?
As Sam approached, he noticed a ragged piece of brown cloth stitched unhandily to the front of the boy’s shirt. But, when Sam tried to get a closer look, the boy turned away, averting his eyes and keeping his face towards the wall.
‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the warder, and he indicated an oak-panelled door. The sign on it read: ‘J. W. F ELLOWES , P RINCIPAL G OVERNOR ’.
‘I suppose we’d better knock,’ said Gene, flinging the door open straightaway without warning.
Mr Fellowes, the borstal governor, sat behind his large desk. He looked up, startled. He was a balding man, rotund and soft-skinned, more at home with civil servants than hardened inmates.
‘Don’t wet ’em, it’s just us,’ said Gene, holding up his ID. He sniffed the air extravagantly. ‘At least your office don’t honk of Dettol.’
‘What’s going on here?’ stammered Fellowes. ‘Are you arresting me or something?’
‘I apologize for my superior officer, Mr Fellowes,’ Sam said, positioning himself in front of Gene to try to block him. ‘This is DCI Hunt. My name’s DI Tyler, Manchester CID, A-Division.’
From behind him came a tight, clipped, richly Scottish voice. ‘A dramatic entrance, gentlemen. Ill mannered, unprofessional – but dramatic, I’ll grant you.’
Sam and Gene turned to see a proud, stiff-backed warder standing in the open doorway. His black uniform was immaculate. At his waist hung two chains, a silver one bearing keys, and a gold one attached to a showy fob watch he kept tucked into his pocket. For some reason, that watch caught Sam’s attention. He felt a cold shudder run through his body.
Mr Fellowes cleared got to his feet and said, ‘This is our head warder, House Master McClintock.’
So this is McClintock,
thought Sam.
He’s not an inmate at all: he’s the head warder. Is this the man I need to be watching? Was Barton right to tell me to keep my eye on him?
McClintock stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. And, again, Sam found himself peering at the gold fob watch at his waist. What was its significance? Why did it demand his attention like this?
‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company, gentlemen?’ McClintock asked, eyeing them both suspiciously.
‘We’ve just been fishing one of your lads out of a crushing machine,’ announced Gene, eyeing McClintock right back. ‘Andy Coren. Handy Andy. Name ring a bell?’
Fellowes and McClintock shot a glance at each other.
‘It does indeed ring a bell,’ said Fellowes. ‘I regret to admit that we … slipped up recently and permitted Andrew Coren an opportunity to escape. We were rather hoping we’d pick him up again without too much of a fuss. He’s not violent, just slippery.’
‘We have an excellent record here for security,’ said McClintock in his clipped tones. ‘None of us wish to see it besmirched.’
Gene shrugged. ‘Your reputation might not be besmirched, Jimmy, but Andy Coren certainly is. Well and truly besmirched all over a load of old ovens in a great big crusher. Right old mess it was. Squashed, flattened, half his internal organs squirtin’ out his arse. I can go into more details if you like.’
Fellowes sat down slowly and laid his hands on his desk. ‘So. He got out inside one of the ovens. It’s as we thought.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ declared McClintock. ‘I have implemented tighter security.’
Fellowes looked up at Gene and Sam, said, ‘Thank you for coming out here to inform me of this tragedy – though I can’t see why it took two experienced officers to come here in person, when a phone call would have sufficed.’
‘We came here, Mr Fellowes, because of certain irregularities associated with
How old is he?
Sam thought.
Fourteen? Fifteen? What sort of life’s brought him to this awful place? And what kind of future has he got in store?
As Sam approached, he noticed a ragged piece of brown cloth stitched unhandily to the front of the boy’s shirt. But, when Sam tried to get a closer look, the boy turned away, averting his eyes and keeping his face towards the wall.
‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the warder, and he indicated an oak-panelled door. The sign on it read: ‘J. W. F ELLOWES , P RINCIPAL G OVERNOR ’.
‘I suppose we’d better knock,’ said Gene, flinging the door open straightaway without warning.
Mr Fellowes, the borstal governor, sat behind his large desk. He looked up, startled. He was a balding man, rotund and soft-skinned, more at home with civil servants than hardened inmates.
‘Don’t wet ’em, it’s just us,’ said Gene, holding up his ID. He sniffed the air extravagantly. ‘At least your office don’t honk of Dettol.’
‘What’s going on here?’ stammered Fellowes. ‘Are you arresting me or something?’
‘I apologize for my superior officer, Mr Fellowes,’ Sam said, positioning himself in front of Gene to try to block him. ‘This is DCI Hunt. My name’s DI Tyler, Manchester CID, A-Division.’
From behind him came a tight, clipped, richly Scottish voice. ‘A dramatic entrance, gentlemen. Ill mannered, unprofessional – but dramatic, I’ll grant you.’
Sam and Gene turned to see a proud, stiff-backed warder standing in the open doorway. His black uniform was immaculate. At his waist hung two chains, a silver one bearing keys, and a gold one attached to a showy fob watch he kept tucked into his pocket. For some reason, that watch caught Sam’s attention. He felt a cold shudder run through his body.
Mr Fellowes cleared got to his feet and said, ‘This is our head warder, House Master McClintock.’
So this is McClintock,
thought Sam.
He’s not an inmate at all: he’s the head warder. Is this the man I need to be watching? Was Barton right to tell me to keep my eye on him?
McClintock stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. And, again, Sam found himself peering at the gold fob watch at his waist. What was its significance? Why did it demand his attention like this?
‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company, gentlemen?’ McClintock asked, eyeing them both suspiciously.
‘We’ve just been fishing one of your lads out of a crushing machine,’ announced Gene, eyeing McClintock right back. ‘Andy Coren. Handy Andy. Name ring a bell?’
Fellowes and McClintock shot a glance at each other.
‘It does indeed ring a bell,’ said Fellowes. ‘I regret to admit that we … slipped up recently and permitted Andrew Coren an opportunity to escape. We were rather hoping we’d pick him up again without too much of a fuss. He’s not violent, just slippery.’
‘We have an excellent record here for security,’ said McClintock in his clipped tones. ‘None of us wish to see it besmirched.’
Gene shrugged. ‘Your reputation might not be besmirched, Jimmy, but Andy Coren certainly is. Well and truly besmirched all over a load of old ovens in a great big crusher. Right old mess it was. Squashed, flattened, half his internal organs squirtin’ out his arse. I can go into more details if you like.’
Fellowes sat down slowly and laid his hands on his desk. ‘So. He got out inside one of the ovens. It’s as we thought.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ declared McClintock. ‘I have implemented tighter security.’
Fellowes looked up at Gene and Sam, said, ‘Thank you for coming out here to inform me of this tragedy – though I can’t see why it took two experienced officers to come here in person, when a phone call would have sufficed.’
‘We came here, Mr Fellowes, because of certain irregularities associated with
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