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Dorothea had visited plenty of prisons. Getting both sides of a story often required it, and Dorothea took great pride in her impartiality. She had actually visited Oxford Prison itself before too, twice; once to visit an arsonist, the last time to speak to a young pickpocket. As such, she knew what to expect. She had dressed simply, left her coat in the car, and had emptied her bag beforehand and taken only the essentials, which she now presented for inspection.
She also had more experience than most with visiting friends or - more often - colleagues in prison, though she’d thought those days behind her by now. As she followed her escort to the visiting room, she wondered what kind of reaction Morse would have to incarceration. Some people got obstinate and argumentative, but given Morse’s reserved nature, she expected he’d fall closer to the quiet and withdrawn end of the spectrum.
The visiting room was as she’d remembered it; four small metallic tables set a distance away from each other, each with a set of matching chairs. Her escort, whose name she’d learned was Leonard, closed the door closed behind them, and took up his supervisory position at the edge of the room. She couldn’t suppress a chill creeping up her spine. No matter how hardened one thought oneself, no-one was immune to the atmosphere in a prison. At least she didn’t have to wait long.
Morse entered the room hesitantly, like a deer taking its first careful steps into an open field. It was odd to see him in workman’s clothes. It wasn’t just that they were ill-fitting, they were unlike any clothes she’d seen him in before. It was like he was wearing a costume. That, combined with his hesitant movements, the way he absentmindedly scratched at his neck, how his gaze drifted around looking for his audience, reminded her of theatre night at her nephews primary school.
Then he saw her. Emotions chased over his face; momentary relief followed by confusion followed by a flash of cold anger before he thought to school his features. He adopted the carefully neutral expression she’d seen so often in her line of work, followed by the standard phrase that usually accompanied it.
“I have no comments for the press.”
“Oof. You really must think me a vulture,” she grimaced. Had she been younger, she might’ve snapped at him, angry and self-righteous about being more than her profession. But over the years she’d realised that carrying a press pass would always provoke these kinds of reactions. That didn’t mean it didn’t still sting, especially since she thought that - despite their rocky start - they’d been really building up a rapport over the last two years.
“I’m not here for the story, Morse,” she sighed, dropping herself into one of the flimsy aluminium chairs. “I’m here as a friend. You look like you could use one.”
At least he had the dignity to look ashamed of himself. He shuffled over and took the seat opposite her.
“I came as soon as I’d heard. How are you holding up? You look terrible,” she remarked, taking in the greasy hair, the bags under his eyes, the stubble on his chin. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Not if I can help it.” He forced a smile to his face, but his voice sounded hollow. “Have you heard anything from detective Thursday?”
It was so typically Morse, breezing over his own discomfort, and straight to business. For a moment, she considered passing over his question to focus on his own well-being, but he looked so desperate for information that she decided to answer first. She wished she could give him good news, but in lieu of that, the truth would do. “He’s been hospitalized, but there’s been no news so far. There hasn’t even been an official statement on the proceedings yet, I only know what I know because you asked me to look into Blenheim Vale, and I kept my ears open. They’re keeping a very tight lid on this.”
His face darkened. “At least you haven’t had to place an obituary.”
That was bleak, even for Morse’s standards. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. “God Morse, you’ve really gotten in way over your head this time.” She leant forward over the table, clasped her hands together and steered the conversation back to him. “Really though. What's it like?”
He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. For a moment, Dorothea thought he might try to deflect again, but then he spoke. “In a word? Full. I share a cell with two others. The mess and recreation halls areas aren’t much better. You can't even hear yourself think most of the time, yet that is all you have room to do.” He plucked at the frayed cuff of his coat. “I wish they'd allow me pen and paper,” he added wistfully.
“Why won't they?” She asked, surprised. They were basic enough commodities, not something usually withheld unless misused, which she didn’t see Morse doing.
“I've been marked as a suicide risk.” His eyes widened as he realised what he’d just said. “I’m not,” he added hastily. “Don’t ever believe I would be that drastic.”
“Not for a moment,” she assured him, but her heart dropped. She had assumed something big had happened; a scandal had to run pretty deep to land a police officer in jail. But this added another order of magnitude. She weighed her options.
“Don’t,” Morse said, interrupting her train of thought.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Don’t get involved.”
If there had been any hesitation on her part, it disappeared without a trace. “I don’t think that’s a decision you get to make.” She knew the story would probably be buried, but she’d be damned if she let them bury this young police officer with it.
“Miss Frazil,” he cautioned her, but in his current situation the warning held very little weight.
She pulled her notebook and a pen out of her bag. If she wanted to do something, the first thing she’d need was information. “I'm a big girl Morse. Talk to me.”
He hesitated a little longer, and Dorothea worried he might decline her help even now. Eventually he sat forward, clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “There’s a boy who got caught up in this mess,” he said softly. “Tommy Cork. Can you find out what happened to him? Discreetly, Miss Frazil. I don’t want you tainted by this as well...”
“Of course,” she said, jotting down the name, oddly touched by the concern in his voice.
Morse closed his eyes and sighed deeply; he could let go of a small part of his worries now. “Thank you,” he breathed.
That was her in. Now that he’d started to talk to her, she knew she could get the rest too. “And what exactly is This Mess he’s been caught up in?”
His next sigh was one of exasperation, and he let himself fall back in his chair. He crossed his arms. “Miss Frazil, I can’t.”
“Quid pro quo, Morse.” She waggled her pen at him. “You’re asking me to find you some information. I need to know what I’m wading into.”
His eyes darting quickly to the guard in the room, then back to her. His frown drew deep lines in his hollowed face. “I can’t.”
She hummed her assent. Of course.
Dorothea pushed back her chair and reached down for her bag, dug up a packet of cigarettes, and fished a cigarette out.
“Leonard. Why don’t you go have a smoke-break?”
As she waited for Leonard to take the cigarette from her fingers, she looked back at Morse. He raised an eyebrow, but left the question unvoiced. He knew better than most that some secrets are best left unspoken. Luckily, this wasn’t one of those. She waited till the door closed before explaining.
“No prison facility is ever one hundred percent on the up-and-up. Low-level nonsense,” she hastened to add. “Gambling, smuggling, the odd bribery scandal. Just enough to want to avoid spiting an investigative journalist. Besides, often a convict who won’t talk to the police will talk to the press, who can relay that information back. It’s good to have a journalist in your corner. Leonard’s an old-timer, he knows how it works.” She shrugged. “The job has its perks.”
“So it does,” he said, sounding terribly unimpressed by the sanctity of the prison system.
“Well?” She let the silence stretch. Often in these situations, silence was a better catalyst than any question she could think of.
Eventually, Morse uncrossed his arms and leant forward over the table. He ran a hand through his hair, tugged absentmindedly at his ear. She gave him the time he needed to order his thoughts, until eventually: “Strange,” he blurted out. “I’ve given all the documents to constable Jim Strange. A manilla folder with all the evidence we’d gathered, copies of every pertinent file. Find Strange, and he will… he should help.” He dragged a hand over his face and mumbled, “I don’t know if he can stand up to this kind of pressure.” He looked at her again, and when he spoke his voice was pleading, as if he were convincing himself as much as her, “He’s a good man, but he needs to be reminded of it sometimes.”
“Then I'll remind him,” Dorothea said forcefully. She closed her notebook and tucked it away as she stood up. She felt better now that she had a goal. “I’ll see if I can dig up anything useful to make your case. If nothing else, I can be a louse in the pelt of whoever is pulling the strings. I have some experience.”
“Be careful, Miss Frazil.”
“Take care, Morse.”