The general public would be staggered to learn that their government is from time to time complicit in such falsification of the legal records which are the framework of society. The reasons for doing so would not impress them either. But the public rarely finds out. Because the government goes to great lengths to keep the entire process secret.

Only one thing on the false documentation was correct, to conform with statute. The release date of 2 July 2019 when this criminal, known in his heyday as The Bogeyman, would be released back onto Britain’s streets. He’d had more than thirty years away from his passion, and was anxious to get started again. He’d already started compiling a mental list, at the top of which was the name Andy Jenkins of Crewe. But that was for pleasure. There was more serious stuff to be planned. Like revenge against the detective who had put him away.

1.56 a.m. Friday, 21 June 2019

Michael Jakes liked to cycle to the river during the summer nights, but the summer solstice was always special. There were a lot of thoughts that he needed to get straight, and somehow he couldn’t make sense of them in the daytime. But in the coolness after midnight, with the shade of the trees above him, he’d pedal miles along the southern bank near Walton-on-Thames until he got to Hurst Meadows Park. There he would listen to the sounds of the waters, the ripples and the rills, the raucous noise of the ducks and geese foraging on the grass. There were narrowboats moored here too, and sometimes cars. From them came the sound of laughter or music, muted lights, and often nearby the silhouettes of lovers, drawn to the water.

The splash came from behind him. A big ‘thwock’ like someone diving in. He cycled on for half a minute, before stopping and turning. There were no lights except his own head torch. He made his way back towards the noise. There was no other sound, except a distant car. He dismounted, and walked up to the edge of the water. There were still ripples, echoes of the disturbance, along the edge of the water bouncing off the hull of a narrowboat. He could see the dark cut-out of a male figure, a long ponytail like frayed rope, standing in the stern of the boat, staring out into the water. He was talking to somebody else close at hand. ‘I can’t see anyone,’ the man said, then turned at Michael’s approach, hand lifted to shield himself from the head torch beam. ‘Was that you?’ the man asked. ‘Did you chuck something in?’

‘No. Not me. I just heard the noise. Maybe it was someone from the car. Going for a swim.’ He pointed back along the tow path where a few minutes earlier he had passed a BMW, its stereo pounding out.

‘I think we heard that,’ the man said. ‘They come down Sadler’s Ride, don’t always bother with the car park.’ A woman emerged from the cabin, and stared out at him.