Suzanne’s expression changed straight back to icy. ‘You spoke to her? Last night?’

He hung his head.

Suzanne exhaled. ‘OK. Listen. You need to pass this information on to Strong. Let her deal with it. You’re too emotionally involved. Let Vanessa handle that side of the investigation – and you concentrate on our two teenage victims. Unless you think it’s too much for you. I could let Winkler—’

‘No! No way.’ He could feel his cheeks burning. ‘This is my case.’

As he said this he heard a whisper of doubt. This investigation was ridiculously over-complicated, what with Patrick concentrating on the teenagers, Winkler on Nancy Marr and now Strong taking the lead with Wendy. Maybe he should step back, let Winkler take over; simplify everything.

But the way his stomach clenched as this thought raced through his head told him he could never allow that to happen.

Without a word, Patrick got up to walk out of the office. He was shaking with anger and emotion.

‘Pat?’ Suzanne called, just as he was going through the door.

‘Yeah?’ He didn’t turn around.

‘Thanks for your hospitality last night. Please thank Gill for a lovely dinner.’

He snorted. ‘It should never have happened, not in the middle of an investigation, and you know it. Wendy might still be alive if I hadn’t been too busy greeting guests to talk to her properly. But I didn’t listen to her, and now she’s dead.’

It was only later, leaning on a wall outside in the car park trying to gather his thoughts, that something occurred to him through the maelstrom of emotion whirling around in his head: could Suzanne be jealous that Wendy had had a crush on him?

He immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous and narcissistic. Taking a few long drags of his e-cigarette, his resolution hardened. He understood the protocol, knew why the investigation into Wendy’s death had to be kept separate. But he was convinced the same man had killed all three victims – and possibly Nancy Marr, though he was still unsure about that. If he had to tread on Strong’s toes in order to catch that person, so be it. Justice was more important than protocol. And if he committed career suicide but found the killer, it would be worth it.

Chapter 35

Day 11 – Winkler

The Mervyn Hammond PR Agency was situated a long way from Winkler’s patch, in a converted warehouse set in a quiet street between Clerkenwell and Farringdon, surrounded by media companies and Internet start-ups. Winkler hated it around here. All those fucking hipsters, with their ludicrous facial hair and ridiculous trousers. Apparently there was a café near here that sold nothing but breakfast cereal, and the morons who dwelled in these parts were happy to shell out over three quid a pop. Three quid a Coco Pop, he thought, deciding he had to get that joke into a conversation at some point.

He looked sideways at Gareth Batey, deciding the younger cop wasn’t bright enough to appreciate his humour. They were parked outside the office, a little way down the road, in Winkler’s white Audi. The engine ran, filling the car with warm air.

‘I’m really not sure about doing this,’ Gareth said, for about the tenth time. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing something to help catch Wendy’s murderer?’

Every time Gareth mentioned what had happened to Wendy his eyes misted over, making Winkler wonder if the detective sergeant had been carrying a torch for the dead DC. Perhaps Wendy had been Gareth’s ideal woman. That would be another reason for Gareth to hate Lennon. Maybe he should hint that he’d actually seen Lennon and Wendy together . . . really get his rival into trouble. The guv had been stomping round like a rhino with piles ever since that Valentine’s card was found in Wendy’s locker, and Winkler was pretty sure it wasn’t just because one of the team had been murdered. Laughland was jealous! Of course, he felt sorry for Wendy, poor dead cow, but apart from that it was too delicious for words.

Winkler turned down the rainforest music a notch. ‘Leave all that to DCI Strong’s team – we’re investigating Nancy Marr, remember? Though I bet Lennon won’t be able to resist sticking his beak in. He’s all over the shop. I reckon he’s losing it.’

Gareth appeared to be suffering an internal struggle, but he pulled himself together. That’s my boy, Winkler thought. I’m your ally. Not that tattooed tosser.

‘So are we actually going to talk to Hammond?’ Gareth asked.

‘No. Not yet. I just want to watch him, see what he gets up to when he’s not putting on his public face. If he doesn’t seem to be up to anything, or this looks like a massive waste of time, we’ll move on.’

‘But you’re starting to think it could be him?’

Winkler held his hand out flat and tilted it from side to side. ‘I don’t know. But trust me – if he is guilty, I’ll find out. I’ve got the best clear-up stats in the MIT, did you know that?’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve told me, boss.’

Winkler was deliberately down-playing his suspicions about Mervyn Hammond, not wanting Gareth to think it was so important that he had to go running to Lennon about it. But since they’d found the signed photo of the PR man among Nancy’s belongings, Winkler had done some digging into Hammond’s background and what he’d found was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

A few years ago, Winkler had investigated – and solved, natch – the murder of a young female journalist who wrote for the now-defunct News of the World. That case had brought Winkler into contact with one of the newspaper’s Features editors, a guy called Doug Sandwell who reminded Winkler of an emphysemic crocodile, leathery and wheezy. They should stick a picture of Sandwell on cigarette packets – the smoking rate would halve overnight.

Sandwell had retired a couple of years ago, but Winkler knew the old journo had dealt with a lot of showbiz stories at the paper, as well as a number of juicy sex scandals and exposés of corrupt politicians. Winkler also strongly suspected, from conversations he’d overheard during the murder investigation, that Sandwell had colluded in phone hacking, though it appeared that – unlike many of his fellows – he’d got away with it.

Last night, after getting home from the gym, Winkler had given Sandwell a call. After listening to the other man cough for a couple of minutes, he’d asked Sandwell what he was up to these days.

‘Writing my autobiography, aren’t I?’ His voice crackled. ‘Great fun.’

‘I bet you can tell some stories, eh?’

‘Oh, you bet. Trouble is, most of this stuff couldn’t be published till after everyone involved is dead.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ The older man snorted.

Twat, thought Winkler.

‘So, what, is this a social call?’ Sandwell asked. ‘Ringing to ask me out on a date? You know I’m not that type . . . I never go out with cops.’ More hissing laughter.

‘I was actually wondering if you ever had any dealings with Mervyn Hammond.’

‘Hammond? Fuck yeah. We used to deal with that snake all the time. Got some of our best stories from him.’ He named a couple of fabricated scandals that Winkler vaguely remembered. ‘What are you asking about him for?’

‘Well . . . A mate of mine might be involved in a scandal himself. Hammond’s representing this bird who claims to have slept with my mate, and I was hoping to find some leverage to dissuade Mervyn from selling the story.’

‘A cop, is he? Someone high up?’