“Then you don’t need anything from me, do you?”

“Don’t you understand?” Winsome said. “It would make things easier for you later on if you told us now.”

“And what would it do for me? Knock a year off my sentence? Two years? Three years? If I survived that long.”

“That’s good, Roger,” Templeton said. “You’re talking about doing time, now. Jail. Shows you’re moving in the right direction. What it might mean is the difference in the quality of care once you’re inside. See, people like you are on about the same level as child molesters as far as the general prison population is concerned, and the court has some discretion as to whether you’re to be isolated or not.”

“That’s bollocks,” said Cropley. “There are strict prison guidelines and it doesn’t matter a damn whether I confess or not. Besides, you’re both missing the point completely. Read my lips: I didn’t do it. I have never, not once in my life, raped or killed anyone. Is that clear enough for you?”

Templeton glanced at Winsome. “So be it,” he said. “Like I told you, we’ll be able to make out a good case from evidence and witness statements.”

“Circumstantial. It means nothing.”

“People have been convicted on a lot less.”

Cropley said nothing.

“What time did you start out on Friday?”

“About half ten.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About five.”

Templeton paused. There was something wrong here. “Come off it. It doesn’t take that long to drive from London to Eastvale, even with a stop or two. Unless you couldn’t go straight home after you’d killed the girl. What did you do? Drive around until you calmed down, felt able to face your wife?”

“As a matter of fact, my car broke down.”

“Pull the other one.”

“It’s true. I had a breakdown just a short distance past Nottingham.”

“That’s very convenient.”

“It wasn’t convenient at all. I had to wait over a bloody hour for the AA to come. They said it was a busy night.”

“The AA?”

“That’s right. I’m a member. Want to see my card?”

Templeton felt his forehead getting hot. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Can you prove this, about the breakdown?” he asked.

“Of course I can. Ask the AA. They’ll verify what happened. I was stuck on the hard shoulder from about one o’clock till half past two. Wait a minute-”

“What was the problem?”

“Fan belt. That’s put a spoke in your wheels, hasn’t it? You never told me what time this girl was killed. It was while I was waiting for the AA, wasn’t it?” Cropley smirked.

Templeton suppressed a sudden urge to break Cropley’s nose. He felt himself running out of steam. If Cropley had been stuck on the M1 until well after two o’clock, he could hardly have killed Jennifer Clewes. “Your mobile phone records will bear this out?”

“Should do. Will that be all?”

“Not quite,” said Templeton, loath to let the bastard gloat for too long. “Who left the garage first, you or Jennifer Clewes?”

“She did.”

“And you followed her?”

“No. I was just behind her, but another car cut in front of me. Came right out of the shadows. I overtook them both shortly after and I never saw her again. She must have passed me later, when I was stuck by the roadside, but I didn’t notice.”

“What about this other car? Why didn’t you tell us about it before?”

“Because you were too busy trying to accuse me of rape and murder. You never asked.”

“Well, I’m asking now. What make was it?”

“A Mondeo. Dark color. Maybe navy blue.”

“How many people in it?”

“Two. One in the front, one in the back.”

“Like a taxi?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a taxi. I mean, it didn’t look like one. There was no light on top, for a start.”

“Chauffeured car, then?”

“Maybe. Look, I hate to tell you how to do your job, especially as you’ve been doing it so well, but why don’t you ask me something useful, like do I remember the number?”

“I was getting to that,” Templeton said. “Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Well, some of it, anyway. I suppose I noticed because he pulled out a bit sharply and I had to brake.”

“What was it?”

“LA51.”

Templeton couldn’t remember offhand what Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency office and local memory tag the first two letters represented, but he knew that “ 51” meant the car had been registered between September 2001 and February 2002. The rest he could look up. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.

“What did the occupants look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look,” said Cropley. “But I think they were both men. I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, except that I had to brake rather sharply.”

“Try to remember.”

Copley thought for a moment. “The one in the back turned and looked at me after they pulled out. I suppose I tooted the horn at them. Just instinct.”

“And?”

“Well, as I said, I didn’t get a good look. It was dark and his face was in shadow. But I think he had dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and I doubt it was a friendly glance he gave me. I remember just feeling rather glad they didn’t stop and beat me up. You hear so much about road rage these days.”

“What you get for going around tooting your horn,” said Templeton.

“They cut me off.”

“Popular girl, Ms. Clewes,” mused Templeton. “First you’ve got your eye on her, then another couple of blokes come cutting in and spoil all your fun. How did that make you feel?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cropley said. “Can you hear yourself speak? You sound like a cheap television psychologist. Look, you already know I didn’t do it, and I’ve had just about enough of this, so why don’t you both sod off and check with the AA.”

Templeton reddened and Winsome gave him a sign that they should leave before he did something he might regret. He paused a moment, locking eyes with Cropley, then did as she suggested.

“Nice one, Kev,” she said, when they got outside. “You handled that really well.”

He could tell she was still laughing at him when she got in the driver’s seat and the anger prickled at his skin from the inside like hot needles.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The pub Burgess chose was flanked by a halal butcher and an Indian take-away on a narrow street between Liverpool Street Station and Spitalfields Market. Banks took the tube and checked constantly to see if he was being followed. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t. After receiving the image on the mobile he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

Though it was lunchtime and most pubs in the area were offering the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, at this place the choice was between nachos with sour cream and spicy chicken wings with BBQ dip. Banks didn’t fancy either, so he stuck with a pint of Pride and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps while Burgess attacked the nachos and washed them down with cheap lager.

There wasn’t exactly any sawdust on the floor, but looking at the state of the place, Banks thought perhaps there ought to be.

Most of the lunchtime drinkers were older Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis – clearly not devoutly Muslim. A group of them was watching a cricket game on the television, Essex playing Pakistan, commenting loudly now and then on a particularly good off-spinner or square cut.

Burgess looked much the same as he had when Banks last saw him in January, except today he was informally dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that dazzled Banks. But the shaved head and slight paunch were still there, and the cynical, world-weary look had returned to his eyes. All that was new was his tan. After many rises and falls in fortune, Burgess had landed on his feet after 9/11, when the service required men who got things done, no questions asked. Banks wasn’t sure what outfit he worked for now, but he assumed it was something to do with Special Branch.