Chapter 16 The Shutdown
It had been a week since Grey and Turner had been posted back to the racecourse. The team had been stripped down to a skeleton crew of junior detectives while the administration finalized the paperwork. Grey was in charge of overseeing the shutdown. Evidence had been shipped out and consigned to the recesses of a dusty warehouse. Interviews ended with lingering witnesses, including some who had come forward with new information, their statements now shredded into pieces.
In effect, the investigation was now officially terminated on Roland Blackwell's orders.
Turner and Grey watched half-heartedly as the last vestiges of monitors, servers, and communications desks were carted out of the Command Center before being loaded onto police evidence vans.
The sun beat down on their backs, and they could feel the sweat trickling down their necks.
Turner sighed as he surveyed the empty marquee.
"Well, that's that, then."
"Yep, I could use a rest," Grey replied.
"These headaches and my ringing ears have been plaguing me all week, probably from the stress."
Grey rubbed his temple. "I'm hoping a couple of weeks at home with Julia and the twins will help."
He looked at Turner. 'What about you?"
"After the month we've had, I could use a proper holiday. I'm picturing tall jugs of sangria with little pink umbrellas lying on a beach somewhere in Spain."
"Sounds good. But I'm wondering how much longer I can do this between the corruption and the Roland Blackwells of this world. The whole system is a big pile of steaming shit. I have a good pension and an OBE now."
"I can't blame you, guv; even I have been thinking of moving on. Take a few weeks off. We can go for a pint in London when we get back from our holidays."
"I'll do that. And thanks, Turner. Honestly, I don't even know who's bent anymore."
"Of course, mate. That's what friends are for."
Grey extended his hand. "Right then, you enjoy that holiday. And we'll talk later."
The moment the final removal truck from the command center pulled away, Grey and Turner watched as a meaty-looking prisoner transport van hurtled toward them. The van's engine growled, its exhaust fumes spitting out the smell of hot rubber and oil. They began looking at each other, worried.
"Damn, what now?" Grey said tonelessly.
"Bloody hell, Guv, What the hell is a detention wagon doing here?"
Grim-faced officers stared through the windows as they bumped over ruts in the tarmac.
"Stay calm, Turner. Let's see what they want; it might be nothing."
The armored van screeched to a halt, sinking Grey's stomach. Its side door flung open as two burly officers vomited onto the tarmac, their boots hitting the concrete with a thud. One was tall and tattooed with a skinhead; the other was like a hunched British bulldog in appearance. A third officer followed from the driver compartment, stepping out more slowly. Then, like boxers coming in for the knockout, they squared their shoulders. All three scanned the empty command center, their eyes darting from Grey to Turner.
The stocky officer from the driver’s door had slick black hair and was already stepping forward.
"Inspector Grey and Detective Turner, you are both under arrest on grounds of treason and violations of the Official Secrets Act. It is now 10.30 AM on Tuesday, August 2, 2023. My name is Constable Johnson, and my badge number is 123456789.
You have the right to remain silent. However, I must advise you that if you fail to mention facts in your defense, it will be used against you. Do you understand the caution?"
Grey glared at Johnson, fists clenched at his sides.
"This is a bloody farce," he snarled.
"We've done nothing wrong."
Turner placed a restraining hand on Grey's arm.
"Easy, Guv. Wait till we see our brief, It's probably a misunderstanding," Turner said.
"We'll come quietly, but we want our solicitor present."
"Shut it, both of you," one of the officers snapped.
"You'll get a solicitor when we say so."
Grey and Turner locked eyes, fear evident in their expressions. Turner whispered, "Keep schtum until we get a willing brief."
The two officers seized their arms and began hustling them back toward the rear of the dark blue prison van. Its armored-proofed paneling was splayed in graffiti, including the words 'pigs' and 'all coppers are bastards' in yellow spray paint.
The words seemed to swirl and dance in Grey's vision, filled with the anger of the person who had written it.
"This is it," Grey said, his voice hoarse.
"We're going to the nick."
"We're getting royally stitched up here," Turner muttered incredulously.
Constable Johnson continued, "You are both going into custody on serious allegations, boys."
