He turned away and took another drink.

'Don't retreat again. This isn't a come on. Just because I like you doesn't mean I need you back as a lover. There is an in-between you know. I had hopes once,' she paused and smiled with a bitter twist at odds with the sunshine, 'but I was wrong. I should've realised that your heart wasn't free to give.'

'Not free to give?' He thought of Monique and felt guilty. He knew that the desperate, pa.s.sionate infatuation he'd once had for her had finally pa.s.sed away with her death and he was embarra.s.sed that Claire should attribute to him more than chronic grief.

'Did I say that?' She looked evasive and drained her drink.

'Another?'

'No thanks, I must go.'

'Can I ask you a question first?'

She looked at him cautiously.

'I'm curious; why do you think that I'm not free?'

She flushed and it was her turn to look away.

'You need to pluck up the courage to answer that yourself.'

'I don't think I can.'

'Rubbish!' She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.

Griffiths stared boldly at the woman opposite. She had come to see him instead of Batchelor but he didn't yet know why. He waited. He had all the time in the world and psychiatrists' games of silence left him cold.

'My name is Claire, Mr Griffiths. I've asked to see you because I am conducting research into the effects of wrongful arrest and conviction on the mental state of prisoners.'

'So you think I'm innocent?' This was more like it.

'I think that you think you are.'

Typical, b.l.o.o.d.y clever, mincing words. He was inclined to ignore her, but on the other hand, she was the first person other than his lawyer to raise the subject of wrongful arrest.

'Go on.'

'Well, that's it really. I don't know all the details of your case and I have no opinion of whether you are guilty or innocent. In fact, I'm completely open-minded on the subject. But I am very interested in the impact your imprisonment has had on you. Could you tell me about that?'

Could he f.u.c.k. He wasn't prepared to have another can-opener brain picking around inside his mind, but he could tell her about his grounds for appeal. It would be an interesting test, to see how well developed his argument had become.

'To understand that, you really need to know what happened to me and why I can prove I'm innocent.'

She looked interested.

He told her how the b.i.t.c.h policewoman had a.s.saulted him then claimed that he'd knocked her to the ground, being careful to keep his tone sad rather than angry. He allowed tears into his eyes when he described being remanded in custody; it was disconcertingly easy to do.

'Why did imprisonment hurt you so much?'

'Are you mad?' Careful. That was a little too close to anger and he wanted her sympathy, not fear. 'Sorry. I still get choked.'

'I understand. The reason I ask is that you lived alone. You said during interviews that you had no close friends, so what did you lose when that door was locked?'

'My freedom, my self respect. The ability to go out for a beer when I wanted, pick up a girl, have fun.'

'I see. Is that how you get your fun? Down the pub?'

He just glared at her. That didn't deserve an answer.

'What I mean is, you seem more intelligent than most prisoners I've met. I can't imagine you being satisfied with an evening out around a few beers.'

She was perceptive this one, better than Batchelor. And she wasn't scared of him, though it would be easy for him to make that change.

'What is it?'

'What?'

'You were smiling. You looked nostalgic. What was the memory?'

'Nothing. Look, do you want to hear about why the charges against me are a load of sh...rubbish?'

'Yes. Of course.'

He told her about the other attacks based on what he'd read in the papers, nothing else. She made a lot of notes. When he stopped she re-read them with a frown on her face that produced two parallel lines between her eyebrows and made her look a lot older.

'This is very interesting, Wayne. May I call you that?'

He shrugged. His name meant nothing to him.

'Wayne, can I ask you to clarify some points?'

She asked a lot of questions, good ones, and he enjoyed making the links for her and teasing her with snippets of information.

'You'd make a good detective you know.' She smiled as she complimented him.

'Thanks.'

'What is it that makes this other man attack and kill women?'

The question took him by surprise. She was asking him for information about Dave and he was sworn to secrecy. But a few hints wouldn't do any harm, would they? It might even impress her.

