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Dr Frank Ryan is CMO to Harmon Penitentiary,
Europe’s most dangerous jail. Holding terrorists,
serial killers, gang leaders, drug barons, arsonists
and sex felons the Dublin institution is a seething,
violent and drug-ridden hell with high rates of HIV
and Hepatitis. Frank Ryan considers it perfect. The
doctor has a strong interest in prisoner health issues
and wants to further his research.
But Harmon simmers with mystery and intrigue, its inmates
constantly plotting, always trying new scams. Soon Ryan
is embroiled in a chaos of criminality. Lured from his
fortress apartment in the dead of night he is attacked
and abducted. When finally set free he discovers his
girlfriend Lisa is missing, his ordeal denied by everyone,
including police protectors and government ministers.
All enquiries are met with lies, misinformation and
betrayal. Determined to resolve the mystery and find
Lisa, Ryan teams up with cell block king Dan Steele
and goes to the very heart of the jail where he believes
the conspiracy hatched.
Now his nightmare really begins.
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| Read
the opening pages of Betrayal |
The ringing
tone finally penetrated my sleeping brain. I groped in
the dark and found the receiver, succeeding only in knocking
it off my bedside locker and somewhere in the distance
a tinny voice called out. Reaching over the edge of the
bed I found the coiled wire and slowly dragged the phone
upwards. The red digits on my alarm clock flicked to three
thirty and I sensed immediately whoever was calling wasn’t
bringing good news.
“Yeah?”
“Dr Ryan?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to disturb you but we need you at the prison
right away.”
I groaned, not tonight of all nights. It was February
12th and freezing outside. For the previous four days
Arctic gales had buffeted the east coast of Ireland, icing
roads and leaving snow on high grounds. The wind chill
made it even more dangerous along Dublin’s dark
and wet streets and the met office was advising against
unnecessary journeys. So I was in no mood to be dragged
out at such an ungodly hour, especially as I was very
comfortable curled up beside my girlfriend, Lisa. I could
feel her stir as I pulled myself into an upright position
and arched away from her body.
“What’s up?” I was whispering so quietly
I wondered could I be heard.
“We’ve had a suicide.”
Dammit, not another. Now I was wide-awake and trying to
get my thoughts in order. This was the fourth at Harmon
jail in six months. The media would have a field day.
“What happened?”
“Convict in J-Wing found hanged about an hour ago.”
“Any more details?” I was half out of the
bed and feeling for my boxers. My hand brushed against
Lisa’s naked backside and for a delicious moment
I left it there before rummaging at the bottom of the
duvet. I discovered them and Lisa’s panties at the
same time and had to block out some very carnal images.
“Not much. I think it’s a young guy in on
an assault charge. He was only processed today.”
I kept the phone pressed to my ear with a shoulder and
flicked on a sidelight. Now I could see my clothes, scattered
to the corners of the room where I’d dropped them
in a lustful hurry to get into bed. Lisa was already there,
wearing a half smile and little else. Just a minute.”
I had one leg inside my trousers and was skipping to connect
with the other. And my mind was racing. The caller said
the dead man was found in J-wing but J-wing had been closed
for the past week for refits. Also, he was ‘a young
guy in on an assault charge.’ Not true, I thought.
Newly processed prisoners are never put into J-wing because
it harbours dangerous recidivists. Moving this group of
psychos to another centre while the repair work was going
on had been a national emergency. Army, air force and
armed police had escorted the convoy of murderers as it
trundled to a hastily commandeered barracks outside the
city. “Where is he now?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know that.”
I tried to link the voice to a face but it wouldn’t
come. It was male, sounded youngish, maybe thirty or forty,
but there was no accent to give me a clue. I pulled a
vest, then a heavy sweater over my head and buckled my
belt.
“I mean is he still in the cell? Did anyone touch
him?” There were specific guidelines for prison
suicides including resuscitation procedures and as sole
doctor to the facility such attention to detail made my
life a lot easier in subsequent inquiries. Resuscitation
efforts often leave marks on the body that can be mistaken
for assault injuries. Equally, leaving a corpse as discovered
helps in murder cases. In Harmon penitentiary it wasn’t
uncommon for feuds to be settled with a contrived self-hanging.
