"I know I don't exactly run Larkhall strictly according to ultra politically correct guidelines but I think that we showed them that Larkhall works where it matters." Karen had summarized as soon as the inspectors were out of the door.
"Was there a computer scam to fleece the personal spends accounts under Sylvia's nose? Was a dead body carted round the wing and did it finally pop up in the chapel right in the middle of the service? Did your prison come over as something like 'Carry on, Larkhall' and do you really think that your reputation will be ripped to shreds as mine was?" countered Grayling cheerily.
"Well, no." admitted Karen.
"Then don't worry, Karen. I'll keep my ear to the ground. My judgment is that everything will go very quiet while they try and work out what to write. That is their problem and it certainly won't be yours. If I hear of anything, I'll let you know."
As soon as Grayling had put the phone down, his face split into a broad grin. Everyone had acted with considerable finesse and had worked together splendidly. He knew Karen of old that she would, if anything understate the situation. He was not afraid or inhibited to let softer emotions of generous pride flow through him. Not for one second did he become jealous of Karen's success. He would be the first to state that the previous disastrous prison inspection was down to the way that a whole load of trendy management theories had taken over his head to make his grip on the prison completely shambolic.
Grayling strolled down the length of the office, annoying Alison Warner by his manner in ways that she could not put her finger on. What most infuriated her about the man were her suspicions that he knew far too much for his own good and he kept his secrets very tightly secure. It struck at her desire for control of all around her.
Mr. Simpson wearily sat back and looked at the report. He had written and rewritten it many times and had talked endlessly to his junior. He had had a few sleepless nights where expediency wrestled endlessly with his engrained training in accurate observation. He had ended up doing his best to downplay the positive side and to highlight the blemishes but to little avail. It had all hinged on the evidence of the prisoners. Everything had fallen apart when the evidence of that blond haired prisoner was utterly discredited. He could not let her brand of insinuation even enter his report when malicious malcontents at other prisons were similarly disregarded if there was enough first hand evidence to rebut it.
He had wondered if everything was a put up job, as if he had arrested Al Capone on a traffic violation charge while all the bootleg whisky was sneaked out of the back door. He had to admit that, if that were the case, then their conspiracy was a masterpiece of slick organization including the collusion of enough inmates to pull this off. He had to reject this brand of conspiracy theory as swaying over into pure paranoia. He couldn't get away from the fact that, in its rough and ready way, Larkhall worked. Finally, he gave up in despair, signed off the final draft and let the messenger take the ticking bomb away to wend its way to the notoriously irascible Minister.
Neil Houghton looked warily at the neat folder that landed on his desk. It had crossed his mind that he had not heard a whisper about the report and that aroused his suspicions. He picked it up and started leafing firstly through the neatly typed up set of conclusions at the end. He always found it more useful to look at summaries of reports, as they didn't confuse things with the mass of conflicting and sometimes ambiguous details. He liked his certainties in his life that he could cling to. It was those that roused his rage immediately. Much against his will, he started to look at the details and certain phrases were branded on his mind in letter of fire. This was utterly outrageous.
"…….in its own way, however loosely run the information infrastructure, the prison officers do get to know the prisoners…….there is mutual respect between prison officers and inmates even if the tone is sometimes over familiar…..one failing is that there is no prison diversity forum and that there is an over reliance on informal arrangements amongst relationships between the prisoners……the danger with this is that while the prison population changes over time, the social cohesion amongst the prisoners could easily break down without robust control mechanisms in place…….the prison diet is somewhat basic although it is up to an acceptable standard…….although useful education projects are in hand, other purposeful activity is oriented towards filling in ancillary functions of the prison….the general ethos is homely though hardly radical…….."
Neil Houghton went red in the face and his eyes glared menacingly. Surely, Larkhall had an evil reputation as the graveyard of reputations in the Home Office. He had picked up its reputation of a history of prison escapes, suicides, prison riots, letters from inmates to the 'Guardian." He had counted on the certainly that either the inspectors would dig up the dirt or else the prison would malfunction spectacularly. Either way, he was guaranteed to win. He might have known that its twisted nature would have made it pose as a model establishment. The report's negative sides were nitpicking, hardly the stuff of Select Committee. In fact, if every prison in the country were working in a similar fashion, at least the press would be off his back. The hateful fact of his existence was that it was Larkhall, of all places, that was so sickeningly angelic. He picked up the phone. He needed answers, and fast.
