Rebecca Mullins stared at her brother’s white face. ‘For God’s sake, Conrad, you need to keep this quiet. Father has pushed me forward for this opening, and I cannot let him or my husband down. It’s what you’ve all been working towards. How the hell will it look if these latest events are splashed all over the news?’

‘And Brooke? What about her? She needs help!’ said Conrad in a low voice, as his eyes looked up to the ceiling of his sister’s kitchen, knowing his sweet niece was suffering somewhere upstairs.

Rebecca gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I am more than capable of looking after my daughter. She does not need a therapist or a bloody counsellor, she needs me . . . and’ – she paused as her eyes fell to the floor – ‘we don’t need any dirt dug up at this stage, do we?’

Conrad shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are those your words or Father’s? Honestly, Rebecca, is the idea of becoming a senior minister so important?’

Rebecca glared with fire in her eyes. ‘Ask Father that question.’

‘I don’t need to. I already know why you’re so cold and desperate in your quest for success. You have to prove to Father that you’re the person he wishes you to be. Making a few mistakes as a young woman doesn’t mean you have to do everything he demands to stay in his favour, you know.’

With a dismissive hand gesture, she closed the conversation and led her brother to the door.

***

Three Months Later, HM Prison Maidstone

Mike Regan had a huge grin on his face as he watched his son pot the black ball.

‘I think, my boy, when we get outta this shit pit, I’ll ’ave ta buy you a full-size table. If Ronnie O’Sullivan can make a living, then maybe you can too.’

Ricky chuckled. His face was beaming; he had just cleaned up, leaving his father with two yellow balls on the table.

Ricky placed his cue on the green baize. ‘Talking of which, Dad, will I be living with you then when we get out?’

Mike, at six foot seven, with shoulders that touched a standard doorframe, placed a meaty arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘Eleven years. I thought you were . . . er . . . well, you know. Now I’ve got you back, you ain’t going outta my sight.’ He ruffled Ricky’s floppy, wayward hair and stared into his childlike grey eyes that were laced with thick black lashes.

Their conversation was halted when Officer Patton came noisily marching towards them.

‘Fuck, I’ve only been ’ere three weeks. Surely, I ain’t getting put on report already,’ mumbled Mike, under his breath.

Patton, a slim man in his late thirties, stopped the other side of the pool table, where he looked up at Mike. ‘Regan, you have a visit.’