Usually the efforts were clumsy and required little more
than common sense and basic forensic skills to know the
man dangling from his window bars had first been throttled,
then dragged to the cell and strung up. Getting witnesses
was the problem. Despite forty-four prisoners to a block
nobody ever saw anything. So as I slipped on my overcoat
I was trying to get as many facts as possible. But the
line went dead leaving me listening to a dialling tone.
Then, about two seconds later I heard a distinct click
and I stared at the receiver, puzzled. A husky voice interrupted
my thoughts. “What’s wrong Frank? Why are
you dressed?” Lisa cocked an eye at me from behind
the safety of a pillow. I leaned over and kissed her lightly
on the forehead and warm fingertips caressed the back
of my neck, making my skin tingle. “I have to go
out.”
Lisa squinted at the digital clock. “At this hour?”
The duvet slipped down from her breasts, distracting me
totally. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her
long blond hair, coiling a tress between my fingers and
brushing it against her face making her crinkle her nose.
But I was in a rush and decided this was not the time
to explain the significance of prison suicides. “I’ve
had a call,” I offered, searching for the right
lie. “One of the inmates is throwing up and they
want to know should he be moved out of his cell. They’re
worried he could start an epidemic.” It was as good
as I could come up with considering the time and my need
to flee. And, as always, I was trying to shield Lisa from
the darker side of my work. But in the back of my head
worrying thoughts niggled. Was someone listening in on
that conversation? Then, have the newspapers been tipped
off? If so I would face a barrage of cameras when I arrived
at the massive steel gates in front of the jail.
“I hate that job you do.” Lisa pulled the
duvet over her shoulders and pouted. “Why don’t
you get a proper hospital position like every other doctor?”
“This conversation is going no-where,” I said
as I reached for my Gladstone bag. I flicked open the
lock and checked I had a full complement of emergency
drugs, needles and syringes. The patient who awaited me
wouldn’t need medical attention but from past experience
I knew it looked good to arrive fully prepared. So into
the bag went my stethoscope, auriscope and compact sphygmomanometer.
I made sure everything was in place including a nine-millimetre
Beretta handgun. Without removing it from the Gladstone
I snapped a full magazine into position and checked the
safety catch. Fortunately Lisa didn’t hear the ratchet
of metal against metal, the gun issue really freaked her
out. “I work at Harmon because that’s where
the pathology is.” I stuffed a stun grenade into
my right pocket and a can of Mace into the left. “Where
else can I see patients with AIDS, hepatitis B and C and
a multitude of other infections all under one roof?”
I closed the lock on the Gladstone and stood up. “They’re
human beings just like you and me and don’t deserve
to be abandoned like dogs. I treat them and at the same
time further my research. Now that’s the last time
I’m going to defend this.” Lisa put on her
hurt look, a cross between a frown and a come-on and I
had to steel myself from crawling back in beside her.
“Hurry back,” she cooed. “We could have
breakfast in bed.” She fluttered her eyelashes provocatively
and blew me a kiss. “Afterwards.” For a daft
moment I almost said after what?
The front door to my apartment is bullet proof. There
is a quarter-inch of steel plate bolted to the heavy-duty
wooden frame and five separate locks for added protection,
including a three-minute time delay mechanism. I slid
the top and bottom free and then turned keys in the two
Chubbs and waited. I yawned and scratched my stubble and
pressed a switch to my right. Seconds later a TV monitor
fixed to the wall flickered and then glowed. The digital
sharp colour CCTV image showed puddles rippling in the
wind and sheets of rain but the front entry to the complex
was clear with no suspicious movements or shadows. Recently
I’d become a failed expert on shadows after calling
out an armed response unit when I spotted dodgy shading
on the ground underneath my car. It turned out to be an
oil leak and this discovery did little for my credibility.
Still, the Justice Department insisted on strict security
precautions including firearms training, wearing a Combo
SPV stab proof vest when on duty and living in an apartment
structured like a fortress. Harmon prison was run by the
prisoners and solely for the prisoners’ benefit.
To the cellblock bosses the governor and warders were
no more than peripheral figureheads. And while the position
of Penitentiary Chief Medical Officer sounded grand in
reality it was the job from hell. My immediate predecessor
had been brutally murdered in front of his family because
he’d refused to smuggle heroin into the jail for
a notorious drugs baron. The word along the wings was
the system had to be taught a lesson. Before that four
other doctors had packed their medical kits and quit after
a few months, unable to handle the intimidation and harassment.
