An original stone staircase led into the building from the quiet street outside. All visitors to any of the 1,900 prisoners had to climb those aged steps and pass through the security that separated the inmates from the freedom that lay beyond the walls.

Michael’s recent promotion to the rank of Queen’s Counsel – the mark of distinction separating the very best barristers from the rest – was no grounds for exception. His first visit to Wandsworth seemed a lifetime ago, when he was aged twenty-two and newly qualified. Back then Michael had been surprised to be searched as intimately as were the social visitors waiting alongside him. Any special treatment he had expected – any goodwill that allowed lawyers to pass through with a nod and a wink – had been missing then.

It was still missing now.

‘Who are you here to see?’

The middle-aged prison officer behind the elevated reception desk was all business. No greeting. No small talk.

‘Simon Kash.’

Andrew Ross was Simon Kash’s solicitor and he answered for them both, passing up a formal letter addressed to the Governor of HMP Wandsworth. It introduced Ross and Michael as solicitor and barrister and confirmed their 9.30 a.m. legal appointment with their client.

‘ID?’

Both Michael and Ross removed their photo identification from their wallets and passed them up for inspection without a word. They were returned within seconds and the two men were nodded through.

‘Phones, coins, keys. The usual.’ This request came from a second officer. A woman, younger than the desk jockey and standing instead of sitting. She was the next stop on the security conveyor belt.

A small black tray was slid across the desk as she spoke, which was quickly filled. Wallet, keys and coins from Michael’s pockets. The same, plus cigarillos and lighter, from Ross. Each retained a lever-arch file that contained the bare bones of the prosecution evidence against Simon Kash, along with a notebook and a pen.

The black tray was placed into a single thin locker beside the reception desk. The locker key was handed to Ross, the only other item either man was permitted to bring inside.

The third security station sat at the other side of the reception area. Manned by two more prison officers, the large X-ray machine was beaten, battered and practically obsolete. No doubt it had once been state of the art and the envy of airports far and wide. But state funding had been falling for decades. Airport security had caught up, overtaken and since lapped what the Prison Service could afford. Antiquated X-ray machines and the occasional metal detector were as good as it now got.

A long metal bench barred their path to the X-ray machine. Designed to provide extra seating for when the reception area was busy, it seemed poorly placed when the room was as quiet as it was today. At six foot one, Michael was tall enough that he did not have to walk around the inadvertent obstacle. Instead he just stepped over. Ross was shorter and so had to take the longer route.