Free The Score by Howard Marks Page B

monitored and enforced. It had been over two decades since there had been a break-out by an A’er, and this had been from a transfer van; as for a break-out followed by a break-in, and by a sick man, it was fairyland stuff.
    Thomas shuffled. ‘He could even show us video of every minute Morgan has been in there if we want.’ He sniggered. ‘Made a big song and dance about his communications being monitored too, chance of him organising anything on the outside less than nil.’
    ‘Well, he’s the g’vnor, he’s going to say that.’
    ‘No, but I checked in with Sol Bowles, remember Sol in Prisons?’
    This was another rhetorical. He might as well have been asking if she remembered her own name. There was also a reproach here, Thomas had been keeping up with Sol, and probably knew she had not. A fellow Drugs man, Sol had switched into prisons inspection after a bad burn-out, going down to booze and painkillers before cleaning up big time. ‘Had a cosy with Sol,’ he continued, ‘says Belmarsh is being given its annual inspection currently and there were no surprises. Security around Morgan has been tight as a mouse’s arse.’
    Cat shrugged. ‘All right, I get the picture.’ She bent down and tapped out a text to Sol. She would check in with him later.
    She took the stick and had a go at drawing the cartoon. The ledge over which the eyes peeped came out wobbly, and she hadn’t got the eyes right. She passed the stick back, took out a biro and had a go on the back of the printout Thomas had passed her.
    She broke it down. Tried each line separately. One wavy line did the nose and the eyes, two straight for the ledge. Then two half-circles the pupils. Five strokes in all, with some shading in the eyes. Even after six more goes, it still had not come out quite right. It was something that needed practice, but once you’d got it you’d always be able to do it, she reckoned. Like writing your own signature.
    She had another go, but still it wasn’t right. She felt the frustration building inside herself and put the paper aside.
    ‘Enjoy your lie-in?’ he asked.
    ‘Breakfast was the full spread.’
    ‘Really?’ He looked surprised.
    She gestured up towards the pit. ‘So what do you reckon, then?’
    Thomas made a sour face. ‘There’s another angle we’ll have to eliminate.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘A couple of recent teen suicides down in Bridgend spoke of having imaginary friends. People who they thought would be waiting for them on the other side. Cobain, that sort of thing, just predictable teen barminess. Bridgend isn’t too far away. Maybe these girls saw Morgan as something similar, he had a symbolic role of some sort for them?’ He smiled at Cat’s drawings.
    ‘Psychopomps.’
    ‘Steady on, Price.’
    ‘They’re mythological figures who guide souls from one world to the next.’
    ‘Right, it’s shite obviously but the sort of shite that young girls believe in.’
    ‘And Morgan is still alive.’
    ‘Just about.’
    Cat thought about this. Her searches the previous night had turned up no Free Morgan campaign, not even an informal one. The T-shirts were just fashion items, prisoner cool, like the
Charlie was a surfer
T-shirts from a few years back. It seemed a big leap from a few T-shirts and some nonsensical graffiti to a suicide ring. And until the forensics were in, she knew Thomas was just pissing in the dark.
    The places where Nia and Delyth had been hiding out had felt like typical teen dens but also like refuges, safe-houses of a sort. Judging from the T-shirt, Esyllt had been one of them, though Cat would have to wait for the reports to come back to be sure. Her best bet, she reckoned, was to shadow Thomas for the routine inquiries at the homes of the two dead girls, see what they turned up, then tackle Martin again when she had more information.
    ‘No sign of Esyllt, then?’
    She had raised her voice and Thomas waved his hand to the area behind him where a woman stood, gazing into