Page 95 of The Stranger in Room Six

I’ve never been in a hostel before. But at least it’s not a cell. I share a room with a junkie who spent five years in prison and is now ‘using’ again. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she hisses as she lights another pipe.

There’s a communal bathroom, carpeted with used tampons and dirty towels.

The kitchen is crawling with cockroaches and there’s grease everywhere. But I have freedom. I can go out. I can walk around. I can breathe in fresh air.

Best of all, I can see Elspeth. It doesn’t matter that my probation officer comes too, as a condition of my release on licence.

I can hold my daughter’s hand. Hug her. Tell her how much I love her. Tell her how sorry I am. ‘Please don’t, Mum,’ she says. ‘I can’t talk about it any more.’

We sit in silence for a bit. ‘How is Gillian?’ I ask. The answer is still the same. My eldest daughter doesn’t want to see me. There are some crimes that cannot be forgiven. Murdering her father is one of them.

‘May I see pictures of my grandson?’ I ask her. I glance at her phone. ‘You must have some.’

She looks embarrassed. ‘Gillian says she doesn’t want you to.’

‘Tell me what he’s called, at least.’

‘Gerald,’ she says quietly.

Gerald? My eldest daughter has named her son after her father: the man I killed? The pain is so acute that I have to concentrate on my breathing to calm down. That’s something I learned in prison. It stopped me hitting my head against the walls or thumping someone else’s.

I try to distract myself by concentrating on the practicalities.

For a start, I need a mobile phone. My daughter goes with me to the shop, but getting a contract isn’t as easy as I thought.

My bank account no longer exists and the young man looks uneasy when I give him the hostel address.

In the end, I buy a cheap model from a supermarket.

Elspeth also comes with me to the doctor’s, where I have to give a previous address.

Reluctantly, I name the prison, and the receptionist visibly backs away.

But, by law, she has to give me a doctor.

I make an appointment for what they call a ‘general assessment’.

Elspeth takes me shopping and to the hairdresser. Afterwards she drops me back at the hostel, where she is clearly horrified at what she sees.

‘Our charity has a flat that might be available. I’ll come with you to your next probation meeting and we’ll talk about it.’

A fortnight later, it’s agreed. The flat is in a part of east London I’ve never been in before. But it’s clean and near a market where people are friendly. Where no one asks me questions. At first, the speed of life, the traffic that goes so fast, the people who push by, is all too much.

Often, I climb into bed at 7 p.m. and go to sleep, revelling in the luxury of clean sheets. But every morning I wake at 5.30 a.m. sharp, waiting for the ping of the electronic doors and the jostling queue for the bathroom. When it doesn’t come, it dawns on me that I am free.

Now that I have a phone and a laptop – Elspeth gave me her old one – I try to find Karen.

But I don’t know where to start. Technology has moved on so much in the last fifteen years.

I ask my daughter for help. ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘This isn’t a good idea. You know it isn’t.’

But I have to. I need peace of mind. I must find out exactly what happened. Only then can I attempt to forge ahead with my life.

At least, that’s what I tell her. The truth is that I want to make Karen pay, whatever the cost.

In the end, it’s easier than I thought to find a private detective online. When I explain, the woman at the other end seems to think my request is quite normal. I pay her with the money Elspeth has given me, plus my state benefits.

A month later, when I am at the universal credit office, my phone rings.

‘I’ve found her,’ says the woman. ‘Karen Greaves is in care, due to early onset dementia. You can find her at the Sunnyside Home for the Young at Heart.’