Page 41

Chapter Seventeen

Baxter

The outside of Wakefield Prison was everything I’d expected it to be: dour, imposing, uninviting.

“Are you sure?” Lake asked, for what had to be at least the sixth time since we’d left London and taken the train to Geoffrey Ryhill’s current residence at his majesty’s pleasure, after more than a week waiting to see if he’d accept the visiting order request. “We could just walk away. Find a nice restaurant and have some dinner.”

“You think I’m going to come all this way and not go through with it?”

“Hoped maybe,” Lake said with a smile. He glanced at the red brick building. “You’re not the only one who’s nervous.”

“What have you got to be nervous about?”

“I’ve never met a murderer.”

It was a valid point. I wished I could say the same. “You can wait out here if you want.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

“I’m the one who said I had to see him.”

Lake huddled deeper into his coat. “True.”

“So I guess we’re both going in.”

“I guess we are.”

Lake’s thoughts were chaotic as we walked toward the main entrance. If anything, he’d underplayed it when he said he was nervous. After the security checks, someone led us to a table where a man already sat waiting. He wore the standard prison uniform of gray jogging bottoms and a blue T-shirt, neither of which fit particularly well. He lifted his head as we arrived, his gaze speculative as he gave us both a slow once-over.

I wanted to change my mind and leave. But Lake was already pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it, and I wasn’t going to be the person who’d dragged him here only to desert him. So I sat, too, forcing myself to ignore the frantic thud of my heart and look at Geoffrey. He’d aged a lot since the mugshot photo. How much of that was time and how much was prison life I couldn’t tell.

“So…” Geoffrey said. “What did you want to see me about? Are you journalists?” His voice matched his appearance—wholly unremarkable. “I get a lot of journalists requesting visiting orders. You wouldn’t believe the crazy shit they want to talk about. And yet I’m the one who got labeled unhinged in court.”

“We’re not journalists,” Lake said, his voice reassuringly calm.

We hadn’t once discussed how the conversation might go if he agreed to a visit. Sitting here now, with him staring back at us, it felt like a glaring oversight.

“How’s your… erm… day been?” Lake asked.

Geoffrey laughed. “Uneventful. Same as every other day in this place. Are you therapists? Is that what this is about?”

“My name’s Baxter,” I said. “Baxter Stuart Canmore.” Geoffrey frowned, no flicker of recognition occurring. “Even if you don’t recognize my face,” I pressed, “you must recognize my name.”

He thought about it and then shrugged. Either he genuinely didn’t remember, which seemed odd, or he was doing a good job of pretending he didn’t.

“October eleventh, 2006. Finchley Central Station car park. Around seven in the evening.” Sweat prickled along my spine, my clothes sticking to me, but I forced the words out. “You were there that night. You killed a man. You killed me. You stabbed me in the back and ran off. I want to know why. Why me? Had we met before and I don’t remember? Had I wronged you somehow?”

Geoffrey leaned forward, brow furrowing. “If I’d killed you, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” He shot Lake a conspiratorial glance that said, Have you heard this crackpot?

“Did you stab a man that night?” Lake asked. “The crimes you were charged with began in 2015, but the police theorized you started years before that.”

“The police,” Geoffrey said slowly, “theorize a lot of bullshit. Doesn’t make it true.”

I tuned into his thoughts—and got nothing. It happened occasionally. Some minds were just impenetrable. I tried again. Nothing. Like hitting a brick wall.

“I’ve never been to that car park,” Geoffrey said. “Plenty of others in London, but not that one. So I can’t help you.”

“Can’t,” I said, frustration rising, “or won’t?”