Macdonald gazed into the glass cubicle, the administration centre for the block. Along one wall there were half a dozen CCTV monitors. The guard put down his Coke and came out of the cubicle. ‘My name’s Tony Stafford, and I’m in charge of the block,’ he said. ‘You’ve been told how the prison is laid out?’

Macdonald shook his head.

‘There are four blocks. This is block B, the remand block. It’s made up of three wings, and each wing has three floors. You’ll spend all of your time on your wing, unless you’re going to the gym, the hospital or the education unit. An exercise yard is attached to the block, your meals are taken on your wing. Any problems, you talk first to the officers on your wing. Any problems they can’t handle, they’ll bring to me. I talk to the governor. That’s the system and you work within it, right?’

Macdonald nodded.

‘This your first time inside?’

‘Yes.’

‘You call me Mr Stafford. Or sir. Or boss. Some of the older lags call the officers “guv” but we’d rather you didn’t. Causes confusion. I presume it’s been explained what will happen if you continue to refuse to identify yourself ?’

‘Several times,’ said Macdonald. ‘Mr Stafford,’ he added.

‘Right, then, I’ll show you to your cell. Come on.’ Stafford walked towards a barred door, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Macdonald followed.

Stafford unlocked the door, let Macdonald through followed him and relocked it. A second barred door led on to the wing. Stafford went up a flight of metal stairs. A female guard was walking down them, swinging her key chain. She had blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a trim figure.

Macdonald could hear music. An Eagles song, ‘Hotel California’. The pounding beat of rap. Jazz. Then the muffled commentary on a football game.

They reached the first-floor landing. There were twenty metal doors around the landing, all closed. A chest-high railing ran round the hole in the middle. A wire-mesh net had been spread across it, presumably to deter anyone wanting to jump. Macdonald looked up: there was a similar net below the second landing.

Stafford took Macdonald along the landing, unlocked a cell door and pushed it open. ‘We’ll have a Listener for you tomorrow.’

‘A Listener?’

‘They’re like the Samaritans. You can talk through any problems with them.’

‘The only problem I’ve got is being here,’ said Macdonald. ‘I don’t need to talk to anyone.’

‘It’s prison policy,’ said Stafford.

Macdonald walked in. The cell was about four paces long and three wide, with pale green walls. A bunk bed was pressed against one wall and a small metal desk stood under a barred window. There was a small portable colour television on the desk. It was switched on, a travel show, but the sound was muted. The wall by the desk was plastered with photographs of semi-naked women torn from magazines and newspapers. The door closed behind him with a dull thud. To his right was a small toilet with a white plastic seat.