The Governor Read online

  Copyright

  HarperElement

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  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  First published by HarperElement 2021

  FIRST EDITION

  © Vanessa Frake and Ruth Kelly 2021

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  Vanessa Frake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  Source ISBN: 9780008390051

  Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008390068

  Version: 2021-02-23

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008390051

  Dedication

  For my wife Ju and our daughter Annie-Mae.

  Always.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 New kid on the block

  Chapter 2 Game face

  Chapter 3 One bad apple spoils the bunch

  Chapter 4 Chirpy chappy

  Chapter 5 Lording it up

  Chapter 6 What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

  Chapter 7 Shit show

  Chapter 8 The first cut is the deepest

  Chapter 9 Drugs on a wire

  Chapter 10 Ace Ventura: Prison Detective

  Chapter 11 Who let the dogs out?

  Chapter 12 A shadow of himself

  Chapter 13 Auntie Rose

  Chapter 14 Baking the truth

  Chapter 15 Another rung on the ladder

  Chapter 16 Law and hoarder

  Chapter 17 The boy that cried wolf

  Chapter 18 Ambushed

  Chapter 19 Rum bugger, run

  Chapter 20 Who’s the BOSS?

  Chapter 21 What a shambles

  Chapter 22 Bent officer

  Chapter 23 The Colonel’s secret

  Chapter 24 Who d’ya think you’re talking to?

  Chapter 25 Staring evil in the eye

  Chapter 26 Hooch pooch

  Chapter 27 Ready-made family

  Chapter 28 Gotcha!

  Chapter 29 Bent coppers

  Chapter 30 Surprise of my life

  Chapter 31 Don’t mess up the curtsey

  Chapter 32 Playing dead

  Chapter 33 My way or the highway

  Chapter 34 The beginning of the end

  Chapter 35 Curtains

  Chapter 36 Riot act

  Chapter 37 The past always catches up

  Chapter 38 Let sleeping dogs lie

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Now

  The salty sweet smell of warm pastry rushes up my nose. I quickly pull the scalding-hot tray of scones from the oven and slide them onto the rack to cool off just as the phone rings.

  ‘Yep!’ I answer, hooking the receiver between my ear and shoulder while gently prodding the pastry to check it’s cooked through.

  It’s Paul, he manages the Angela Reed café, which is just off the main square in the picturesque town of Saffron Walden in Essex. Nice guy. He has a way about him that keeps the customers happy. Bites his tongue, unlike me, who can’t help saying what I think. That’s probably why I’m never front of house but spend my time downstairs in the basement, cooking. That, and the fact I love baking.

  ‘We’ve just had a woman come in who’s bought your entire batch of fruit scones,’ he exclaims. ‘How long until the next batch is ready?’

  It was a bigger shock to me than anyone when I heard my culinary creations had become legendary in the town. Me, who has spent the best part of my life living off microwave meals, who wouldn’t have been seen dead attempting to make a gluten-free lemon and almond sponge. Just one of many on my repertoire these days.

  ‘I’m on it,’ I say, scooping the scones into a bowl and placing them in the dumb waiter. Door shut. Button pressed. Hey presto and then, all of a sudden, it strikes. Blood – everywhere, spraying across the kitchen surfaces, pooling on the floor. I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to push the memory away.

  ‘Alrighty, what next.’ I chat to myself, hoping that will keep me in the present. I grab a Pyrex bowl and get to work on making my signature cherry almond Bakewell cake.

  Butter and sugar – I start beating it together. I’m looking for a light and fluffy texture. The mixture clumps, sticking to the spoon like mud. I prise it off with my forefinger and thumb and begin again. Round and round I beat it, giving it some welly.

  I’ve been downstairs baking away since I began my shift at 8 a.m. My face is powdered with a dusting of flour. Dough is crusted into the corners of my fingernails. Upstairs it’ll be getting busy. Locals coming and going, picking up a slice of their favourite cake. Dropping in for their morning cup of coffee and a catch-up. Saffron Walden is a bustling market country town where gossip is rife.

  I’m the one secret no one knows about though.

  The pressure is on to get my almond and cherry creation into the oven. Four eggs – I crack them one by one on the side of the bowl and mix them in. There it is again, hitting me like a tidal wave. All of a sudden, I’m back inside. Thrust into the industrial-sized kitchen in the bowels of the prison …

  The long chrome work surfaces were laden with platefuls of the day’s lunch. White stodgy baguette filled with coronation chicken with a sprig of lettuce and cucumber on the side and something very dodgy moving through the lettuce. The yellow strip light above was flickering; it was enough to drive anyone around the twist. It would be next year before anyone got around to fixing that. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the hotplate – the silver trolley we were loading up with lunches to take through to the wings. I looked exhausted, my under-eyes a bruised purple thanks to many a long shift.