One of the officers opened the van doors, barking.
"Get in the back."
Grey and Turner squeezed into the cramped alcove of the van, their bodies pressed against the guard's stale body odor. Constable Johnson wedged himself in, sealing the claustrophobic space. There was barely enough room to swing a cat.
Men's voices could be heard from the main hold coming through a small lattice grille welded into a steel door. Overhead, the lamplight flickered, spilling a sickly yellow, prison-like glow that made the enclosure feel like a dungeon. A stifling ventilation system hummed loudly like an old air conditioner struggling to keep up. The only seating was a single uncomfortable bench and a small perforated aluminum table with a plain mirror on the wall.
"You go stand by the table and strip now," Johnson said, jabbing a finger at Grey.
Grey's eyes widened in shock. "What?" he asked.
"Come on, that's a bit excessive," Turner said.
"How about a little professional courtesy in here?"
"Gunner, Brummie, should I show this little upstart some professional courtesy?" Johnson said, in front of his two guards.
"I think you should give him the full work's, boss. What do you think, Brummie?"
"I think they should get the gold service, Gunner," Brummie said with a grin.
Johnson retrieved his baton from his utility belt and thrust it into Grey's back. "Now," he said.
"I told you to strip."
Grey winced in discomfort. "You're a bastard, Johnson. This is not the protocol, and you know it!"
"Strip!"
Grey's hands shook from the cold as he reluctantly unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling with each small button. He tried to avoid making eye contact with Gunner and Brummie. But he was exposed to their smirks and leers burning into his skin from their reflections in the mirror. A blush of shame crept up his neck, making him vulnerable.
Turner was sitting on the bench. His pride visibly crumbled as he witnessed his friend's dehumanizing ordeal.
"Don't worry, Detective Turner. You will be next," Johnson said, glancing over at him.
Johnson quickly brought his attention back to Grey, who was now struggling to get his trousers off.
"Hurry up; we haven't got all day."
Once he was undressed, Grey was wholly enveloped in a sense of foreboding as Johnson, with deliberate and calculated movements, put on the white latex gloves. The sinister audible snap as he pulled them tightly onto his hands served as a prelude to what would be an intense encounter.
"I've never seen a copper with tits before! What do you think, Brummie?" Gunner taunted.
"I have never seen a couple of tits like this before, Gunner."
"Bend over the table, spread your legs, and cough," Johnson ordered.
Johnson's rough glove scratched against Grey's skin like sandpaper as he groped roughly around his torso. The table radiated cold into Grey's bare skin. Johnson's smirk grew as he probed sensitive areas.
"Brr, it's chilly in here! Something's certainly shrunk!"
All the guards roared in laughter. Humiliation washed over Grey in waves, yet the search continued—remorseless and relentless.
After what felt like an eternity, Grey was allowed to dress back into his clothing for another round of degrading mockery. Johnson then cuffed his wrists and ankles, relishing the cruelty as he tightened the restraints.
"Face the wall," Johnson barked.
Grey did as he was told, pressing against the chilled metal wall, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. He could feel Johnson's eyes on him while he positioned himself with his hands behind his back. It was now Turner's turn to be searched.
Johnson thrust a finger. "You. Next."
Turner got up slowly and undressed under the guard's stare. Johnson's thorough patdown left no part of his body untouched, making him feel like an animal being displayed for the amusement of others.
As Johnson concluded his business, he gestured:
"It looks like we've got a matching set, boys!" More jeering laughter filled the compartment.
Once Johnson was satisfied, Turner completed the same routine as Grey had, now shackled and facing the wall.
"Gunner, Brummie, open the door to the main hold."
Gunner's massive hand turned the rusty doorknob, and the door creaked open with a loud, industrial clang. It swung inward, revealing the lamped interior of the main hold. Gunner and Brummie dragged Grey and Turner by their arms, causing their shackles to clink together, causing them to struggle to maintain their balance. It was then that they were callously hurled into a tangled heap upon the unforgiving metal grating.
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Grey and Turner looked up; they saw they were not alone. Fifteen prisoners in sweatboxes on either side rattled the mesh of their cages, jeering and whistling at the sight of fresh new meat.
