Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 43

Day 14 – Chloe

Even though two days had passed since her birthday parachute jump, Chloe was still finding it difficult to process the maelstrom of emotions and adrenalin that had little dispelled in the aftermath. The goggle marks had long faded from around her eyes, her cheeks were no longer reddened from the freezing cold descent, and it felt as though she’d dreamed the whole thing. Then she would experience another flutter of excitement and the sheer joy of being alive – only to find guilt thudding down on top of her, that she shouldn’t feel that way, not after Jess’s murder.

And then there was this other, new thing, more exciting than everything else put together – more than the parachute jump; way more than her sixteenth birthday; more than the cute nervous guy from the plane asking for her number – an actual message from Shawn Barrett.

Shawn Barrett texted me, she thought, a smile curling irresistibly up at the corners of her lips. Me!

She felt a punch of shame and guilt in her gut – only recently she had felt embarrassed by her love of OnTarget, had thought herself too grown-up for them. Thank God Shawn would never know her traitorous thoughts.

As she sat at the breakfast table in her pyjamas half-heartedly eating a bowl of Special K, her mum noticed how distracted she was.

‘Still thinking about the jump, Rog? I’m so proud of you, you know. I couldn’t have done that, not in a million years. You’ve been so brave . . .’

Her mother’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She switched off the radio, reached across the table and took Chloe’s hand between her own, her voice thick.

‘We don’t get that much time together on our own, do we? I just wanted to say that the other day was incredible. There’s always so much going on here, and I feel like I’m constantly nagging you and Brandon about something or other—’

‘You are,’ Chloe confirmed, prompting a tearful laugh.

‘So anyway. I just wanted to say that it was amazing to take you to the jump, just the two of us, and watch you floating down to earth with that massive grin plastered all over your face, and to know you’ve recovered, that you’re well again, I can’t tell you . . .’

She was openly sobbing now, and Chloe gave a self-deprecating sort of huff, although, annoyingly, her own eyes had filled up too.

‘Oh God, Chloe, when I thought we were going to lose you, I just couldn’t bear it. I really couldn’t. The relief that you’re OK!’

‘Yeah, I’m fairly relieved too,’ said Chloe. She examined her mother’s profile, still attractive – although she really ought to pluck that one long hair she never noticed growing out of the mole by her left ear, and she was getting wrinkles in her neck. Chloe wondered what her mum had been like as a teenager. What she herself would be like as an adult, as a mother.

‘I’m glad you’re my mum,’ she said impulsively, leaning over her cereal bowl to kiss her, which prompted another sob before her mum blew her nose and straightened up.

‘Sorry, darling, I’m just being over-emotional. You just turned sixteen, and jumped out of a plane – how could I not be! Either that or I’m getting the menopause.’

She switched the radio back on, indicating that the chat was over, and started clearing up the breakfast things.

Chloe slid her phone out of her dressing gown pocket. She re-read the message – a PM sent from the OnTarget forum – for about the thirtieth time since she’d got it.

She still couldn’t believe it. She was dying to tell her mum, or Jess – how jealous would Jess have been! Another visceral pang of guilt shot through her, a little spear of actual pain in her belly. Jess was probably lying in a stainless steel drawer in a mortuary, like on CSI Miami.

Hey Chloe! It’s Shawn Barrett here. I’ve got something TOP SECRET I want to ask you about.

Even though Chloe was almost paralysed by the sheer excitement of getting a message from Shawn, she also found it too good to be true. She had watched Catfish. She knew all about people posing as others online.

Sorry Shawn, she wrote back. But how do I know it’s really you?

The reply came back almost immediately.

 

Remember when I came to see you in hospital, when you had cancer ? I asked you what your favourite OnT song was. You said that you tell everyone it’s Forever Together but actually you like Small Victory better.

‘Small Victory’ was a bonus track on OnT’s first album and generally considered a bit cringe. But it was true! It was her favourite. And she had never told anyone that except Shawn.

