It’s the water bit that freaks me out. Murder should be committed with something nasty like a sharp blade or a rock, or poison, like the Borgias. But a bath should be safe. Comforting. Like the woody-green District line. Like honeymoons.
The train jolts erratically and I’m thrown against the knees on my left and then those on my right. My papers scatter on the wet floor. Horrified, I gather them up, but it’s too late. The owner of the trousers on my right is handing back the case summary, but not before his eyes have taken in the neat typed writing.
My first murder trial, I want to say, if only to smooth the wary look in his eyes.
But instead I blush furiously and stuff the papers back into my bag, aware that if my boss was present I would be sacked on the spot.
All too soon, the train stops. It’s time to get out. Time to try and save a man whom I already loathe – a bath! – when all I want is to be back in Italy. To live our honeymoon again.
To get it right this time.
Whenever I’ve thought about a prison, I’ve always imagined something like Colditz. Not a long drive that reminds me of Ed’s parents’ rambling pile in Gloucestershire. I’ve only been there once, but that was enough. The atmosphere was freezing, and I’m not just talking about the absence of central heating.
‘Are you sure this is right?’ I ask the taxi driver.
He nods, and I can feel his grin even though I can’t see it from behind.
‘Everyone’s surprised when they see this place. Used to be a private home till Her Majesty’s Prison Service took over.’ Then his voice grows dark. ‘Pack of bleeding nutters in there now, and I don’t just mean the criminals inside.’
I sit forward. My initial worry about putting a taxi on expenses (the bus didn’t go far enough, as it turned out) has been dissipated by this rather intriguing information. Of course I knew that HMP Breakville has a high proportion of psychopaths and that it specializes in psychological counselling. But a bit of local knowledge might be useful.
‘Are you talking about the staff?’ I venture.
There’s a snort as we carry on up the drive, past a row of what appear to be council houses. ‘You can say that again. My brother-in-law used to be a prison officer here before he had his breakdown. Lived in one of those, he did.’
My driver jerks his head at the council houses. Then we round another corner. On the left rises one of the most beautiful houses I’ve seen, with lovely sash windows and a stunning golden-red ivy climbing up the outside. At a rough guess, I’d say it was Edwardian. It’s certainly a complete contrast to the crop of Portakabins on my right.
‘You check in there,’ says the taxi man, pointing at the house. I scrabble in my purse, feeling obliged to tip him if only for the extra information.
‘Ta.’ His voice is pleased but his eyes are troubled. ‘Prison visiting, are you?’
I hesitate. Is that what he has me down as? One of those do-gooders who feel it’s their duty to befriend the wicked?
‘Sort of.’
He shakes his head. ‘Take care. Those blokes … they’re in there for a reason, you know.’
Then he’s off. I watch the taxi go back down the drive, my last link to the outside world. It’s only when I start to walk towards the house that I realize I forgot to ask for a fare receipt. If I couldn’t get that right, what hope is there for Joe Thomas?
And, more importantly, does he deserve any?
‘Sugar? Sellotape? Crisps? Sharp implements?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.
For a moment, I wonder if I’ve heard right. My mind is still reeling from the strange journey I’ve just taken. I’d gone towards the lovely house, relieved that prison wasn’t that terrifying after all. But when I got there, someone directed me back across the grounds, past the Portakabins and towards a high wall with curled-up barbed wire on top that I hadn’t noticed before. My heart thudding, I walked along it until I reached a small door.
Ring, instructed the sign on the wall.
My breath coming shorter, I did so. The door opened automatically and I found myself in a little room, not that different from the waiting area in a small domestic airport. On one side was a glass partition, which is where I am right now.
‘Sugar, Sellotape, crisps, sharp implements?’ repeats the man. Then he looks at my briefcase. ‘It saves time if you get them out before you’re searched.’
‘I don’t have any … but why would it matter if I had the first three?’
His small beady eyes bore into mine. ‘They can use sugar to make hooch; Sellotape to gag you. And you might be bringing in crisps to bribe them or make yourself popular with the men. It’s happened before, trust me. Satisfied?’
He certainly seems to be. I know his sort. Rather like my boss. The type who relish making you uncomfortable. He’s succeeded, but something inside me – a strength I didn’t know I had – makes me determined not to rise to it.
‘If, by “they”, you’re referring to your inmates, then I’m afraid they’re out of luck,’ I retort. ‘I don’t have anything on your list.’
He mutters something that sounds like ‘bleeding-heart defence lawyers’ before pressing a bell. Another door opens and a female officer comes out. ‘Arms up,’ she instructs.
Again I’m reminded of an airport, except this time nothing bleeps. For a minute I’m back in Rome where my silver bracelet – Ed’s wedding present to me – set off the alarm at security.
‘Open your case, please.’
I do as instructed. There’s a stack of documents, my make-up bag and a packet of Polos.
The woman seizes on the last two as if trophies. ‘Afraid we’ll have to confiscate these until you’re out. Your umbrella too.’
‘My umbrella?’
‘Possible weapon.’ She speaks crisply, but I detect a touch of kindness that was absent in the man behind the glass partition.
‘This way, please.’
She escorts me through another door and, to my surprise, I find myself in a rather pleasant courtyard garden. There are men in Robin-Hood-green jogging bottoms and matching tops, planting wallflowers. My mother is doing the same in Devon: she told me so on the phone last night. It strikes me that different people might be doing exactly the same thing all over the world, but that a united task doesn’t mean they have anything in common.
One of the men glances at the leather belt around the officer’s waist. There’s a bundle of keys attached and a silver whistle. How effective would that be, if these men attacked us?
We’ve crossed the square towards another building. My companion takes the keys from her pouch, selects one and opens up. We’re in another hall. Two more doors are in front. Double doors and also double gates, separated by an inch or so of space. She unlocks them and then locks them again after we’ve gone through. ‘Make sure you don’t trap your fingers.’
‘Do you ever wonder if you’ve done it properly?’ I ask.
She fixes me with a stare. ‘No.’
‘I’m the kind of person who has to go back and double-check our own front door,’ I say. Quite why I admit this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s to introduce a note of humour into this weird world I’ve found myself in.
‘You have to be on top of things here,’ she says reprovingly. ‘This way.’
The corridor stretches out before us. There are more doors on either side with signs next to them: ‘A Wing’, ‘B Wing’, ‘C Wing’.
A group of men is coming towards us in orange tracksuits.
One of them – bald with a shiny scalp – nods at the officer. ‘Morning, miss.’
Then he stares at me. They all do. I blush. Hotly. Deeply.
I wait until they’ve passed. ‘Are they allowed to wander around?’
‘Only when it’s freeflow.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When the men are off the wing and on their way somewhere like gym or chapel or Education. It requires less supervision than a situation where officers escort each prisoner individually.’
I want to ask what kind of situation that might be. But instead, partly from nervousness, I find a different question coming out of my mouth.