Fry broke into a sprint, but Kotsev easily outpaced her, his long legs covering the ground in seconds.

‘Politsia! Police!’

Catching up with him, Kotsev took hold of Turnbull’s arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, pushing his face into a wall.

‘My friend, you shouldn’t try to escape. You have to tell us what we want to know.’

Fry was frozen for a moment, shocked by Kotsev’s action. ‘Georgi!’

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, his jaw set as if he intended to face her down. She was glad Kotsev wasn’t wearing his gun.

‘Sergeant Kotsev, you don’t have any jurisdiction here. This isn’t Bulgaria.’

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Turnbull’s arm, but didn’t let go completely. Nor did he stand back, so Turnbull’s face remained pressed against the stones.

‘You’re right, of course. You do things a little differently, Sergeant Fry. But I know the methods that work with these people.’

‘Let go of him,’ hissed Fry.

Another moment passed. Finally, Kotsev stood back, and smiled.

‘I apologize. I have no jurisdiction. This is your suspect.’ He turned Turnbull gently away from the wall and pretended to dust down his clothes. ‘I apologize to you, too, my friend. I intended you no harm. I hope you feel comfortable, and that you are well enough to be questioned by my colleague.’

Turnbull didn’t look reassured. In fact, he looked more frightened than ever at the sudden change. Now, he had no idea what was happening.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘You are Mr Darren Turnbull?’ said Fry.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra hatchback, X registration?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Were you in the village of Foxlow on Saturday night?’

Turnbull’s mouth dropped open. His brain still seemed to be working, but so slowly that no connection was being made with his vocal cords.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

Kotsev had been standing by quietly, but now made a sudden gesture. It might only have been impatience he couldn’t restrain, but the suggestion of imminent violence communicated itself to Turnbull.

‘No, I really can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.’

‘Let’s all go back to the station, then,’ said Fry. ‘And we’ll talk about which sort of trouble you’d rather be in, Mr Turnbull.’

* * *

In the mortuary, the pathologist turned to Kessen and Cooper. ‘The bruise on his temple was the only physical injury. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it could have caused mild concussion.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Kessen.

‘Well, I found exceptionally high levels of alcohol in the bloodstream – and that would have been enough to kill most people. But tolerance varies, you know.’ Mrs van Doon raised an eyebrow. ‘If he was an experienced drinker, he could have survived the alcohol poisoning. Short-term, anyway.’

‘It sounds as though he was very experienced,’ said Cooper.

‘I thought so. Well, here’s an unwise combination for you – the victim was also malnourished. I’d say he hadn’t eaten properly for some time.’

‘So that combination was the cause of death?’

‘Not directly. My conclusion is that he fell on his back, suffering a blow to the head on the way down. It’s a pity he couldn’t have turned on to his side. It might have saved him.’

‘There wasn’t room where he fell in his caravan,’ said Cooper. ‘He was lying wedged between a table and the bed.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘Well, that explains it. While he lay unconscious, or in an alcoholic stupor, he choked on his own vomit.’

Darren Turnbull sat in Interview Room One. ‘I suppose this is about the shooting, isn’t it? The old lady who got shot in Foxlow.’

‘Would you like to tell us something about that, Darren?’ said Hitchens in his friendliest manner.

‘I don’t know anything about the bloody shooting,’ said Turnbull, apparently missing the friendliness.

‘Oh, really? So why did you mention it?’

Turnbull twisted his hands restlessly, but his voice seemed to be failing him again.

‘I mean, you must know something about it. You raised the subject, Darren, not us.’

This time, Hitchens let the silence develop. He was prepared to wait for Turnbull to fill the silence.

‘I saw it on the telly,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I read about it in the papers. That’s how I know about the murder, just like everyone else. So what does that mean, eh?’

‘That you’re admirably conscientious about keeping up with the news, I suppose,’ said Hitchens, opening the file in front of him. He made a show of reading the top page for a few moments, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Turnbull again.

‘Your car – this blue X-reg Astra. It was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night. Well, the early hours of Sunday, actually. It was remarkably near the scene of the murder, Darren.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And having diligently watched all those TV reports and read the items in the newspapers, which all mentioned that we were appealing for the owner of a blue X-reg Vauxhall Astra to come forward, you nevertheless stayed away, and failed to contact us. Why was that, Darren?’

‘I’m going to be in big trouble,’ said Turnbull.

‘Darren, this is a police station. You’re being interviewed in connection with a murder enquiry. We have reason to believe that you were in the vicinity around the time the murder occurred, and yet you’ve failed to come forward voluntarily as a potential witness. Believe me, you’re already in big trouble. It would be a lot better if you’re honest with us now. Otherwise, things could get … well, complicated for you.’

Turnbull sighed deeply. ‘I suppose I knew it would come to this in the end. I was visiting a friend. A girlfriend, all right?’

‘In Foxlow?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this was Saturday night, extending into the early hours of Sunday morning?’

‘Yes. So if some old nosy parker saw me or my car, that’s what I was doing. OK?’

‘Name?’ said Hitchens, with his pen poised.

‘What?’

‘Your girlfriend’s name, please.’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘We need to substantiate your story, Darren. What time did you leave Foxlow?’

‘About three a.m.’

‘And your friend would be able to confirm that?’

‘Of course she would.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Turnbull didn’t answer. He looked at the table between them, torn by some difficulty that he was unable to resolve into words.

Hitchens looked at the file again. ‘You’re married, Darren.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I met your wife. Fiona, is that right? Happy together are you?’

‘Yes, of course we are.’

‘That’s good. We don’t like to see marriages break up.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

Hitchens laid the file down. ‘Let’s get this straight, Darren. You’re having an affair with a woman who lives in Foxlow, and you don’t want your wife to know about it. Is that about right?’

‘Yes,’ said Turnbull grudgingly.

‘OK, I understand that. But look at it this way, Darren. You’re a potential witness in our enquiry. All we want is to ask you a few questions about anything you might have seen or heard that night. And we’ll want to speak to your girlfriend to corroborate your story, as I said. And that will be it. Provided it all checks out, we’ll thank you for helping us with our enquiries, and there won’t be any need for us to speak to Fiona.’

Turnbull nodded cautiously.

‘On the other hand, if you continue to refuse to account fully for your movements that night, we’ll be obliged to ask questions about your background and circumstances, find out who your associates are … Your wife would be the obvious place to start.’

‘I hear what you’re saying.’ Turnbull hung his head. ‘Would I have to go to court to give evidence?’

‘That depends. But I think it’ll be unlikely. All we want to do at the moment is eliminate you from our enquiries, Darren. And it would be nice if you could help us to establish any fresh leads. We’d feel quite appreciative.’