Its cramped and fetid interior was thick with the stench of sweat, urine, and body odor. Grey's headache throbbed some more. Turner's grave expression greeted his own; they both understood the daunting reality that awaited them as men accused of treason.
Walking down the gangway, Johnson produced Grey and Turner's ID cards from his pocket, displaying them to the captive human cargo.
"Gentlemen," he said, smiling.
"I've got a little treat for you. We've got some coppers coming to stay where you're off to."
He held up the IDs for the prisoners to see. The sturdy plastic cards proudly displayed the official emblems of their respective police forces: Grey's was adorned with the iconic Metropolitan Police crest, while Turner's bore the distinguished insignia of the West Midlands Police.
"I'm sure you'll all be very pleased to see them," Johnson continued.
"After all, what's a prison without a couple of bitches to feed on?"
A rough voice broke the captive silence. "Well, look here, lads, fresh meat for the grinder."
One of the caged prisoners sneered at them.
"You're gonna get right fucked up the arse in the big house."
Another prisoner of Jamaican dissent joined in.
"Pigs, you won't last a week in Liverpool. You're getting shanked blood!"
Johnson scraped his baton along the wire mesh, riling up his detainees.
"This is what happens to bent coppers."
He strided back to the front of the van, slamming the door, leaving the prisoners to stew. Gunner shoved Grey and Turner into separate cages, strapping each onto a steel bench with a frigid smile.
The prisoners began to taunt Grey and Turner, while the last traces of their former authority began to strip away.
A man with a shaved head, wearing a scar across his face, spat a lump of spittle at Grey; however, it missed and landed on the floor with a wet splash, and the hulking man just laughed. Another prisoner, with a tattooed teardrop under his eye, tried to spit at Turner; this one just stuck to the mesh of the cage and dripped down.
"Turner, we have been double-crossed by Petrov and Uncle; it has to be them? We're going to get killed the moment we step foot in that prison."
"If it makes you feel any better, guv, I don't see myself having any sangria anytime soon."
"But we can't give up. We have to find a way to escape."
"How? We're chained up in the back of a van with a bunch of hardened nutcases," Turner said, motioning to those around them.
"I don't know. But we have to try. For our families. For ourselves."
The van rumbled to life. Gunner and Brummie watched Grey and Turner, talking under their breath, the engine drowning out the wild screams and taunts. Grey watched the racetrack disintegrate into the faraway world through the small, purple-tinted window. Now he was just another number in the prison system. Another cog in the machine.
Grey studied the men across from them: one gaunt and twitchy, the other broad and cruel. Whether they would become allies or enemies, their presence hinted at the challenges ahead in the more comprehensive prison.
The van plodded through busy city streets, trapped in traffic, and every few minutes brought the sound of a nearby engine or a car horn blaring. A pregnant silence prevailed eventually, now that the novelty had worn off of having a couple of coppers for company. Even the most boisterous prisoners seemed subdued.
Grey tried focusing on Julia and the kids, imagining their smiling faces. But he could not escape the prison van’s slow, inexorable progress. Each stoplight and each turn carried him further from his old life.
He felt the van turn a corner, picking up speed now. Carrying them forward into the bleak, gray dawn of their new reality.
HMP Liverpool soon blurred into his view. They drove through the iron-gated archway, swallowing the van as it rolled to a stop within the secure courtyard. Johnson's calculating face appeared as the side doors were wrenched open, revealing the daunting facade of the Victorian prison. Its high walls and watchtowers projected like dark silhouettes across the yard. A palpable aura of gloom and despair emanated from its decaying exterior.
"Brummie, Gunner, you take them in," Johnson instructed.
"It will be an honor," Gunner replied.
Gunner and Brummie guided Grey and Turner past the cages, parading them in front of the inmates like a couple of show ponies. The hulking man with the scarred face and the prisoner with the teardrop tattoo gawked with hatred in their eyes. As Grey and Turner walked by, the hulking man hawked and spat. This time his aim was true, and a thick glob of saliva hit Grey square in the face. Turner was then struck by a spray of spittle from the teardropped tattooed prisoner.
