Macdonald shuffled into the holding cell and sat down. A clock on the wall above the door told him it was three thirty. Macdonald hadn’t had anything to eat since his sandwich in the police station and his stomach growled. He knew there was no point in asking for something. Besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d gone without food and water. He’d survive.

Another prisoner was ushered into the holding cell, a big man with a badly bruised face and a freshly stitched wound on his shaved head. He nodded at Macdonald. ‘How’s it going, mate?’ he asked, in a whining Liverpudlian drawl. He was wearing an England football shirt, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Nike trainers, but his physique suggested it had been a long time since he’d chased after a ball.

‘Great,’ said Macdonald.

‘What’s with the gear?’ asked the man, indicating the forensic suit.

‘Cops took my stuff,’ said Macdonald.

‘Bastards,’ said the man. He pointed at his bruised face. ‘They did this to me. Resisting arrest.’ He chuckled.

Two more prisoners were brought into the holding cell, black men in their twenties wearing designer sportswear and expensive trainers. They sprawled on one of the benches, looking bored.

‘So, what are you in for?’ the bruised guy asked Macdonald.

‘Armed robbery,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell, premier division,’ said the man.

‘Yeah, well, I would be if we’d got away with it. Why are you here?’

The man laughed. ‘Retailing.’

‘Retailing?’

‘Tried to sell a couple of watches. Turned out they were nicked.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘My own fault, really. It was me what nicked them.’ He rubbed his square chin with his palm. ‘Serves me right.’

Macdonald heard the van start up, then drive away.

‘Did we have the same magistrate?’ asked Macdonald. ‘Guy with the long hair?’

‘Yeah, recognise him, did you?’

Macdonald frowned.

‘He was with that pop group, back in the seventies, the guys who dressed up with the makeup and everything. Right ponces. New fucking Romantics. What the hell were they called?’

A prison officer opened the door to the holding cell. ‘Barnes,’ he said.

‘That’s me,’ said the man. He flashed Macdonald a thumbs-up. ‘Catch you later.’

Macdonald sat and waited. Barnes was processed and taken away. Then another load of prisoners arrived, six this time. They had all been in the system for some time because each man was carrying his belongings in a large, tagged, clear-plastic bag. Five were sent into the holding cell. Two were black and young, with the streetwise arrogance of the earlier pair. They stared sullenly at Macdonald and ignored him when he acknowledged them with a nod. He couldn’t have cared less whether they were friendly or not – they were obviously dispersal prisoners who had been moved from another institution and he wouldn’t see them on the remand wing. Of the three white prisoners, one was a stooped man in his late sixties with thinning grey hair and a smoker’s cough. He smiled at Macdonald, showing that half his teeth were missing. His right arm trembled constantly and the hand was curled into a tight claw. ‘Got a smoke?’ he asked, and Macdonald shook his head.