HMP Bronzefield is a squat, purpose-built concrete and steel construction with the capacity to house 527 inmates. Since the demise of HMP Holloway, it is Europe’s largest female prison.
Caitlin O’Donnell, prisoner number A3412JX, has now been formally charged and sent here on remand. I don’t mind saying that the location is quite inconvenient, given that we are in the run-up to Christmas and, besides the normal festive preparations, I have several quite pressing deadlines, including but not limited to getting pregnant via an absent husband, finding a further £200k downpayment to secure our new Hampstead home, getting Nelly to study for her prep school exams, dealing with Tor’s lying lover, outwitting the police and, of course, exploring how to manage a permanent separation from Matthew Hollis without either of my husbands finding out.
However, friendship is about giving as well as receiving, and it’s important to help those in need, especially when they are also unstable and know incriminating information about you. For these reasons, with my car being valeted, I find myself on a train heading out towards HMP Bronzefield, reading about its esteemed history of caging violent and deranged women.
Access to prison is not all that different from visiting a poorly run doctor’s surgery. It took several hours on the phone on Tuesday and Wednesday. The building itself is reassuringly familiar in terms of cheap decor, worn out posters, deformed plastic chairs, and uncivil receptionists. There are various restrictions on entry, including a body search and a metal detector, but this is no worse than the entry procedure for the House of Lords.
The restricted items list runs to two pages, and I assure the stern and glum guard that I do not have a nail file, firearms, or a spare prison uniform about my person. I’m allowed no more than ten pounds in cash, with which I am told I can purchase refreshments from a vending machine. I’m almost certain that I will not make use of this facility.
I’m led by another surly guard (it’s clearly part of their training) to the secure visiting unit, which is run by volunteers. I wipe the chair with a cloth I’ve brought for the purpose, but the stains are indelible, so I refrain from putting my whole weight on the seat. I’m blessed with strong thigh muscles and work weekly on my core so, while inconvenient, it’s not uncomfortable.
I see Cait walking towards me. I have to say that the prison uniform does her slight frame no favours at all, and she doesn’t look like she is sleeping well or eating sufficient quantities of fruit and vegetables.
‘How are you, darling?’ I say, expecting more gloom and self-pity.
‘I’m pretty good,’ says Cait, and she actually smiles.
‘Good?’
‘They all think I killed my abusive husband and set him on fire. They clap when I walk by.’
‘Clap?’
‘Yes, and whoop. It’s quite nice. I’ve even got a nickname.’
‘Which is?’
‘Flame. It’s a reference to burning Owen to death but also to my hair, obv.’
‘Clever,’ I say.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she says, looking directly into my eyes. ‘Youkilled a man and you’re free, and I didn’t kill anyone and I’m in prison.’
‘But you’ll plead innocent,’ I say, though this defence is probably the tried and failed approach of all 527 inhabitants of Bronzefield.
‘I didn’t shank him,’ she says. I raise one eyebrow. She’s obviously cohabiting with someone who’s taught her the required lingo.
‘Of course you didn’t. We presumed he’d killed himself.’
‘Me too. But my solicitor tells me Owen couldn’t have done it. There was no knife at the scene. Whoever did kill him was a rank amateur or they didn’t care. They should’ve put the knife in his hand, if they wanted it to look authentic.’
I’m about to explain how difficult to achieve that might be if the knife in question was contaminated from another murder, but I realize this might compromise my position.
‘Not everyone has your professional knowledge of police procedures and autopsies,’ I say.
‘No, you’re right there,’ she says. ‘I’ve already helped three women in here with their cases. These women know nothing about forensics and the police, Lalla. They’re taken advantage of.’
‘Well, you’ve always been community-minded, Cait.’
‘Worst thing is, I don’t have an alibi. They’ve got me at the scene. And they have all those threatening texts he sent me. I just don’t understand how he died.’
‘Oh, Cait, there must be a way to find out what really happened.’
She nods. ‘I know. They say he bought the petrol, but... this is the bit they went on and on about. He had severe burning on his crotch.’
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘It means they think he attacked me, and I defended myself, then cut his neck and burned him.’
