There were several murmurs of approval. Markham muttered something to Howell about ‘opening that other bottle.’

Nicklin seemed keen to endorse Thorne’s decision. ‘Yeah, definitely better to be together,’ he said. ‘We should make the most of it anyway, because it’s back to reality tomorrow.’

All eyes in the room were on him, but nobody said anything.

‘It feels a bit unreal this place, don’t you think?’ Nicklin looked from face to face, seeking a response. He shrugged. ‘Well, it always felt that way to me.’

Thorne grunted, made no attempt to disguise his contempt. ‘So what, when you were killing Simon Milner and Eileen Bennett, that just felt like a dream or something, did it?’

‘Killing always feels a bit like that to me,’ Nicklin said. ‘Like I’m watching someone else do it.’

Suddenly, Thorne’s mouth was very dry. Something about the casual way that murder was being described, like any hobby, humdrum and unremarkable. That, and the tense being used.

Feels, not felt.

Nicklin smiled. ‘I always enjoy the view, though…’

A shocked silence settled for a minute or so after that but, as soon as it had been broken, conversation in the room quickly splintered into assorted hushed and simultaneous exchanges: Holland asking Thorne what time he thought they’d be back in London the following day; Fletcher and Jenks talking holidays; Howell and Markham laughing as the wine continued to go down easily and they whispered about Sam Karim and Andy Barber.

In a moment of quiet, Markham said, ‘Come on then, who’s got a good story?’ When Thorne looked across, she added, ‘Last night, we sat around telling stories. It was a laugh.’

‘Nothing scary,’ Howell said. ‘Well, not very scary, because we didn’t want to frighten Barber too much.’ Fletcher muttered something and she looked across. ‘What?’

‘What are we, Girl Guides?’

Jenks laughed, said, ‘Girl Guides.’

Howell stared daggers at Fletcher across the top of her glass. ‘I don’t think you’d have been tough enough for the Girl Guides.’

‘I don’t know,’ Thorne said. He could easily imagine the forensic team sitting around the previous evening, putting the red wine away and swapping tales, but this was a very different line-up of potential storytellers. ‘Not sure it’s a good idea.’

‘Why not?’ Markham asked. ‘It helped to pass the time.’

‘Still.’

‘That’s all I was thinking.’

Thorne looked hard at her, in the hope that Markham might see what he was driving at. The slight shake of her head and widening of her eyes made it clear that she didn’t.

‘I know a fantastic story,’ Nicklin said.

Thorne pointed at him. ‘That’s why it’s not a good idea.’

‘No, seriously.’ Nicklin leaned forward in his chair, excited. ‘This is an absolute cracker, I promise you. It’s got the lot… it’s tragic, but it’s also funny. There’s a murder, obviously, I know you wouldn’t expect anything else, but it’s also got pathos, mystery… and there’s a twist at the end I guarantee you won’t see coming.’ He nodded. ‘Best. Story. Ever.’ He looked at several of the faces now turned to his. ‘Well?’

‘I got no problem with it,’ Fletcher said.

Nicklin turned to Thorne. Said, ‘It’s only a story.’

‘This better not piss anybody off.’ Thorne looked to Markham and Howell but saw no sign of anxiety, no inclination to object. ‘If you upset anybody…’

‘What are you going to do?’ Nicklin asked. ‘Send me to bed?’

Thorne was hugely irritated to see Fletcher and Jenks smile, half-expecting the latter to moronically repeat, ‘Send me to bed.’ He gave Nicklin the nod, stared down at his coffee.

Nicklin cleared his throat. ‘Now, I should point out before I start that this isn’t really my story at all.’ He nodded across to where Batchelor was still sitting on one of the sofas next to Alan Jenks. ‘It’s Jeffrey’s.’ Heads turned towards Batchelor, but he continued staring at a spot on the worn carpet a few feet in front of him, as he had been doing for as long as anyone else in the room could remember. ‘I promise to try and do it justice, Jeff.’ Nicklin waited, shrugged when Batchelor gave no response. ‘So, you all know why Jeff’s sitting over there in handcuffs, do you? How a nice, mild-mannered history teacher like him ended up in Long Lartin with a bunch of murderous nut-jobs like me.’

Thorne raised a hand. ‘OK, that’s enough.’

‘It’s background,’ Nicklin protested. ‘It’s important if the story’s going to make any sense.’

Thorne glanced at the man Nicklin was talking about. If Batchelor was bothered by what was being said about him, there was no sign of it.

‘Come on,’ Fletcher said. ‘What’s the big deal? I don’t think anyone here seriously thinks he’s in prison for not returning library books, do they?’

‘Whatever,’ Thorne said.

‘Right,’ Nicklin said. ‘Well… the sad truth is that Jeff walked into his eldest daughter’s bedroom one morning and discovered that she’d killed herself.’ He spoke quietly, without colour. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how horrible that was. Just unthinkable, especially for those of you who’ve got kids.’ He looked at Holland, gave a small nod. ‘Now, the agony that Jeff must have felt that morning is not even something I can begin to put into words, but it turned into something else when he found out why his daughter had hanged herself. It turned into rage.

‘Seems that Jodi, his daughter, had been dumped by her boyfriend.’ He shook his head. ‘Little scumbag she was going out with decided he wanted nothing more to do with her, and instead of telling her face to face, he’d sent her a text. That was it. Jeff’s little girl woke up one morning, saw that text message and it felt like her life was over.

‘So, she took the cord off her dressing gown, put it round her neck and five minutes later it was.

‘Now… bad luck usually plays a part in stories like this and it was Jeff’s bad luck that he ran into Nathan, the aforementioned little scumbag, at the bus stop, the day after Jodi had killed herself.’ There was more in Nicklin’s voice now as he began to relish the telling, reaching a part of the story he found especially appealing.

A view he enjoyed.

‘Bad luck for Nathan too, as it turned out… because the old red mist descended, understandably, all things considered, and our Jeff, who up until that point would not have said boo to a goose, beat the little shit to death right there and then with his bare hands.’ He looked at Jeff, then to his audience. ‘I know… who would have thought it?

‘So, Jeff hands himself in, because he’s a good, God-fearing citizen. On top of which, he’s covered in this kid’s blood and there’s half a dozen witnesses, so there’s not much point pretending he didn’t do it. He’s charged with murder, blah blah blah, there’s a trial and he’s sent down. End of story.’ Nicklin paused for effect, then leaned even further forward and dropped his voice to a whisper in an attempt to heighten the drama. ‘Only it isn’t… not by a long chalk. This is actually where it starts to get really interesting, because a few weeks after Jeff gets sent to prison, he receives a letter —’

‘Shut up!’

Everyone turned to look at Jeffrey Batchelor, who was staring white-faced at Nicklin. The muscles were working in his jaw and his skinny chest strained against the arm that Jenks had thrown across it.

Nicklin cocked his head. ‘I beg your pardon, Jeff?’

‘I said, shut up…’

Thorne watched, intrigued. Batchelor had seemed oddly disconnected from almost everyone for the majority of his time away from the prison, but on those occasions when he had interacted with Nicklin, there had always been an element of fear in the way he spoke; the manner in which he held himself. Looking at Batchelor now though, Thorne could see that it was entirely absent.

Batchelor was no longer afraid.

‘This is my story,’ he said. He raised his cuffed hands and pressed them against his chest. ‘It’s my pain.’ His clenched fists rose and fell in his lap as he spoke; measured, the anger held in check. ‘It’s all mine and you can’t have it… however much you want it, however much you feed off it. It’s mine, so I’ll tell it, OK?’