When it was clear he was ready, Jessica began. ‘You got most of it right. Martin Chadwick is due out of prison but you know I can’t confirm exactly when that’s going to happen. Up until seven years ago, he was a bit of a pest with sporadic criminal offences, none of which was very serious. Then he set fire to a pub he thought was empty. Unfortunately, a twenty-one-year-old man named Alfie Thompson was sleeping inside.’

Garry was making notes, although Jessica hadn’t yet told him anything he wouldn’t already know. She paused to let him catch up, continuing when his pen scratched to a halt. ‘Martin was so drunk, he was picked up sleeping on a bench less than a hundred yards away from the pub. The lighter and empty bottle of vodka he used to start the fire were still in his possession. He didn’t exactly confess, largely because he said he couldn’t remember doing it. With the CCTV footage and forensic evidence, he pleaded guilty to manslaughter and received his prison sentence.’

The journalist looked up from his pad. ‘We know this . . .’

Jessica interrupted. ‘What you don’t know is that Martin had an eleven-year-old son who was taken into care when his father went into prison. He is now eighteen and, apparently, he’s been in regular contact with his dad. I don’t know much about his mother but the son is called Ryan. Although I’ve not met him yet, strictly unofficially we would rather you be careful of mentioning him. He doesn’t have anything to do with this and I am only telling you because I know you will find it out at some point anyway.’

She let her words hang. Garry hadn’t written down any of the last pieces of information. ‘All I can do is ask,’ he said.

Jessica nodded. ‘Obviously you know about Anthony Thompson. It was his son killed in the fire. I’m assuming he was your source about Martin’s release because he was informed. We don’t know that much about Anthony, except for what you printed.’

She picked the paper back up and began to read. ‘“There’s no bringing back my Alfie but everyone has to pay for what they’ve done”.’

She looked up to see Garry wince. ‘I know it’s ambiguous,’ he said.

‘Deliberately so?’ Jessica asked. She fell silent as a waitress came close to their table and picked up the plates.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked sweetly, although the twang of her local accent made it sound as if she was offering them a fight. The woman was somewhere in her early twenties, with bleached hair tied neatly in a bun on top of her head. Jessica watched Garry eye the waitress up and down, before stopping himself when he realised she was observing him.

Jessica giggled slightly, shaking her head. ‘No thanks, just the bill.’

When the woman had moved away, she raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you really a ladies’ man now?’

Garry offered an apologetic ‘No’ but Jessica already knew he was far from the type. He might have wandering eyes, as did most men she knew, but the journalist lacked the social grace to be discreet.

Jessica lowered her voice. ‘From what Anthony says, I don’t know if he’s referring to the jail sentence as Martin “paying” for what he’s done, or if there’s a veiled threat there.’

Garry spoke slowly and cautiously. ‘I don’t know. Sebastian did the interview. I know you can read it both ways. I said we should take it out.’

Jessica returned the paper to her bag. ‘I don’t think any of us want something stupid happening when Martin comes out. Whatever you think of the guy, or the punishment, he’s done his time.’

Garry put down his pen and nervously wiped his chin with a napkin from the table.

‘How are things anyway?’ Jessica asked in a lighter tone.

He stopped dabbing his face and smiled. ‘Are you actually being nice to me?’

Jessica grinned. ‘Hey, I left my hair down for this impromptu bollocking. I’m not all bad.’

Garry shrugged. ‘I’m doing okay. I’ve been promoted and I’ve moved in with my girlfriend.’

‘Is she the blind one?’

The journalist snorted gently and shook his head. ‘I thought you were being nice?’

‘This is me being nice,’ Jessica replied with a wink.

‘What about you?’ Garry asked. ‘I heard you were loved-up, engaged and all that?’

Jessica tried not to fidget but couldn’t stop herself. Instead of answering his question, she shunted her chair backwards and picked up her jacket, before crouching to retrieve her bag. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ she said.

Garry laughed. ‘Thanks for the breakfast.’

‘Judging by the amount you left on your chin and shirt, it certainly looked like you enjoyed it.’ He glanced down at his clean shirt before looking back up at a smiling Jessica. ‘Gotcha,’ she said.

The journalist put his coat on while Jessica paid at the counter. As she turned, he looped his bag over his shoulder and stretched out his hand for her to shake. ‘It was good seeing you again, Jess,’ he said.

Jessica rolled her eyes but shook his hand anyway. ‘Can you deliver a message for me?’

‘What?’

‘Tell this “Sebastian” that I will kick his arse if anything happens to Martin.’

3

‘So much for bringing it forward a day so no one knew,’ Jessica said agitatedly. She deliberately elbowed a reporter she didn’t recognise as she fought her way through the crowd of journalists assembled outside the prison gates. She heard the man grunt but kept moving, wondering if the person she had ‘accidentally’ caught was Sebastian Lowe. She didn’t know what he looked like but she could only hope.

Detective Inspector Jason Reynolds and Jessica stepped through the gate, where they were met by a man in a suit. Reynolds was around six feet tall but the man was taller and stooped, stretching out a hand for Jessica and then the inspector to shake. He had brown hair combed and smoothed to one side and introduced himself as the deputy governor of the prison. Jessica thought he seemed younger than other people in similar positions she had met in the past. She would have placed him somewhere in his forties, but his sharp eyes gave the impression of someone who knew what they were doing.

The man turned and started to lead them towards the main part of the prison. ‘We’re not used to this sort of attention out here,’ he said, referring to the throng of photographers and journalists waiting outside. ‘Have you ever been to Wymott before?’

Jessica exchanged a look with Reynolds but let him answer ‘No’. They had spent the best part of an hour driving through the back lanes of Lancashire, with Jessica complaining at every turn how remote the institution was. Wymott was a category C prison not far from Leyland, around thirty miles north of Manchester. She had grown up in Cumbria, where the roads were even narrower and harder to negotiate. Since then, she had lived most of her adult life in Manchester, largely forgetting how fiddly country lanes could be. Judging by the way Reynolds had ignored her complaints, she guessed he didn’t share her annoyance.

Martin Chadwick had been moved to the low-risk prison a few years previously when it became apparent to the authorities that he posed no particular danger to anyone.

In the days since the original story about his release, Chadwick’s case had gradually received greater interest through the local media. Even a few national papers had got hold of it, all adding to a feeling at Longsight Police Station, where Jessica worked, that they would have to play things carefully.

Both Martin and Anthony Thompson lived in their district and although supervising newly freed prisoners was largely out of their remit, the police were working closely with the probation service over Martin’s release in an effort to prevent any trouble.

Unfortunately, someone with a big mouth had told the media that the man’s discharge had been brought forward, leading to the presence of journalists, photographers and television cameras at the front of the prison. As ever, the police, prison and probation service blamed each other.