‘And you decided to put the cocaine in the freezer?’

‘Aye, cos me and my mates never use it, ever.’

‘In fishfinger packets.’

‘Aye, I bought a dozen packets for the gig, cos me and my mates never eat fishfingers.’

John Paul had taken half of the fishfingers out of each of the twenty-four fishfinger packets, and distributed the score bags among them.

‘Then I got remanded,’ he said. ‘And the fridge-freezer was switched off.’

‘Why was it switched off?’

‘Cos me and my mates never use it.’

Two and a half weeks into his three-week lie-down, John Paul’s downstairs neighbour phoned the cops to complain about the terrible smell.

‘When you think about it, John Paul, which decision do you think landed you in here?’ It’d be a difficult choice with so many options, but Mary believed there was always one moment, one conversation, one look, one picking-up-of-a-knife, one drink, one drug, one decision, that changed everything. ‘Pick one.’

He thought hard. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t check if the freezer was on.’

Insight: nil.

Offending: escalating.

Risk assessment: very high.

Custody: almost certain.

Mary had written three pages of notes and was now wrapping up. ‘Whether you like it or not, I’m going to push very hard for a non-custodial sentence, John Paul. If you keep this shit up, you’ll never feel better than you do now, and I know you don’t feel good. I’m recommending twelve to eighteen months supervision, with drugs and alcohol counselling as a requirement, potentially a stint in turnaround. There’ll be lots of support to help you get work and friends and purpose, and, I’ve got to warn you, a fair amount of eye contact. I’ll put together a good argument when I get back, so you can head off to AA. It’s five to eleven now, but don’t get up yet. Sit, sit. I need to ask you one last thing before you go, and I need you to stay still, no reaction, when I ask it. I’ll keep writing notes as if we’re just chatting away about normal stuff like how bad you are at cocaine-dealing. What did you put in my bag?’

‘Sorry?’

‘About twenty minutes ago, around the time I was writing your name, you slid something into my bag. What is it? Try to look normal. Not too normal!’ Mary moved her hand an inch towards her bag, which was on the floor at the end of the table. ‘Shall I take a look?’

‘It’s four grams of cocaine, cut to shit, mind.’

‘Oh,’ was all she could say, the scenarios forming in her suddenly boiling to a head. None of them made sense; all of them awful.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Someone persuaded me to land you in it.’

‘Who?’

‘No-one.’

‘Shall I call Dawn?’

‘No, no! My co-pilot, arrived last night.’

‘His name Derek McLaverty, by any chance?’