“This is Mr. Robin Ferringham. He has come to see Matthew McConnell.”

If there was any surprise at that, Stanton hid it perfectly. “Yes, sir.” He turned to Robin. “Will you come with me, please?”

Robin went to follow Stanton. And then turned back. “Wait. You said there were two conditions.”

“Yes,” Claypath said. “The second is you must come to the vigil being held at Marsden Church on Tuesday night. You can see firsthand the sorrow that Matthew McConnell has caused. And then—” Claypath’s face changed, like a cloud had come over him, his eyes sparking with a vindictive fire “—you can tell me exactly why you’re here.”

Robin quickly nodded and wilted under the man’s gaze.

Roger Claypath was good cop until he was bad cop.

And now Robin was on his agenda.

Chapter Twelve

The guard named Stanton led Robin through limitless corridors that all looked alike. He couldn’t help feel it was to keep him off balance. Finally Stanton stopped in front of a large window that looked into a dark room with only a table and two skeletal chairs either side of it.

Stanton frisked him again and, seemingly satisfied, let him into the room via a heavy steel door. Stanton told him to sit, so he did, while the guard disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room.

Robin looked around—no other windows, no connection with the outside world—and placed his notebook and pen on the table. He’d had to leave his backpack back with the officers in the lobby—even though there was nothing else in it. He looked at his watch. And tried to remember whether Stanton had locked the door behind him. Was he stuck in here?

Seconds piled up into minutes and Robin watched as the big hand on his watch whipped around from half past to the hour. The room was so silent he tried to strain his hearing to listen beyond it. But he couldn’t.

Eventually, the door swung open and Stanton pushed a small figure—dressed in a gray T-shirt and trousers, his hands cuffed in front of him—into the room. Stanton almost threw the young man down into the chair opposite Robin.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Stanton said.

Robin nodded, as Stanton took one more look at the scene, assessing it and deeming it adequate, before he disappeared through the door.

Robin turned back to the young man in the chair. He looked different to how he appeared in the photographs—smaller, somehow even less realistic. His hair was tousled and he seemed generally dirty—his face slightly smudgy. He also looked a lot thinner.

His eyes, framed by lack of sleep, found their way up to Robin, with almost no drive, no motivation. “You’re really him?” he said.

“Hello, Matthew,” Robin said.

Chapter Thirteen