"I don't want some ex-con running a wing in one of my prisons. Your report left that out. I want that part of the report rewritten for a start." Houghton snapped at the two sheepish inspectors and slung the report across the desk virtually in their laps.
Mr. Traynor looked sideways at his senior. He did not dare to say anything off his own bat but looked to him to take the lead. In turn, the other man coughed and straightened his tie and began to speak very hesitantly.
"It isn't as easy as that"
"I don't see that. It seems quite simple to me. It was a complete mistake that she was taken on in the first place. She should go"
"We spent the majority of our time on G wing. We thought that it would be the weak link and that it would drag down Larkhall as a whole. We were wrong. We interviewed a number of the prisoners and they were happy"
"…no doubt being tucked up in bed at night by a load of wet liberals……" snorted Houghton derisively. If prisoners weren't in prison to suffer, then what on earth were they in prison for? The Sun might nose this one out. He was horrified that he might get pilloried by the very same press, that he looked to for political friendship and support of his 'hard man' image.
"It doesn't work out that way. The prison officers obviously respect her and the wing works efficiently in its own way. There are some procedural imperfections but nothing to write home about. We've been through the records with a fine toothcomb for any trouble. The one incident of the prison officer who was sacked for tampering with the prisoner's mail was fully investigated."
"I know all about it." Snapped Houghton. "I wanted you to find evidence of sloppy supervision of staff, and bending the rules for prisoners far enough so that we can use that to hang her with"
Mr. Simpson kept his thoughts to himself and his face straight concerning the minister's sense of ethics. The other man's tone of voice and visual mannerisms alternated between synthetic moral outrage and the self satisfied, confidential expression of a political fixer. After all, he was a politician so he should not be so surprised.
"There was nothing on record. Surprisingly enough, her system is impeccable and her budget hangs together to the last penny. There is absolutely nothing on paper, which she can be criticized for, certainly not the matter of the letter. After all, most organizations work on at least a fifty fifty chance that there is no internal corruption"
Neil Houghton snorted with anger and disgust. The trouble was that the man was clearly not 'on message' despite all the subtle hints he was giving. The man's insufferable rectitude and 'stick in the mud' attitude was beginning to irritate him intensely. The man was clearly a plodder with no sense of creativity, of thinking and working 'outside the box' in which he was indoctrinated many years ago.
"We have to admit that whatever Karen Betts is doing with Larkhall, it is working. Let's face it, I can't rewrite this report without falsifying our records of observations"
"I am not asking you to do that. I'm merely suggesting that you put a different gloss on it, to be truthful without being over sympathetic." Came Neil Houghton's reply through his tight smile.
Mr. Simpson sank back in his chair in dismay. The politicians lived in such an Alice in Wonderland world where words meant exactly according to what they wished them to mean. After all, he was just an old fashioned inspector. He had tried to do a hatchet job and failed and it seemed the logical course of events to cut their losses, mark it up for another follow up review and to work through prisons far more deserving of his attention. Besides, the latest prison based legislation put more work on them for the same staffing. Surely this was the most sensible, logical course of action?
"There's another thing, the fact that there was no prior notice so that the prison could be caught off guard. It fitted in any case as a follow up report. If you take a look at the previous report, you can see that any report must be an improvement on the one before. We can't have it both ways"
The lowering scowl on Neil Houghton's face indicated very precisely that he did want to have it both ways. It was in his very nature, which his cosseted position indulged to the limit. Mr. Simpson would not have known the elegant old-fashioned expression 'hoist with our own petard' but if he had, it wouldn't have done him any good to say it.
Neil Houghton brooded on his own after the inspector had left. He signed it off and dumped it in his out tray. There was a fix somewhere. He didn't know who did it and why but he vowed to someday get to the bottom of the matter.