OMG! she replied. It IS you!!!

 

Yeah, it’s me all right. TOP SECRET yeah, but I’m funding a new kids’ cancer charity and want YOU to be my main girl, cos we go back, right? Can we meet up to discuss? Want you + me to be filmed, I’ll hand you the massive cheque, it’ll be on the news and that. But seriously, babe, please tell no-one, not even ur best mate or family. Need to know I have ur absolute discretion. DM me back and let me know if your up for it! Hope so! X ps., and I’m glad you’re better now.

He hadn’t used the correct version of ‘you’re’, Chloe couldn’t help thinking. But that was OK. He didn’t need to be academically clever. He’d told her in the hospital not to let her studies slip like he had, and she was determined not to, retaking a whole academic year. That had been so tough. She ought to be doing her own GCSEs now, but as it was, she had another whole year to go . . . ugh.

Anyway, what did that matter now? In the car on the way back from the jump, her fingers trembling, she had typed a message, finding it hard to believe that she was sending words that his fingertips would touch on his own phone screen . . . his long slim fingers with their heavy silver rings, the same fingers that had stroked her fringe in hospital.

Hi Shawn! she typed. I’d love to. Half-term ATM so I can meet anytime – just say when and where! I’m so excited!!!! Xxxxxx

Chloe hesitated, then deleted all but the biggest of the kisses. Shawn needed to know that she was a mature woman, not some stupid little fan.

She couldn’t wait to see him. After all the suffering she’d been through, all the bad luck and the pain of her losing her friend, this was just the tonic she needed. The jump had been the start. From this point on, she was going to embrace life. She wasn’t going to be afraid of anything or anyone.

Chapter 44

Day 14 – Patrick

As soon as Patrick entered the station, he detected something new in the atmosphere, a charge of excitement – the kind that sizzled in the corridors, the incident rooms and offices whenever a big case had been cracked, a suspect arrested and charged. He felt immediately wary. What was going on? Martin and Gareth were chatting by the vending machine, big grins on their faces. Gareth looked over and gave Patrick a look he couldn’t read, somehow mixing satisfaction, embarrassment and, what else? It looked like pity.

Patrick strode past them and headed straight towards Suzanne’s office.

He had been up half the night trawling through the StoryPad website, following his visit to Chelsea Fox’s flat and the revelation that Rose and Jess had collaborated on a piece of fiction on that site. It hadn’t taken long to find a few solo stories written by Rose (MissTargetHeart) and Jess (YOLOSWAG), all of which featured members of OnTarget in clichéd romantic scenarios. Patrick didn’t get much time to read fiction these days – in fact, the last novel he’d read had been Camus’ The Outsider when he was eighteen – but he recognised bad writing when he saw it, and the girls’ stories managed to combine purple prose with cringeworthy poetry. None of the stories contained any clues, as far as he could tell; nothing that told him anything at all about Rose’s and Jess’s lives.

More crucially, and frustratingly, he couldn’t find any stories that Rose and Jess wrote together; nor were there any stories that either of them had written with other people. He had combed through the comments on Rose’s and Jess’s stories, but most of the ‘reviews’ were one or two words long. Convinced there must be something on the site that would help him, refusing to accept that this was another dead end, he spent the next few hours reading through fan fiction, finding himself drawn into a world where OnTarget were like the gods in Greek and Roman myths, mixing with mortal girls who were almost always flame-haired, milky-skinned virgins who found themselves swept into a world of excitement, danger and blood-sucking. It was amazing how often Shawn was depicted as a vampire overlord in these tales. What was it with young women and the undead?

This morning Gill had woken him up at 10 a.m. He’d fallen asleep at his desk at home and as soon as she shook him awake and he saw the time, he ran into the shower, shouting at her for not waking him earlier, then regretting it. As he soaped himself he castigated himself for being such a bastard to her recently. She was trying, really trying, and his response was to be grumpy, withdrawn and passive-aggressive.