Grey clenched, wiping the drool, and he peeked at Turner. Though humiliation burned inside, they had to let the insult slide. For now, more challenges awaited.
Gunner laughed out loud. "Welcome to the zoo, boys. The monkeys are gonna be well excited to meet the new arrivals.
He shoved Grey and Turner out of the prison van into the glaring afternoon sun. They squinted, shielding their eyes from the blinding light. The towering red-brick walls of HMP Liverpool seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. Grey felt the grit of concrete, surrounded by brown cigarette butts underfoot.
Barbed wire surrounded the perimeter with a series of walled courtyards, each the size of a football field. Guard towers stood every two hundred yards. The buildings themselves were in poor condition, with crumbling red brickwork.
"It's not exactly the Ritz, is it, guv?" Turner said, his voice stained with gallows sarcasm.
"No doubt, Turner, I'm certain we'll encounter some familiar faces that we've helped put within these walls."
Grey winced in pain as Gunner's baton pressed into his kidneys.
"No time for idle talk, girls. Let's keep moving," Brummie commanded.
"Give him another one, Gunner."
Grey gasped, trying to catch his breath.
"Let me guess. Your twiddle dum and your twiddle dee. I bet you were both too stupid to pass the police entrance exam."
"Speaking of entrances, we have a special one reserved just for both of you. Now move forward," said Gunner.
With a hard push, they crossed the final third of the yard. The cries of the inmates grew louder from the small air vents above. It felt like they were being marched into a hive of angry bees. They approached a heavy set of doors, with Gunner forcing them to a halt. He yanked them open and pushed them through.
"Say goodbye to your nice civilian clothes, boys."
Once inside, Grey and Turner were greeted by several gloved and ready British prison guards, waiting like a wolf pack, as Constable Johnson was at a desk filling in their paperwork ready to collect their belongings. The preprocessing room was banal, except for a few posters warning of the penalties for smuggling contraband into the prison. In the center was a long metal table, with two chairs on either side with surveillance cameras strategically placed to maintain constant monitoring and reduce blind spots.
"Time for another striptease," Gunner teased.
"But we have already been searched," Turner snapped.
"What search was that, Turner? I don't remember no search; what do you think, Brummie?"
"Yeah, Gunner, what strip search was that? What do you think, Grey?"
"I want to see my solicitor, and while I'm at it, I am going to file a full complaint report when I get out of here."
"I think you're getting a little bit confused. Who said anything about you getting out? Oh, and by the way, your services in the police force have been terminated," Gunner said.
Johnson finished processing the paperwork.
"Strip 'em, and take them to D wing."
"We haven't got any choice, Guv."
"Just suck it up, Turner. We will get this straightened out somehow."
Gunner and Brummie exchanged a look as the guards stepped forward, ready to conduct another round of intrusive body searches. Once again, Grey and Turner had to bend over while the guards tossed their belongings into bin liners. With their handover complete, Gunner and Brummie strolled out, engaged in a casual conversation.
"Brummie, fancy going for a pint?" Gunner asked with a hint of mischief in his tone.
"Why, Gunner, I don't mind if I do," Brummie replied, a mischievous grin forming on his face.
"What about the Lion? They have the good bitter on tap."
After Brummie and Gunner agreed to go to the lion, Grey, and Turner were taken to be deloused. The delousing room was covered in a thick layer of dust. Plastic stalls waited for them, like tombs. Prison guards wearing gas masks and white overalls were already dousing the naked inmates from the prison van. Add to that, the smell was like a concoction of ammonia and bleach, like someone had just emptied a bottle of drain cleaner. Once they had finished with the influx of naked bodies, officers took them over.
"In here," the officers said.
"Stand in the stalls; stand under the shower."
Grey and Turner found themselves separated by a high partition, under the occasional drip from the rusty shower heads. The officers closed the stall doors and began spraying the powder all over them, from head to toe.
Caustic powder scratched and irritated Grey and Turner's eyes, making them watery and blurring their vision.
"Take a shower and get out of the stalls," they ordered from behind masks that muffled their voices.
