Copyright

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First published by HarperElement 2021

FIRST EDITION

© Vanessa Frake and Ruth Kelly 2021

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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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Dedication

For my wife Ju and our daughter Annie-Mae.

Always.

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Note to Readers

5  Dedication

6  Contents

7  Prologue

8  Chapter 1 New kid on the block

9  Chapter 2 Game face

10  Chapter 3 One bad apple spoils the bunch

11  Chapter 4 Chirpy chappy

12  Chapter 5 Lording it up

13  Chapter 6 What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

14  Chapter 7 Shit show

15  Chapter 8 The first cut is the deepest

16  Chapter 9 Drugs on a wire

17  Chapter 10 Ace Ventura: Prison Detective

18  Chapter 11 Who let the dogs out?

19  Chapter 12 A shadow of himself

20  Chapter 13 Auntie Rose

21  Chapter 14 Baking the truth

22  Chapter 15 Another rung on the ladder

23  Chapter 16 Law and hoarder

24  Chapter 17 The boy that cried wolf

25  Chapter 18 Ambushed

26  Chapter 19 Rum bugger, run

27  Chapter 20 Who’s the BOSS?

28  Chapter 21 What a shambles

29  Chapter 22 Bent officer

30  Chapter 23 The Colonel’s secret

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

32  Chapter 25 Staring evil in the eye

33  Chapter 26 Hooch pooch

34  Chapter 27 Ready-made family

35  Chapter 28 Gotcha!

36  Chapter 29 Bent coppers

37  Chapter 30 Surprise of my life

38  Chapter 31 Don’t mess up the curtsey

39  Chapter 32 Playing dead

40  Chapter 33 My way or the highway

41  Chapter 34 The beginning of the end

42  Chapter 35 Curtains

43  Chapter 36 Riot act

44  Chapter 37 The past always catches up

45  Chapter 38 Let sleeping dogs lie

46  Acknowledgements

47  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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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?’

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 handle 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.

‘Wait here a minute.’ He picked up the phone. I was hardly going to go anywhere. My sarcasm was running rife. I slid my gaze across to Sarah who looked equally hacked off. I didn’t believe in omens but was this someone’s way of trying to tell us it was all downhill from here? Seriously, Vanessa, just calm yourself down.

I don’t know how long it took, but eventually the head of HR came down to get us. I’d spent that time chewing the fat, working myself up. Notching up my levels of dread ten rungs higher, if that was even possible. So when the woman from HR greeted us with a huge welcoming smile, I was taken aback.

‘Right, you two,’ she said, pointing. ‘Come up to my office, I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’

That was music to my ears. Tea and fags. My two favourite things.

We were escorted to a 1960s prefab building on the other side of the entrance, so nothing like the historic buildings we were yet to encounter. Sarah and I took a seat opposite the HR lady on the other side of the desk; she chatted away while I nursed my cuppa. The woman was lovely and welcoming but I just wasn’t in the right frame of mind for banter.

‘How do you feel about being here?’ she finally asked.

I shrugged. Speaking for the both of us I replied: ‘How do you think we feel!’

‘This is a fresh start for you here. The Scrubs will be what you make of it.’

I made a small shrug. ‘Okay.’

She smiled kindly.

Draining my mug, I placed it down on the edge of the desk. ‘So where are we going then?’ I said. Despite her hospitality, I really wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to get on with my job, do what I’d been paid to do. No more dilly-dallying.

Sarah was sent to work at the security office. I was allocated D wing. That’s where the ‘lifers’ were locked up. Lifers, i.e. criminals who were serving a life sentence because their crime was that heinous. The worst of the worst.

I’d never worked with lifers before. Of course I’d come into contact with them at Holloway, but I’d not been responsible for them on a day-to-day basis. As the senior officer on the wing, I’d be in charge of 244 of them.

‘Someone will take you there,’ the HR woman reassured me.

‘No.’ I shook my head defiantly, or some might say stubbornly. ‘Just point me to where the wing is and I’ll make my own way there.’

She looked at me closely, trying to read my eyes, and then nodded. ‘Okay, as you prefer. We’ll get your keys sorted and let you make your own way there.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, standing up. Preparing to slip out of the office and to my new posting without any more fuss or bother.

My footsteps echoed as I made my way along the bleak corridors. The brand new Scrubs epaulettes sparkling on my shoulders were going to scream ‘fresh fish’ to the prisoners. Apart from the duty staff walking to and fro, the place was desolate. The only time prisoners walk between wings is on ‘free flow’ when they’re escorted to their jobs or education. Clearly neither was happening right now.

First impressions? It was huge, three times the size of Holloway. Dirty. Rundown. And it stank of men. Of stale BO, musty unwashed clothes and urine, to be specific. It was so pungent it made me want to gag.

But despite the stench there was something unusual about this prison. You could really feel the history as you walked through it. It’s hard to put into words what it felt like; it was a kind of vibration. As if the walls were alive, humming with the ghosts of prisoners past.

I reckon, back in the day before it was torn down and rebuilt in the 1970s, Holloway would have given off the same sort of vibe. But when I worked there it felt more like a hospital with giant communal wings that resembled wards in a mental asylum.

