‘You can check with Dawn in a few minutes, okay? John Paul? Can you please look me in the eyes, just for a moment … at me. Ooo, way too long. Left, up, right, back a bit, good. You’re off your face, and I don’t blame you. I’d do the same. But if we don’t get this report done you’ll get a custodial tomorrow. Or do you prefer prison?’ Mary asked this question all the time and, sadly, more than fifty percent of respondents, including John Paul, said something like: ‘I’d never admit to that.’

Most folk would write off John Paul as a benefits-sponging user, but Mary distrusted most folk far more than the likes of John Paul. Plus, she knew his grandpa.

‘We’ve met, actually,’ said Mary. ‘You were a baby. Your grandpa and I used to take you to the duck pond.’

‘Yeah?’ He tightened his arms, a leg fidgeted.

‘He always said you made his life make sense.’

John Paul gulped, brought his legs in a little. ‘Were you his probation officer?’

‘Not for long.’ Joseph was sentenced to twelve months’ probation after driving under the influence of alcohol. His daughter, John Paul’s mother, had just died in hospital of an overdose. He went to the pub on the way home. Mary had rooted for grandpa in the report she did and helped him get his life together afterwards.

John Paul uncrossed his arms.

‘He was impressive, your grandpa.’

He smiled.

Even on shitty weeks like this, one case blowing after another; even with a glamorous suicide, online trolling, and a looming fatal accident inquiry, she was still champion at speed rapport-building. ‘Let’s have a look at your record, shall we? Usually tells me all I need to know.’

And it did.

Age fourteen, after his grandpa had died, and he was taken into foster care, John Paul needed to drink and vent, thus: assault, breach of the peace (×5), assault to severe injury, assault with offensive weapon (metal toilet-brush holder. According to John Paul it was very offensive).

During his first stint in a secure unit he needed a boost, hence: possession class A, possession class A.

When his dalliance with Charlie turned more serious, he needed money: theft by shoplifting, fraud, reset, theft, attempted housebreaking.

When he lost his phone: police assault.

And when, having just turned twenty-one, he had no friends to steal from or with, as well as requiring a hundred pounds a day himself, and owing Kevin-the-Fucker four hundred for coke he’d been told was free: intent to supply, class A – the index offence for which he would be sentenced tomorrow.

‘The indictment says you were in possession of three thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine in your freezer.’

‘Aye, street value.’ John Paul reported that he had agreed to repay Kevin-the-Fucker the four hundred pounds he owed by storing large quantities of the drug in his newly acquired throughcare flat.