Five miles from the windswept Northumbrian coast, a grey and forbidding building rose like a giant blot on an otherwise beautiful landscape, surrounded by barbed wire to prevent escape. Like most of Her Majesty’s prisons, Acklington had been sited well away from the nearest residential area – and for good reason.
It was beginning to rain as Jo Soulsby drove her BMW into the staff car park, trying hard to focus her mind on her job. She was exhausted, would have been back at home in bed had she not promised the Home Office an urgent assessment on a disruptive lifer – but she’d managed somehow to struggle through. At least this was to be her last professional visit of the day.
Jo checked her briefcase. Her mobile showed several missed calls and the battery icon had turned red, indicating a critically low charge. She switched the damn thing off and threw it on the seat in frustration. She got out of the car and locked it. The wind howling through the perimeter fence was loud enough to wake the dead, the rain almost horizontal now. Pulling her coat close, she ran towards the gatehouse. Senior Officer Young was waiting there to greet her.
‘Rough night?’ he asked.
Embarrassed by the comment, Jo averted her eyes. ‘I could think of better ways of spending my time than being locked up in here,’ she said. ‘Especially with him.’
Young checked the professional visitor log. He grimaced when he saw who she’d come to see. ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said. ‘Some of us are stuck with him twenty-four-seven.’
Pushing a button underneath his desk, he activated the electronically controlled reinforced-steel door. It clunked loudly and slowly began to slide open. Jo moved forward into position and the outer door closed behind her. Despite many years of working in prisons with some of Britain’s most disturbed criminals, she still hated the feeling of being trapped between the two sets of doors.
The inner door clunked, faltered, and at last she was inside. Only then did she remove a numbered tally from the end of the chain hanging from her belt. She placed the tally in a security chute. Young took charge of it and, in return, handed her a large bunch of keys allowing her unrestricted access to the prison. As she attached the keys to the empty chain, he smiled at her through the thick security glass, his fake American accent sounding muffled through the barrier:
‘Y’all have a good day, now. Y’hear?’
Managing a thin smile, Jo moved on into the grim building and hurried along a secure corridor to the vulnerable prisoner unit. She was dreading her interview with Prisoner 7634 Woodgate, serving life for his part in the gang rape of a woman half his age. Although she was duty-bound to go through the motions of a life sentence review, the very idea that he might get out any time soon was abhorrent. In the interests of public protection, she would not recommend his release to the Secretary of State and intended to make that quite clear.
But first she needed to find a phone.