Let Loose the Dogs by Maureen Jennings

have Mr. Murdoch brought down. We cannot, of course, offer you complete privacy, but I will instruct the guard to leave you alone. And by the way, I have given permission for the prisoner to smoke. Under normal circumstances I do not allow any tobacco or pipes, but in this case, he may have one if he wants.”
    Murdoch also stood up. He could feel his heart beating faster, and his mouth felt dry. It was a long time since he and Harry had stood face to face.

Chapter Thirteen
    T HE GUARD , T YLER, SHOWED M URDOCH into the visitor’s room. “Take any seat you like.”
    The room was plain, with a plank floor and one long table running down the centre. About a dozen chairs were crammed along each side, but the table was demarcated with strips of wood to indicate each place. The prisoners had to keep their hands visible within these barriers. The air was close, permanently saturated with the smell of fear and anger. Murdoch chose a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Two doors with narrow, barred windows faced each other across the room. The prisoner came in from one side and the visitor from the other. The guard walked over to the opposite door and pushed an electric button, which presumably gave a signal to the cells.
    “They’ll be here in a minute,” he said. He eyed Murdoch curiously. “One of your nabs, is he?”
    “No,” said Murdoch and he deliberately began to look around the room. A row of high windows to his right let in natural light but they were too high up to give a view of the outside. It was a dull, grey morning and the wall sconces had been lit. To one side of the door facing him was a portrait of her Majesty. The Queen was depicted in her robes of state and the scarlet, ermine-trimmed train and crimson drapery behind her glowed vividly. Murdoch thought the portrait was a fine copy, better than the one that was in his cubicle at the police station. Directly behind him was a large oil painting of the chief constable, Lieutenant-Colonel Grasett. This one was in the prisoner’s line of vision.
    “I’ll be outside the door. Holler if you need me,” said the guard and left.
    Murdoch took the opportunity to remove the black band from his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to share the news of Susanna’s death with his father. He sat back, undid his coat, and took out his watch. It was two minutes past the half hour. He knew he was trying to look at ease. It was far from the way he felt, but he’d be damned if he’d give Harry the satisfaction of knowing he was nervous.
    He heard the sound of footsteps shuffling. Hurriedly he went back to the table and sat down. The door opened and in came another guard. He stood back to usher in his prisoner. This man, in grey prison uniform, was heavyset, with a pale, clean-shaven face. He was balding and what hair remained was grizzled. Relief rushed through Murdoch. There was a mistake; this was not his father. He was too old, too heavy.
    The prisoner moved awkwardly to the table, and suddenly he smiled.
    “Hello, Willie. It’s been a long time.”
    It was only then, in the voice, that Murdoch knew it was his father. He stood up so abruptly that the chair tilted backwards and tipped over to the ground with a crash. He flushed with embarrassment, feeling clumsy and foolish, the way he always had in his father’s presence.
    “Still got two left feet, I see,” said Harry.
    Murdoch straightened the chair and sat down, while his father eased himself into the opposite seat. He held out his hand. “Come on, son. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge, but we’re still the same flesh and blood. Won’t you at least shake your own father’s hand?”
    His father’s grip was firm, the palm hard and calloused the way he remembered. Harry had taken pride in that. His blows had been as damaging as a piece of wood.
    The guard stepped back. “My name’s Barker. I’ll let you both alone, but I’ll be watching through the window. Murdoch, put both your hands on the