Leticia was on the lunch run, queueing for sandwiches at Eileen’s Deli in Staines High Street, enjoying the cafe radio. A couple of regulars, painters and decorators by the look of their overalls, were ahead of her, ribbing the woman behind the counter, who hadn’t yet finished making an elaborate salad for someone sitting down. ‘Come on, Eileen,’ one muttered, echoing the 1980s hit that had just been playing. The woman, whose name was Pat, rolled her eyes at the tired and endlessly repeated joke. The hourly news bulletin kicked in, announcing the discovery of another dead body between Staines and Walton-on-Thames.

The police for the moment are declining to give details, but a source close to the investigation told Surrey FM that the victim was the notorious murderer Neville Rollason, only released from prison yesterday.

The two tradesmen ahead of Leticia turned to each other in apparent joy. ‘Yes! Fucking result, my son,’ one said, proffering a clenched fist. His mate clapped him on the shoulder and said: ‘Sorted. In double-quick time.’

By the time Leticia got back to the office, the news had already electrified the place. She distributed the sandwiches she had got on behalf of Tina, Jill and Adrian. An impromptu meeting was called in Jill’s office while they all munched through their lunch. ‘So they really did have him,’ Leticia said.

‘It certainly looks that way,’ Jill said. ‘We of course must institute an immediate and thorough enquiry into our actions and re-evaluate our procedures. As I said yesterday, please continue to refer all press calls to the Ministry of Justice media team in London. If you’re asked a question, just act dumb. Pretend to be a temp. Don’t give your name, but most importantly, at no stage should any of us confirm Rollason was on our books.’

They all nodded in agreement.

‘This is a better result, frankly, than the other kind of surprise, which would be to discover that Rollason had reoffended,’ Richards said.

Jill turned to him. ‘Adrian, a man we were supposed to be rehabilitating is dead. It is absolutely not good news.’

Richards shrugged, his indifference lost in the noise as Verity crashed through the door, late as usual, and dumped her bag on the table. ‘I got caught in a half-hour jam near the crime scene. There were half a dozen police cars. There were people picnicking by the roadside to watch.’ She looked excited, her face lit up.

‘People are nothing but ghouls,’ Richards said.

Leticia then relayed the reaction of the tradesmen in the sandwich queue. ‘They were delighted.’

Jill shook her head. ‘I think we have always recognised that the great British public do not appreciate a lot of our work. It only makes it harder.’

Thursday evening