‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

‘I thought you were angry with me. I thought that was why you hadn’t got back to me.’

‘I could never be angry with you. I love you.’

I drank the whisky. It was the first time I’d attacked the minibar since my arrival, but right then I was tempted to go back and hit the champagne. That reminded me. ‘Have you had any money from Lawrence Treherne?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘I did ask him to pay you.’

‘I don’t want the money, Susan. Not if it’s going to get you killed.’

‘Well, my big investigation is probably already over,’ I said. ‘And I may end up not even getting anything. I got fired this morning. Lisa Treherne wants me to leave tomorrow.’

‘That was the woman we met outside.’ He smiled. ‘I knew I didn’t like her.’

‘It’s all been a complete waste of time – and we’ve spent a lot of money on flights and hotels.’ I got up. ‘Well, you can stay here tonight and we’ll eat the most expensive meal we can manage in the hotel restaurant. At least that’s free. Maybe you can bully a cheque out of Lawrence Treherne. And tomorrow we’ll go back.’

‘To Crete?’

‘Polydorus.’

‘And what are we going to do until dinner?’

‘I think I’ve got an answer to that.’

I walked across the room to draw the curtains.

Just in time to see Martin Williams getting into his car. He was acting furtively, clearly not wanting to be seen. Only that morning I’d more or less accused him of murdering his brother-in-law. I’d threatened to expose him and the lies he’d told. And now he was here.

I stood there watching as he drove away.

HMP Wayland

The next morning, everything changed. I was having breakfast with Andreas when Inga brought over a letter addressed to me. There was something about the address on the envelope – the handwriting clumsy and heavy-handed – that told me at once who it had come from and the single sheet of lined paper that it contained quickly confirmed it. Stefan Codrescu had written to me. He had arranged for me to visit him in prison that very day. All I had to do was register on the Internet. I did that and a few hours later we were away, Andreas and me in my MGB Roadster with the roof down, speeding up the A14 to Norfolk.

I had never visited a prison before and everything about HMP Wayland surprised me, starting with its location in a quiet community of what looked like retirement homes and bungalows a few miles north of Thetford. A series of narrow, twisty lanes brought us to a single red-brick building that might have been a university but for the ominous triple-height door that would presumably ratchet open to allow the prison vans in, and the endless stretch of walls and fencing behind. Though surrounded by houses, it was actually in the middle of nowhere with no public buses, no railway station for twelve miles and a twenty-pound taxi ride (each way) the penalty for anyone wanting to make a visit. It was as if the authorities were determined to punish families as well as the men locked up inside.

I stopped in the prison car park and Andreas and I sat together for a few minutes. I was the only one who was authorised to go in and we hadn’t seen much in the way of pubs or restaurants nearby so it looked as if Andreas was going to be stuck in the car.

‘I feel bad about leaving you,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry. I flew all the way from Greece in the hope of being abandoned in a car park outside a maximum-security jail.’

‘If they don’t let me out, dial 999.’

‘I’m dialling 999 in the hope they’ll keep you in. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ve got something to read.’ He took out a paperback copy of Atticus Pünd Takes the Case and I wondered if it was possible to love a man more.

Then I went into the prison.

It was funny how HMP Wayland managed to be modern and old-fashioned at the same time. Maybe it’s the whole idea of locking people up that has had its day: fine for the Victorians but somehow too simplistic and, for that matter, too expensive, given all the technology and the resources of the twenty-first century. I entered a small, brightly coloured reception area decorated with warning notices about drugs and mobile phones that might be concealed about – or even inside – my person. I had to bend low to speak through a hatch to a uniformed officer who inspected my ID and took my mobile phone for safe keeping. With another couple of visitors, I entered a cage. There was a loud buzz and the door I’d just come through slid shut. A moment later, a second door slid open in front of me. I was now in prison.

A guard took us across a courtyard – on the other side of the fence – and we entered the visitors’ block. I found myself in what I can only describe as the worst cafeteria in the world, too brightly lit, with about thirty tables screwed to the floor and a small window opening into a kitchen where food and drink could be purchased. Not surprisingly – this was a male prison – I was surrounded mainly by women. I noticed one of them eyeing me sympathetically.

‘First time, dear?’ she asked.

I wondered how she knew but I imagined that in a prison there would be all sorts of indications that would give you away. She seemed friendly enough, though. ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘You should go up and buy food now if you want anything. When they let the men in, there’ll be a long line and you won’t have time to talk.’

I took her advice and went over to the window. I wasn’t sure what Stefan would like so I bought him a selection: a hamburger, crisps, three bars of chocolate, two cans of Coke. The hamburger reminded me of something you might buy outside a football match late at night, only without the cordon bleu cookery. I sandwiched it between two paper plates, hoping it wouldn’t get cold before he arrived.

About ten minutes later, the men began to appear, streaming in through a side door and heading towards their wives, mothers and friends sitting at the tables. They were all wearing tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirts and really horrible trainers. A few guards stood around the sides but the atmosphere was quiet, relaxed. I had seen photographs of Stefan Codrescu and recognised him at once. He didn’t know me, of course, so I raised a hand and waved. He came over and sat down.

It was an extraordinary moment, meeting him. It was like coming across the central character in a novel but only after two or three hundred pages and in the knowledge that there are very few more before the end. All sorts of things went through my head. The first was that I might actually be sitting opposite a killer – but almost immediately I dismissed it. Even after eight years in prison, he had a sort of innocence that made him peculiarly attractive. He was well built with broad shoulders but still quite slight, like a dancer. I could easily see why Lisa Treherne would have wanted to possess him. At the same time, there was an indignation, a sense of injustice still smouldering in his eyes, a flame that the passing years had failed to extinguish. He knew he shouldn’t be here and I was immediately convinced of it too.

Right then, I found myself questioning my own involvement in all this and suddenly I felt uneasy. I had come to England because I had been paid. I had taken on the case with the enthusiasm of someone solving a crossword puzzle when from the very start I should have realised that I was actually dealing with a massive injustice. Eight years in prison! While I had been tootling between Woodbridge and London, asking questions, making notes, he had been stuck in here. I had been fighting for a man’s life.

There was something else about Stefan. He reminded me of someone – but at that moment I wasn’t sure who.

He was examining the food and drink spread out on the table. ‘Is this for me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get you.’

‘You didn’t need to get me anything. I’m not hungry.’ He pushed the hamburger to one side and cracked open the can of Coke. I watched him take a sip. ‘In your letter, you said you were a publisher,’ he went on.

‘I was an editor once. I actually live in Crete but I met Lawrence and Pauline and they asked me to come back to the UK.’

‘Are you going to write a book about me?’ He was looking at me with quiet hostility.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘But you paid Alan Conway.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that. Alan wrote a book which has some sort of connection with what happened at Branlow Hall, but at the time I didn’t know anything about you or Frank Parris. I only heard about it when Lawrence told me.’ I paused. ‘Did you ever meet Alan?’

Stefan said nothing for a moment. It was obvious that he didn’t trust me. He considered every word before he spoke. ‘He wrote to me when I was in remand but why would I have wanted to meet him? He wasn’t offering to help me. Anyway, I had other things on my mind.’

‘Did you ever read the book?’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen it in the prison library. They do have quite a lot of murder stories. They’re popular here.’