The Scrubs couldn’t have been more different in layout. Five wings, marked A to E, five imposing red-brick buildings, huge long wings with three or four landings, joined together by a canal of corridors. They were all separate entities. I wondered what delightful character traits my wing would have. Miraculously, I’d managed to navigate my way without stopping to ask for directions. I’d been handed my own set of keys and all that now stood in the way of me and those serving life imprisonment were a double set of iron-clad doors.

The key turning in a lock in a prison, that’s a sound and a half. Metal on metal. A dragging, scraping noise that can send a chill right through you. It becomes part of you when you work in the nick though. That and the sound of keys in your pocket, jangling with every step. When I worked in Holloway I could tell who was about to appear around the corner just by the clink of their walk. It would only be a matter of time until I knew who was who here. It’s not for nothing jails are nicknamed ‘the clink’.

As the first set of gates slammed behind me, I gave myself a talking-to. Whatever I was feeling inside – nerves, trepidation – under no circumstances could I let that show. As senior officer on the wing, I needed to project an image of being in charge. To the other officers and, most importantly, to the prisoners.

Prisoners can smell fear a mile off. I once heard from a psychologist that a woman who has been raped walks differently. She takes quicker steps and has a less confident stride. They’re such slight differences you or I wouldn’t detect them. Prisoners are looking out for these weaknesses though; they search for chips in your armour, for ways to get under your skin so they can dominate. I learnt a long time ago that in order to survive working in a prison you had to wear a ‘game face’. A neutral expression no matter what. I could never let on what I was really thinking, because if they know they’ve got to you, with the insults they hurl or the violence they threaten you with, they’ve won.

The second and final door clanged shut, juddering at my heels.

My breath escaped me. Bloody hell, this place was enormous. It was the stuff of movies. Four storeys high with metal staircases taking you up the landings. Netting was strung up between the floors to stop prisoners jumping to their death. Suicides, a big part of prison life.

Because the ceiling was so high, the noise was deafening. BANG! BANG! BANG! The sound of fists on doors rung in my ears. It was almost noon, their lunch break, or association hour as we call it, and the inmates wanted letting out.

A friendly older officer approached me. He was what I would call ‘old school’, impeccable manners, no-nonsense, probably ex-army. ‘And who are you, ma’am?’ he asked politely.

I took in a deep breath. ‘I’m your new SO.’

‘Ah, right.’ He looked a little taken aback. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, thank you. And then I’ll have a tour of the wing and you can show me what’s what.’

I was right about the epaulettes. They attracted the prisoners like bees to a honeypot. Amazing really considering how small they were, a single diamond with the crown HMP on either shoulder to show I was a senior officer. But the prisoners’ beady eyes don’t miss a trick. Because the epaulettes were shiny, because they hadn’t seen me before – all of them assumed I was new to the job. Wet behind the ears. Someone they could take the piss out of, which is exactly what they did, or at least tried to do.

The conversations that lunchtime were much of a muchness and all went something a little like this: Prisoner would sidle up to me, look shifty, glancing left to right, and then when he was confident he was out of earshot from the other officers working on the wing, he’d say: ‘You’re the new SO then?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I’d reply. Playing along.

‘So here’s the thing, miss, the old SO who worked here always used to give me an extra visit.’

Lifers were allowed one visit from friends and family a month and if they were an Enhanced prisoner, i.e. if they behaved well, they would get an extra visit, making two visits per month. This particular prisoner was angling for me to bend the rules and give him one extra. Little did he know who he was dealing with. But I played along. Not just because it was mildly amusing to see what lies they spun, but because you can glean a lot from small conversations like that. Namely, who I should be keeping an eye on. It allowed me to work out who was who and who the biggest players were. If they were brazen enough to try it on with me, they were likely to be the ones dealing in contraband. And I don’t just mean drugs. Phones, weapons, cigarettes, home-brewed – or, rather, cell-brewed – alcohol. So I smiled and played along, but took note.

The questions kept coming.

‘So where have you worked before? Do you smoke?’ Checking to see if they can blag any fags off you. ‘How long have you been in the job?’ That was their favourite.

‘Oh, one or two years,’ I replied, a wry smile growing. A twinkle in my eye.

Finally, they caught on.

‘Eugh, you’re not new at all, are you?’

‘Nope.’ I grinned.

Three things I gleaned on my first day. Number one – all that dread I’d worked up had been for nothing. These men didn’t seem half as bad as I’d imagined they’d be. In fact, I’d go as far to say I felt incredibly comfortable with them. There was a ‘what you see is what you get’ sort of attitude about them. These were guys, banged up for serious crimes, yet they appeared a lot more straightforward than the women I’d dealt with.

Second thing I learnt. Both male staff and male prisoners have potty mouths. I think I possibly heard more bad language on my first day in the Scrubs than I’d ever heard. Which included homophobic and racist references. I have no idea why. Without meaning to sound sexist I think it’s just what men do – banter – they don’t see it as inappropriate. I was not impressed, but I was hopeful my presence as a female would make a difference to how the majority of staff and prisoners spoke.

Lastly, I couldn’t believe how dirty the wing was. The floor was absolutely minging and in need of a good polish. The place stunk to high heaven. D wing was crying out for a woman’s touch. Luckily for them, I’d arrived.

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