One found he was being shadowed by a Glasgow hit man while
another had bullets sent to him through the post. The
other two resigned when they discovered their children
were being tailed to and from school. So in many ways
that’s why I was an ideal candidate for the vacancy
when it was advertised. I was a tall and strong single
thirty year old. I did have a beautiful girl friend but
she was showing no signs of settling into a permanent
relationship and not considered a risk. In addition, as
an Australian national with no family ties in Ireland
the crime lords couldn’t target my siblings or parents.
More importantly I was genuinely interested in prisoner
health issues, especially the scourges of HIV and hepatitis,
and wanted to carry out a research project where the subjects
would stay in the same place. In Harmon few of the inmates
were going anywhere, many on life stretches.
The facility was a Victorian dump with the dubious reputation
as Europe’s most dangerous prison. Built in castellated
style the ten-acre site resembled a razor wire stronghold
from the outside. The perimeter walls were sixty feet
high and fifteen feet wide with viewing towers every hundred
yards. The five holding wings shot out like spokes on
a wheel with upper and lower levels. The design allowed
end-to-end observation of all cellblocks from a central
HQ, which was a semi-circle bulletproof glass unit with
a battery of CCTV and listening devices. Solid lock steel
doors, multiple rolls of razor wire and crash bollards
protected the entrance. In a country that took great pride
in having an unarmed police force, this high security
institution was its sole exception. After a series of
hostage taking scares, knife attacks on warders and two
cellblock riots the authorities were forced to adopt a
harsher regime, including the use of firearms with live
ammunition. The measures reduced the number of violent
incidents but didn’t enhance the prison’s
standing. A visiting committee of human rights lawyers
described it as a diseased and drug-ridden nightmare and
after twelve months working there I found it hard to disagree
with them. There had been a number of attempts to escape
over the years, including a recent daring helicopter drop
into the exercise yard. However no one had actually succeeded
and the remains of the helicopter is on show somewhere
as a reminder of what can happen when seven Uzi submachine
guns let rip at the same target at the same time. Inside
the blocks were strictly segregated with separate eating
and exercise regimes. Wings A and B detained terrorists
and increasingly this meant Islamic extremists caught
with bomb making equipment and literature linking them
to al-Qaeda. There was also a small quota of diehard IRA
volunteers determined to shoot Ireland free from British
oppression. Blocks C and D were the lock-ups for murderers,
serial killers and arsonists while wings E and F kept
violent sex offenders. The row of cells on landings G
and H were reserved for less physically vicious types
such as counterfeiters, fraudsters, con men and Internet
child porn perverts. There was also a women’s wing
but no woman doctor so I visited that unit twice a week.
J-wing, where I was headed, was the most dangerous division
of all.
I changed CCTV camera angles and inspected the immediate
corridor outside which seemed clear. Then I surveyed
the well-lit stairwell and street level halls. They
were deserted with the audio links silent, not even
a draught picked up by the hidden microphones. A separate
button activated halogen lights on all sides of the
apartment building and I switched to outside views.
The small car park was empty apart from three cars and
driving rain. The six-year-old badly dented Saab belonged
to me while the other two I recognised as owned by a
couple living on the ground floor. I don’t much
care for cars, unlike some doctors who spend much of
their time coveting top-of-the-range Mercs and BMW’s
and Porsches. I prefer public transport but Harmon penitentiary
is five miles away through narrow streets and busy roads
so my beloved but neglected Saab kept me mobile. I clipped
my personal alarm pager onto my belt and tested the
batteries. Then I turned the Yale lock, stepped outside
and waited until the door shut behind me. For a moment
I stood still and tried to collect my thoughts. The
click on the telephone line still bothered me and I
considered going back to check that the message had
actually come from the prison. Then the clunk of bolts
self-engaging echoed along the passage. I knew the time
delay mechanism had also re-connected. The hallway was
freezing and I was anxious to get the call over with
so I pressed ahead.
I was half way down the stairs when the niggling doubts
became major worries. The J-wing mistake jarred, it’s
significance too important for a simple error. Shifting
the recidivist inmates had caused a major stir, not
easily forgotten. Why didn’t I read the caller
ID? And the click on the line, was someone listening
in? I stopped in my tracks, my heart thumping in my
chest. Relax; I told myself, this could still be an
error. It could be a genuine request with the warder
just getting the blocks mixed up. Then the lights went
out, plunging the building into darkness. I felt ice
course up and down my spine.
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