My coffee steams in the sharp chill of the interview room. This September has been arctic. The guard in the room with me here in Pentonville looks like an extra from the TV series T. J. Hooker. His physique appears to be ten percent hat and ninety percent barrel chest. Maybe I’m being unfair? He’s definitely more focused this morning than I am. I feel like I’m half asleep, stuck in an extended jet lag. I remember the sky back in Bora Bora, the heat on my limbs, the bright clear days.
I hope I wake up soon.
What if the rest of my life is just a waking dream, trapped here forever? I think of Mark, out there in the cold, somewhere on the bustling streets of London. He’s looking into office spaces for the new firm this morning. It all seems to be becoming a reality now. He’s meeting Hector at a notary later today to sign some paperwork. It’s all getting very exciting.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I decline the call. It’s Phil again. He’s furious we’re dropping Holli from the doc; I emailed him first thing this morning and he’s already called three times. He’s not happy. There’s a missed call from Fred too. He wants to see the footage I’ve got so far. He’s interested. He’ll want to dissect the wedding too, no doubt. It’s pretty rare that a BAFTA-winning, Oscar-nominated director would ever have even a passing interest in a first-time film like mine, but that’s nepotism for you. Or maybe it’s not. I mean, we’re not related; he just gave me my first job, somehow I managed not to fuck it up, and he’s been watching over me ever since. Plus he gave me away. I’d love to give him some of the footage, but of course, SO15 has most of my footage. Explaining that to Fred will take more time than I have right now.
The cage buzzer in the hall rumbles. Unlike the room at Holloway, this one has no door, only an archway leading out into the corridor. I wince at the off-white prison walls and tell myself to perk up. Life could definitely be worse. It could always be worse.
The buzzer sounds again.
I look up and see Eddie Bishop, sixty-nine, handsome, through the archway as he heads down the squeaky linoleum corridor, led by another guard.
Although Eddie’s wearing the same gray marl tracksuit that all the inmates wear, it doesn’t quite hang the same on Eddie. He might as well be wearing one of the three-piece suits I’ve seen him wear in countless research photos. He’s got gravitas. But perhaps I think that because I know his crimes, his history.
He looks like a cockney Cary Grant; God knows how he stays so tanned in prison.
He sees me, gives me a smile. Why are bad boys always so attractive?
I suppose, at the end of the day, if you’re not good-looking you don’t get away with being a bad boy. You just get called a thug.
He pulls out his chair and sits. Here we finally are. Me and Eddie Bishop.
There’re smiles all around. Then T. J. Hooker pipes up.
“You all right, Eddie? Need anything? Water?” His tone is friendly, pally. We’re all friends here.
Eddie turns back, slow, smooth.
“Nah, Jimmy. All good here. Thanks very much.” His voice is cheery. Today’s a good day.
“No problem. Just give us a shout if you need anything.” Jimmy looks to the other guard now, the one who brought Eddie in, and gives him a nod. Both wander through the archway and out into the corridor. “We’ll be down the hall in the break room.” Jimmy’s talking to Eddie, not me. And with that they both disappear from view, their shoes squeaking away, leaving me staring wide-eyed after them.
Why are they leaving? I haven’t even turned on the camera yet! This is definitely not normal. No one mentioned this to me in the briefing yesterday. They’ve left me alone in a room with Eddie Bishop.
I wonder if I should be scared. I think of the answerphone messages. Eddie’s killed a lot of people, or had a lot of people killed. There are stories—books full of stories—of torture, kidnap, assault, and everything else that happened in the Richardson Gang and Eddie’s forty years at large. Urban myths. Nothing provable, of course, no solid evidence, no witnesses.
I suppose I should be scared but I’m not. And suddenly it dawns on me: I never could figure out why Eddie had agreed to do the documentary with me. He must have had a million offers to tell his story but he’s never said yes. He has no need to, and no inclination, from what I can work out. But now, sitting across from him, unguarded, the camera beside me still not turned on, I realize I missed something important. There must be something in this meeting for him. Eddie needs something. And I suppose I need something too, don’t I? My heart skips a beat. There it is. Fear.
I turn on the camera. He smiles.
“Lights, camera, action, aye?” He extends a hand across the table, slow. He’s being careful not to spook me. He must know the effect he has on people. His singular brand of magic.
“Nice to finally meet you, Erin, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. I’m a millennial woman, I’ve read my Adichie, my Greer, my Wollstonecraft, but him calling me “sweetheart” is, somehow, fine. It seems strangely innocent coming from him, of another time.
