I doubt that. How can it? How can it erase the biggest mistake of my career, a mistake that put an innocent man into prison where he got assaulted and permanently brain damaged? And yet here I am, about to do it anyway. I step into the reception area to find it oddly empty. A radio’s playing, a talk show with animated voices. Out of habit I check the CCTV cameras in each corner to see they are flashing their little lights. The airport security scanner is unmanned. I’m just thinking I should call someone when one of the toilet doors opposite the reception desk opens and a man carrying a magazine steps out and sees me. He walks over like there’s something delicate inside his head that he’s trying not to break and eases himself into the chair behind the desk.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he says. ‘Lads’ night out …’

‘Inspector Rykel, here to see Sander Klaasen.’

My stomach’s been invaded by demented butterflies. The lighting’s harsh. The prison’s ventilation system has a high-pitched whine slightly off-key to my own. When I sign the sheet my signature’s all over the place. Security checks, then through to the inner sanctum where I make my request.

The man here sorts out the paperwork and then I’m shown into the same room as last time. I step over the threshold into the weirdest feeling. It’s like an echo of last time’s panic, waiting for me here all that time. I’ve always assumed emotions were formed in the brain, but suddenly I wonder if they’re just a force of nature? Maybe they can hang around places waiting to be picked up? If so, then this one’s strong. I try to keep hold of my breath, not let it get away from me.

I sit down in front of the screen. For half a second I can see blood dripping down it, but thankfully it’s just a trick of the light. Or my head. Nnnnnnnnnnnnhg. What am I going to say? The door on the prisoner’s side opens inwards. But the man who steps into the room is a prison guard. He sees me, shakes his head, then leaves. A few minutes later the door behind me opens and a prison warden steps in.

‘Inspector Rykel?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m the duty warden. Could we talk in my office?’

I look around at the room we’re in.

‘It’s just the two of us,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s talk here.’

‘Yes, okay.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m afraid that there’s been a mistake. You should have been told when you checked in, but for some reason our system hasn’t updated properly and the person who signed you in hadn’t heard about Klaasen.’

‘Heard what?’ The room’s tilting ever so slightly.

‘Sander Klaasen’s dead. He died shortly after you visited him.’