‘Conjugal visits?’
‘Well, whatever, it’s sex, and we don’t allow it. Mind you, a screw will turn a blind eye – when a con puts his hand up a tart’s skirt, but then I remember in one prison—’
‘Pete,’ I reminded him.
‘Oh, yeah, Pete. Well, Karen came to visit Pete the following Saturday. All’s going well until Pete asks about his best mate, Brian. Karen clams up, doesn’t say a word does she, then turns bright red. Pete susses straight away what she’s been up to: tart, having it off with his best mate while he’s inside. She lit his short fuse, didn’t she? So Pete jumps up and puts one on her. Karen goes arse over tits, and lands up flat on the floor. The alarm goes off and screws come running through every door. They had to pull him off Karen and drag him away to segregation. Ever been to segregation, Jeff?’
‘No, can’t say I have.’
‘Well, don’t bother. Diabolical liberty. Bare cell, mattress on the floor, steel basin screwed into the wall and a steel bog what don’t flush. Next day Pete’s put on report, and comes up in front of the governor, who, you have to remember, is God Almighty. He don’t need no judge or jury to help him decide if you’re guilty – Home Office regulations are quite enough.’
‘So what happened to Pete?’
‘Sent back to closed conditions, wasn’t he? Shipped off to Lincoln prison the same day, with another three months added to his sentence. Some cons, when they’re sent back to a closed nick, lose their rag, start breaking the place up, taking drugs, setting their cell on fire, so they never get out. I was banged up with a muppet in Liverpool once. Started off with a three-year sentence and he’s still there – eleven years later. Last time he came up in front of the governor for—’
‘Pete,’ I said, trying not to sound exasperated.
‘Oh, yeah, Pete. Well, Pete goes the other way.’
‘The other way?’
‘Good as gold all the time he’s banged up at Lincoln. Three months later he’s back enhanced, with all his privileges restored. Gets a job in the kitchen, works like a slave, six months later he puts in a request for a visit and it’s granted, with the exception of one Karen Slater. But he never wanted to see that whore again anyway. No, this time Pete applied for a visit from one of his old mates who was on the out at the time. Now this mate confirms that Brian is not only having it off with Karen, but now that Pete’s safely banged up in Lincoln she’s moved in with him. What a diabolical liberty,’ said Mick. ‘Pete’s mate even asked if he wanted Brian done over. “No, don’t go down that road,” Pete told him. “I’ll be taking care of him myself, all in good time.” He never went into no detail of what he had in mind, on account of the fact that in the end someone always opens their mouth. Must be the same in politics, Jeff.’
‘Pete.’
‘Well, Pete goes on being as good as gold. Cleanest pad, working all hours, never swearing at no screws, never on report. Result? Twelve months later he’s back at Hollesley Bay open prison, with only nine months left to serve.’
‘And once he was back at Hollesley Bay, did he try to contact Karen?’
‘No, didn’t put in a request for a visit. In fact, never even mentioned her name.’
‘So what was his game?’ I asked, slipping into the prison jargon.
‘He only had one game all along, Jeff: he wanted to get himself transferred to the enhancement block, on the other side of the prison, didn’t he.’
‘I’ve lost you,’ I admitted.
‘All part of his master plan, wasn’t it? When you first arrive at Hollesley Bay, which, don’t forget, is an open nick, you’re allocated a room in one of the two main blocks.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yeah, north and south block. But if you get enhanced – another three more months of behaving like a saint – then they move you across to the enhancement block, which gives you even more privileges.’
‘Like what?’
‘You can have a visit from a mate every Saturday. Pete wasn’t interested. You can go home once a month on a Sunday – he’s still not interested. You can apply for a job outside of the prison during the week – still no interest, even though it would of given him a chance to pick up an extra bob or two before he’s released.’
‘Then why bother to earn all those privileges if you don’t plan to take advantage of them?’ I asked.
‘Weren’t part of Pete’s master plan, was it? Trouble with you, Jeff, is that you don’t think like a criminal.’
‘So why was Pete so keen to get himself transferred to the enhancement block?’
‘Good question at last, Jeff, but for that you’ll need a little background. Pete ’ad already worked out that over on the enhancement block they ’ad five screws on duty during the day, but only two at night, on account of the fact that if a prisoner reaches enhanced status he can be trusted, not to mention how short-staffed the prison service is. And don’t forget that, in an open nick, there are no cells, no bars, no keys and no perimeter walls, so anyone can abscond.’
‘So why don’t they?’ I asked.
‘Because not many cons who’ve made it to an open prison are that interested in escaping.’
‘Why not?’
‘Logic, isn’t it? They’re coming to the end of their sentence, and if they’re caught, and nine out of ten of the morons are, you’re sent straight back to a closed nick, with extra time added to your sentence. So forget it, it’s just not worth it. I remember a con called Dale. What a muppet he was. He only had three weeks left to serve, when he—’
‘Pete,’ I tried again.
‘You’re such an impatient bastard, Jeff, and it’s not as if you’re going anywhere. So where was I?’
‘Only two officers on duty in the enhancement block at night,’ I said, checking my notes.