“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bishop,” I answer. I take his hand across the Formica tabletop; he rotates my hand to the top, his thumb over the back of my hand—it’s a squeeze, not a shake, a delicate squeeze. I’m a lady and he’s a man and he’s letting me know.
“Call me Eddie.” The whole display is so old school it’s laughable, but it works.
I smile in spite of myself. I blush.
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” I say, almost giggling. Excellent, I’m an idiot. I take back my hand.
Focus, Erin. Down to business now. I sort out my tone. Reset my professional face.
“I suppose we should get this out of the way first, shouldn’t we? Thank you for the champagne. Much appreciated.” I meet his gaze; I want him to know I’m not intimidated.
He gives me a sly smile. He nods. You’re welcome. After a pause he replies, for the camera, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. If they don’t sell it in the prison tuckshop, it ain’t from me. It sounds like a nice little present, though. What’s the occasion?” He raises his eyebrows innocently.
I understand. The camera is rolling, so we’re playing it like this. We won’t be mentioning the answerphone messages either then? Very good. I give him a nod. I understand.
I get back on script. “Is there anything you want to ask before we get going?” I’m eager to move on now; we don’t have as much time as I’d like.
He straightens up in his seat, readies himself, rolls up his sleeves.
“No questions. Ready when you are, sweetheart.”
“Okay, then. If you could give us your name, conviction, and sentence please, Eddie.”
“Eddie Bishop. Convicted for money laundering. Seven years. Release is coming up before Christmas. Which’ll be nice. My favorite time of year.” And we’re off. He looks relaxed, at ease.
He raises his brows, What next?
“What do you think about your trial, Eddie? The sentencing?” He’s not going to incriminate himself on film, I know that, but he’ll give as much as he can; he likes playing chicken with authority—I’ve read his court transcripts.
“What do I think of the sentence? Well, Erin, interesting that you should ask that.” The smile is sardonic now. He’s amused, playful. “I’ll be honest with you: not much. Don’t think much of the sentence. They’d been trying to get me on something for thirty years, tried all sorts and I’ve been acquitted of all sorts over the years, as I’m sure you know. It seems to me they’ve got a problem with a Lambeth lad making good, making an honest living. It’s not supposed to go that way, is it? They couldn’t make any of it stick till now; any other man might have got slightly offended, if you know what I mean. Only a matter of time before something stuck. If you want to find something enough, it always turns up in the end. One way or another, if you catch my meaning.” He leaves that floating in the air. I think we all know enough about the sixties and seventies to guess that the police force might have been a little shadier then. He’s suggesting they planted evidence to frame him. I don’t disagree.
“But what can I say? My bookkeeping isn’t what it should be, at the end of the day. Yeah, never was very good with numbers. Dyscalculic. Didn’t pay much attention in school,” he continues, tongue, quite obviously, in cheek.
“Course it wasn’t diagnosed back then, was it? Dyscalculia? They just thought you were messing about, or retarded. And I was a quick kid, you know, in other ways, so they just thought I was pissing about. Winding ’em up. Different story in schools now, though, ain’t it? Got two grandkids. I didn’t stay in school too long, wasn’t suited to it. So in a way I suppose it was only a matter of time before I slipped up on my sums, wasn’t it?” He smiles warm and wide.
I’m pretty sure he’s got an accountant. I’m pretty sure that accountant was at the trial.
It’s astonishing that he can stick his finger right up in everyone’s faces the way he has for the past few decades—bait the system and get away with it. But not only does he get away with it, I want him to get away with it. I’m rooting for him. Everyone is. For his brand of jaunty cockney psychopathy. It’s fun. It doesn’t seem like real modern, raw, bone-and-gristle crime; it seems like the Pearly Kings, and pie and mash, and I’ll-be-mother. Good old-fashioned British crime. Homegrown, Brexit crime. Bob Hoskins, Danny Dyer, Barbara Windsor, The Italian Job, hatchet-in-the-trunk-of-the-car crime.
“Okay.” I lean forward. I want him to know I’ll play his game. “You’re not going to tell me about the Richardsons or any of it, are you, Eddie?” I just need to know what game we’re playing.
“Erin, sweetheart, I will tell you anything you ask, my darling. I’m an open book. I might not know the answers to some of your questions, but I’ll certainly give it a go. So, how ’bout a smile?” He gives me a roguish tilt of the head.
I really can’t help myself; it’s ludicrous, but I’m enjoying this. I smile, with all my teeth.
“Thanks very much, Eddie. In that case, can you tell us about Charlie Richardson, head of the Richardson Gang, what was he like?” I think I understand the rules now. Ask around things, ask opinions, no facts.