‘You need to make a decision,’ she said when he emerged from the shower. She stood in the bathroom doorway, arms folded, trembling with the courage it took to say these words. ‘Because we can’t go on like this, Patrick. If you want me to leave, if you can’t ever forgive me, you need to say.’

Then she had walked away, tears in her eyes, leaving him feeling wretched – but as confused as ever.

He followed her into the kitchen, where he found her standing by the sink, gazing out of the window. He went up and hugged her, feeling her respond, tentatively at first, before putting her arms fully around him and squeezing him, pulling him against her with a rare display of strength. He was still hot and a little damp from the shower and, emotionally charged from the scene in the bathroom, he found himself becoming aroused. Gill noticed it and pushed herself against him, tilting her face and kissing him.

‘Where’s Bonnie?’ he whispered into her mouth.

‘Watching Ben and Holly in the living room.’

‘How long does an episode last?’

‘About ten minutes.’

‘Plenty of time.’

He took her by the wrist and pulled her gently out of the kitchen and into the utility room, shutting the door behind him. Gill’s eyes widened as he lifted her onto the washing machine, no more words exchanged as she unbuckled his belt and he reached beneath her skirt and pulled down her knickers, tossing them onto the floor, kissing her hard as she shuffled forwards a few inches so he could push into her. He felt himself heading straight towards orgasm. He tried to slow down, but she urged him on, biting his lip and pulling at his hair as he thrust into her, his wife, the taste and feel and smell of her so familiar but so strange, almost forgotten, and as he came he gasped her name, his face pressed against her neck.

‘Mummy, where are you?’

He stared into Gill’s eyes and they both laughed before Gill called out, ‘I’ll be one minute, sweetheart. I’m just helping Daddy with something.’

They rearranged their clothes, smiling but not speaking, until Patrick said, ‘I’m sorry. About before.’

‘It’s OK. But we do need to talk.’

‘I know. I promise. It’s just . . . this case, I have so little time.’

She placed a hand on his chest. ‘I understand. And I’m sorry too.’

She left the room and came back carrying Bonnie.

‘Let’s arrange a date night,’ he said. ‘As soon as this investigation is over or slows down. I’ll get my mum to babysit. OK?’

He’d left them both with a kiss, and now here he was, two hours late, heading towards Suzanne’s office, wondering if perhaps that date night might arrive sooner than he’d thought. If the investigation had ended without him.

He knocked on Suzanne’s door and was called in, surprised to find her with the chief superintendent, Gordon Stretton, who wore the same kind of smile Gareth and Martin had displayed. Stretton was a large man in his fifties, with thick hair and – according to gossip – thin skin. He stood beside Suzanne’s desk. She was smiling too, but a little more warily.

‘Guv,’ Patrick said, nodding at Stretton.

For the second time that morning, Patrick found himself on the receiving end of a look he couldn’t quite read. In retrospect, he would remember it as the look a football manager gives their former star striker just before telling them they’re going to spend the foreseeable future on the subs bench.

‘Patrick,’ Stretton said. ‘I was just congratulating DCI Laughland. Seems she has one or two excellent DIs under her command. Or one, anyway.’

Patrick bristled. What did that mean? He looked at Suzanne, but she was shuffling some papers and avoiding his eye.

‘See you for a celebratory drink later, Suzanne?’ Stretton said, pushing past Patrick and heading out.

As soon as Stretton shut the door behind him, Patrick said, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘It’s Winkler. He’s arrested someone for the murders of Rose and Jess. Wendy’s killer too, I expect, but Adrian is talking to him first, then Strong is going to interview him about Wendy’s death.’

‘Hang on. Interview who?’

‘Mervyn Hammond.’

Patrick blinked. ‘What? Hammond? That’s . . .’

‘An item of Rose’s clothing was found at Hammond’s house.’

‘By Winkler?’

‘Yes, following an anonymous call. Winkler was already there, questioning Mr Hammond.’

