At last, I found myself ushered into a cold, whitewashed room with a high barred window. Two wooden chairs, placed with mathematical precision, stood on either side of a wide table. The prisoner sat with his head bowed. It occurred to me that this is the kind of place where one should bring cigarettes or chocolate. I had neither.

“Stephen?”

The prison officer cleared his throat. “Kindly address the prisoner by his surname, madam.”

Stephen Walmsley raised his head and looked at me. Puzzled. His dark eyes were red-rimmed. He appeared confused, and why should he not be, at the sight of a stranger? The newspaper account had given his age as twenty, but he appeared younger. There was a yellowing bruise on his cheek and a cut near his lip.

“Officer, I need to speak to Mr. Walmsley alone, and will you please remove the handcuffs?”

“Can’t do that for security reasons.”

“I will take responsibility.”

He hesitated, pursing his lips. Whatever edict had come from on high, the importance of my visit must have been made clear. I doubted it was Commander Woodhead I had to thank. More likely, DC Yeats had found a way to send a message that carried the commander’s authority.

After a hesitation, he unlocked the handcuffs. “I’ll be by the door, madam.” He left the door open.

I closed it, imagining his ear against the other side.

Stephen rubbed his wrists, first one and then the other. There was a painful looking mark on each wrist where the handcuffs had been too tightly fastened.

“Mr. Walmsley, Stephen, I’m Mrs. Shackleton. Kate Shackleton. How are you?”

He did not answer. Neither would I in his situation. What an idiotic question. I sounded like some patronising do-gooder who might make things worse for him.

Still he did not speak.

“How are they treating you?”

He did not look at me, nor did he answer.

The sketch of the unknown man was in my pocket. I had formed an idea of showing it to him, saying that if he helped me, perhaps I could help him. That plan no longer held water.

“Have you seen a solicitor?” I should have known that. I should have found out.

It took several moments before I realised he was refusing to talk.

“I’m sorry you are in here.”

At that, he looked across at me. So was he, of course. More sorry than I.

I pressed on. “Do you understand why you are here?”

He placed his hands on the table and looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time. They were workman’s hands, clean, tiny cuts, the nails cut straight. “Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to find out what happened on Friday night.”

“Are you here to see if I’m daft? If I’m to be sent to the loony bin?”

“Why do you think that?”

“I would have to have been more nuts than crackers to do what they say I did. Mrs. Farrar was good to me.”