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dark blue overalls, were standing or shuffling idly about while two warders stood chatting. One or two heads turned as he made his way towards the huge main building which was still wreathed in the early morning mist, the grey fog drifting round it like some kind of ethereal shroud.
    The Governor’s office was enormous, fully thirty feet long and perhaps twenty wide. A huge oak table stood in the centre, an oval shaped antique which sparkled brightly. The legacy of many years polishing. It had nine chairs around it and, suppressing a smile, Randall wondered where King Arthur and his knights had got to. The thought quickly vanished however.
    The walls were a sky blue colour dull with the dust of the years, as with most of the paintwork in the prison it seemed. The ceiling rose high above him, three large banks of fluorescents set into it – the only concession to progress. The rest of the room seemed forty years out of date. Large windows looked out onto the West Wing of the prison, the office itself separated from the prisoners’ quarters by a high stone wall and a large expanse of well-kept lawn. The carpet on the floor was so threadbare that Randall’s footsteps echoed as he walked towards the desk at the far end of the office. As he approached, Governor George Stokes rose to greet him.
    The two men introduced themselves, a sign on Stokes’s desk adding a silently corroborative affirmation that he was indeed Governor. He was well into his sixties, his hair almost white, even the wisps that curled from his wide nostrils. But his handshake was strong, belying his years. He was tall, ungainly. Dressed in a two piece brown suit, the trousers of which were an inch too short, he looked like some kind of be-spectacled stick insect.
    Stokes introduced the other man in the room as Doctor Kevin Hayes. He was, or had been up until his escape, Harvey’s psychiatrist. A short, nervous looking man in his fifties, he was prodding one ear with the blunt end of a pin.
    “You’re probably wondering why I called you, Randall?” said Stokes, clasping his hands before him and leaning on his blotter.
    “It had crossed my mind,” said the Inspector.
    “We have reason to believe that Harvey will return to Exham,” Stokes told him. “We thought you should be forewarned.” The older man plucked at the end of his nose. “If there’s anything we can do to help you, ask.”
    “Well, for one thing, I’d like to know why he was having psychiatric treatment,” the Inspector said. “From what I’ve read about the case there was never any hint of mental disturbance.”
    “During the last six months,” said Hayes, “Harvey had become very introverted. He brooded. He’d always been a loner but he seemed to become more hostile towards the other prisoners. He got into fights frequently.”
    “We had him in solitary most of the time,” Stokes interjected. “As much for the safety of the other men as anything else.”
    “How dangerous is he?” Randall wanted to know.
    Hayes stroked his chin thoughtfully.
    “It’s difficult to say,” he said, evasively.
    “Could he kill again?” Randall demanded. “ Would he kill again?”
    The psychiatrist exchanged a brief glance with Stokes then looked at Randall.
    “It’s possible,” he said, almost reluctantly.
    “How the hell did he manage to get out of here in the first place?” Randall snapped; just a little too forcefully.
    “That, Randall, is not your concern,” rasped Stokes. “Catching him again is all that matters. That’s your job I suggest you set about doing it.” The two men locked stares for long seconds and the Inspector could see the anger in the older man’s eyes. The escape had hurt his pride, it might, Randall reasoned, cost him his job. He probably had every right to be angry. But there was fear there too.
    Randall got to his feet.
     
    Randall didn’t speak much on the way back to Exham, his mind was too full of thoughts and questions, one in particular