Chapter One
Only Caldwell, the man in charge of the transfer operation knew who the prisoner was. In his day Alexander Christian had been notorious, but that day had long gone. The tabloids had plenty of other killers to vilify, and they'd forgotten about him in favour of the Yorkshire Ripper, Myra Hindley and Rosemary West. Every so often stories would leak out about the activities of those three, sparking off another little flurry of public interest. It had been twenty years since Alexander Christian had made the headlines, back when the men that were guarding them today were still at nursery school. Caldwell wondered if they'd even heard of him.
Caldwell sat at the front of the compartment, watching Christian carefully. He remembered what he had done, he remembered seeing the arrest on the news. Caldwell was nineteen at the time, in his first year at university. He'd sat in the common room with everyone else in his hall, and seen every second of the coverage via the zoom lenses of The Passing Parade. This was the closest that the prisoner had got to fresh air since his conviction shortly afterwards. Knowing what he did, Caldwell was not comfortable sharing a confined space with Christian.
The helicopter lurched, sending Caldwell sprawling, despite his harness.
The pilot was calling something into his radio: 'May Day! We're losing altitude. There's a problem with one of the engines. May Day!'
'Let me help, Caldwell, old chap.' The prisoner was leaning over Caldwell, shouting over the noise of the engines, 'I'm a pilot.'
'One of the best,' Caldwell replied. It was a split-second decision: 'Let him out of those cuffs, he's our only hope.'
The guards looked at each other. The cabin lurched again, pitching them all over.
'Do it!' Caldwell shouted. He looked straight at the prisoner. 'If you try anything, Christian, you're dead, do you understand?'
The prisoner nodded. The guard handcuffed to him undid the lock, releasing his wrist. Christian clambered across to the cockpit, the guards parting to let him through.
