‘Shh. You know what they’ll say if Leroy is ID’d. Look, I’ve got to go, see you.’ He cut the call.

Leticia shrugged, finished up in the cubicle and washed her hands. She looked in the mirror and freshened her make-up before heading off to the meeting. It was a big one. As well as six of her colleagues, Leticia recognised senior psychiatrist Dr Ronald Golob, who had a reputation for being slightly weird. Beyond him was social worker Margaret Chan and at the end, a shirt-sleeved policeman she had never met before, Detective Inspector Graham Morgan from Special Branch. The one unoccupied chair belonged to Verity Winter. As so often the senior resettlement officer was a few minutes late to the meeting. As was usual at Swan House, Leticia was the only black person in the room. That didn’t include those meetings where offenders were present; then she would often be one of two. She had got used to black offenders staring at her as if she was a turncoat.

Jill Allsop emerged from her office, finished a call on her mobile and called the meeting to order. At fifty-three, and just five foot three, Jill compactly wrapped a lifetime of probation experience in a humane and unflappable personality. She ran the local branch of the National Offender Management Service, which occupied the second floor and whose sixteen staff looked after the most serious offenders in the area. Kent, Surrey and Sussex Community Rehabilitation Company, on the first and ground floors, handled the vast majority of more minor offenders. The private firm’s plastic sign was the only one on the outside of the building, and Jill liked it that way. Confidentiality was vital to offender management.

Ten minutes late, Verity slid silently into the room, with only the slightest nod of contrition to her boss. Preternaturally pale, with hair the colour of weak tea, she was a Pre-Raphaelite ghost, with her pea-green eyes encircled by translucent lashes. The high cheekbones and graceful nose hinted at beauty, but were let down by a prim, permanently downturned mouth. Tina, a long-serving admin officer, had once memorably observed that Verity always looked as if someone had just crapped on her bathmat.

That image remained with Leticia as Jill summarised the issue.

‘As you all know, Neville Rollason is due for release on licence in two weeks.’ There was a general muttering around the room at this unwelcome turn of events. ‘He’s being resettled in our patch, even though his offences were largely committed in the north-east.’

‘Why exactly have we inherited him?’ asked Adrian Richards, Jill’s deputy.

‘Quite simply for his own safety. Graham, do you want to explain?’

Morgan steepled his fingers. ‘The Home Office in its wisdom agreed to create a new identity for Rollason on his release. There are credible threats to his safety from some of the vigilante organisations.’