A middle-aged prison officer collected them and led them across a yard to a shabby, temporary hut where all the visits took place. A group of prisoners passed them in the opposite direction, and George saw with pity that the girl blushed at the obscenities and catcalls directed at her, apparently from the whole group. He thought: Whoever killed Tom French will be sent here before the trial. And he thought of all the people involved and, in a spasm of self-doubt, he wondered if he would ever find out.

Professional visits took place in small, private rooms, out of earshot of the prison officers. George had been classed as a professional visitor. The man was waiting for him, sitting at a stained table, his head in his hands. In the ill-fitting prison clothes he seemed smaller.

As he heard the door he looked up.

“You,” he said aggressively. “ What do you want? My bloody solicitor hasn’t been to see me yet. Do you know anything about it?”

“No. I’m nothing to do with your solicitor.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“I want your help,” George said mildly. He sat at the table opposite Shawcroft and tried to make himself relaxed, receptive.

“Are you police?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know about Tom French.”

“Christ!”

Dennis stood up, his hands flat on the table, and shouted, “ I’ve told them all I know about bloody Tom French.”

An officer looked in through the window to see if George needed help. George signalled gently that everything was fine. He leant back slowly and took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Slowly he opened it, letting the wrapping drop on to the table. He offered the packet to the angry man.

Dennis took the cigarette quickly, lit it himself, using the matches that George had thrown on to the table, and sat down. He inhaled greedily, and George knew that he was thinking that if he was quick, there might be time for another cigarette before the interview was over.

“Tell me then,” George said quietly. “Tell me all you know about Tom French. Start by telling me why you frightened Terry away when you knew that I was asking about Tom.”

“That wasn’t about Tom French. You were asking about dope. I didn’t know who you were. I hadn’t seen you then but I knew that someone had followed my mate and me from the marsh. You could have been the drug squad. I didn’t scare that loony off. I just told him not to talk to you. You know what he’s like. He could have told you anything.”

“So far as you were concerned, Tom French never smoked cannabis?”

“I’ve told you. I told you in the Lodge. No.”

“And if he had wanted to get hold of some, it would have been readily available?”

“I suppose so. At a price. But he didn’t want to. I’ve been telling you. He never touched the stuff. He was always preaching at me about it. Once he’d started he’d never let it alone. He wasn’t no saint. I’ve had to put him to bed a couple of times, he’s been that drunk. But he’d talk to me as if he was a vicar. It used to get on my nerves. And it wasn’t only me. He did it to everyone. He was kind, and he did put himself out for you, but he never let you forget it.”