Dawn and Beatrice had been brought into their cages in a dusky inner room of the fortress-like prison. There was a row of iron-grilled windows at the top of the side wall, and an open brick stove in a corner. Somewhere on the other side, the women could hear the murmur of talk and some men marching - maybe in the inner court, Beatrice guessed.

"Hey, could I please get something to eat before we get on with interrogating me about...whatever it is?" she again asked a man in a grey police shirt who was passing by.

"You're not entitled to anything, but let's see if there's something left from lunch" he said.
Two minutes later he returned with a wooden plate with some half-peeled off chicken wings and innards and stone cold potatoes and salad sprinkled with blots of mayonnaise. Scraps of potato peel and sticky bones were hanging about everywhere and there was no cutlery, of course - Beatrice hadn't even bothered to ask for a knife. It looked and felt scrappy, but she knew she might jusf as well have been given a bowl of dog food. The policeman also brought a glass of half-sour milk.

Dawn, still silenced by her ball gag, which had been padlocked behind the neck, half crouched in her cage a few yards away.