The other two were similar to Barnes, with shaved heads and logo-covered sportswear. They nodded at Macdonald and pointedly ignored the two black prisoners. ‘Nice outfit,’ said one, but Macdonald closed his eyes and stretched out. He could see what game the prison officers were playing: he would be processed last.

The clock on the wall showed five thirty when Macdonald was alone in the holding cell. There had been three more deliveries, including another truckload of remand prisoners. Macdonald had watched them all being interviewed, given forms to sign, then escorted away.

Some were clearly familiar with the system, while others were confused and kept looking around as if hoping they were going to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream. One middle-aged man in a blue pinstriped suit and gleaming black shoes was wiping away tears as he answered the officer’s questions.

It was just after six thirty when a female officer opened the door to the holding cell and told Macdonald he was to go back to the reception desk. Macdonald stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his back ramrod straight. The officer looked at him coldly. ‘Bad news,’ he said. ‘By the time we’ve finished processing you, they won’t be serving food.’

Macdonald shrugged.

‘And we seem to have run out of breakfast packs. For the morning.’ He pointed at Macdonald’s forensic suit. ‘Normally we’d be able to get you out of that and into some clothes, but we’ve left it a bit late. We might be able to get something sorted tomorrow. No promises.’ He scratched his sideburns.

‘I get the drift,’ said Macdonald.

‘Good. So let’s run through the questions again, shall we? Name?’

Macdonald said nothing.

‘Prisoner refuses to give his name,’ said the officer, writing slowly on the form. ‘Date of birth?’

Macdonald said nothing.

‘Prisoner refuses to give his date of birth,’ said the officer.

‘Address?’

Macdonald sniffed, but said nothing.

The officer smiled to himself. ‘Care of HM Prison Shelton,’ he said. ‘Remand wing.’ He finished writing, then looked up at Macdonald. ‘Next of kin?’

Macdonald stared back at him.

‘Prisoner refuses to identify his next of kin.’ In all there were more than two dozen questions on the induction form, and the officer insisted on putting each one to Macdonald before noting that he had refused to answer.

Eventually he turned the form round and pushed it across the desk. ‘Sign at the bottom,’ he said, slapping down a cheap Biro.

Macdonald picked it up. ‘Can I put a cross?’

‘Put what you like,’ said the officer.

Macdonald made a mark at the bottom of the last page of the form.

The officer pointed at a curtained-off area. ‘Go in there and strip,’ he said.

‘We hardly know each other,’ said Macdonald drily.

The man stared at him without speaking. Macdonald stared back, then walked over to the curtain. He pulled it back. There were two metal chairs. He slipped off the training shoes, unzipped the forensic suit and draped it over one of the chairs.