“Now.”
Bish had lost count of how many drinks he had already consumed.
“Grazier, I’m not—”
“Get to Holloway. Ask her politely to hand it over, and we’ll take care of politely asking the officer in charge of mail to send anything from Violette straight to us in the future,” Grazier said. “There was another bashing this afternoon. Same age as Violette. Same coloring. The parents don’t want it made public. Tell LeBrac that if she doesn’t give you the letter she’s putting her daughter and Eddie Conlon’s life in danger.”
Bish could just imagine how much Noor LeBrac would appreciate being told she was the one responsible for her daughter and Eddie’s being in danger.
Grazier, or the power the Home Office thought they had over Holloway, was slipping. That, or the acting governor was trying to make a statement.
“There’s no Bish Ortley on the list to see anyone today,” he was told by Allison, the efficient woman from the visitors’ center who usually accompanied him to Officer Gray’s post. Her expression always seemed to warn against trying to charm her.
“But you know who I am,” he said.
“Yes I do, Chief Inspector Ortley, but there’s nothing here to say that a visit has been approved.”
“Then it’s probably been organized directly with Officer Gray.”
She picked up the phone, punched a few numbers, and waited a moment before asking if Chief Inspector Bish Ortley was authorized to visit Noor LeBrac.
She hung up and shook her head. “And according to Officer Gray, the meeting rooms are all being used for parole hearings or visits from legal representation.”
“Then I’ll see her here in the visits hall.”
“If you’d like to see an inmate on a social visit, you’ll have to get a visiting order signed by her, and then book the visit over the phone, quoting the number.”
He stared at her, beginning to lose his cool. “Which means I can’t see her now?”
“All general visits to the inmates are organized via our booking line—”
Bish removed his phone from his pocket. “Allison,” he said patiently, “in two minutes’ time you’re going to speak to the home secretary’s adviser.” He had no idea whether Grazier was the home secretary’s adviser, but Allison didn’t need to know that. “He’ll be the one to work out whether to interrupt the home secretary’s busy schedule because some incompetent person didn’t do their paperwork.”
But she refused to be moved. He pressed the number and waited. Prayed that it wouldn’t go straight to message bank.
“What?” Grazier asked.
For once Bish was relieved to hear his voice. “They won’t let me see LeBrac,” he said. “Lack of paperwork or some bullshit. Can you have a word?”
He handed the phone to Allison and watched as she listened. As her face turned many shades of puce. A wince or two. Fear. Anger. Then fear again. All in total silence until she handed Bish back his phone.
“Visits are in the yard today.”
Noor LeBrac looked different in natural light. Not so much younger as more human. Outside with the other inmates and their visitors, she nodded in acknowledgment to some who passed by. But he missed the confines of the meeting room already. It was noisier out here, mostly arguments between family members or crying kids.
“You’ll have to hand over the letter you received from Violette,” he said.
“No.”
Just like that.
Before he could insist, a woman twice LeBrac’s size stood at their table and shoved a form under her nose.
“I need this filled out.”
“Then come to my classes and learn,” LeBrac said dismissively.
A wail sounded close by. One of the younger girls, heavily pregnant, was gripping the hand of her female visitor. Two prison guards made their way towards them.
“Gentle,” LeBrac said as they passed by. It sounded more like an order than a request. The young girl was wailing in a language Bish couldn’t understand. He was finding it hard to read Noor’s mood.
“She’s not having the baby out here, is she?” he asked softly. He sensed a fragility in this dark, savage place.
“She’s due soon. Her cousin won’t take the baby once it comes, and she hasn’t a place in D Four. So it goes into the system.”
“D Four?”
“Mother and baby unit.”
“You work in that unit?” he asked.
“I show them how to feed and to change nappies.” He felt her eyes boring into his. “Teach them how to cope without their children.”
Bish tried to stay focused on the reason he was here. “You need to hand over the letter,” he said.
“The guard in the mail room has already forwarded it to the acting governor and she returned it to me,” she said. “It in no way incriminates Violette, nor does it reveal where she is—those were their words, not mine. It was sent from central London, postmarked two days ago. She’s obviously not there anymore. The letter stays with me.”