Jessica suddenly felt vulnerable, hoping that wasn’t true but acknowledging that Garry was only confirming her own theory.

Perhaps sensing that, Garry tried to shoot it down: ‘It’s a bit limited, isn’t it? Not everyone in this picture is going to be successful?’

‘That’s why you would occasionally need to bring new people in. You wouldn’t need that many – just a select few in key positions.’

Finally, Garry got it: ‘. . . Like Damon Potter?’

‘His dad is local, which would be important too. It would all be about keeping wealth among yourselves, so you don’t want someone that’s going to disappear off to London to build a property empire. I met Damon’s father – he’s called Francis and runs a haulage firm in the city. After university, Francis was going to help his son set up any business that he wanted. He’d have been the perfect person for the St Flora people to bring in. You want those who are young, rich and have a promising future.’

‘So you think the Olympic rowing guy tried to recruit Damon and then . . . ?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘James Jefferies is in a wheelchair and doesn’t even seem to like students. He might have been the one that made the phone calls to try to get the members to change their stories about what Holden Wyatt was doing on the night Damon died – he even told us he had students’ phone numbers – but I wouldn’t have thought he was otherwise involved.’

‘Why would he want them to change their stories?’

Jessica took a deep breath. She didn’t know for certain but the small amount of evidence she did have was staring out of the picture at her in grainy black and white. She pressed an index finger to his face. ‘To protect this guy.’

44

Jessica knew she had only one way of getting justice for Damon Potter – and it involved her doing something she’d spent the past few weeks avoiding.

She knocked on DCI Cole’s office door and waited as he held a hand up. He was on the phone again, facing the wall, avoiding accidental eye contact. Eventually, he waved her in, making a point of checking his watch: it was time for them to go home.

‘I need to talk to you about something, Sir.’

‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

Cole yawned, making no effort to hide it, and turned to face his computer screen. ‘Go on then.’

Jessica sat opposite him but didn’t know where to start. Then she thought about the messing around she’d had to endure through the day: borrowing cars, taking buses, the back and forth.

She told him about her car and her bins and before she knew it, everything was flooding out: how she felt marginalised, bullied and paranoid. She told him about the past fortnight and gave him a photocopy of the reunion picture, pointing out Pomeroy and everyone else. Then she showed him the final face and told him why she thought Damon Potter had died. It might have been an accident but someone should still take responsibility for it.

Cole listened without interrupting, glancing at the photograph as Jessica talked him through it. When she was finally finished, breathless, he stared at her. For a moment, it felt like the Cole of a few years ago, not long after they had both been promoted and they worked together all the time; when he put his trust in her to go out and do stupid things that got results.

Then he peered away again, leaning back in his seat and yawning once more. His eyes were closed and there was an uncomfortable silence. He looked old. Defeated. When he finally opened them, he was staring over Jessica’s shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was croaky and low: ‘Have you ever felt so tired that you don’t know what day it is?’

‘A few times.’

‘I’m just so sick of all of this: I lost my wife, I hardly ever see my kids – and even when it’s my days with them, they’d rather be out with their mates. Not that I blame them; I’d have been the same. Then I come here and sit in this office and the phone never stops ringing.’

He glared at the phone on his desk, as if willing it to prove his point. It remained silent.

‘The meetings, the emails, the paperwork. Then I have requests from upper management.’ His eyes flickered to Jessica’s and away again. ‘People I need to keep an eye on. I used to be a young man: fit, happy, with a life to look forward to and now . . .’

Jessica didn’t know what to say and could rarely remember feeling so uncomfortable.

Eventually, he finished the thought: ‘. . . now I’m resorting to sending capable people out on fool’s errands. I don’t even know why I bother coming in.’

Jessica assumed he was speaking about giving her Kylie and Michael to deal with but didn’t push it. ‘What would you like me to do, Sir?’

Cole’s eyes snapped open. He pointed to the face in the photograph that Jessica had identified. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements. We’ll get a warrant for his house and office and we’ll go in early tomorrow morning.’

‘Me too?’

He nodded wearily. ‘You too.’

45

There might have been a certain satisfaction in getting the tactical entry team to smash their way through a door at five in the morning but Cole had told her to keep it low key and Jessica wasn’t about to disobey him now.

If there were any residents of the quiet cul de sac awake at this ungodly hour, Jessica thought it would be a good time for them to look out of their windows because they were about to get a show. She rang the doorbell and knocked three times – not too hard but enough to wake anyone up, even her. A few seconds later, a light came on somewhere inside. Officers had gone to the back of the house just in case but Jessica doubted there would be any trouble. There was the sound of footsteps on stairs and then a weary-sounding male voice: ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Inspector Jessica Daniel.’

‘Oh . . .’

There was a rattle of a chain and the sound of a bolt being pulled across until the door was opened, revealing a man in stripy pyjamas, a long felt-looking dressing gown and hair that seemed to have been styled by electroshock treatment.

Professor Robert ‘Call Me Bob’ Harper stared on wide-eyed as Jessica shoved the warrant under his nose, waved her fellow officers inside, told him that his university office was being turned upside at that very moment – then informed him that he didn’t have to say anything but that if there was something he was later going to rely on in court then he should probably spit it out.

His face was blank: ‘Can I at least get changed?’

Six hours later and that was still the only thing Call Me Bob had said. He had been taken to the cells underneath the station, phoned his solicitor, and then spent the rest of the time apparently going over his story with him.

Jessica had risked breakfast in the canteen and then gone to see Cole in his office. He looked even more tired than the night before but offered a small smile when he told her that his phone hadn’t rung all morning. Jessica didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing – but she could guess. After that, she had gone to keep her head down until Bob – and his solicitor – were ready. Whatever they were talking about seemed to be taking a long time for someone who was ostensibly just a lecturer.

As she was re-reading every piece of evidence they had, there was a knock on her office door. Archie sauntered in, hands in pockets. ‘I always knew it was him. The dodgy hair gave it away. I told you he was iffy.’

‘Saying someone’s a bit “iffy” rarely leads to a conviction. If you were so sure, why didn’t you point it out properly a week ago?’

‘I figured I’d let you get the credit. No one likes a smart-arse marching in and saving the day, do they?’