Bailey wasn’t entirely sure if she was even allowed to be down here, but seeing as no one had stopped her, she saw no reason not to continue.

As she walked along the corridor, she reflected that she knew little about the history of HMP Foxbrook, only that it had been built as a prison in Victorian times when penal attitudes had been much harsher. And, as such, the fabric of the building was still permeated with the dank oppressiveness of that era.

Preoccupied by those thoughts, she almost walked right past the entrance to the laundry – a heavy iron door with a metal plaque riveted onto it which said ‘WATER SUPPLY ROOM’. There was a small glass panel set into the door, through which she noticed what appeared to be a row of washing machines or dryers stretching down the length of the large room that lay beyond.

Standing outside, peering through the glass panel, she could see inmates at work inside – pushing trolleys, loading washing machines, emptying dryers, folding sheets.

She debated with herself for a few moments whether to enter.

Act like you work here, she told herself. Move with a purpose and people will be less likely to doubt you.

She took a deep breath, pushed the door open and strode confidently into the laundry.

A few of the inmates glanced up, but then went back to their tasks, indifferent to her. They probably assumed, as she’d intended, that she had come here to work, just like them. The overall atmosphere was one of subdued industriousness.

The laundry was a long cavernous room, the farther edges of which lay beyond the reach of the weak light emanating from the bulbs hanging down from the ceiling. It was warm down here, stuffy even, and the air was suffused with the acrid smell of detergent.

The floor of the laundry was filled with large yellow trolleys made of canvas. Along one side of the room, a row of huge stainless-steel washing machines groaned as their massive drums rotated, churning the items inside, washing the filth of the prison off them. A bit further along, big industrial dryers rumbled at a different frequency, the hot air carried out of the room through an overhead aluminium ventilation duct. On the other side were the industrial folders and the steam presses, and giant wire racks stacked with folded piles of freshly laundered items. Sheets hung up next to the racking, the white material billowing softly.

She remembered from her induction that the individual inmates’ laundry was sent down here in numbered mesh bags which were never opened. The bags went straight into the machines, and then into the dryers, and then back to the inmates.

She stood there amongst the trolleys and did a slow three-sixty, scanning the room for any possible clues or insights. Nothing jumped out at her, apart from the lack of CCTV cameras, just as Frank had mentioned.

According to him, Alice had obtained a job in the laundry and had been down here alone when she had been murdered. The question was whether there was any special significance to the laundry beyond the fact that it was secluded enough to commit a murder away from the eyes of the prison authorities and the other inmates. Either way, it sounded as if Alice had been very close to identifying those responsible for bringing the drugs into the prison, and it seemed that they’d murdered her before she’d had a chance to report back to Frank.