They all knew she would soon be leaving. They whispered in corners as they made cards and small gifts. Even the prison officers were sad that they would lose such a valuable inmate, not that any single one of them had ever had much interaction with her on a personal level. She rarely, if ever, made conversation with them unless it was necessary, and one officer hated her because, at times, it seemed she had more power over the inmates than the officers. A few years back, Rawlins had struck a prison officer, slapped her face, and warned her to stay away from a certain prisoner. She had been given extra days and had been locked up in her cell. The result had been that Rawlins was fêted when she was eventually unlocked and the officer, a thickset, dark-haired woman called Barbara Hunter, never spoke or looked at Rawlins again. The animosity between Hunter and Rawlins remained throughout the years. Hunter had tried on numerous occasions to needle Dolly, as if to prove to the Governor that the model prisoner 45688 was in reality an evil manipulator. But Dolly never rose to the bait, just stared with her hard, ice-cold eyes, and it was that blank-eyed stare that, Hunter suspected, concealed a deep hatred, not just of herself, but of all the prison officers.
Finally the day came, and Dolly carefully packed her few possessions from her cell. She waited for the call to the probation room for the usual chat with the Governor before she would finally be free. The suit she had worn the day she arrived hung on her like a rag, as she had lost a considerable amount of weight. The years she had spent banged up had made her face sallow and drawn; her hair was grey and cut short in an unflattering style.
On 15 March, she gave away all her personal effects: a radio, some tapes, skin cream, books, and packets of cigarettes. Then she sat, hands folded on her lap, until they called her to go into the first meeting. She appeared as calm as always but her heart was beating rapidly. She would soon be out. Soon be free. It would soon be over.
The old Victorian Grange Manor House was in a sorry state of disrepair, although at a distance it still looked impressive. The once splendid grounds, orchards and stables were all in need of attention. The grass was overgrown and weeds sprouted up through the gravel driveway. A swimming pool with a torn tarpaulin was filled with stagnant water, and even the old sign ‘Grange Health Farm’ was broken and peeling like the paint on all the woodwork of the house. The once stained glass double-fronted door had boards covering the broken panes, many of the windows had cracks and some of the tiles from the roof lay shattered on the ground below. The double chimney-breasts were toppling and dangerous. The house seemed fit only for demolition. The once vast acreage that had belonged to the manor had been sold off years before to local farmers, and the dense, dark wood that fringed the lawns had begun to encroach with brambles and twisted trees.
A motorway had been built close to the edge of the lane leading to the manor, cutting off the house from the main road. Now the only access was down a small slip road that had been left, like the house, to rot, with deep pot-holes that made any journey hazardous. The rusted, wrought-iron gates were hanging off their hinges, and the chain threaded through them with the big padlock hung limply as if no one would want to enter.
The Range Rover bumped and banged along the lane, dipping into one deep rut after another as it made its slow journey towards the house. The grass verges were spreading on to the lane, the hedges either side hiding the fields and grazing cows.
Ester Freeman swore as the Range Rover dipped badly; it was even worse than the last time she’d been there. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, but the dark hair scraped back from her chiselled features made her look hard, and as she drove she clenched her teeth with fury. She was five feet six, slender and always looked good in clothes. A smart dresser, who wore good designer labels, there was an elegance to her that belied and covered a toughness that even her well-modulated voice sometimes couldn’t disguise. She continued to swear as the Range Rover splashed through yet another water-filled pothole. The muddy puddles splashed water over the wheels and sides of the vehicle as it lurched down the lane.
Sitting beside Ester, Julia Lawson stared non-committally, at the lane. She was much younger than Ester and taller, almost six feet, with a strong, rangy body accentuated by her jeans and leather jacket. She wore beat-up old cowboy boots and a mannish denim shirt, and there was an arrogance to her face that was at times attractive, at other times plain. Unlike Ester, Julia had a deep, melodic, cultured voice. She, too, swore as they bounced along. ‘Jesus Christ, Ester, slow down. You’re chucking everything over the back of the car!’
Ester paid no attention as she heaved on the handbrake. Julia watched as she slammed out and crossed to the old wrought iron gates. She didn’t even need a key to open the padlock — she just wrenched it loose and pushed back the old gates.
As they drove up the Manor House driveway, Julia laughed. ‘My God, I think it needs a demolition crew.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Ester snapped, as they veered round a hole.
‘You know, I don’t think they’ll find it.’
‘They’ll find it, I gave them each a map. Don’t be so negative. She’s out today, Julia. Come on, move it!’
Julia followed Ester slowly out of the car and looked around, shaking her head. She stepped back as a front doorstep crumbled beneath her boot. ‘You know, it looks unsafe.’
‘It’s been standing for over a hundred years so it’s not likely to fall down now. Get the bags out.’
Julia looked back to the piles of suitcases and bulging black bin liners in the back of the Range Rover and ignored her request, following Ester into the manor.
The hallway was dark and forbidding: the William Morris wallpaper hung in damp speckled flaps from the carved cornices and there were stacks of old newspapers and broken bottles everywhere. The old wooden reception desk was dusty, the key-rack behind it devoid of keys and hanging almost off the wall. Even the chandelier above their heads looked as if it was ready to crash down.
Their feet echoed in the marble hall as Ester opened one door after another. The smell of must and mildew hung in the air, chilling them immediately.
‘You’ll never get it ready in time, Ester.’
Ester marched into the drawing room, shouting over her shoulder, ‘Yes, I will, and there’s enough of us to help me out.’
Julia picked up the dust-covered telephone. She looked surprised. The phone’s connected,’ she called to Ester.
Ester stood looking around the drawing room: old-fashioned sofas and wing-backed chairs, threadbare carpet and china cabinets. The massive open stone fireplace was still filled with cinders. ‘I had it connected,’ she snapped as she began to draw back the draped velvet curtains. They hung half off their rings and she turned her face away as dust spiralled down — four years of it, maybe more. Even when Ester had occupied the place no one was ever that interested in dusting.
The Grange Health Farm had been defunct when Ester bought the manor with all its contents, but she had no ideas about refurbishing the old house as it was a perfect cover for her real profession. All Ester had done was spread a few floral displays around the main rooms and brought in fourteen girls, a chef, a domestic and two muscle-bound blokes in the event of trouble. The Grange Health Farm reopened, and for men who wanted a massage, Ester would provide that with a sauna, but her clients mostly wanted a lot more physical contact — and Ester provided that too... at a price.