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out some of the scratched graffiti on the walls. Not exactly The Ballad of Reading Gaol , but parts of it were witty or graphic enough to make him conjure up a profile of who’d written them, which was one way of tryingto escape the horrors he was cooking up in his own head – horrors that were all too likely to succumb to reality in the coming weeks and months.
    The usual neatness of his slightly greying dark hair had been wrecked by the continuous anxious sweeps of his hands; he was unshaven, crumpled and grubby. Hunger rumbled quietly through his gut, though he knew he’d be unable to eat, even if food were available. His long limbs ached, his teeth felt furry and he needed a drink. He wouldn’t ask for one though; he was trying to get used to how it would be not having his needs on tap. What would be the worst, he wondered. Being unable to use a bathroom in private, or being prevented from seeing or contacting those he loved whenever he chose? How was he going to deal with losing everything he’d worked for all these years: his position and reputation, the power to make a difference as he had as a journalist and an editor, as well as a government adviser – as a husband too? Dread was a burgeoning monster inside him.
    He wondered if Beth was asleep now, or if, like him, she was torturing herself with what might happen next. He knew she’d be upset that he hadn’t called, but he wouldn’t – not yet. He had to find out what was really going on first; decide how much he should tell her.
    There was so much more to this than even he knew, so until his worst suspicions were confirmed or denied it would probably serve him better, beyond asserting his innocence, to continue to stay silent. Already his failure even to suggest who might have murdered the girl was frustrating the hell out of Bruce and Giles Parker. A defence had tobe built on something, but Colin certainly wasn’t going to tell them yet that from the moment the cleaning woman had blundered into Sophie’s flat, catching him in the most incriminating, not to mention humiliating scene of his life, he’d known beyond any doubt that he’d been set up. If he told them that much he’d have to go further, and if he went further then God only knew what would happen to those he loved. Sophie’s murder had been the most effective warning he could ever receive, he didn’t need another.
    Hearing footsteps trudging down the corridor, he looked over at the door. Adrenalin immediately began pumping through his system. There was something different about this. He sat straighter, his senses rapier sharp, his heart a thick, pounding mass of fear. He’d been expecting this visit, in the dead of night, when no one would know except those who were ordered to forget.
    The door opened, a dim overhead light was switched on and a man he’d never seen before, wearing an expensive-looking tracksuit and top-of-the-line trainers, stepped into the cell. He was clean-shaven, around fifty, with a silver-grey crew cut, prominent cheekbones, and a jaw like an iron wedge. Of course, Marcus Gatling, the faceless, voiceless power behind the Carlyle throne, would never come himself; Colin had been a fool even to think it.
    His uninvited guest didn’t bother to introduce himself, but Colin knew very well who he was; Gatling wouldn’t think twice about availing himself of the services of Special Branch. Shit! How the hell had he managed to get himself mixed up inthis? From as far back as their Oxford days he’d loathed and feared Marcus Gatling, and over the years those feelings had only grown. Life dealt strange blows to those who opposed the stout, angry-faced man with his killer intellect and chilling genius for persuasion. His quest for power had always been lethal, and resoundingly effective, which was why Edward Carlyle had convinced Colin, during those early days, that they needed him on their side. Back then Colin had neither the sense nor the power to resist, but even if he