Patrick listened with increasing disbelief as Suzanne relayed the story Winkler had told her that morning, after turning up at the station with Mervyn Hammond handcuffed in the back of his car.

Winkler and Gareth Batey had found a photograph of Hammond among Nancy Marr’s possessions. Winkler had unearthed rumours about Hammond and young girls, followed him and seen him visit a children’s home after hours. Finally, he’d discovered Rose’s ‘LUCKY’ knickers in a bin bag on Hammond’s property.

‘Hammond’s got no alibi for any of the murders. Not that he’s telling us about anyway. When Winkler brought him in, Hammond started shouting about how he was going to make sure Winkler and I were on the front of every paper between here and Timbuktu for threatening and intimidating an innocent man. Since his lawyer arrived he’s gone quiet, started saying “no comment” to every question.’

Patrick’s mind raced. Hammond? Could it be him? He thought back to his own interview with the PR man. He found Mervyn deeply repellent, arrogant and slimy – but a serial murderer?

‘Stretton was acting like we’ve definitely got our man,’ Patrick said.

‘Yes. Well, this underwear.’

‘Which seems very convenient. An anonymous tip-off?’

‘Exactly. I can already hear Hammond’s lawyer in court. If it even gets that far. We need more, Patrick. I want you to join the interview. See if you can get Hammond to start talking. And be careful, OK? I really have no desire to see my name on the front page of The Sun.’

Chapter 45

Day 14 – Patrick

Suzanne knocked on the door of interview room one and beckoned for Winkler to come out. He pushed himself slowly up from his seat and loped out of the room. Before the door shut, Patrick caught a glimpse of Hammond sitting beside his lawyer – a red-headed woman whom Patrick didn’t recognise. Hammond had his trademark bag of nuts open in front of him and was staring into space, seemingly deep in thought. If you could hear a mind whirring, Hammond’s would be as loud as a helicopter.

‘How’s it going?’ Suzanne asked.

‘He’s still saying “no comment” to everything, on the grounds that he may incriminate himself. But I’m going to crack him. Don’t worry. We’ve got almost a whole day before we need to charge him. I’ve already caught him out lying, a ton of times. He looks up and to the right when I ask him anything tricky, which, as we all know, is a clear indicator that he’s fabricating instead of remembering.’

Winkler sounded so smug that Patrick couldn’t help snorting. ‘You’re kidding! You’d be laughed out of court if you use that as evidence!’

‘I want Patrick to join the interview,’ Suzanne said.

‘No way!’

Patrick was tempted to say ‘Yes way’, but resisted, even though the horror on Winkler’s face had brightened his mood considerably.

‘Patrick has interviewed Mr Hammond before and I believe he was very communicative then.’

‘Highly,’ said Patrick.

‘Yeah, well, Lennon gets on well with people who hurt kids.’

Suzanne stepped between them before Patrick could punch Winkler in the face. ‘Adrian. That is uncalled for. Patrick is going to lead this interview from now on—’

‘Lead?’ Winkler’s voice rose an octave.

‘—and if you make one more comment like that you’ll be looking at a transfer to traffic before the week is out. Do you understand?’

Winkler glared like a toddler who’d been told to share his precious sweets with his sibling. ‘This was my arrest, though, don’t forget that. I don’t want him getting all the credit.’

Suzanne hissed at him. ‘For fuck’s sake, we are a team. Do you understand that? I’ve a good mind to pull you out of this interview now and send Carmella in with Patrick instead.’

‘Good idea,’ said Patrick. ‘Where is Carmella?’

‘In interview room three, taking a statement from Hammond’s housekeeper, Miss Wattana.’

Winkler had gone purple. ‘You . . . You can’t—’

Suzanne pointed a manicured finger at him. ‘I won’t do that. Yet. But I want a word with you after this interview. Just get Hammond to talk. Both of you.’