  ‘Ready, ladies?’ I said. I had a woman who’d been done for arson and attempted murder on my left and a child sex abuser on my right. Today’s kitchen helpers.

  It happened in the blink of an eye. Quite literally. One minute I was giving Jane Finch orders, the next her cheek opened up. It was like watching something move in slow motion. There was no blood at first, the skin simply parted to reveal pinky-white flesh and thread veins.

  Jane touched her face. ‘What’s that?’
r />   Before I had time to answer, the blood rose to the surface – gushing. There was claret everywhere.

  She stared at her red fingers, her body began to tremble, her eyes were bulging with fear and shock. I thought she was going to pass out.

  ‘What’s happening?’ It came out as more of a whisper. The unharmed side of her face had turned as white as ash. Blood was spraying across the hot plate, splattering the baguettes.

  ‘Oh my God!’ She found her voice. ‘Arrrrrrgh.’ She erupted into an ear-piercing scream.

  One of the officers punched the alarm on the wall while me and another prison officer jumped on Carrie Webber.

  Carrie Webber – one of the most violent female prisoners I’d ever encountered. Prisoners, officers, she wasn’t fussed who she attacked. She spent her days making weapons out of whatever she could get her hands on. Every night we’d search her cell and without fail we’d find something deadly she’d made or adapted out of prison materials. Shanks. Knives welded together from plastic and razor blades. Every morning we’d go in again and there’d be the garrotte woven from toilet paper, as strong as any rope. She slept with it all night long hidden under her pillow, plotting who to hurt next.

  The officer held Carrie down while I removed today’s weapon of choice. A toothbrush with two razor blades melted into the plastic. Deadly, deliberately so. Carrie had designed it to cause maximum damage. She’d known full well that two slices across the skin, close together, would be much harder for the nurse to stitch back up than a single gash. Jane’s face would be disfigured for ever.

  We’d warned Jane not to tell anyone what she was in for, but she clearly chose to ignore our advice. Anyone who hurts children is seen as the lowest of the low in prison and Jane’s crime was particularly sickening. She held down her own children while her husband raped them. Carrie must have found out and thought Jane deserved her special kind of punishment.

  The alarm rang like a drill through my ears while Jane continued to scream. The noise was unbearable.

  ‘Get her out of here!’ I ordered. Carrie stared daggers at me with those dark piercing eyes of hers. She was a big woman, thickset, and she looked mean – you know the way some people can? There was no expression in her eyes, they were cold and penetrating.

  She wriggled and raged as they carted her off to the segregation unit for solitary confinement punishment, furious at me for cutting her vigilantism short. Meanwhile, Jane was sobbing her eyes out as she was taken off by the nurses to get stitched up, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.

  I feel my stomach make an unpleasant somersault as I remember the gruesome sight. The smell. Everything about that horrific memory hitting me hard. I’m a nightmare around blood; just the smallest drop makes me feel queasy. I put down my spoon and grip the edge of the counter, taking a deep breath in and a long exhale out, blowing away the past.

  Most days it feels like a lifetime ago. But sometimes, often in the most innocuous of moments, my past creeps up on me. Dragging me back behind those twelve-foot-high walls. It’s inevitable really, considering I spent twenty-seven years in the prison service. Most of the time I’m Vanessa, but occasionally I’m Frake again. Or Frakey, or simply gov.

  Today, I bake cakes and pastries to rival Mary Berry’s, if I do say so myself. I say that with a twinkle in my eye of course. Back in the day, I was Governor of Security and Operations for HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Ahead of you lies the story of my journey from A to B. If you’re easily shocked or offended, you best look away now.

  Chapter 1

  New kid on the block

  HMP Wormwood Scrubs: March 2002

  I guess it would be fair to say I started my first day at one of Britain’s most notorious men’s prisons feeling bitter.

  There was a staff shortage, so me and another female senior officer had been transferred. That’s the way things went in the prison service and there was nothing I could do about it. We’d had just the weekend to prepare after someone from HMP Holloway turned up on my doorstep with a letter. A bit like what you see in the movies, when someone gets ‘served’ with their court papers.

  The woman thrust the envelope at me with an outstretched hand and I just glared at her, knowing full well it was bad news. I have a sixth sense for knowing what’s coming. You’ll get to know that about me the more you hear of my story.

  ‘Just tell me what it says,’ I said, not wanting to bother with the ceremony of opening it.

  ‘You’re moving to Wormwood Scrubs.’

  My stomach clenched. ‘Alright. Fine.’ I drew on all my strength to hide my emotions. ‘When?’

  ‘Monday.’

  Monday?! You’re having a giraffe!

  ‘Great, thanks,’ I replied, tight-lipped. I closed the door, my heart sinking, my resolve melting to form pure undiluted anger.

