At the police station, he was shuffled between four different police officers, each more bored than the last. He repeated the story over and over, and each time he uttered it, it became more real to him. He answered their inane questions—What time was the phone call from the university to say Samantha hadn’t arrived? When did you first realize there was something wrong? Did Samantha act any differently before she left?—even though they had all been addressed already. They wrote notes in countless black notepads. And alluded to things like a secret lover, or the even more heartbreaking prospect that maybe she just ran away?

Their blunt monotone responses were what Robin thought of when he first spoke to Terrance Loamfield, Matthew’s appointed barrister.

“You have been put on Mr. McConnell’s approved visitor list—just give your name and identification at the gates. You will have to complete some paperwork when you arrive at New Hall, but should be good to go from there.”

Robin was on the phone again, in a packed carriage heading for his connection at Leeds Central. He was standing—he had a seat reservation, but the train didn’t happen to have the carriage his seat was in.

“Thank you, Mr. Loamfield.” He wanted to ask Loamfield so many questions, but he didn’t really think he was in the right environment for it.

“Mr. McConnell has not requested my presence at your meetings. May I ask what your relation is to Mr. McConnell?”

Robin didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t really anything to Matthew—hadn’t even known of his existence for a full twenty-four hours yet. And Matthew hadn’t told the lawyer either—meaning he probably didn’t want Loamfield to know. Robin assessed, from the five minutes he had been talking to the man, that Loamfield seemed to be a very closed person, spouting protocol instead of emotion, fact instead of opinion. It was clear he really didn’t have a personal stake in seeing Matthew go free, or indeed be convicted. But in spite of this, Robin thought it wise not to tell Loamfield he was going to be sniffing around. “I’m a...friend.”

“Well, you appear to be the only friend Mr. McConnell has,” said Loamfield, not showing a hint of emotion.

“No one else has visited him?”

“No.”

“Not his parents?”

“Mr. McConnell is an orphan. His parents died in a traffic pileup in 1996. He lived with his aunt, who has since disowned him and left the county. I’m surprised you don’t know this?”

“Ah, yes, quite,” Robin said, squishing himself against the wall of the train as the snacks trolley passed. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget.”