But this phone message was one of the old type. All the caller said, in a soft north-east accent, was: ‘Are you afraid of the Bogeyman? Because he’s coming for you. Tomorrow.’

Chapter Twenty-one

Tuesday, 2 July 2019

I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you.

Friedrich Nietzsche

The fateful day arrived. Leticia Mountjoy was up with her phone alarm at 6:45 a.m., having slept badly. Anton was snoring lightly next to her, sleepily sliding his large arm around her shoulders as she extricated herself from the bedclothes. He rarely awoke before ten. Running a restaurant meant he was a night owl, her job made her a lark. But today she didn’t feel full of the joys of spring. Neil Wright was being released from Spring Hill open prison today. In fifteen minutes in fact, and she was as nervous as hell. She would meet him later at his new house. Wearing her bathrobe, she leaned against the kitchen counter, holding a mug of coffee to her face for warmth and comfort, and listening to the early morning headlines on the radio. There was plenty going on in the world, and no mention of the prisoner who had been dropped into her care.

Verity had been off sick yesterday, an almost unprecedented event, but had phoned her in the evening. The call was terse, lacking the kind of support and empathy that Leticia felt she needed. Verity simply listed the essential documents and checks that had to be done. The only hint of human connection came right at the end. ‘It’s a big day for you, so good luck.’ Then she had hung up.

The call just reminded Leticia that she was on her own. This morning she had opened the big fat metal briefcase, even before taking a shower. First there were the travel details. He would get the early bus into Aylesbury, then another, changing at High Wycombe for Staines, arriving if all went well shortly after ten. She would go to meet him at his house at eleven. For the umpteenth time she ran through the list: the contract for the house, letters of acceptance from the local GP surgery and a private dental practice, the application forms for a bank account, for housing benefit and for council tax benefit, all pre-filled by DI Morgan and simply awaiting Neil Wright’s signature. She also had the details of his compulsory group therapy and individual psychiatric appointments, plus a copy of his formal licence conditions and agreed sentence plan in case he had left his own behind. The licence wasn’t big, just a couple of pages, but few prisoners ever bothered to bring it with them. She wondered if there was anything else she should have. Of course – her own work phone, plus the iPad.