  I never did open the letter. I binned it. Like I say, bitter. I’d given that women’s prison sixteen years of my life and, just like that, they wrenched me from everything I’d known and shoved me into a world I’d deliberately avoided. A men’s prison.

  I barely said a word to Sarah as she drove us through London rush-hour traffic to our new life. My thoughts were churning, mainly with dread.

  HMP Wormwood Scrubs’ reputation preceded it. Built in the Victoria era it was one of the oldest prisons in the UK. Dirty, rat-infested, rundown, with a serious drug problem. You get to hear all the stories working in the industry. ‘A prison that continues to fall short of expected standards,’ if you prefer the more diplomatic description used by the chief inspector of prisons. On the tier system, it was ranked three, teetering on two. Four being the best. One being the worst. You get the idea.

  Aside from being grubby, it was also one of the largest prisons in the UK, locking up 1,237 prisoners compared to the 400 to 500 we had at Holloway. ‘The Scrubs’, as it was better known, was just as famous for its list of well-known convicts. From Moors murderer Ian Brady to the Yorkshire Ripper Peter Sutcliffe; Leslie Grantham, better known as Dirty Den off EastEnders, Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards, ‘Britain’s most violent prisoner’ Charles Bronson; George Blake, the British spy who betrayed M16 agents to the KGB. They’d all done time there. Rather fittingly, Wormwood Scrubs meant ‘snake-infested woodland’ in Old English.

  Being in central London, right next to Wormwood Scrubs Common in Shepherd’s Bush, it was situated in spitting distance of the city’s magistrates and crown courts, which is why it was mainly used as a remand prison. In fact, as many as 80 per cent of the prisoners in the Scrubs were awaiting sentencing. Remand prisoners bring a whole set of problems on their own compared to convicted criminals, but more of that later.

  In a nutshell, I’d been sent to an absolute hole full of lairy men who’d been accused of everything from murder to rape to plotting to blow up our country. It was a category B prison, so some of the most serious of crimes.

  What they’d done didn’t bother me though – I’d met all sorts working at Holloway, from serial killers to child murderers to IRA members. I’d had the Angel of Death, Beverley Allitt, on my wing. She’d murdered four babies and attempted to kill nine more through insulin or potassium overdoses while working as a hospital nurse in Lincolnshire. Doesn’t get more grim that that. So no, I wasn’t intimidated by their crimes. It was more about what they were – men.

  Even though I was what you might call a sturdy woman at five foot nine inches tall, I wouldn’t stand a bleedin’ chance against some six-foot-six bloke built like a brick shithouse, who had the added strength of ten men thanks to a drugs rush he’d just got from contraband smuggled into the prison. What if things kicked off, which they inevitably would being a prison, and I got attacked? Would I be able to put them in their place? No doubt I was going to be in a minority among the staff. Would I enjoy working alongside male colleagues? Would they respect me? I was stepping into a man’s world and I was panicking whether I had the balls to ha
ndle it.

  Giving up wasn’t an option, though. This was my career, I’d chosen to do it, and I wasn’t quitting for anyone.

  I wound down the window so I could have another fag. That made four already. I’d been puffing away like a trooper, and on an empty stomach. My insides were digesting themselves.

  Sarah slammed on the brakes as yet another plonker stepped out in front of us. It had been stop-start the whole way so far. That was something I’d also have to get used to – the commute. I’d been lucky enough to avoid London traffic up until now thanks to my flat being a five-minute walk from Holloway. The two-bed had been given to me as part of my training scheme when I joined the prison service. I wasn’t giving that up, why should I? Anger, that’s what I was feeling now as I inhaled deeply on my cigarette. I was angry and bitter.

  We were on the final stretch. Du Cane Road, Hammersmith Hospital on our right. Less than a hundred yards more and there it was – the gatehouse. The main entrance to the Scrubs. I don’t think there is anyone in the country who wouldn’t recognise those iconic towers. Formidable. Steeped in history. Used in countless films and TV shows. The gateway to our future. I felt queasy.

  We pulled up in the staff car park and made our way along the gravelly track. Still barely saying a word to each other. The crunch of the stones underneath our black shoes filled the silence.

  I was wearing my uniform. Black trousers and a white shirt, but no epaulettes. I’d refused point-blank to put them on that morning. I didn’t want any more association with Holloway; I’d cut all ties the moment that letter arrived.

  The staff entrance was a far less glamorous side door. I wasn’t expecting the welcome committee but a bit of acknowledgement would have been nice.

  ‘It’s senior officer Frake reporting for duty,’ I announced as we rocked up at the gate. I handed them my ID.

  The bloke behind the glass checked his paperwork and looked up. ‘We don’t have anything to say you’re coming in.’ Off to a good start then. I looked around me. Less than impressed. Bite your tongue, Vanessa.