EMILY REMOVED THE green silk scarf from around her neck and put it down on the edge of her desk. Whoever had decided to turn the heating up overnight had gone totally overboard. It was a mild morning and stifling in her office. Not the kind of atmosphere she wanted while dealing with a round of prisoner applications that covered a variety of issues: bad news from home, a spat with another prisoner, a Dear John letter, a ploy to avoid work. There could be umpteen reasons an inmate would request an appointment with her.
Pouring herself a large glass of water, she took a drink, then pushed a button on a small desk fan. It whirred into action, sending ribbons dancing in a cooling flow of air. Having finished her daily list, Emily summoned Saunders and gave him the benefit of her advice. His bullying had to stop. The only leverage she had over him was an education course he was desperate to sign up for. He’d been accepted once before but had been so disruptive in the first few weeks he’d been thrown out on his ear. Staff had since refused to lift the suspension.
Knowing how much it meant to him, Emily thought she might change their minds if – and it was a very big if – she could demonstrate an improvement in his attitude. Perhaps education would yet prove the catalyst for a change in his behaviour. He’d got good grades at school. According to social enquiry reports, he’d even had aspirations to start his own business. Unfortunately for his local community, that business involved drugs, which in turn required muscle, which was where Jones came in.
It was downhill from there on in.
Well, Emily reminded herself, I’m the muscle now.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘You do something for me and you have my word I’ll return the favour.’
Saunders didn’t reply.
‘I thought you were a businessman,’ Emily looked him square in the eye. ‘Call it a transaction of mutual benefit. I have something you want. Your good behaviour is the means to pay for it. Stay out of trouble for the next six months and I’ll see what I can do. Do we have a deal?’
He glared at her, resentful. His charm offensive had failed, and that didn’t happen very often where women were concerned. Finally he gave a resigned nod. She dismissed him and he left the room, yanking open the door, leaving it wide open. Almost immediately, Walter Fearon appeared in the doorway, rubbing the top of his right arm with his left hand. He looked awful, his eyes ringed by dark circles, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He wasn’t the only one to have had a sleepless night. She had too: Rachel hadn’t come home until 3 a.m.
‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ Emily asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you want, Walter?’
‘I’ve come to apologize. I’ve got something for you.’
Emily thought about last night, specifically the argument she’d had with herself after the officer rang and told her how distressed Fearon was. Could she live with herself if she wrote him off as a no-hoper? Despite the risk he posed to her personal safety, she felt duty-bound to listen. He was only twenty-one. Years of abuse had turned him from helpless victim to high-profile perpetrator. He needed therapy in spite of himself. It would be totally unprofessional to turn him away.
She pointed at a chair. ‘Sit down.’
Fearon did as he was told. He fumbled around in his trouser pocket, making her nervous. When she picked up her phone, he panicked, thinking she was about to have him removed. Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he placed a tightly folded and slightly crumpled piece of prison-issue paper on her desk.
‘It’s for you, miss.’
‘An apology?’
He bowed his head, eyeing her over the top of his filthy specs.
She spoke into the phone. ‘Walter Fearon is in my office . . . I know I did, but I changed my mind . . . yes, thank you.’ Emily hung up, her eyes drawn to the scruffy note in front of her.
She didn’t touch the paper. Instead, she got up and went to her filing cabinet to retrieve his prison record. Feeling his eyes on her back, she opened the manila folder and retraced her steps, flipping through the case-notes until she came to the last entry. Only when she was seated across the desk from him again did she look up, coolly returning his gaze.
‘Seeing as you’re here, we may as well discuss your release,’ she said. ‘A hostel place has been made available to you. I’m sure you know why. You obviously can’t go home, and your local authority have refused to house you. I don’t mean to labour the point, but that leaves you with no other option: it’s a hostel or the streets. You’ll receive a travel warrant to get you there. Do you have any questions?
He didn’t respond.
He was too busy eyeing her hair as it wafted slightly in the breeze from the desk fan, his eyes taking in every feature, every blemish with that same constant and persistent gaze that had unsettled Emily since her return to work. She was fighting the urge to cringe from his stare when, over his shoulder, she saw Ash Walker in the doorway. The old Emily would have taken offence, but she knew the SO meant well. He was there for her protection – Just in case Fearon kicks off, as he’d told her on the phone a moment ago.
That was a nice way of putting it.
Emily gave nothing away as she cast an appraising eye over the inmate. Not including yesterday’s prank, he’d spent a total of thirteen days on the block for breaches of discipline while he’d been inside. He’d also missed out on privileges such as parole and home leave. Like a lot of other young men in there, he had bugger all to go home to.
It wasn’t Fearon that Emily worried about. It was the women he might come into contact with. She shuddered at the thought of the damage he was capable of inflicting before his next term of imprisonment.
‘Close the door on your way out,’ she said.
Fearon was trying to act cool but his non-verbal behaviour was giving him away. He was visibly seething having been dismissed: his jaw bunched, the grey eyes flashed behind his spectacles, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The tirade that followed was vicious but short-lived.
Glancing over his shoulder, he clocked the SO loitering in the corridor. Fearon got to his feet and left the room without another word, pushing past Ash Walker on his way out.
‘Everything OK?’ asked the SO, popping his head round the door.
Emily nodded.
‘Well, if he gives you any more grief—’
‘I’ll be sure to let you know.’
‘You made any decision about Kent?’ Walker asked. ‘Whether to make a complaint, I mean.’
‘No, not yet, Ash. Despite the fact that I think he’s an arse, I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. The problem is, he’s avoiding me. That’ll be down to Harrison.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’m persona non grata as far as the PO is concerned.’
‘Join the club,’ Walker said.
‘Anything you want to tell me?’ Emily looked at him, inviting him to speak up, but he remained silent. She still had no clue what issues might be bothering Kent, but now was obviously not the time to question Walker about it. Maybe Stamp was wrong . . . Maybe Walker had nothing to tell her and she’d just have to drag it out of Kent herself. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to compromise your relationship with him.’
Closing her door quietly, the SO left her to her work.
Emily wrote Kent’s name in her diary, a reminder to catch him later. He could refuse to see her, but she’d at least offer him the opportunity to discuss his attitude. Who knew? Maybe he’d surprise her and accept some well-meaning advice.
Her eyes landed on the note Fearon had left on her desk.
Reluctant to touch it without gloves on, she took a pair out of her drawer and slipped them on. Teasing open the folded sheet of paper, she braced herself for the drivel it might contain. If it was an apology it would be badly spelt and lacking punctuation. He’d sent her notes before. His writing was barely legible, school being the one institution he’d managed to avoid. He’d run away at ten, never to return. When Emily read about that in his prison file she’d suggested a literacy course. He laughed, telling her he’d learned so much more on the streets than he ever could in a stupid classroom.
She read the note: I wil lern too controal meself miss. I’ll stop hurtin wimon if you give uz 1 last chanse. Carnt do that if you send me away can i? He’d signed his name and added a kiss. Beneath the message there was a mark on the paper. Emily stared at it for a very long time. It was in the shape of a heart. A red heart.
And it was written in blood.