‘Oh, yeah. But even on the enhancement block you have to report to the front office at seven in the morning, and then again at nine each night. Now Pete, as I told you, ’ad a job in the prison stores, handing out clothes to the new cons, and supplying laundry once a week for the regulars, so the screws always knew where he was, which was also part of Pete’s plan. But if he hadn’t reported to the front office at seven in the morning and then again at nine at night, he would have been put on report, which would have meant he’d be sent back to north block with all his privileges removed. So Pete never once misses a roll call, his cell was always spick and span, and his light is always out long before eleven.’
‘All part of Pete’s master plan?’
‘You catch on fast,’ said Mick. ‘But then Pete came up against an obstacle – that the right word, Jeff?’ I nodded, not wishing to interrupt his flow. ‘During the night, one of the screws would walk round the block at one o’clock and then return again at four in the morning, to check that every con was in bed and asleep. All the screw has to do is pull back the curtain on the outside of the door, look through the glass panel and shine his torch on the bed to make sure the con is snoring away. Have I ever told you about the con who was caught in his room, with a—’
‘Pete,’ I said, not even looking up at Mick.
‘Pete would lay awake at night until the first screw came round at one o’clock to make sure he was in his room. The screw lifts the curtain, shines the torch on his bed and then disappears. Pete would then go back to sleep, but he always set his alarm for ten to four when he’d carry out the same routine. A different screw always turns up at four to check you’re still in bed. It took Pete just over a month to work out that there were two screws, Mr Chambers and Mr Davis, who didn’t bother to make the nightly rounds and check everyone was in bed. Chambers used to fall asleep and Davis couldn’t be dragged away from the TV. After that, all Pete had to do was wait until the two of them were on duty the same night.’
With only about six weeks to go before Pete was due to be released, he returned to the enhancement block after work to find that Chambers and Davis were the duty officers that night. When Pete signed the roll-call sheet at nin
e, Mr Chambers was already watching a football match on TV, and Mr Davis had his feet up on the table drinking a Coke and reading the sports pages of the Sun. Pete went up to his room, watched TV till just after ten, and then turned off his light. He got into bed and pulled the blanket over him, but kept on his tracksuit and trainers. He waited until a few minutes after one before he crept out into the corridor and checked to make sure no one was around – not a sign of Chambers or Davis. He then went to the end of the corridor, opened the fire-escape door, and disappeared down the back stairs, leaving a wedge of paper in the door, before he set off on an eight-mile run into Woodbridge.
No one can be sure when Pete got back that night, but he reported into the office as usual at seven the next morning. Mr Chambers ticked off his name. When Pete glanced down at the screws clipboard, all four of his roll-call columns – nine, one, four and seven – had a tick in every box. Pete had breakfast in the canteen before reporting to the stores for work.
‘So he got away with it?’
‘Not quite,’ said Mick. ‘Later that morning the cops turn up in numbers and begin crawling all over the place, but they’re only looking for one man. They end up in the stores, arrest Pete and haul him off to Woodbridge nick for questioning. They interrogate him for hours about the deaths of Brian Powell and Karen Slater, both found strangled in their bed. Rumour has it that they were having it off at the time. Pete stuck to the same line: “Can’t have been me, guv. I was banged up in prison at the time. You only have to ask Mr Chambers and Mr Davis, the officers who were on duty that night.” The copper in charge of the case visited the enhancement block and checked the roll-call sheet. Brian and the tart were strangled some time between three and five, according to the police doctor, so if Chambers saw Pete asleep in bed at four, he couldn’t have been in Woodbridge at the same time, could he? Logic, isn’t it?
‘An independent inquiry was set up by the Home Office. Chambers and Davis both confirmed that they’d checked every prisoner at one o’clock and then again at four, and on both occasions Pete had been asleep in his room. Several of the other cons were only too happy to appear in front of the inquiry and confirm they’d been woken by the flashlight, when Chambers and Davis did their rounds. This only strengthened Pete’s defence. So the inquiry concluded that Pete must have been in his bed at one o’clock and four o’clock on the night in question, so he couldn’t have committed the murders.’
‘So he got away with it,’ I repeated.
‘Depends on how you describe got away with it,’ said Mick, ‘because although the police never charged Pete, the copper in charge of the case later made a statement saying that they’d closed their inquiries, as there was no one else they wanted to interview – hint, hint. That wasn’t what you call a good career move for Chambers and Davis, so they set about stitching Pete up.’
‘But Pete only had six weeks to serve before he was due to be released,’ I reminded Mick, ‘and he was always as good as gold.’
‘True, but another screw, a mate of Davis’s, reported Pete for stealing a pair of jeans from the stores just a few days before he was due for release. Pete was carted off to segregation and the governor had him transported back to Lincoln nick even before they’d served up tea that night, with another three months added to his sentence.’
‘So he ended up having to serve another three months?’
‘That was six years ago,’ said Mick. ‘And Pete’s still banged up in Lincoln.’
‘So how do they manage that?’
‘The screws just come up with a new charge every few weeks, so that whenever Pete comes up on report the governor adds another three months to his sentence. My bet is Pete’s stuck in Lincoln for the rest of his life. What a liberty.’