After showering, Grey and Turner were given a fresh pair of gray shirts, pants, and standard-issue footwear. Then two prison guards swooped them off through the control access point of the Sally port onto a dreary concrete corridor. It was the ear-shattering bang and squeak of the Sally port slamming shut that announced their entry, fully immersing them in the prison environment.
They knew they were in for a rough time in D Wing.
"This is it, guv. This is where we're going to spend the rest of our lives. They don't let anybody out for treason."
“No shit Sherlock! I don't need you to point out the obvious. I know we're fucked!”
Industrial overhead lamps bathed drab gray battle-shipped concrete walls, scarred with age and scuffs from years of calloused hands and scuffles. The harsh glow assaulted Grey's senses, stepping onto the landing. Scattered shouts and curses flew in a stream from one of the cells as they passed, followed by the sounds of fists pounding on doors.
Grey and Turner stumbled along, hands cuffed behind their backs.
Other prisoners surveyed Grey and Turner through the tiny windows of their confining cells, scarcely larger than closets. A Chinese whisper rippled through the hallway as inmates passed the newcomers' names on a piece of paper. Shouts of pigs and scum bounced off the other levels of the landings.
Violence could erupt at any moment on the D wing, where the most dangerous men in Britain now shared their home.
They arrived in front of one of the doors on the landing.
"Welcome to your new home," one of the guards sneered, pressing them inside.
The cell door slammed shut, followed by the echoing clang of the locks sliding violently into place with boots walking away. Their cramped, filthy cell had a metal toilet, a double bunk with thin, soiled mattresses, and a cold-looking sink. A stench of decay saturated everything.
Grey and Turner looked forlornly at the lone barred window on the wall. Outside the prison, distant sirens and cries could be heard. A harsh warning that the door to the free world was now shut forever.
Through the small vent, they could see the exercise yard. Prisoners milled about listlessly or clustered in small groups exchanging items discreetly. A fight broke out, bringing guards running with batons drawn.
They sat side by side on the lower bunk when suddenly, the small flap of their cell door slid open. A woman appeared in the gap, her face somber but authoritative.
Grey and Turner exchanged stunned looks.
"What a surprise! Chief Superintendent Maya Khan, the new puppet head of Scotland Yard, what are you doing here?" Grey said dryly.
"I suspect you have something to do with us being here," Turner said in anger.
"It's not like you think. I'm sorry, but my hands are tied."
"Tied by who exactly?" quizzed Grey.
"I have very little time to explain; I'm being watched."
"Then spit it out, then, you daft woman!" said Grey.
"You have been set up by MI6 and Downing Street with Victor Petrov."
Grey and Turner sprang to their feet and approached the opening.
"What have they planted on us? I need to know." Grey asked.
"Petrov, Blackwell, Aurelia Ironheart. They are all in on it. They forged documents with Interpol, which found you both guilty of money laundering with Russia."
"Bollocks, we've been set up. How can we get out of it?" Turner said.
"You can't. All I can offer is what I know, which you're in no position to verify."
She leaned closer. "The corruption is from the top down; with Russia's meddling, you never had a chance. I'm only telling you this because you both deserve to know the injustice being done to you."
"Is there a trial? What is our prison term? There must be a paper trail somewhere; can you get us a solicitor?" Grey demanded.
Knan started to close the flap by sliding it.
"You can't—not from inside. The only justice open to you now is your own. I'm sorry, I have to go."
Grey called out through the door.
"Wait! Hold on, give us another minute."
"She's gone, guv. That's the only pass we got. What do you think she's really up to?"
"I don't trust her, Turner. She's part of the system that set us up; I'm sure of it."
"I'm with you, guv. But we have no allies, not a bloody legal leg to stand on, and to be fair, you did commit treason against the royal family. And what about the animals we are locked up with? They are going to have a field day."
"Turner," Grey said, stopping him in his tracks.
"We're going to escape."
Turner looked at him in surprise. "What? How?"
"I don't know yet," Grey said. "But I'm going to find a way."
"But how?" Turner asked again.
"We're locked up in here with the most dangerous criminals in Britain. We'll never make it out alive."
Grey sat back down in silence, his mind working furiously.
"Turner, if we get killed in here, none of it matters anyway."