Free Borstal Slags by Tom Graham

Coren’s death,’ said Sam.
    ‘What sort of irregularities?’
    Sam found himself glancing nervously at McClintock, although the House Master was motionless and silent, his blank face unreadable.
    I don’t like that man. There’s something wrong about him.
    ‘Well, Detective Inspector? What sort of irregularities?’
    ‘Hard to say at present,’ said Sam, forcing his attention away from McClintock and back to Fellowes. ‘Ongoing intelligence. We’re in receipt of – scraps of information. We very much want to make sense of these scraps.’
    Fellowes looked searchingly at McClintock, then shrugged.
    ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll help you all we can –
if
we can.’
    ‘Your kitchen block and boiler house,’ said Sam. ‘They’re being demolished. Why is that?’
    ‘They were unsafe,’ said Fellowes. ‘The boilers were ancient and simply had to go. And the kitchen had been in a dire state for years. We’d struggled on with it, but then there was a terrible accident with one of the gas ovens. It went up like a bomb.’
    ‘A boy was killed, am I right?’ asked Sam.
    ‘I’m afraid you are. After that, the Home Office had no choice but to allocate us funds for a refit. Perhaps you’d like to see our brand-new kitchens?’
    ‘I’d love to see your new kitchens more than words can say,’ growled Gene. ‘But, before you thrill me and my colleague with that particular emotional roller coaster, I want to know more about this boy what got barbecued. What kind of lad was he?’
    Fellowes fumbled for something to say, but it was McClintock who answered. ‘He was a young man by the name of Craig Tulse. Nasty little rogue he was. A lot of backchat. Insubordinate. A constant source of trouble to me and my warders.’
    ‘So – a relief to be rid of him?’ Gene said. His manner was confrontational.
    McClintock gave him a very cold stare. ‘The boy died. Burned. Horribly.’
    ‘I’ll bet. And what about this other lad, the one who topped himself a couple of weeks back? What’s his name again, Tyler?’
    ‘Tunning, Guv.’
    ‘Aye, Tunning. What’s the story with him, eh?’
    ‘Tunning hanged himself in his cell,’ said Fellowes. ‘Unfortunately, these things do happen. But may I point out that our suicide rate is lower than the state prison average.’
    ‘We’re not casting aspersions, Mr Fellowes,’ said Sam.
    ‘Well, we
might
be,’ growled Gene.
    ‘No we’re
not
,’ Sam cut across him. ‘We’re just trying to make sense of all things. Mr Fellowes, is there any connection that you can think of between Tunning’s suicide and Andy Coren’s death?’
    Fellowes shrugged and looked to McClintock for support.
    ‘They were both inmates at this facility,’ McClintock said flatly. ‘What more connection could there be?’
    ‘So – two deaths in two weeks is just a coincidence?’ said Sam. ‘Not to mention Tulse’s death a month or so before?’
    McClintock sighed. ‘Faulty stoves which have been replaced. A suicide. A bungled escape attempt. That, gentlemen, is the whole story.’
    ‘Are you sure of that?’ Sam asked.
    ‘You said just now that you were not casting aspersions, Detective Inspector,’ McClintock said. ‘Your tone suggests the contrary.’
    ‘And
your
tone suggests you’re hiding something,’ snarled Gene, glaring at him. ‘What’s in the sporran, McTavish? Something nasty you don’t want the world to see?’
    ‘Detective Chief Inspector, I strongly suspect that you said that for no better reason than to get a rise out of me.’
    ‘You’re right. I’ve got this thing about Jocks. As soon as I come across one I just
have
to get a rise.’
    ‘Then may I save you the bother of doing so by informing you now that you will get no such pleasure from
me
?’
    ‘Any institution housing criminals will have its share of accidents and suicides and escape attempts,’ put in Fellowes, keen to calm the tightening atmosphere. ‘We do our level best to keep such things to