He pushed Dermot Riley forward. “On your way.”
Riley, dressed only in prison denims, peered out. The yard, surrounded by high brick walls, was empty.
“I’ll get soaked,” he said in a hard Ulster accent.
“No, you won’t. I’m being good to you.” Jackson held out a small folding umbrella.
“I’d rather go back to my cell,” Riley said morosely.
“One hour’s exercise a day, that’s what it says in regulations, then we bang you up for the other twenty-three. Can’t have you associating with honest crooks, can we? You know how much they’d like to get their hands on a piece of IRA scum like you. That bomb in the West End last week killed sixteen people and God knows how many injured. You’re not popular, Riley, not popular at all. Now get on with it.”
He shoved Riley into the rain and locked the door behind him. Riley pressed the button on the folding umbrella and it opened. He took a tin of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one with a cheap plastic lighter, and started.
Funny how walking in the rain gave him a lift and the cigarette tasted good. On the other hand, anything was better than the solitary life he led for twenty-three hours a day in that cell. So far he had endured six months of it, which only left fourteen and a half years to go. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he considered the prospect of those years stretching into infinity. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d sent him back home to a prison in Ulster. At least he’d have been serving his time with old comrades, but here at Wandsworth . . .
At that moment the door opened and Jackson appeared. “Get over here, Riley, you’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Riley said.
“Yes, your brief.” Riley stood there in the rain, the umbrella over his head, and Jackson added impatiently, “Your brief, your lawyer, you stupid Irish git. Now move it.”
Jackson didn’t take him to the general visiting hall but opened a door at the end of a side corridor. There was a table, a chair at each end, and a large barred window. The man who stood there peering out of it wore a fawn Burberry trenchcoat over a dark brown suit. The white shirt was set off by a college-type striped tie. He had black curling hair, a pleasant, open face and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked around forty.
“Ah, Mr. Riley. I don’t know whether you will remember me. I was in court the day you were sentenced. George Brown.”
Riley played it very cool indeed. “Oh, yes.”
“I’ve been retained by the Defense League to go into the question of an appeal on your case. There were certain irregularities, statements by witnesses which might well have been tainted.” He turned to Jackson, who stood by the door. “I wonder if you’d mind stepping outside, Mr. . . . ?”
“Jackson, sir.”
“I think you’ll find if you check Section Three regulations, that where a question of appeal is being considered, a lawyer and his client are entitled to privacy.”
“Suit yourself,” Jackson said.
The door closed behind him, and Riley said, “What the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you in my life before, and I’ve already had any hope of an appeal turned down by the Public Defender.”
Brown took a leather cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered him one. “Fifteen years,” he said as he gave Riley a light. “That’s a long time. Bad enough here, but they’ll be sending you to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight soon. Toughest nick in Britain and the hardest cons. Like the coffin lid closing when they get you in there. I know about these things. I am a lawyer, although naturally, my name isn’t Brown.”
“What’s your game, fella?” Riley demanded.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Riley did as he was told and Brown carried on. “I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse, just like the Godfather.”
“And what might that be? A fresh appeal?”
“No.” Brown walked to the window and peered out. “How would you like to be free?”