Ben Grant was in the room ahead. He remembered his instructions. Let Grant do the talking and don’t give anything away. Grant wanted Sam, but Sam didn’t want to fuel his fantasies. Let Grant masturbate over someone else’s words.It had been the trial when Sam had last seen Grant, with Sam as a policeman in his parade dress in the witness box, Grant watching from the dock. Sam had not detected hatred from him, no resentment at being caught. Grant had seemed amused by the trial, his moment on the front pages, a tabloid anti-hero, but that only fuelled his arrogance. What would hurt Grant more would be when someone even more vile came along, making Grant’s chapter in a true crime compilation a few pages shorter.The guard opened the door and Sam walked in. Ben Grant was standing by the window, his hands on the window ledge, watching the slow drift of the clouds painting white trails across the blue of late spring.Sam set his notebook on the table and pulled back the chair. Grant knew he was there.