‘But how do they get away with it?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying, Jeff? If two screws say that’s what happened, then that’s what happened,’ repeated Mick, ‘and no con will be able to tell you any different. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ I replied.
On 12 September 2002 Prison Service Instruction No. 47/2002 stated that the judgement of the European Court of Human Rights in the case of Ezeh & Connors ruled that, where an offence was so extreme as to result in a punishment of additional days, the protections inherent in Article 6 of the European Convention of Human Rights applied. A hearing must be conducted by an independent and impartial tribunal, and prisoners are entitled to legal assistance at such hearings.
Pete Bailey was released from Lincoln prison on 19 October 2002.
GEORGE TSAKIRIS IS NOT ONE of those Greeks you need to beware of when he is bearing gifts.
George is fortunate enough to spend half his life in London and the other half in his native Athens. He and his two younger brothers, Nicholas and Andrew, run between them a highly successful salvage company, which they inherited from their father.
George and I first met many years ago during a charity function in aid of the Red Cross. His wife Christina was a member of the organizing committee, and she had invited me to be the auctioneer.
At almost every charity auction I have conducted over the years, there has been one item for which you just can’t find a buyer, and that night was no exception. On this occasion, another member of the committee had donated a landscape painting that had been daubed by their daughter and would have been orphaned at a village fete. I felt, long before I climbed up onto the rostrum and searched around the room for an opening bid, that I was going to be left stranded once again.
However, I had not taken George’s generosity into consideration.
‘Do I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds?’ I enquired hopefully, but no one came to my rescue. ‘One thousand?’ I repeated, trying not to sound desperate, and just as I was about to give up, out of a sea of black dinner jackets a hand was raised. It was George’s.
‘Two thousand,’ I suggested, but no one was interested in my suggestion. ‘Three thousand,’ I said looking directly at George. Once again his hand shot up. ‘Four thousand,’ I declared confidently, but my confidence was short-lived, so I returned my attention to George. ‘Five thousand,’ I demanded, and once again he obliged. Despite his wife being on the committee, I felt enough was enough. ‘Sold for five thousand pounds, to Mr George Tsakiris,’ I announced to loud applause, and a look of relief on Christina’s face.
Since then poor George, or to be more accurate rich George, has regularly come to my rescue at such functions, often purchasing ridiculous items, for which I had no hope of arousing even an opening bid. Heaven knows how much I’ve prised out of the man over the years, all in the name of charity.
Last year, after I’d sold him a trip to Uzbekistan, plus two economy tickets courtesy of Aeroflot, I made my way across to his table to thank him for his generosity.
‘No need to thank me,’ George said as I sat down beside him. ‘Not a day goes by without me realizing how fortunate I’ve been, even how lucky I am to be alive.’
‘Lucky to be alive?’ I said, smelling a story.
Let me say at this point that the tired old cliché, that there’s a book in every one of us, is a fallacy. However, I have come to accept over the years that most people have experienced a single incident in their life that is unique to them, and well worthy of a short story. George was no exception.
‘Lucky to be alive,’ I repeated.
George and his two brothers divide their business responsibilities equally: George runs the London office, while Nicholas remains in Athens, which allows Andrew to roam around the globe whenever one of their sinking clients needs to be kept afloat.
Although George maintains establishments in London, New York and Saint-Paul-de-Vence, he still regularly returns to the home of the gods, so that he can keep in touch with his large family. Have you noticed how wealthy people always seem to have large families?
At a recent Red Cross Ball, held at the Dorchester, no one came to my rescue when I offered a British Li
ons’ rugby shirt – following their tour of New Zealand – that had been signed by the entire losing team. George was nowhere to be seen, as he’d returned to his native land to attend the wedding of a favourite niece. If it hadn’t been for an incident that took place at that wedding, I would never have seen George again. Incidentally, I failed to get even an opening bid for the British Lions’ shirt.
George’s niece, Isabella, was a native of Cephalonia, one of the most beautiful of the Greek islands, set like a magnificent jewel in the Ionian Sea. Isabella had fallen in love with the son of a local wine grower, and as her father was no longer alive, George had offered to host the wedding reception, which was to be held at the bridegroom’s home.
In England it is the custom to invite family and friends to attend the wedding service, followed by a reception, which is often held in a marquee on the lawn of the home of the daughter’s parents. When the lawn is not large enough, the festivities are moved to the village hall. After the formal speeches have been delivered, and a reasonable period of time has elapsed, the bride and groom depart for their honeymoon, and fairly soon afterwards the guests make their way home.
Leaving a party before midnight is not a tradition the Greeks have come to terms with. They assume that any festivities after a wedding will continue long into the early hours of the following morning, especially when the bridegroom owns a vineyard. Whenever two natives are married on a Greek island, an invitation is automatically extended to the locals so that they can share in a glass of wine and toast the bride’s health. Wedding crasher is not an expression that the Greeks are familiar with. The bride’s mother doesn’t bother sending out gold-embossed cards with RSVP in the lower left-hand corner for one simple reason: no one would bother to reply, but everyone would still turn up.