She stares instead at the closed gates of the prison. The press won’t see when Tom walks through those gates, but she will. And if the police do their job she’ll be able to ferry him across the car park to the safety of the car without a single journalist asking him a question. She’s been worrying unnecessarily, worrying him unnecessarily. Within thirty to forty minutes they’ll be home – their new home. Tom will want to eat, grab a drink, shower and sleep. Maybe have sex. She’s thought about everything. She’s changed the sheets, laid out new clothes and ordered in his favourite food and drink. Then, when he’s fully relaxed, she’ll show him her plan. Her stomach hollows at the thought – excitement and nerves mingling. For the last year she’s done nothing but work on it, putting everything into it – time, passion, painstaking research. Two years ago, their world was shattered, but she’s going to pull the pieces back together and, like the Japanese craft of repairing broken pottery with gold – their new life will be more beautiful for having been broken.

Movement at the gate makes her sit up a little taller. A man is walking from the prison to the gate, accompanied by a guard. She squints and leans towards the windscreen. Is it Tom? As the gate opens and the man, in a blue sweatshirt and black beanie hat, carrying a bin bag over his shoulder, walks into the car park, Kate slumps back into her seat. It’s not Tom. The released man wanders towards the exit then freezes as the press rush towards him. The police officers skirt round them, shouting and waving their hands and the pack falls back. One of the officers approaches the man and they have a brief conversation while the other officer makes a motion with his arms for the crowd to part. He beckons the man through.

Kate jolts as she glances back at the gates. A second man is walking out to freedom. Even though she’s visited Tom at least once a month for the last fourteen months it still takes her a moment to register that the chin length hair and the raggedy beard belong to her husband. Tom takes three or four steps outside the walls of the prison, then stops and looks around the car park. He’s searching for the Range Rover, Kate thinks ruefully. Not a ten-year-old Volvo V70. Keep walking, she silently urges, casting a look towards the press pack. Keep walking this way. But Tom doesn’t move.