"Higgins, Jack - Violent Enemy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

The door opened again and the Principal Officer came in. 'He's here, sir.'

The Governor nodded. 'Let's get it over with, then.'

Outside, Drake stood beside the door waiting, and Rogan leaned against the wall, arms folded as he stared through the window at the end of the corridor.

Life was, on the whole, an act of faith. He'd read that somewhere once, but twenty years of hard living, of violence and the dark places had taught him to look only for the unexpected on the other side of each new hill.

Everyone in the place, including the screws, expected his pardon to go through. To Rogan, that was sufficient reason in itself for something to go wrong. When the door opened and the Principal Officer called him in, he was prepared for the worst.

The presence of Vanbrugh confirmed what was already apparent from the atmosphere in the office, and he stood in front of the desk, hands behind his back and looked out of the window over the Governor's head. He noticed that the trees on the hill beyond the wall were stripped quite bare of leaves now and the untidy nests of the rookery were clearly exposed to view. He watched a rook flap lazily through the air from one tree to another and became aware that the Governor was speaking to him.

'We've had a communication from the Home Office, Rogan. Chief Superintendent Vanbrugh brought it down with him specially.'

Rogan turned slightly to face Vanbrugh, and the big policeman got to his feet, suddenly awkward. 'I'm sorry, Sean. Damned sorry.'

'Then there's nothing to be said, is there?'

The hard shell with which he had surrounded himself was something they could not penetrate. In the heavy silence, the Governor glanced helplessly at Vanbrugh, then sighed.

'I think you'd better come in from the quarry for a while, Rogan.'

'Permanently, sir?' Rogan said calmly.

The Governor swallowed hard. 'We'll see how you go on.'

'Very well, sir."

Rogan turned and walked to the door without waiting for the Principal Officer's order. He stood in the corridor, face expressionless, aware of the murmur of voices as the door closed behind him.

'You can go now, Drake,' the Principal Officer said, then turned to Rogan and said briskly, 'All right, Rogan.'

They went downstairs and crossed the courtyaid to one

of the blocks. Rogan stood waiting for the door to be unlocked, aware from the expression on the Duty Officer's face that he knew, which wasn't particularly surprising. Within another half hour every con, every screw in the place would know.

The prison had been constructed in the reform era of the nineteenth century on a system commonly found in Her Majesty's prisons. Half a dozen three-tiered cell blocks radiated like the spokes of a wheel from a central hall which lifted a hundred feet into the gloom to an iron framed dome.

For reasons of safety each cell block was separated from the central hall by a curtain of steel mesh. The Principal Officer unlocked the gate into D block and motioned Rogan through.

They mounted an iron staircase to the top landing, boxed in with more steel mesh to prevent anyone who felt like it from taking a dive over the rail. His cell was at the far end of the landing and he paused, waiting for the Principal Officer to unlock the door.

As it opened, Rogan took a step forward and the Principal Officer said, 'Don't try anything silly. You've everything to lose now.'

Rogan swung round, his iron control snapping for a brief moment so that the man recoiled from the savage anger that blazed in the grey eyes. He slammed the door shut quickly, turning the key in the lock.

Rogan turned slowly. The cell was only six by ten with a small barred window, and a washbasin and fixed toilet had been added in an attempt at modernization. A single bed ran along each wall.

A man was lying on one of them reading a magazine. He looked about sixty-five, with very white hair, and eyes a vivid blue in a wrinkled humorous face.