She turned and marched away, leaving both Patrick and Winkler looking after her. Patrick opened his mouth to say something conciliatory to Winkler, to try to make peace before they went into the interview room. If they didn’t put up a united front, this interview was doomed. But before he could speak, Winkler pushed open the door and went inside, giving Patrick no choice but to follow him.

Winkler threw himself down into the chair farthest from the wall, leaving Patrick to sit down in the ‘driving’ seat, beside the tape recorder.

‘Bringing in the good cop now, are we?’ Hammond said, smirking as Winkler glared at him. ‘Detective Lennon, have you met my lawyer, Cassandra Oliver?’

The red-headed woman reached across the table and shook Patrick’s hand. Her grip was cold, but she was an attractive woman in her late forties, with green eyes and pale skin. Her name was familiar and Patrick had the feeling she’d been involved in several celebrity trials. No doubt she was ludicrously expensive.

He switched on the recorder and told the machine the time and date and who was present. Hammond watched him expectantly.

‘Mr Hammond, as you know, you are being questioned regarding the unlawful killings of Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters. Can you tell me where you were between the hours of 7 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Thursday, fifth of February, and Saturday, seventh of February?’

‘Your “bad cop” colleague has already asked me these questions,’ Hammond snapped.

‘But I believe you didn’t give him an answer.’

Hammond sat back in his chair.

‘Mr Hammond, can you answer my question?’

‘What question was that?’

Patrick sighed and was about to go through the process of repeating his words when the PR man said, ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, I don’t have an alibi for either of those dates, nor when the policewoman was murdered. They happen to be the only three evenings this month when I wasn’t either working, at a social engagement or at the gym.’

‘What a coincidence,’ muttered Winkler, so quietly that the tape machine wouldn’t pick it up. Raising his voice, he said to Patrick, ‘He’s got no alibi for Nancy Marr’s murder either.’

Patrick nodded. They didn’t know exactly when Mrs Marr had been killed, but he assumed Winkler had ascertained that Mervyn had not been out of the country or otherwise engaged for the entire period they were looking at.

‘So where were you on the dates I mentioned?’ Patrick asked, still using his politest tone.

‘I was at home. On my own. I am allowed to relax occasionally, you know.’

‘What were you doing?’

Hammond looked directly at Winkler. ‘I was playing with my train set, as your colleague would no doubt put it.’

Patrick blinked. ‘Train set?’

Mervyn popped a nut into his mouth and chewed. ‘It’s my hobby. I collect and build model railways. I have an incredibly busy life, and it’s how I relax. Unfortunately, it’s something I do on my own. So no, nobody can corroborate my “story”.’ He waggled his fingers.

‘What about your housekeeper? Did she see you?’

‘She doesn’t work during the evenings unless we have a function. I’m not a slave-driver.’

‘You have a bodyguard, don’t you? Kerry, er . . .’

‘Mangan. Yes. But he doesn’t work when I’m at home on my own. I don’t expect thugs to come into my home and attack me or my property.’ He looked pointedly at Winkler and Patrick thought, Oh God, what did Winkler do now?

Cassandra Oliver spoke up. ‘I think we’ve established that my client does not have an alibi for the times you’re interested in. That doesn’t mean he murdered anyone. And these allegations that Detective Winkler mentioned before you joined the interview, Detective Lennon, are pure malicious hearsay, lies from a former tabloid journalist with a grudge against my client.’

‘What about the underwear?’ Winkler said, unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘How do you explain that?’

He reached beneath the table and produced an evidence bag containing the pink knickers that had been found on Mervyn’s property. It was the first time Patrick had laid eyes on them, and seeing them now, slightly crumpled inside the transparent bag, caused a wave of sadness to hit him. He would never forget the way Sally Sharp’s face had folded in on itself as she’d told him what Rose had been wearing the night she was killed.

He took a deep breath. ‘Mr Hammond, this item of clothing was found inside a bin bag at your house. Do you deny that?’

Hammond shrugged, a gesture that Patrick reported verbally to the tape recorder.

