He wondered if the interview room, with all its long experience of a parade of criminals, from the most minor of shoplifters and graffiti artists, to some of the most notorious murderers the South-west had seen, could ever have known such an extraordinary series of ecstatic outpourings. Sarah sat at the small wooden table, fixed firmly to the floor by thick metal bolts, and looked perfectly relaxed. Sometimes she leaned forwards and laced her fingers together, at others she leant back on the chair and crossed her legs. There was none of the slumped despair Dan had seen here so many times before, nor the screamed or snarled abuse of rage and fear. The room was in the basement of Charles Cross, the only natural light a pathetic seepage from the small barred and opaque rectangular glass window, high up on the far wall. A fluorescent tube cast a sterile, flickering green-edged glow directly over the table and stretched grey shadows around it. The floor was grainy with its brushed concrete, the walls cheaply whitewashed brick, fading and rallying in random patches of shade and light.
