After he put the phone down, Gillard sat and thought about the woman, and the terrible suffering she had been through. Even now, nobody knew if Rollason had killed her son or if someone else had. The body had never been found. The official records showed that Rollason had been re-interviewed numerous times about it but had always denied involvement. Ahead of the murderer’s release tomorrow, there was no chance to have another go.

He felt for Robert Fenwick’s mother, but there seemed nothing he could do.

He would have to think about it.

Chapter Twenty

Monday, 1 July dawned as another warm and sunny day, and a dress rehearsal for freedom. Neil Wright was today being allowed an unaccompanied trip to Aylesbury, the nearest town. Three hours of liberty before his final release the next day. The sound of birdsong came in through the open window, along with a breeze. He eased himself out of bed and stretched. HMP Spring Hill really wasn’t such a bad place, but he would be glad to get out of it all the same. There were things he had to do. A little to-do list with items to be ticked off.

He showered and trimmed his beard carefully. Applied some of his own special bleaching agent, three parts shampoo and two parts lemon juice, to his scalp and beard. It stung a little, but he knew it would deal with the iron-grey roots that were just beginning to show in a few places. He fixed in the last piece of dental bridgework, something organised and paid for by the Home Office. It complemented the implants made to replace the teeth knocked out by a cellmate. It made his jaw look California perfect, right down to being a little too white. Even as a youngster, he’d had bad teeth; jumbled and discoloured. Those were the ones immortalised in his mugshot. He polished the thick-framed plastic spectacles. He liked the Ferrari frames, which gave his face a more studious look.

Finally satisfied, he spent the last few minutes again practising writing with his right hand. His signature of the name Neil Wright was now utterly consistent and, he thought, rather elegant. At eight a.m. he headed off to the refectory for breakfast. He kept himself apart from the other prisoners, which was easy enough because there were always people leaving having finished their incarceration, and always new faces arriving. At this stage in their prison sentence they could feel and taste the freedom just beyond the gates. Very few wanted to jeopardise that by last-minute misbehaviour.

At nine, he was dressed and ready to be signed out. He had barely any money. The prison grant was being withheld until tomorrow, but he had plenty of things that he could do that wouldn’t cost a thing.