Well, how about that? Clare and Steve. She used to complain all the time about there not being enough relationships between older women and younger men. It was always the other way around (and look where that got us). I’m not at all upset. Just glad to hear someone’s had a happy ending.

Bodes well for my own, eh?

*

Finally, my brief is back in touch and a second meeting arranged.

He looks weary this time, even a little seedy. His suit jacket is a bit shiny around the lapel – not nearly as dapper as your work clothes, Kit. There is a sense that he doesn’t expect our conference to last long, and my nerves flare: it must be because the news is good – he needs to get on with the official application for permission to appeal!

‘Did you speak to Simon Whiting?’

‘We did. As you know, when we originally examined footage from the Royal Festival Hall security cameras, we were not able to make a positive ID of your companions. Well, when our investigator approached Mr Whiting, we didn’t exactly spell that out.’

‘You mean you let him think you’d got the ID somehow?’

‘Let’s just say he was friendly and helpful. Said he remembered the occasion well because it was just after Christmas and he wasn’t working. He and the other friend bumped into you by the London Eye, recognized you from the Ropers’ wedding and the three of you had a coffee together.’

I shake my head, emphatic, impatient. ‘No, no, that’s a lie. They weren’t at the wedding. And why would I go with them unless I thought I had to? I was on my way to work, same as usual. Melia must have told him what to say if someone came asking. She’d have briefed both of them, she’s totally thorough.’ I think for a moment. ‘Can you get the CCTV video from the pub? The big one on the river at Greenwich. The Stag, it’s called. That will prove they weren’t at the wedding. It was August 2019, a Saturday. I can let you know the exact date.’

He looks singularly unimpressed by this suggestion. ‘I’d say that’s highly unlikely after so long, Jamie. And even if they failed to appear on the footage, that wouldn’t be proof that they weren’t there.’

I glare at him, feeling my temper rise. ‘So it doesn’t help me when they are on camera and it doesn’t help me when they aren’t?’

‘In this instance, no.’ He holds my eye. ‘And it’s likely Mrs Roper would vouch personally for their attendance.’

There is a moment of stillness, of pure understanding. My voice sharpens, then breaks: ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You never have.’

Sensing the force of my emotion, he adjusts his tone. ‘We are post-conviction here, Jamie. It’s not a question of believing your account: that has already been judged. The only thing that’s of any relevance is whether I believe you have grounds for an appeal.’

‘And you don’t?’

His chest rises and his chin tucks into his neck. ‘I don’t, no. Everyone else involved has credible explanations that are consistent with one another’s, including this Simon Whiting’s.’

Only mine is inconsistent. Only mine is incredible.

He closes his laptop and slides it from the table, holding it to his chest like a clipboard – or perhaps plate armour. ‘You want my advice?’

Not really. ‘What?’

‘Make a structure for yourself here. This is your life now. There are opportunities here, take them. Apply for a role of some sort. Make the experience count for something, because you will be out, one day, if you follow the rules and behave. Make your peace with it, Jamie.’

He’s on his feet now, looking down at me with eyes that will soon see the cars on the road, the dogs in the park, the schoolkids in the playground. The pint of lager on the pub beer mat. ‘I wish you luck,’ he says.

As if luck has any more of a shot against deviousness, against wickedness, than the truth ever did.

47

Finally

You’ve been drifting from my thoughts, Kit. It’s inevitable, I suppose; we can’t cling on for ever. Even in places like this, there are new friends, new lifelines. Did I tell you I have a job in the health unit now? I’m working towards enhanced status, which means a cell to myself. There is responsibility and there is reward.

You know, I’m not sure I ever really linked the two before. I know you didn’t.

Today is my fiftieth birthday. In an alternative version, we might have had a few drinks together after work. If we’d gone to the Hope & Anchor, you could have nipped out to meet your dealer while I got the drinks in. And when you came back, I might have accepted a birthday line, just one, mind you, to your five or six or however many you needed by the end to get the engine turning. So it seems as auspicious a date as any to let you go. It’s the right thing, the sane thing (I’ve been reading about mental health a lot, lately).

But, before I do, I thought you might like to accompany me to the visits hall one last time. We have a VIP guest, you see.

That’s right, she’s coming. Your siren and mine. Our shared sorceress.

It’s been proposed to me as part of some victim’s family support initiative for which she volunteered and I agreed.

Why?

Because I’ve still got things to say, Kit. I’ve still got things to say.

*

Though the meeting with Melia takes place in the main visits hall during standard hours, it is supervised by a dedicated guard in case I take it upon myself to assault her. And my animal instincts are engaged, I admit, even before I see her, even before I know she’s arrived on site. I’m a black bear who’s scented his next meal in a bin far away.

Except I’m her meal, aren’t I? I always have been.

She doesn’t look me in the eye at first when I take my seat opposite her. I can see she has dressed with care so as not to attract the convict’s eye. Every inch of her is covered, but for her fine, pale hands and smooth heart-shaped face. Her hair is pulled from her forehead and twisted at the nape over a high-necked black jumper. She has some coins in her hand, has obviously been briefed that she can buy tea or coffee, but she makes no attempt to do that, remaining in her seat with her knees jammed together, her gaze lowered.

We are not allowed to touch, of course.

‘Hello, Melia.’

Only now does she look up. She looks up as if mesmerized and there’s a collapsing sensation inside me – frightening because I don’t know what it is that’s collapsing. My resolve? My pride? My lunch? The realization that no matter what words and images I’ve learned to remember her by, she is still breathtaking, she is still luscious, and I may still be in her thrall?

If I hadn’t been transfused with blackest loathing, that is.

‘Hello, Jamie,’ she says, and her voice – like her beauty – is just the same. A low murmur, intimate, undivided.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought long and hard what my first question would be. ‘Has your insurance cheque come through yet?’

She answers politely. ‘Yes, thank you.’

Two million pounds: in the end, not the value of one man’s life, but two. A million apiece for me and you, Kit. I wonder if she’s stayed in St Mary’s, upgraded her accommodation, somewhere closer to the river, perhaps, because she’d want the wow factor. I wonder if, when she passes the spot where you bled to death, if she pulls up, face raised to the heavens, says a little prayer in your memory. ‘I hope it’s worth it,’ I say.