'Killing them isn't the point, it's just a consequence.'

'Go on.'

'He's smart, really clever, but life hasn't been good to him. He's too good, under-appreciated.'

'Why women, not men?'

He felt the flush start in his neck and burn into his face. Even his hands went hot. He broke eye contact and opened one of the bars of chocolate she had brought.

'Was that a difficult question?'

'No, just a stupid one.'

'But men do kill other men and boys as result of s.e.xual a.s.sault, don't they.'

He felt too warm in the room and slightly sick from the chocolate.

'Could I have some water?'

'Of course.'

They waited in silence for it to arrive. He drank it down in one gulp.

'Let's return to this other killer. What do you think motivates him?'

What a good question. He'd asked himself that once a long time ago, but it had ceased to have any significance before he had been able to answer it. He shook his head and gave his first completely open answer.

'I honestly don't know.'

She started asking about prison life and his state of mind routine stuff that he parried with ease.

'One of the guards mentioned to me that a colleague had been murdered a Mr Saunders. How did you feel when he was killed?'

He started in surprise, then made himself relax. She had a habit of doing that, throwing in the odd trick question but he was too smart for her.

'I didn't care.'

'But you didn't like him, did you?'

'None of us did. He was a bullying p.r.i.c.k.'

'He died horribly you know.'

He'd heard rumours, of course, and Dave in one of his letters had hinted that it had taken a long time.

'Really?'

'Yes. He was tortured.'

She was breaking the rules. She shouldn't be telling him this. Perhaps he'd got to her after all.

'How?'

'With an electric drill.' She was half smiling, as if she found the idea intriguing.

'f.u.c.k!' He glanced at her quickly but she didn't seem to object to his language. The warmth from his face spread down his body in a wave.

'The killer worked his way through a whole tool kit.'

'Nails?'

'Oh yes. Skewered to his couch.'

She was leaning forward. He could see skin between the b.u.t.tons of her blouse and the heat in his groin became intense.

'And a staple gun. As well as a Stanley knife of course.' She tossed the last out as if it was too ba.n.a.l to be worth their interest. He leaned forward, closer to her. Her perfume was light and flowery and he could smell her body beneath it. The skin on her forearms was tanned and covered in soft hair. He was only inches away from being able to stroke it.

She was still smiling as if enjoying the secrets they were sharing.

'Have you ever wondered,' she said, 'what it would be like to do that? To kill a bully of a man? Pay him back?'

Her lips were moist. She looked excited. He'd heard about these women who hung around prisons because deep down they were aroused by the crimes of the men they visited. Some even married prisoners. He imagined that happening. What would the others say, when they saw him with her?

His left hand strayed beneath the table but she didn't seem to notice. The guard was outside; she'd insisted on privacy and they were quite alone. He touched himself while she carried on smiling at him. Should he reach over and rip that blouse open? Would she cry out for help or lean back with pleasure?

She stood up abruptly, surprising him.

'My time's up. If I don't go now they'll come in and I'd rather that didn't happen.'

'Will you come back?'

'Would you like me to?'

He told himself to be careful. No woman could be trusted, Dave had taught him that. But he had Wendy didn't he? Quiet, obedient Wendy whom he had been allowed to share so rarely as a reward. He felt angry. f.u.c.k Dave. He was still in here because he'd screwed up the copy-catting so badly that not even the press had made a connection. He was ent.i.tled to his own woman, and if this one fancied him who was Dave to tell him no.

'Maybe, yes, OK.'

'You'll need to ask for me to replace Batchelor. Can you do that?'

'No problem. When will you be back?'

'When was your next appointment with him?'

'Day after tomorrow.'

'I'll see you then.'

And with that, she was gone.

Claire sat down in Fenwick's office in Harlden and rubbed a hand over her face.

'You look shattered.'

'It's been a tough week.'

'How many times have you seen him?'