‘Out of the question. It’s time for you to go back to your cell, Bailey.’

Desperation overwhelmed her. This wasn’t working.

‘If you don’t believe me, then at least call my boss. His name is Detective Superintendent Frank Grinham. He’ll confirm who I am.’

She leaned forward and grabbed a fountain pen from the brass stationery holder on his desk. She looked around for a bit of paper. All she could see on his desk was a glossy magazine entitled Yachting World. She flipped it over and tore off a small corner of the back cover.

‘Now just a minute…’ said the Governor, starting forward in his chair.

‘This is his direct line,’ she said, scribbling down Frank’s number on the piece of paper. She thrust it across the desk towards him. ‘You can call him right now.’

‘We’ll do nothing of the sort.’

‘I can call him myself.’ She stood up and reached for the telephone on his desk.

He snatched the receiver from her grasp and slammed it back down. ‘That’s quite enough!’ he barked. ‘Shelley!’

The door opened and Shelley came in.

‘It’s time to take Bailey back to her cell,’ said the Governor.

‘No! You must believe me! You have to believe me!’

Shelley gripped her by the arm. Bailey tried to pull away.

‘If you don’t behave yourself, then Shelley will place you in segregation,’ said the Governor. ‘Now, it seems quite clear to me that you still have some mental issues to resolve and to that end I’ll be recommending that you attend a further course of treatment with Doctor Bodie until you get better.’

Bailey sagged in Shelley’s grip.

She’d failed.

She let Shelley march her out of the Governor’s office and prayed to herself that the Hairdresser wouldn’t strike until after she’d had the chance to call Frank first thing tomorrow morning.

Chapter 102

The Governor stared at the piece of paper with the telephone number on it. He picked it up off his desk and noticed that his hand was shaking. Screwing it up into a tiny ball, he dropped it into his wastepaper basket.

He stood up and walked over to the antique wooden cabinet by the window, opened it up and took out a bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin and a tumbler. He poured himself a generous shot and knocked it back. The whisky burned a trail down his throat and instantly made him feel better.

He held out his hand. The shaking seemed to have subsided.

How the fuck had this inmate found out about the well? Weren’t they all supposed to be stupid? Isn’t that why they were in here?

But then this one had claimed that she was an undercover police officer. And if that was true, then he had even more cause to be worried.

Of course he knew about the well. He’d known about it for years. He’d learnt of its existence not long after he’d started working at the prison. The well had lain unused in the basement ever since the prison changed its means of water supply in the 1930s. Close inspection of the original blueprints of the prison revealed how it connected to the outside world and he had realised that it constituted a small but potentially serious chink in the prison’s security. He had thus made plans to get it sealed up completely.