I warmed to the idea, telling Gertrude that it would be lovely to come and stay with her, if she could put me up for a few days.

If this letter caught the first collection, it ought to be with Gertrude by tomorrow afternoon. Mad as it was at this hour, so long after midnight had struck, I put on my coat and walked to the nearest post box, on the lane. Although I tried to be quiet, Sergeant Dog heard the door open and came to accompany me.

As we were on our way back, a motorbike overtook us. Ours is a quiet street. It is unusual to hear any sound at all after 10 p.m. The motorbike stopped by my neighbour’s gate. He shone a light on the street number, and then turned away. I caught up with him as he was entering my gate, calmed the dog, and followed the man onto the path. I recognised the police motorbike and that he was a despatch rider. By some instinct, and my reassurance, Sergeant Dog decided hostilities were not in order.

“Hello, can I help you? I’m Mrs. Shackleton.”

“Evening, madam—or should I say morning? I have something for you. You need to sign for it.”

We went into the hall.

The envelope he handed me contained a permit signed by the Prison Governor, allowing me entry to His Majesty’s Prison at Wakefield, to visit Prisoner 87513, Stephen Walmsley, at 11 a.m. later that morning.

Chapter Six

Philip Goodchild met me at Wakefield railway station. He has tufts of light brown hair that turn gold in summer. He still lives next door to my parents’ house, with his widowed mother. Philip was always shy, the kind of person easily dismissed as lacking by those who did not know him. When I telephoned and said I would like him to drive me to the prison, he expressed no surprise. He knows the way. He knows his way everywhere. Not only is he the best mechanic in the West Riding, he carries maps in his head. Once having completed a route, he never forgets.

As children, we simply took him for who he was. If anyone ever asked his name, he would say, “Philip and it is not an F, it is a Ph, which is a chemical symbol and stands in for F in certain words, such as phantom and philanthropy.”

He ought to have been a professor. Instead, he learned everything about the maintenance of motor vehicles.

We were travelling in a van he had repaired for a grocer.

“I have to make sure the van is running right before I deliver it back. I call this a test drive. I do it every time. My customers expect it.”

Through my father, Philip has repaired the vehicles of police and prison staff. If he had a proper business, he could easily find himself contracted to repair official motors.

We drew up by the prison gates.

Philip cut the engine. “You are allowed to get out. I am not permitted to stay here. This area is in the vicinity of the prison. Civilians cannot park here. I will take the van somewhere else. When I have done that, I will come back and stand by that street lamp. I will watch for you to come out.”