‘Fuck me, I knew it was too good to be true,’ said a voice from the lower bunk. A man sat up. He was squat with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. He could have been the twin of the man in the holding cell, Barnes, except Macdonald hadn’t seen any tattoos on Barnes. ‘I told ’em I wanted a cell on my own.’

He stood up and put his hands on his hips. A small vein pulsed in his forehead as he glared at Macdonald. ‘I’m as thrilled as you are,’ said Macdonald. He nodded at the photographs on the wall. ‘Any of those the wife?’

The man’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. ‘In my dreams,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should be glad they didn’t put a nig-nog in with me. You’re not a smoker, are you?’

Macdonald shook his head.

‘That’s something. I’m Jason. Jason Lee. What’s your name, then?’

Macdonald threw his bedding on to the vacant bunk. ‘Bit of a problem there,’ he said. ‘I’m not telling them who I am.’

‘That’ll only piss ’em off.’

‘Yeah, well, I can live with that. Okay if I take the top bunk?’

‘You’re not a bed-wetter, are you?’

‘I fart a bit after a few lagers and a curry but I don’t expect that’s a problem in here.’

Lee slapped Macdonald on the back. ‘You’re a laugh, you are,’ he said. ‘Look, what do I call you? I can’t keep saying, “Hey, you”, can I? Not polite.’

‘Thing is, Jason, if I tell you, you might tell someone else . . .’

Lee shot to his feet and took a step towards the bunk. ‘You saying I’m a grass?’

Macdonald put up his hands. ‘It’s not a question of grassing, it’s a question of you using my name on the landing. Walls have ears, right?’

Lee’s hands had clenched into fists. Macdonald saw HATE tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand.

Lee’s brow furrowed. ‘Fair point,’ he said.

‘No offence,’ said Macdonald. He wasn’t intimidated by his cellmate, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by starting a fight on his first night.

Lee grinned again, showing a gold tooth at the side of his mouth. ‘None taken,’ he said. He sat down again and gestured at the TV. ‘Do you want to watch something?’

‘I’m not fussed,’ said Macdonald. He wasn’t a television fan but that might change if the cell became his home for any length of time.

‘I’ve a radio as well, so let me know if you want music or sport. They won’t give us Sky in here, bastards, so if you want the footie you have to watch the radio.’ He grimaced as he realised what he’d said. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘You want music? Or sport? Arsenal are playing tonight but I couldn’t give a shit. Chelsea man, me, through and through. You into football?’

‘Not really.’