“He was an awful fucking human being…but in the nicest possible way. Awful fucking human beings sometimes are.” He sighs. “It’s all been said about the Richardsons already. Everyone involved in all that old East End stuff is dead now anyway. You can’t rat on the dead and I certainly wouldn’t speak ill of the dead…but Charlie was a nasty fella. I never physically saw him do any torture. But he’d talk about it. He used the power generator from a dismantled WWII bomber to electrocute them. He’d torture ’em, slice ’em, scare ’em until they told him whatever he wanted. I asked him once, ‘How do you know they’re not lying to you if you torture ’em?’ He said, ‘They lie until they get to the point where they turn into little children and all they can do is tell the truth.’ But you see, that’s not what I was asking him. What I meant was: what if they’d told you the truth to begin with and you kept on torturing ’em until they made up some old shit? That never occurred to Charlie. I didn’t ask again. Different generation, Charlie was. Thought he knew what was what. But torture’s never worked. You’ve got to respect people, right, Erin? If you want respect, then you need to make sure you’re respectful. Let people die with a little dignity. It’s up to them if they lived with it. No one can say you did wrong in this life if you treated people with respect.”
I’m not sure that’s entirely true, but I push on.
“Did you treat people with respect, Eddie?” I ask. It seems important to ask.
He looks up at me, eyes hooded.
“Yeah. Always have, always will. But you don’t sign up for certain things without knowing the rules, Erin. And if you’ve signed up for the game, then you can’t complain when you lose. You got to lose with dignity is all; a good sportsman always lets people lose with dignity.” He pauses, studies me.
He’s weighing me up. He wants to say something. I give him a moment but he looks away, changes his mind.
There’s silence. He seems distracted, his mind elsewhere. We’re getting close to dangerous territory. I can feel it.
I change the subject to something lighter.
“What do you think you’ll do first? When they let you out. Do you have anything in particular you’d like to do?” I plow on. I need to keep the energy up.
“Turn it off.” He looks at me hard, unflinching. His charm has suddenly vanished. I instantly feel sweat prickling along the back of my neck.
The silence is thick between us. My heart is hammering. I can’t interpret this situation anymore. There are no social cues to read; I have no frame of reference.
“Turn the camera off. Now.” He is motionless. Solid, immovable. Dangerous.
I fumble to turn it off. I don’t know why, but I do as I’m told. It’s the worst possible idea in this situation but there is no other option. I could call out to the guards, but this isn’t like that. It’s not that sort of situation. Something else is going on here. I want to know what it is. I do what he says.
The red light fades out.
“Is everything all right, Eddie?” I don’t know why I ask him this. He’s clearly fine. I’m the one whose hands are shaking.
“You’re all right, sweetheart. Calm down.” His face has softened. His tone is gentle now. My shoulders slowly release. I hadn’t realized that they were clenched.
“Sorry if I scared you, love. But here it is…I, um? Right, well…” He seems engaged in an internal battle.
And then it comes. “I want to ask you something. I wanted to ask you before, over the phone, but it wasn’t possible to discuss at the time and I don’t want it on camera. I’m going to ask you for a favor. If I’m totally honest, sweetheart, it’s the only reason I’m doing this interview with you. You give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want. So there we are. Now listen up; I’m not going to say it twice.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Although, to be honest, I haven’t got a clue what is happening. I wonder if this is the reason he’s been leaving me those messages. If he has been leaving me messages?
“I’m not used to asking favors, so bear with me.” He clears his throat. “It’s a personal matter. I find this sort of thing quite…stressful. And at my age I try and steer clear of stress, you know how it is. I need you to do something for me. Will you do something for me, sweetheart?”
He is watching me. I swallow. And then I remember that he probably wants an actual answer. My mind kicks up into another gear. What will I have to do? Oh God. Please do not be sexual.
Shut up, Erin. Of course it’s not going to be sexual.
“Um, I’m…What kind of thing?” I keep my tone as steady as I can manage.
“I made some mistakes, in my life, you know. With my family. Maybe. My wife, definitely, but I know that’s all done, that’s over. Fine. I’m okay with that.” He brushes it aside. “But I’ve got a daughter. My Charlotte. Lottie. She’s…she’s twenty-eight. Looks a bit like you. Dark hair, pretty, world at her feet. Beautiful girl. We’re not talking right now, Lottie and I. She doesn’t want me in her life, around her family. I’m sure you understand. And I don’t blame her; she’s a smart girl. We raised her smart. She’s got a lovely fella now; he’s good to her and she’s got two girls of her own now too. Look—I wasn’t the best dad, obviously. I’m sure you’ve probably picked up on that. Anyway, long story short, I want you to talk to her.” He gives himself a little nod. He got there in the end.
