The brother had been the headmaster, responsible for the school curriculum roster: he’d given the man two free periods by mistake, instead of a history lesson which would have kept him at school. Hargrave had killed him, too. Hargrave was in charge of the prison library in which Charlie worked, as his assistant.

‘The bastard picked on me.’

‘You asked for it, Charlie, scuffing about like that.’

‘Got bad feet.’

‘You cheeked him: shouldn’t cheek someone like Hickley. He’s authority and you can’t beat authority.’

That was something he’d never been able to learn, thought Charlie. ‘Careful it doesn’t involve you,’ he said sincerely.

Hargrave shook his head. ‘No one bothers about me, Charlie. I’m not one of the hard ones but there’s a kind of respect for a lifer.’

‘It’ll pass,’ said Charlie.

‘Be careful, till it does. You’ve got a long time to go.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, distantly. ‘Bloody long time.’

‘Papers have already been delivered to the library,’ said Hargrave.

Charlie mopped the last of his porridge from the bowl with a piece of bread. He supposed it was natural that Hargrave would want to talk about it.

‘Did you know him?’ asked the convicted murderer.

The name given throughout the trial, which he’d followed from the library papers, was Edwin Sampson, although if the man was the KGB agent the prosecution made him out to be then it would obviously have been part of the legend, the cover story to cover his time in England as an illegal.

‘No,’ said Charlie.

‘Papers say he worked in security: thought you did that, too.’

‘It was a long time ago for me,’ said Charlie. ‘And there’s a lot of different departments.’