“Mr. Cropley?” said Templeton, showing his warrant card. “We’re police officers. We’d like a word, if we may.”

Cropley looked puzzled the way they all did when the police came calling. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, moving aside. “Please, come in. My wife’s just…” He let the sentence trail, and Templeton and Winsome followed him into a living room that smelled of cinnamon and apples, where Mrs. Cropley was putting the finishing touches to a colorful flower arrangement. She was taller than her husband, and bony, with strong, almost masculine, features. She looked a bit severe to Templeton, and he could well imagine her cracking out the leathers and whip for an evening S and M session. The thought made him shudder inside. And maybe it drove Mr. Cropley to other things.

“It’s your husband we want to talk to,” Templeton said, smiling. “First off, at any rate.”

Mrs. Cropley stood there for a moment before the penny dropped. When it did, she gave her husband a look, then turned and left the room without a word.

Templeton tried to read significance into that look. There was something there, no doubt about it. One of Cropley’s dirty little secrets had come back to haunt him, and his wife knew what it was, was letting him know that she knew, and he was on his own.

“We were just going to get ready for church,” said Cropley.

“I’m afraid the vicar will have to manage without you this morning,” said Templeton.

“What’s it about?”

“I think you know. First of all, were you driving up the M1 and the A1 late Friday evening?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What make of car do you drive?”

“A Honda.”

“Color?”

“Dark green.”

“Did you stop at the Watford Gap services?”

“Yes. Look, I-”

“While you were there, did you notice a young woman alone?”

“There were a lot of people there. I…”

Templeton caught Winsome flashing him a glance. She knew. Cropley was evading the question, the first sign of guilt.

“I’ll ask you again,” Templeton went on. “Did you see a young woman there in the café alone? Nice figure, hennaed hair. She’d be hard to miss.”

“I can’t remember.”

Templeton made a show of consulting his notebook. “Thing is,” he went on, “the bloke behind the counter remembers you sitting opposite the girl, and the petrol station attendant remembers you filling up at the same time this young woman was there. That’s how we found out your name, from the credit card slip. So we know you were there. Do you remember seeing a young woman at the garage? She was driving a light blue Peugeot 106. Think about it. Take your time.”

“Why? What-”

“Do you remember her?”

“Perhaps,” said Cropley. “Vaguely. But I can’t say I was paying much attention.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Then you heard wrong.”

“Come off it,” said Templeton. “You were leering at her, weren’t you? The attendant said you looked as if you wanted to stick your nozzle in her tank. You fancied her, didn’t you? Wanted a piece.” He was aware of Winsome looking askance at him, but sometimes a direct shock to the system worked better than any amount of gentle questioning.

Cropley reddened. “That’s not how it happened at all.”

“Not how what happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. The situation, that’s all. I might have noticed her, but I wasn’t ‘leering,’ as you put it. I’m a married man, a God-fearing man.”

“That doesn’t always stop people.”

“Besides, since when has leering been against the law?”

“So you were leering at her.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth.”

“What were you doing on the road so late?”

“Coming home. That’s not a crime, either, is it? I work in London. I usually spend the week there.”

“A commuter, then. What do you do?”

“Computers. Software development.”

“Are you usually that late coming home?”

“It varies. As a rule, I try to get away by mid-afternoon on a Friday to beat the traffic, or early evening at the latest.”

“What was different about last Friday?”

“There was a meeting. We had a deadline to meet on an important project.”

“And if I called your company they’d verify this?”

“Of course. Why would I lie?”

“For all I know,” said Templeton, “you drive up and down the motorway looking for young girls to rape and kill.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Do you read the papers? Watch the news?”

“I try to keep abreast of current affairs.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, I don’t suppose you’ve been following the story about the young woman murdered on the road from the A1 to Eastvale, have you? The same road you took. You were following her, weren’t you? Waiting for your opportunity. A dark country lane. You cut her off. What happened next? Wasn’t she your type after all? Did she struggle? Why did you shoot her?”

Cropley got to his feet. “This is absurd. I don’t even own a gun. I’m going to call my solicitor.”

“Where’s the gun, Roger? Did you throw it away?”

“I told you. I don’t own a gun.”

Templeton looked around the room. “We can get a search warrant. Make a mess.”

“Then get one.”

“It’ll be better if you tell us all about it,” said Winsome in a soothing voice. “We know these things happen, people lose control. Please sit down again, sir.”

“Nothing of the sort happened,” said Cropley, straightening his tie and glaring at Templeton. He sat down slowly.

“Come on, Mr. Cropley,” said Winsome. “Get it off your chest. There were two of them, weren’t there?”

“Two what?”

“Two girls. Claire Potter and Jennifer Clewes. What were you doing on the twenty-third of April?”

“I can’t remember that far back.”

“Try,” said Templeton. “It was a Friday. You’d be on your way back from London. Get away late that day, too, did you?”

“How do you expect me to remember one Friday out of all the rest?”

“Always stop at Watford Gap services, do you? Like the food there? Or do you stop at other places? Newport Pagnell? Leicester Forest? Trowell?”

“I stop when I feel the need.”

“What need?”

“It’s a long drive. I usually take a break when I feel like it. Just the one. Use the toilets. Have a cup of tea. Maybe a sausage roll, a chocolate biscuit.”

“And look at the girls?”

“There’s no crime in looking.”

“So you admit you do look?”

“You’re doing it again. I simply said there’s no crime in looking. Don’t twist my words.”

“Were you at Trowell services on the twenty-third of April?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I usually stop before then.”

“But you have been there on occasion?”

“On occasion. Yes.”

“And maybe you were there on the twenty-third of April?”

“I’ve told you. I doubt it very much. I don’t recall being there at all so far this year.”

“Very convenient.”

“It happens to be the truth.”

Templeton could feel his frustration level rising. Cropley was a cool one and he seemed to have mastered the art of not giving anything away. Why would he need to do that unless he did have a secret?

“Look, Roger,” said Winsome, “we know you did it. The rest is just a matter of time. We can do it the easy way, like this, in the comfort of your own home, or we can take you down to the station. It’s your choice. And believe me, every choice you make now will come back to haunt you down the line.”

“What would you do?” Cropley said to her. “If you were innocent and someone was trying to say you’d done something terrible. What would you do?”

“I’d tell the truth.”

“Well, I am telling the bloody truth, but a fat lot of good it’s doing me, isn’t it?”

“Watch your language,” Templeton cut in. “There’s a lady present.”

“I’m sure she’s heard worse than that.”

“And you a God-fearing man.”

“I didn’t say I was a saint. Or a pushover.”

“Right, let’s get back to that, shall we. Your unsaintly acts. We might not be able to prove you killed Claire Potter, but we’ve got a damn good chance of proving you killed Jennifer Clewes.”