‘How do you explain its presence on your property?’

Hammond leaned forwards. ‘I can’t explain it. There was a party at my house last night. Dozens of guests, waiting staff, cleaners in this morning. This underwear must belong to one of them.’

‘Are you aware that Rose Sharp was believed to have been wearing an item of underwear matching these the night she was murdered?’

‘Only because your colleague told me.’

The lawyer spoke up again. ‘Primark knickers. There must be hundreds, thousands of young women walking around London right now wearing the exact same pair. Have these been DNA tested already?’

Patrick looked at Winkler, who said, ‘Not yet.’ Patrick suppressed a sigh. Evidence like this would normally be sent straight to the lab for testing, but he guessed Winkler had decided the impact of presenting them in the interview took precedence.

Cassandra Oliver raised her palms. ‘Then you don’t even know if they were Rose Sharp’s. This is ridiculous. You should release my client right—’

Winkler cut her off. ‘When we do test them, which we will immediately after this interview, I am sure they will match Rose Sharp’s DNA. We received information—’

‘An anonymous tip-off.’

‘Information that Rose Sharp’s underwear could be found at your house, Mr Hammond. I then undertook a search after questioning your cleaning staff who reported finding the item I was looking for. What were they doing at your house?’

‘Like I said,’ Hammond replied. ‘They must have belonged to one of the party guests. I can only assume that somebody sneaked off to one of the bathrooms or bedrooms and got carried away. It all did get, ahem, slightly out of control towards the end. Some people were totally off their heads, skinny-dipping, shouting – actually I wondered if someone had spiked the drinks. The rational explanation is that some daft bint had a shag and was too out of it to put her knickers back on.’

‘Only if they don’t contain Rose’s DNA.’

‘And if they do – why, if I killed this poor girl, would I leave her underwear lying around at my house?’

It was a good question, Patrick thought, and one that Winkler had no answer to. Something else occurred to him as he watched Hammond pick up another nut.

‘Mr Hammond – are you right-handed or left?’

Hammond scowled. ‘Well, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything – but I’m left-handed.’

Cassandra Oliver leaned forwards. ‘If this underwear did indeed belong to the victim, it seems clear what’s happened,’ she said. ‘My client has been framed. Somebody planted it at his house and called you anonymously. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’ She looked pointedly at Winkler.

Patrick paused, thinking about what to do next. He was tempted to suspend the interview, get the underwear sent for DNA testing, but Suzanne had instructed them to get Hammond to talk, and so far he had said nothing useful.

‘Let’s move on,’ he said. He decided to take a risk, to try to get things moving. ‘Mr Hammond, do you have a sexual interest in underage girls?’

Mervyn Hammond’s expression was one of pure outrage. ‘No, I do not!’ He thumped the desk. ‘How dare you?’

Winkler sneered. ‘What were you doing visiting St Mary’s Children’s Home last Monday night?’

For the first time, Hammond’s air of superiority wobbled. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘You were seen,’ Winkler went on, ‘entering St Mary’s Children’s Home in Isleworth at 18.49 that evening. What were you doing there?’

‘No comment,’ replied Mervyn.

This was interesting, Patrick thought.

‘Have you interviewed the staff of this children’s home?’ asked Oliver.

‘There’s a pair of officers on their way now,’ Winkler replied.

‘Why did you go there?’ Patrick asked before Winkler could say anything else.

‘No comment.’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with your murder investigation,’ Oliver interjected.

‘We believe,’ Winkler said, ‘that it shows a pattern of behaviour, that Mr Hammond here enjoys the company of schoolgirls.’

‘This is preposterous,’ Hammond said, spluttering.

‘Then why won’t you tell us the purpose of your visit?’ Patrick asked.

‘Because it’s none of your fucking business, that’s why.’

