Bradfield Moor Secure Hospital perched on the side of a hill on the north-western side of the city at the point where cultivated greenery gave way to the untamed hodgepodge of moorland vegetation. The buildings were angled so they faced down the hill at trees and roofs and lawns and shrubberies and flowerbeds rather than the weatherbeaten grasses and stunted shrubs of the peat bogs above. Tony had once described it to Carol as a Victorian metaphor directed at the patients within. ‘They’re supposed to turn their backs on the jungle of madness and become part of the ordered consensus below,’ he’d said. Typical Tony, she thought, then felt irritated with herself for enjoying the richness of his take on the world. Now he was the one implicitly accused of madness and she was the one with the task of restoring him to the mainstream.

The hospital had extensive grounds and once she had cleared the security gates and parked well away from the buildings, Carol clipped the leash on Flash and let her out of the Land Rover. The sky was grey and heavy with the promise of rain, but it was still only a promise. She walked down the driveway in the teeth of a stiff breeze and when she was sure there was nobody around, she let the dog run free. As she’d done the night before, Flash ranged across the terrain but kept returning to her mistress without being summoned, before taking off on another zigzag run. Carol let the dog run for quarter of an hour, then put her back in the Landie with a bowl of water and a handful of treats.

By the time she reached the main entrance, she could feel a few drops of rain. ‘Not a moment too soon,’ she muttered, pushing the door open. The reception area was the usual institutional beige and grey, but someone had taken a little effort and imagination to make it more appealing. There were attractive photographs of tranquil mountain scenery around the walls and a pair of large blue glazed pots containing an assortment of house plants. Too heavy to be lifted and thrown, of course, Carol recognised. Off to one side was a doorway without a door leading to a seating area where visitors could wait before being processed and allowed in to see inmates. Behind the glassed-in reception desk, one woman was on the phone, another at a computer.

Carol stood patiently waiting for one of them to pause in their vital tasks to deal with her. It took a couple of minutes, but the woman on the phone eventually finished her conversation and slid open a panel in the glass. ‘Visiting hours don’t begin till noon,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘They should have told you that at the main gate.’