‘Let’s ask Cox what he thinks about it all,’ smiles Daniells. ‘See if he has any interesting theories on the matter …’
In his pocket, the phone vibrates. Grateful beyond measure, Neilsen retrieves it and answers with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Within moments, his face is settling into a distinct glare. Beside him, Daniells mimes throwing himself into the hole. It doesn’t get a laugh.
‘Well?’ asks Daniells, when he hangs up.
‘No cadaver dogs available,’ growls Neilsen. ‘And the press office has had three calls from a freelancer who’s got wind of it.’
‘Male or female?’ asks Daniells.
‘Female.’
Daniells relaxes. ‘I presume you’re going to call her, yes? Do your thing?’
Neilsen flashes angry eyes. ‘What’s my thing?’
‘Come on, Ben,’ says Daniells, laughing. ‘You know. Soft eyes, soft voice, syrupy voice, appealing to their better nature …’
‘Oh,’ says Neilsen, unable to argue. ‘Yeah, probably.’
They stand in silence for a while. ‘So we just keep guarding the hole?’
Daniells scowls. Chews his lip. Counts down from ten. Gets to three.
‘So you reckon he did all of them, then?’
THREE
Key in the lock. Turn.
Step inside. Half-pirouette.
Close door. Lock.
Check handle.
Check again.
It’s all about the routine. All about muscle memory. All about getting yourself so used to repeated actions that it becomes impossible to get it wrong. Annabeth Harris received this piece of advice on her first day of training, and has employed it every day since. She doesn’t make mistakes. She remembers everything. She knows when to follow the rules and when to improvise. She likes being good at her job. She’s been accredited by her governor with a veritable string of superlatives. ‘Compassionate yet firm; professional and discerning – an asset to us all’. She’s without doubt the very best of the fresh crop of prison officers at HMP Holderness. Would be even if the others hadn’t all quit through stress.
Deposit key in the left-hand pocket of the waterproof that hangs on a hook in the hall.
Take off coat. Hang it over the waterproof.
Turn.
And … home.
Annabeth sees no reason to treat her home any differently to the corridors and cell blocks at work. Her little semi-detached in the waterfront hamlet of Paull, needs to be impenetrable. This is her fortress. This is where she and her son need to feel safe.
A pause, at the foot of the stairs, shouting up to the empty landing.
‘I’m home!’
A muffled hello from the bedroom.
Sit on bottom step. Remove hefty black boots. Place them beneath the telephone table. Pick up the damp, discarded white trainers, and place neatly side by side …
Left, and into the living room.
A glance to the clock on the TV stand. Nine seventeen p.m. Two minutes earlier than yesterday. Not a record, but not far off.
Breathe in …
And ‘stop’.
Annabeth gives a little growl of irritation. She should be able to smell cottage pie. Her nostrils should be full of meaty aromas: perhaps the acrid tang of burnt cheesy topping, if he’s got distracted and let it dry out. But she should be able to smell something other than Singapore noodles and Chinese chicken curry.
She counts backwards from ten. Makes it to eight.
‘Ethan!’
There’s no response. She knows she won’t get one either. He’ll be in gaming mode, headphones on, controller in hand, blasting zombies or shooting spaceships or whatever the hell it is that takes up ninety-five per cent of his leisure time.
She looks at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, composing herself. She doesn’t want to tell him off with a face like her own mum. Doesn’t want to be an ogre, even though she has a nagging suspicion that she is painted as such despite her best efforts. The uniform doesn’t help, of course. He hasn’t got used to it yet. Two years as a prison officer and still he reacts as if she’s wearing a Nazi uniform. She pulls off the black V-neck jumper and unbuttons her white shirt. Considers herself. Mid-thirties, now. A couple of jeans sizes bigger than she would like. Hair bleached-blonde and dark at the roots. No earrings. No jewellery. No make-up. Just a face, really. Nothing more or less. Tries a smile in the mirror. It lights her up. She passes inspection. Looks sufficiently unthreatening to tell her son off.
Up the stairs, careful not to stomp.
Three knocks on the door. The sound of laughter, excited teenage voices, the raucous crash of something exploding.
‘Come in then.’
And she does. Enters her son’s bedroom with the same trepidation that she opens the door of a high-risker on suicide watch at work.
‘All right, Mum?’
Annabeth pauses in the doorway. Reminds herself that he is her son, her only son, and she loves him to his bones. Raises her eyebrows at him.
‘Cottage pie, Ethan?’
He whips off his headphones. Spins his gaming chair so he’s facing her. He’d look like a Bond villain if he had a cat in his lap instead of the giant box of Frosties that he grips with his knees. He’s wearing his dressing gown over his school uniform. His forehead is damp, his fringe flopping forward like a dog’s ear. He looks younger than his fifteen years. Cherubic, even. Dark eyes and a bit of puppy fat about him. He’s nearly cute enough to distract her from the state of his room. Nearly, but not quite.
‘I can smell the Chinese, Ethan.’
‘That’s a bit racist, Mum,’ he says, hoping that cheek will pass for charm.
‘It was simple enough. Put it in the oven. One hundred and ninety degrees. An hour. Make gravy if you want it …’
‘Yeah, I saw that. Seemed really complicated.’
Annabeth looks past him. Three monitors: a triptych of technology, each a blur of multi-coloured computer code and screens, the central console given over to some cowboy shoot-’em-up that looks so lifelike it’s eerie.
‘Too complicated? Ethan, you can read binary code!’
‘I figured the Chinese would be easier. I paid. It’s OK, isn’t it?’
‘But that’s my tea as well, Ethan,’ says Annabeth, growing exasperated. ‘I made