Patrick sat back. Could Hammond actually be guilty? They knew he was sleazy. He had paid off Roisin McGreevy after Shawn Barrett hurt her. No doubt that wasn’t the only occasion he’d had to help shut someone up. Patrick also knew that Hammond had represented a rock star who had been shacked up with a fifteen-year-old girl in the eighties, helping this ageing rocker win public sympathy by portraying the girl as a gold-digging hussy who lied about her age.

So Hammond had shown little moral fibre when it came to the issue of underage sex. Also, he had no alibi. He definitely had the access to teenage girls. It would be easy for him to promise that he would introduce them to members of OnTarget, get them tickets to concerts and signed merchandise, or deliver messages to the boys. Now he was refusing to answer a simple question about this children’s home, was flustered, his usually cool demeanour heating up.

‘So you’re not willing to tell us why you visited St Mary’s?’ Patrick asked.

Hammond folded his arms. ‘No.’

‘OK. I’m suspending this interview. The time is 12.25.’

The two detectives walked to Suzanne’s office, not speaking to one another. As soon as they got inside the office, Winkler said, ‘He’s lying, and he’s guilty. We need to get authorisation for a full search of his house, his office, his cars—’

‘Hold on,’ Suzanne said. ‘Patrick? What do you think?’

‘I don’t know for sure.’ He ignored Winkler’s puff of exasperation. ‘But what I do know is that Adrian’s almost certainly got one thing wrong.’

‘What?’ Winkler squared up to him.

‘Your theory about him lying because of the direction his eyes are going is, frankly, bullshit.’

Winkler blustered with outrage. ‘It’s not! It’s widely known that if a suspect looks up to the right, he’s lying, because he’s creating a visual construct, not a remembered one . . .’

Patrick resisted the temptation to roll his own eyes. ‘Yes – perhaps. A right-handed person. Hammond’s left-handed, as he just confirmed. Which means that the process is likely reversed. When he’s remembering, he looks to the right, and if he’s making stuff up, he’d look left.’

Winkler looked mortified and Patrick allowed himself a small moment of triumphal one-upmanship.

Suzanne interjected. ‘Can we stick to actual facts, please? It’s certainly suspicious that he won’t answer any questions about the children’s home. Who’s gone to talk to them?’

‘Gareth Batey’s headed down there.’

‘And is Carmella still in with the housekeeper?’

‘No. She’s writing up the statement now. But Miss Wattana stated that she’s never witnessed any teenage girls at Hammond’s house except when there’s been a party. Carmella said that Miss Wattana actually laughed when she was asked if she knew anything about Hammond’s sexual preferences. She said, and I quote, “He only like trains.”’

‘Yeah. Lying or not, he’s still a weirdo,’ Winkler said. ‘We need to search his house.’

Patrick put up a hand, refusing to get drawn into an argument with Winkler. ‘I think we’re looking at this all wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’ Suzanne asked. She had taken a seat behind her desk and in that moment the sun broke through the clouds outside, brightening the room, catching Suzanne’s hair. She’s beautiful . . . Patrick immediately stamped on the thought.

‘This case, it’s not about sex. Don’t forget, none of the victims, Rose, Jessica, Nancy Marr or Wendy, assuming she was killed by the same person, were sexually assaulted. There was no sign of any sexual activity at all. Winkler here is following a trail based on his belief that Hammond is a paedophile. But that doesn’t fit with the murders.’

‘No,’ Winkler said. ‘My belief is that Hammond is a paedophile, that all of the victims found out, and he killed them to shut them up, to stop his secret getting out.’

‘And that theory could still work,’ Suzanne said, ‘if Hammond isn’t a sexual predator. There could be other reasons he needed to keep Rose, Jessica and Nancy Marr quiet. Some other criminal activity. Drugs, for example. Maybe he deals drugs, sells them to OnTarget’s fans, to the kids or staff at the children’s home.’

‘Maybe,’ both Patrick and Winkler said at the same time.

Suzanne frowned suddenly. ‘Well, whatever it is, we need to decide what to do with Hammond. Patrick?’