The show’s producer directed the presenter towards the flurry of texts and emails that had begun to pour in during the music. The broadcaster scanned some of them.

‘Lots of messages praising your stance.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘And a few on the Carter case.’ He winked at the producer. ‘Maybe we should do an item on that. Fancy another go in the hot seat, Geoffrey?’ He grinned at the MP to show he was joking and fiddled with a couple of switches on the broadcasting desk.

Heathcote hesitated. Like so many of his political colleagues, he was a bit of a peacock, tempted to show off his insider knowledge. But even he knew better than to share the information that had come his way a couple of hours ago. Because of the attention the Carter case was attracting, he’d been informed – confidentially, of course – that the notorious Angel of Death had been rehoused within his constituency, although not her precise location. It had come as a shock. While it was not unusual, as a Member of Parliament, to represent convicted criminals released from prison – they were entitled to the same rights as his other constituents and were allowed to vote, once they had served their sentence and re-registered – rarely were they as high-profile, and he had strong feelings on this particular case.

‘It’s a complex situation,’ he eventually said.

‘Do children who kill come under your rehabilitation programme?’

The MP shrugged. ‘She’s out of prison, isn’t she? Living her life.’

‘But does she deserve that? A chance at a decent life after what she did?’

Heathcote’s stomach rumbled. He had forfeited breakfast for an early run, planning to grab something later, but then he’d been called into a meeting about recruitment issues within the judiciary. His thoughts strayed to lunch – Langan’s, perhaps, or The Wolseley – and his ministerial hat slipped. He was chatting with an old friend and, still reeling from the information he’d received that morning, he forgot where he was and all the reasons he was supposed to keep his prejudices in check.

‘Bring back the death penalty, I say. If a child is that evil, what are they going to be like as an adult? To tell you the truth,’ he lowered his voice, as if confiding a secret, ‘I don’t think even years of rehabilitation could alter that innate instinct to kill.’ He leaned back in the chair, satisfied at having a private outlet for an issue that had been bothering him since he became aware of ITV’s Angel of Death documentary and now felt even more of a political – and personal – hot potato, enjoying the chance to posture and opine in intelligent company.

Through the glass, the studio manager was standing up and slicing one hand above the other in a vehement cutting motion.

The presenter put his headphones back on and listened.