The constable took Macdonald down a corridor lined with grey cell doors. He unlocked one and stood aside to let Macdonald in. The room was two paces wide and three long with a glass block window at the far end, a seatless toilet to the right, and in the ceiling, protected by a sheet of Perspex, a single fluorescent light. There was a concrete bed base with a thin plastic mattress. Two folded blankets lay at the foot. The walls were painted pale green. Probably Apple White on the chart, thought Macdonald. The paint was peeling off the ceiling and dozens of names and dates had been scratched into the wall, along with graffiti, most of which was along the lines of ‘All coppers are bastards.’

The constable slotted the card into a holder on the door. ‘Don’t put anything down the toilet that you shouldn’t,’ said the constable. ‘The sergeant gets really upset if it backs up. And if he gets upset, we get upset.’

‘Any chance of some grub?’ asked Macdonald.

The constable slammed the door without replying.

‘I guess not,’ said Macdonald. He picked up one of the blankets. It stank of stale vomit and he tossed it into the corner of the cell. He sat down on the bed. The floor was sticky and he swung his bare feet on to the mattress, then sat with his back against the wall. He’d slept in worse places. At least no one was shooting at him. The light went out and he sat in the darkness, considering his options. He didn’t have many. He was in the system now and all he could do was ride it out.

Without a watch, Macdonald quickly lost track of the time. Light was streaming in through the window when the door was unlocked and a constable, a different one from the previous night, handed him a plastic tray that contained a bacon sandwich and a paper cup of tea with the bag still in it.

‘Sarge said I was to ask what size your feet are,’ said the constable. He was in his late twenties, tall and thin with a slight stoop. He looked more like a librarian than a policeman.

‘Ten,’ said Macdonald.

The constable started to leave. ‘I could do with a shower and a shave,’ said Macdonald.

‘We don’t have any washing facilities,’ said the constable. He left, slamming the cell door.

Macdonald took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was stale and the bacon was fatty and cold but it was the first thing he’d eaten in twelve hours so he wolfed it down. The tea was lukewarm and sweet.

The next time the cell door opened a uniformed female sergeant came in, a thick-set woman with tightly permed hair. She was holding a pair of old training shoes. ‘These are elevens but they’re all we could find,’ she said.