The DI Rosalind Kray Series Box Set (#1-3) by Rob Ashman

Author:Rob Ashman [Ashman, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural, Psychological, Suspense, Thriller, Women Sleuths
ISBN: 9781504069243
Google: 44g8EAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B09C6NLXFQ
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2018-11-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The one thing to say about prison time is the fact that there’s nothing to do but think. The monotonous parade of activities means you don’t have to waste valuable head-time working out everyday stuff, like…when’s lunch? What time is dinner? What am I going to do today? All of that is taken care of. You wake in the morning and step aboard a conveyor that transports you through the day, ensuring you are deposited back into your bed at the end of it.

My lawyer had pleaded that if I was to receive a custodial sentence it should be at a local jail. I had two young children and a wife, and it made sense to keep the disruption to their family life at a minimum. I was duly sent down and bundled off to Wymott prison, a category C establishment with more drugs in it than a Boots pharmacy. It was as local as they could get. My wife never visited once. She chose instead to cement her view with the kids that Daddy was a bad thing, and at least now she didn’t have to bother with the niceties of working out visitation rights. That ship had well and truly sailed.

I had three priorities while serving my time – to keep myself to myself, keep myself fit and keep on thinking. After all, I had a lot to think about. The fury that had engulfed me had no place in prison. Being angry in a place that already contained more than a thousand angry men would get me killed. I channelled that anger into something positive, something creative. Each night, I would run through the priority checklist in my head. Every night, it was a full house of three ticks.

My thoughts were a collection of plans; each one ran like a movie in my head as I plotted how they would be carried out. Working through the intricacies of what would happen kept my brain occupied and it helped the time to pass quickly. Nothing could be left to chance, everything was scheduled down to the last detail. However, I had given myself a challenging constraint – I was not allowed to write anything down. Every detail had to be committed to memory. Keeping a permanent record would have been a rookie mistake.

But there was one piece missing. One gaping hole. In many ways, it was the most important part, but I kept telling myself not to worry – it would come, eventually. After all, I was not exactly short of time in which to work it out. But it bothered me that the most significant part was missing.

My cell mate’s name was Irvine. The rest of the wing called him Berlin. He didn’t seem to care. They called me Pablo Escobar because I refused to do drugs. Enduring prison humour was a deep joy.

Irvine was a black monster of a man from Birmingham. He was a bloke of few words and those he did manage to utter were mangled beyond recognition by a chronic speech impediment.

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