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He was generous to a fault, he was funny, he did not judge, he was ultimately reliable, and yes, she loved the way he looked; always had. She scorned the assumption that sensible women did not bother so much about a man’s looks, when really, the way they looked, if they looked like Ryan even on a bad day, always helped them get away with murder. That handsome mug would go down well with a jury, she told herself, and shook her head in disbelief that she should think such a thing. It would never come to that.
    He was not a pretty boy today, though. Seedy was the word which sprang to mind.
    â€˜You’ll be out this afternoon,’ she said briskly.
    â€˜Who says?’
    â€˜Custody sergeant. Your bloody precious Bailey left a message with him to tell me.’ Mrs Ryan, who had always secretly credited Bailey with the development of her husband from imbecile to grown man, now felt and spoke of him as an object of hate, purely for his current power over their lives.
    â€˜Bailed for further enquiries. Something like that. What did you tell them?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ She nodded, approving, but wanting more.
    â€˜What’s the Brief like?’
    â€˜OK. I only did what he said.’
    â€˜For once.’
    Mrs Ryan produced the Thermos of coffee and Mars bar which the sergeant had allowed her to bring in. They seemed such a pathetic offering in the circumstances, she almost put them away, but the chocolate seemed to bring colour to his skin.
    â€˜A Mars a day helps you work, rest and play,’ he remarked, his voice a touch stronger.
    â€˜Did you get any breakfast?’ she asked, resorting to the lowest level of wifely consideration, conscious of what she was doing and even more acutely aware of the atmosphere of the place. Echoing footsteps, a muted banging on the wall from somewhere, the conflicting smells of disinfectant and urine.
    â€˜Didn’t want breakfast.’
    She could see why.
    â€˜Oh, I bought you a newspaper.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    All speech was desultory. She felt as if every word was being overheard and could scarcely raise her voice above a whisper. There was also that sensation peculiar to hospital visits: the fear of saying anything which was not banal and the acute guilty desire to escape. Get out. He seemed to sense it, and for that, she felt a rush of love for him.
    â€˜You’d better go, love. No point both of us being stuck in here, is there?’ He attempted a laugh. Although she wanted to go, being invited to go still felt like rejection. Perhaps he simply wanted his space back, so he could cry in peace.
    â€˜S’pose not.’ She rose to her feet gratefully and rang the bell, then sat down to await the response, dying for those footsteps to come down the corridor towards them. She was aware of him watching her.
    â€˜What are you thinking?’ she demanded; a last attempt to make this encounter fruitful.
    Ryan stretched his legs so that they touched the wall opposite. Single cells were not designed for the swinging of cats.
    â€˜I’m thinking that I shall never, ever again, bang a bloke up in a cell without thinking long and hard about it first.’
    You might not have the chance, she thought. You might never have the chance. You are going to be formally suspended from duty this afternoon, whatever else happens, and our world will come to an end. How could you do this to me?
    â€˜I never think of Old Bailey, without thinking of your Bailey,’ Rose said as they stuffed the bundles of paper and files into the back of the taxi, this time without attempts to keep them in order. ‘They have the same craggy appearance.’
    The afternoon sunshine made them blink. Out of the cooler corridors of the court, they felt like moles ascending into daylight. Rose’s face shone. She was chattering for the sake of making noise, hiding the fact that she was angry and disappointed.
    â€˜Didn’t take them long, did