Recently Dr Walling’s car was broken into. All the usual things were stolen – radio, tapes, briefcase – but he was devastated by the loss of a box of photographic slides that he has built up over a period of thirty years. Because he hadn’t duplicated them, they were irreplaceable, and the theft took place only days before he was due to deliver a series of lectures in America. Assuming that it was a drug-related theft (cash needed for a quick fix), Dr Walling visited the houses of Boston’s three established drug barons. He left a note saying that he needed the slides urgently and would pay a reward of £100 if they were returned.
The slides turned up the following day.
The true significance of this tale is that a leading doctor knows who the town’s drug barons are, and yet the police seem powerless to put such men behind bars. Dr Walling explains that it’s the old problem of ‘Mr Big’ never getting his hands dirty. He arranges for the drugs to be smuggled into the country before being sold to a dealer. Mr Big also employs runners to distribute the drugs, free of charge, mainly to children as they leave school unaccompanied, so that long before they reach university or take a job, they’re hooked. And that, I repeat, is in Boston, not Chelsea or Brixton.
What will Britain be like in ten years’ time, twenty years, thirty, if the police estimate that 40 per cent of all crime today is drug-related?
4.00 pm
No one from the farm turns up for acupuncture.
7.37 pm
Carl rushes in, breathless, to say a prisoner has collapsed on the south block. Linda went home two hours ago, so I run out of the hospital, to find Mr Belford and Mr Harman a few yards ahead of me.
When we arrive at the prisoner’s door, we find the inmate gasping for breath. I recognize him immediately from his visit to Dr Walling this morning. I feel helpless as he lies doubled-up, clutching his stomach, but fortunately an ambulance arrives within minutes. A paramedic places a mask over the inmate’s face, and then asks him some routine questions, all of which I am able to answer on his behalf – name off doctor, last visit to surgery, nature of complaint and medication given. I’m also able to tell them his blood pressure, 145/78. They rush him to the Pilgrim Hospital, and as he failed his recent risk assessment, Mr Harman has to travel with him.
As Mr Harman is now off the manifest, we are probably down to five officers on duty tonight, to watch over 211 prisoners.
DAY 170
FRIDAY 4 JANUARY 2002
I finish editing Belmarsh, and post it back to my publishers.
8.00 am
I leave the hospital to carry out my morning rounds. This has three purposes: first, to let each department head know which inmates are off work, second, in case of a fire, to identify who is where, and third, if someone fails to show up for roll-call, to check if they’ve absconded.
En route to the farm I bump into Blossom, who had one of the pigs named after him. (See photo page 193.) Blossom is a traveller, or a gipsy as we used to describe them before it became politically incorrect. Blossom tells me that he’s just dug a lamb out of the ice. It seems it got its hindquarters stuck in some mud which froze overnight, so the poor animal couldn’t move.
‘You’ve saved the animal’s life,’ I tell Blossom.
‘No,’ he says, ‘he’s going to be slaughtered today, so he’ll soon be on the menu as frozen cutlets.’
12 noon
I pick up my post from the south block. Although most of the messages continue along the same theme, one, sent from a Frank and Lurline in Wynnum, Australia is worthy of a mention, if only because of the envelope. It was addressed thus:
Lord Jeffrey Archer
Jailed for telling a fib
Somewhere in England.
It is dated Christmas Day, and has taken only nine days to reach me in deepest Lincolnshire.
2.30 pm
The main administration block has been sealed off. Gail tells me that she can’t get into the building to carry out any paperwork and she doesn’t know why. This is only interesting because it’s an area that is off-limits to inmates.
Over the past few months, money and valuables have gone missing. Mr Berlyn is determined to catch the culprit. It turns out to be a fruitless exercise, because, despite a thorough search, the £20 that was stolen from someone’s purse doesn’t materialize. Mr Hocking, the security officer in charge of the operation, found the whole exercise distasteful as it involved investigating his colleagues. I have a feeling he knows who the guilty party is, but certainly isn’t going to tell me. My deep throat, a prisoner of long standing, tells me the name of the suspect. For those readers with the mind of a detective, she doesn’t get a mention in this diary.
DAY 171
SATURDAY 5 JANUARY 2002
7.30 am