He wants me to talk to his estranged daughter. Excellent. More family drama. Not what I need right now. I’ve got enough at home.
But this is definitely not as bad as it could have been. I can talk to his daughter. I was actually planning on interviewing her anyway. Unless what he’s really asking is some kind of a euphemism? Is it a euphemism? Do I have to kill her? Does he want me to kill her? God. I’m hoping not! He would have been more explicit about that, right? Right? This is weird.
“Eddie, you’re going to have to be slightly more specific here. What do you want me to talk to Charlotte about? Talk to her for the documentary? Or about something else?” I choose my words carefully.
He’s obviously finding this conversation hard, having to ask politely for something of a personal nature. I can’t imagine he’s had much need to do it before. I really don’t want to piss him off.
“No, not about the documentary. Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn’t give a sweet F.A. about the documentary. I looked you up after they first mentioned the whole thing, had you looked into a bit; you seem like a nice enough girl, kind of girl my daughter might be friends with. She’ll trust you, maybe. This isn’t my fucking forte; I just want her to see I’m trying here. Let her know I’m together, I’m a good guy, I’ve got it all under control. Erin, you’ll make an old man very happy if you do this for me. There isn’t anyone else to ask, do you understand? It’s not as if I’ve got women friends knocking about, and even if I did Lottie’d run a bloody mile from them lot. She needs to know that I’ll be better in the future, once I’m out. That I’ll be there for her. That I want to be part of her life again. Help her with stuff. See the kids. My grandkids. All that. I just need you to talk some sense into her. Get her to give me another chance. She’ll listen to you. I know her. Tell her I’m different, tell her I’ve changed.” He stops talking. The room falls silent.
Why on earth would his daughter listen to me? Why would he think that? Maybe he’s not as together as I thought? And then I catch sight of my reflection in the Perspex glass of a poster screwed into the prison wall. Suit, blouse, heels, glossy hair, sunlight bouncing off my new wedding band. I see what he sees. I look together. A young woman in control of her life, on the cusp of something. Professional but still open, hard but still soft, in that magical period after youth and before age. He might be right. His daughter might listen to me.
I can’t hear the guards at all. I wonder where they are. Do they care what’s happening in here? Did Eddie arrange for them not to be here, ask them not to interrupt? He still has power outside prison, doesn’t he? I look at him. Of course he does. They probably have to be careful around him; he’ll be free again in two and a half months. Untouchable. And he’s just asked me for a favor.
“I’ll do it.” Screw it, fortune favors the brave.
“That’s a girl.” He smiles.
My stomach flips as I realize there’s a chance here for Mark and me. I could ask a favor in return. But should I? Is that a good idea?
“Eddie?” I lower my voice, lean in. Just in case someone’s listening, just in case. “If I help you, will you help me? I don’t know anybody else who can help me with this.” My voice sounds different, to my ears, more serious but thinner than usual. Needy.
His eyes narrow. He studies me. I’m a pretty readable mark. What possible threat could I ever be? He sees that, then shows that glint of a smile.
“What is it?”
“Well, okay, long story short…I have some gemstones that I…found. Okay, that sounds…I can’t sell them. They’re illegal. So there it is. And I need to sell them…off the record. Do you know someone, maybe who could…” My whisper trails off. Turns out it’s not just former gang leaders who find favors hard to ask for.
He’s grinning at me now.
“You naughty girl. It’s always the quiet ones, ain’t it! I tell you what, it’s fucking hard to surprise me, love, but I didn’t see that one coming. Sounds like a quality problem you’ve got there, Erin, sweetheart. How many stones we talking and what kind?” Eddie’s enjoying himself. He’s back in the game.
“Around two hundred, diamonds, all cut, all flawless, all two carat.” I keep my voice low but I know from his demeanor that there’s no one listening.
“Fucking hell! Where the fuck did you get those?” His voice echoes out of the archway and down the corridor. I really hope no one’s there or I’m so fucked.
He’s looking at me differently now. He’s impressed. A million is a million. But then again a million’s not what it used to be.
“Ha!” He laughs. “I’m not usually wrong about people. But every day’s a school day, aye? Very nice. Yes, Erin, sweetheart, I can help you out with your little problem. Got a numbered account?”
I nod.
He laughs again, delighted.
