‘Documents might be able to decipher. It looks like several names have been written then rubbed out.’

De Vakey looked thoughtful. ‘These annotations are certainly interesting but they don’t mean he’s our serial killer.’

Jane Cunningham reappeared with the tea. Stevie snapped the book shut and spoke to De Vakey out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Okay, so he’s not necessarily our killer, but I get the feeling that you know more than you’re letting on. Is there something about the case that you’re not telling me, James? If not Martin Sparrow, who else is it at Central that you and Monty are suspicious about?’

‘All in good time.’ De Vakey turned to the social worker. ‘We’re ready to talk to Mrs Sparrow now. Will you please introduce us?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Stevie muttered to herself. She clenched her fists in frustration and followed them up the stairs. The tea was left untouched on the glass table.

The curtains in Mrs Sparrow’s room were drawn, the only light a pink glow from a small bedside lamp. When the social worker switched on the main light, the old woman blinked at them from above a mound of pink crochet. With a powdery pink complexion her skin seemed as delicate as the smell of rosewater in the air.

‘What have you done with my son?’ she asked in a tremolo after the social worker had introduced them.

Stevie walked across the vacuum-streaked raspberry-coloured carpet, sat on the bed and took the small, soft hand. Useless fingers flopped against hers like creatures without spines.

Stevie said, ‘Your son’s in hospital, Mrs Sparrow, I thought they’d explained that to you.’

Mrs Sparrow made a sound like a collapsing accordion. ‘They said he’d done some bad things.’

De Vakey said, ‘We’re not sure yet. As you know, he’s unconscious and we haven’t been able to talk to him.’

‘My Martin’s a good boy.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ De Vakey said, gently.

‘But he was caught breaking into an apartment,’ Stevie said.

‘Then he must have had his reasons. My Martin’s a thinker. He never does nothing without good reason.’

De Vakey said, ‘Please tell us about your son, Mrs Sparrow.’

After some initial hesitation, Mrs Sparrow warmed to De Vakey’s persuasive tone. She told them about Martin’s albinism, the bullying he’d received at school, his father’s abuse.

‘He was always a clever boy; could’ve gone to university ’cept for his nerves. I failed him, couldn’t keep him safe.’ She looked down at her crippled hands as if realising for the first time that she was as ineffective now as she had ever been. ‘Things got better for a while, his dad died and we bought this house. But then, after all that trouble with Reece, Martin seemed to just go into himself again.’

‘Who was Reece, Mrs Sparrow?’ De Vakey asked.

She drew a breath, a stereophonic rattle of her chest. ‘His mate, Reece Harper.’

Stevie’s eyes shot to De Vakey. He too had recognised the name.

‘They met at church group.’ Mrs Sparrow continued, ‘Reece was a bit slow, had something wrong with his innards, needed one of them bag things. Not many people wanted anything to do with him, but my Martin knew what it was to be the odd man out, and looked after him, like. But then Reece was accused of murdering them girls in the park and the police hounded him day and night. When he’d finally had enough of it he drove head on into a power pole, on purpose Martin said. He’s never forgiven you lot for that. You see Martin tried to tell the police all along that Reece were with him on the night of that first murder, but no one paid him no mind.’

This must be the alibi that Monty had been unable to find, Stevie thought. Someone in Central had tampered with the files and De Vakey seemed to have a good idea who that was. But he was in no hurry to let her in on it. ‘Who?’ she mouthed, digging him in the arm with her elbow.

‘So you noticed a change in Martin’s behaviour after Reece’s death?’ De Vakey asked Mrs Sparrow.

Stevie swore under her breath.

‘Oh yes, he went secretive, was always off somewhere for his flippin’ meetings, least that’s what he called ’em. When I asked him what he was up to he said it was a surprise, he wanted it to be just right before he showed me.’

‘And this has been going on ever since Reece’s death?’

Mrs Sparrow nodded. ‘In fits and starts.’

‘Do you know where Martin was on Thursday night?’

The old woman seemed to be thinking.

‘That was the night before last,’ Stevie added.

‘I was having a bad night. I needed my pain pills but I’d knocked ’em onto the ground and couldn’t get ’em. I called Martin and he came home from work to help me. Because I was feeling so poorly he decided to take the rest of the night off and stay with me.’

‘And he was here all night?’

‘He was lying next to me on the bed. I sleep badly, would’ve known if he’d left.’

‘Highway to Hell’ chose that moment to blast its way into the conversation. Stevie got up from the bed and moved over to the window, mouthing ‘Angus’ to De Vakey. After a few words, she returned to the bed and took the old woman’s hand once more. ‘I’ve got some good news, Mrs Sparrow,’ Stevie smiled. ‘Your son’s woken up.’

***

Twenty minutes into the hospital bed interview, Martin Sparrow still had the demeanour of a glass of milk teetering on a table’s edge. He passed a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead before dropping it onto his lap where it twisted and twined with its partner.

‘I wish I’d never woken up,’ he said. ‘You think I killed those girls in the park and Michelle too.’

His writhing hands looked like mating cuttlefish. Stevie had to force herself to tear her eyes away from them. ‘Then it’s up to you to tell us otherwise. You were one of the last people to see Michelle alive. You were seen arguing with her in a coffee shop.’

Stevie tried not to flinch when Martin blew out a stream of sour breath. ‘She wanted more money for expenses. I agreed eventually, even though it would’ve been a stretch to get it.’

‘Expenses?’

‘Oh God, this is not right, it’s not supposed to be like this.’ He screwed his eyes shut, a movement that must have exacerbated the pain of his swollen face.

She winced in sympathy.

‘What was it supposed to be like?’ Angus said, his tone as patient as ever.

Sparrow swallowed with difficulty. ‘We were writing a book to clear Reece Harper of the park murders. Michelle was talking to people and doing the investigations and I was researching the theory behind the crimes, trying to show up the inconsistencies. I wanted to prove that the murders weren’t committed by the kind of man the police seemed to think they were looking for, and certainly not by anyone like Reece Harper.’

‘Is that why you had all those psychology books in your house?’ Stevie asked.

‘Yes, I was using them as part of my research. I wanted to prove how easy it would be for someone in the know to fool the police, to send mixed and confusing signals. We were going to be famous, make lots of money, that’s what Michelle said, anyway. We were getting so close and then ... and then Michelle was killed. God this is such a mess.’ Sparrow leaned back against the headboard. The glitter of a tear edged its way from beneath one puffy eyelid and spilled down his cheek.

‘I can understand why you were so interested in the park murders, but what about Linda Royce? You’d written her name in one of the books, too.’

‘Because they’re connected. It’s obvious.’

‘How so?’

Sparrow ignored Angus’s question.

‘I didn’t care about the fame anyway,’ he said. ‘All I wanted was to clear Reece’s name and get back at the filth that set him up.’

‘Who set him up, Martin?’ Stevie asked.

Sparrow’s eyes shot open and seared her with the same malevolence she’d seen in Michelle’s apartment.