‘Jessica . . .’

Jessica was so surprised at Cole’s voice that she literally jumped and took a second to compose herself. ‘Sorry, er . . .’

Cole was peering along the corridor, as opposed to actually at her. ‘Did you want to see me?’

‘Shall I come in, or . . . ?’

Cole held his office door open but everything felt so awkward. When he took his seat behind the desk, the DCI still didn’t look at her, instead picking up a cardboard folder from his desk and examining the papers inside.

Jessica began hesitantly, wanting to be diplomatic: ‘After Cassie Edmonds was found, we put together a list of people with a history of violence against women around here. I know it was a bit of a long shot but we’d got it down to nine men without alibis who we thought we might be able to put some pressure on. I know it was a bit of desperation but we’ve done far worse in the past. I was expecting them to be brought in this afternoon, but . . .’

Cole didn’t look up. ‘But what?’

‘But Pat said those nine weren’t being brought in yet because you wanted all the members of the rowing club spoken to again . . .’

‘Correct.’

This was torturous – he really did want to make her squirm. ‘I was wondering why . . . ?’

Cole sighed, dropping the documents on the desk and finally looking at her with a frown. ‘I don’t need to explain everything that happens around here to you.’

‘I know, Sir, it was just that we’d had people working on those lists most of the weekend . . .’

‘Word has come down from above to get the Potter case sorted.’

‘At the expense of Cassie Edmonds . . . ?’ The words blurted out with far more of an edge than Jessica intended.

Cole’s eyelid twitched and for a moment she could almost see a fire in him that had rarely been there before. He’d always been known for being laid-back but now he seemed like a different person. When he replied, his tone was level but there was no warmth. ‘Not “at the expense of” – this is just the priority for now. We’re going to charge Holden Wyatt with GBH and aggravated sexual assault—’

‘Aggravated?’

‘Yes. Do you have a problem?’

‘No, I just hadn’t realised anyone had been watching the interview – or that it had been discussed. That was the other reason I was coming up here.’

‘Things have been moving quickly while you were in the interview room. A few of the other club members have come forward to say their recollections of the party might have been incorrect.’

‘Why didn’t anyone say something?’

‘I didn’t want to interrupt your flow – besides, everything was in hand.’

Jessica didn’t know if she was confused or annoyed – probably both. What on earth was going on? ‘What have they changed their story to?’

‘One of the members said they thought they were mistaken at seeing Holden in the later parts of the evening. They couldn’t say for sure they’d seen Damon and Holden leave together, just that they hadn’t seen them after a certain point in the evening.’

‘And they just so happened to change their stories at the exact time Holden was admitting to the initiation ceremonies?’

‘Perhaps that was why he came clean? He knew other members were going to turn on him, so he got in first.’

‘He didn’t admit to murder – or dumping a body.’

‘We’ve got a confession that he assaulted Damon Potter on numerous occasions, now we have witness statements to say both Holden and our victim disappeared at around the same time on the evening Damon died. We have people talking to the other witnesses to clarify what they saw—’

‘Clarify?’

‘Yes, clarify. Do you have a problem?’

‘No, it’s just—’

‘Holden Wyatt is our prime, indeed only, suspect in the death of Damon Potter – be it accidental death, manslaughter or murder. While he’s in custody for the assaults he has admitted to, we have the opportunity to find out exactly what happened.’

I might’ve done a few silly things but I didn’t do that.

It wasn’t that what Cole was saying didn’t make sense; Jessica’s issue was that she didn’t believe Holden was their man. She didn’t think he’d confessed to the assaults to cover up for anything else but she also didn’t sense he’d had any inkling the other club members would blow apart his alibi.

‘You said word had come down from above . . .’ she stammered.

‘Your point?’

‘Does that mean there’s someone trying to make sure this case gets closed?’

Cole’s lips barely moved as he replied, teeth gritted, stare fixed. ‘Don’t question me, Inspector.’

He always called her ‘Jess’.

‘I’m not questioning you—’

‘Good, then you can go and interview James Jefferies.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s in a wheelchair and you know what the ramps are like around here, so we’re going to him. You can call me when you’re done.’

Archie seemed to have learned without being told when it was a good time to ask what was up with Jessica and when it was a good time to say nothing. The journey to James Jefferies’ house was definitely a say-nothing ride, with Jessica fuming silently at everything from pedestrians having the audacity to cross the road when she wanted to drive on it, to the way certain places seemed to be sign-posted only from the opposite direction to the one in which she was travelling.

Not to mention lorry drivers, of course. That was a given. And people who owned BMWs.

And DCI Cole. What an arse.

James Jefferies lived in a small detached bungalow just outside Leigh to the west of the city, part-way towards Liverpool. When Jessica rang his doorbell, she heard a crotchety, ‘All right, blimmin’ ’eck, gimme a minute’, even though she’d only pressed the button once.

The door was heaved open to reveal a wrinkled man in a wheelchair, still wearing pyjamas. His hair was thinning, arms and legs stick-thin, betraying no sign of the Olympian he had once been. The only evidence that he wasn’t as old as his frame indicated was his eyes, which darted suspiciously between Jessica and Archie but with the verve of someone around fifty, instead of seventy. Across his lap was a blanket and a walking stick, which he kept one hand on, as if to defend himself in case either of them tried anything.

‘You lot,’ he said. ‘You better come in.’

James’ bungalow had been custom-fitted to allow for the fact that he was in a wheelchair, with lower handles on the doors and wider passageways to accommodate his condition – which Jessica didn’t ask about. The kitchen was both terrific and strange at the same time, containing everything you might expect to see in any other house – but eighteen inches lower. It was a disorienting experience because most homes were set up with surfaces and objects at roughly the same height. Here, Jessica was left feeling taller than she actually was. For someone who had to live their life in a wheelchair, this must be a godsend.

James wheeled himself through the kitchen into a wide conservatory. Even though the skies were grey, the natural light was a little dazzling, making Jessica squint awkwardly as she sat on the sofa next to Archie, who had apparently accepted the fact that his day off was anything but.

‘What is it then?’ James asked.

Jessica was on the back foot, partly because of his abrupt tone but also, she suspected, because she was literally talking down to him. ‘I understand you’re the life president of the university rowing club.’

‘Yes.’

‘What exactly does that entail?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

People didn’t usually ask that.

‘We’ve been investigating the death of one of the members – Damon Potter. His body was discovered in one of the bins at the back of the club last week . . .’

‘I heard.’

Jessica decided to try her original line: ‘Perhaps you could tell us what being the life president means?’

James sighed loudly, a deliberate act to make it apparent he was going out of his way to help them. ‘They wheel me out a few times a year, mainly at the bigger events towards the end of the season. I bring along my medal and smile for the camera, they feed me something fancy and then I’m back here again.’