“Of course you fucking ’ave. Brilliant. You’re a find, Erin, sweetheart, you’re a bloody find. Right, you’ll get a call next week. Do what he tells you. He’ll sort you out; I’ll have a word. All right?” He’s beaming at me. I’m glad it’s gone this way, but it is all slightly disconcerting. And all so easy. I’m not really sure how it happened.
And now there’s my end of the deal to keep.
“I can pop around to visit your daughter next week. I’ll call Charlotte this afternoon, arrange a meeting.” I know she’ll accept. I haven’t told Eddie but we’ve already spoken briefly. She seems nice.
“You got her number? Address?” His bravado is gone. He sounds like an old man again, scared and hopeful.
“Yes, I got it from your info. I’ll have a proper chat with her.”
Suddenly another thought occurs. It’s so simple but I think it’ll do the job nicely.
“Eddie, here’s a thought. Why don’t I turn the camera back on and you can record a message for Lottie? I’ll edit it off the rest of the interview and she can watch it when I meet with her. I think that would make a big difference. Hearing it directly from you. I know it would to me. If it was my father, you know?” It’s worth a shot. He’ll say it better than I would, that’s for sure.
He thinks, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. Then he nods.
“Yeah, you’re right, let’s do that.” He’s nervous. Bless him, he’s actually nervous.
“Okay. I’m going to turn the camera back on now, Eddie. Is that all right?”
He nods, sorts his sweatshirt out, sits up, leans in.
I stop, my finger poised over the record button. “Eddie, can I just check one last thing? You haven’t been leaving messages on my home phone, have you?”
“No, love. Not me.”
Well, that solves that.
“Oh, okay. Never mind. Right, ready when you are, Eddie.”
I turn the camera on.
When I get home I tell Mark what I’ve done. The deal I’ve made for us. I know what should be coming; I brace myself for it. I know what I’ve done is insane, I know it’s dangerous, but I trust Eddie, I just do. And now that I know he’s not the one calling us and leaving messages, he doesn’t seem half so threatening.
But it doesn’t come. Mark doesn’t shout even though I can see he wants to. He stays calm. He lays it out.
“I know you were just thinking on the spot, and you took your chance while you could, but that’s when people make mistakes, Erin. If anyone sees this transaction happening…If this Holli thing comes to anything, aren’t the intelligence services going to try to find as much CCTV of you as they can? We just need to be more careful. Sure, if this contact Eddie gives us works out, it’s fantastic. But if not, there’s no recourse if they rob us. There’s no getting out of it if DCI Foster is watching and sees any of this.”
He’s not saying anything I haven’t already thought through myself. “But, if Eddie’s contact robs us, then we’re no worse off, are we? If you want us to get rid of the diamonds, to just throw them out, then at least this way we stand a chance of making something from them? Right?”
He’s silent. When he speaks again, his tone is grim. “Erin, Eddie’s contact could kill you.”
“I know that, Mark, but do you really think that I would have made this deal with someone I genuinely believed would kill me? Give me some credit, please!”
He sighs. “You’re not necessarily the best judge of character, honey. You do tend to see the best in people, which isn’t always a good thing. I’m just saying we need to be far more careful than you are being. If the police managed to find footage of Holli in some tiny village in Turkey, then they can definitely manage zone one of London. You need to be more careful, honey. They’ll see the bank payments into your account from the Swiss account after Holli’s missing, they’ll see you in Hatton Garden trying to sell diamonds. And then the next week you’re back talking to more criminals? For all they know, meeting contacts, paying people off to recruit, maybe, who knows? It won’t look great.”
He’s talking like I’ve already been caught and sentenced somehow. Like I’m beyond help. He doesn’t seem to care about the money at all anymore. I need to explain it to him; he’s just not understanding.
“I know, Mark. I know all those things. And trust me, I am being as careful as it is possible to be. I know it’s terribly risky. I know it’s a gamble, but I am doing it for us. For both of us. And, I’m doing it for…” I almost say “our baby,” almost. But I stop myself. I can’t tell him about the baby now, can I? He already thinks I’m reckless. I can’t tell him I’m putting his unborn child at risk too.
Am I putting his child at risk? It’s the first time I’ve really thought about it that way. Fuck, maybe I am. I was sure I was doing this for all of us, but now I wonder. Maybe it is all just for me? That thought sucks the air straight out of me. I stand and stare at him. Empty. I feel my eyes fill. His face softens.
What he sees are tears of repentance, tears of remorse. But that’s not what these are. These are tears of confusion. My hot tears of confusion because I can’t tell anymore why I’m doing any of this.