‘This isn’t about Shawn Barrett,’ he said, taking a step towards Hammond and pulling himself up to his full height. ‘It’s about you.’

Hammond adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, Mervyn. Hope you don’t mind if I call you Mervyn.’

‘What are you—?’

Winkler interrupted him, producing the signed photo from inside his damp coat and holding it in front of Hammond’s face. ‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Well, yes. It’s a photograph of me.’

‘A signed photograph of you. Send many of these out, do you, Mervyn?’

Hammond was looking at him as if he were talking in riddles. ‘No. Hardly any. But I appear in the media quite a lot, so I get the occasional request for a signed photo. Why are you—?’

‘Recognise the name Nancy Marr, Mervyn?’

In the moment before Hammond answered, his eyes shifted up and to the right. This was a sure sign that the PR man was about to tell a lie. Winkler held his breath.

‘No. I’ve never heard of her.’

He was lying. Definitely lying.

‘So you don’t remember sending, or giving, her this signed photo?’

‘No. Detective, I don’t send the photos out myself. Do you really think I’d have time to do that? I signed a small stock of pictures and if a request comes in to the office, my PA sends them out.’

‘Really?’

Winkler had spent much of the past twenty-four hours trying to work out why Hammond had killed the old woman and he was sure he’d figured it out. Somehow, Mrs Marr had discovered the truth about Hammond. Maybe Mervyn had assaulted or threatened a girl Mrs Marr knew. She had threatened to expose him. Blackmailed him, perhaps. So he’d murdered her to keep her quiet.

And perhaps he’d left the signed photo as a kind of calling card . . . ? Unlikely – but not impossible. Winkler would work out the details later.

Right now, he didn’t have enough to arrest Hammond. He could get him to come to the station again, but he strongly suspected this time Hammond would lawyer-up – an extremely expensive lawyer – and wriggle off the hook, then go crying to the papers about police harassment and how the cops were wasting their time on him when there was a murderer of teenage girls on the loose. Winkler knew there was no way the guv would allow them to touch Hammond without something rock solid. Winkler needed more . . . something to justify getting a search warrant for this place and Mervyn’s office, to seize his computer. He needed a girl to make a complaint about this pervert. An accusation.

He looked around, checking there were no CCTV cameras pointing at him, that it was just him and Mervyn. It was time to crank things up a little, get Mervyn to start worrying.

He walked over to the model train set and caught hold of one of the engines as it trundled past, snatching it up. The carriages it was pulling fell away and landed on the ground with a clatter.

Mervyn rushed over. ‘What the hell?’

Winkler stepped into his path, holding up the green and black locomotive. The letters LNER were stamped on its side.

‘Put that down,’ Hammond demanded.

‘Worth a fortune, is it?’ Winkler held it higher, his arm fully outstretched. ‘Would be a real shame if I dropped it.’

Hammond tried to grab at it, but Winkler pushed him away. Winkler was delighted to see that the PR man’s face had turned as red as the carriages that had fallen to the floor. ‘That was my granddad’s,’ Hammond said.

‘Ah. What a shame. Was your dear old granddad a kiddie fiddler too? Is that how it started? Granddad climbing into your bed at night, asking for a special cuddle?’

Hammond stared at him. ‘You’re sick. Who’s your superior officer? I’m going to call him right now . . .’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

‘Him? Sexist too, as well as a sexual predator. How many have there been, eh? Over the years?’

Hammond had gone so red now, breath coming out of him in quick, shallow gasps, that Winkler was slightly concerned the other man was going to have a heart attack. He didn’t want him to die before he faced justice. He lowered the train and gently placed it back on the track.

At that moment, Hammond’s mobile rang in his palm, making him jump. He stared at the screen, clearly debating whether to take it, but it must have been important because he lifted it to his ear and said, ‘Mervyn Hammond. Oh . . . Good morning, your Excellency . . .’

Winkler’s phone started ringing too. He checked the display: Gareth. He backed away towards the door, pointing at a spot below his eye and then at Hammond. Winkler felt satisfied. Hammond would definitely make some kind of move now. He would wonder how Winkler knew about him, move to further cover his tracks. Cover his train tracks, Winkler thought, sniggering. He really was a comedy genius.

He answered his phone as he walked towards the house. ‘Yeah?’

‘Boss, it’s DS Batey. We’ve had a call . . . You’re going to find this interesting.’ Gareth sounded excited.

‘Go on.’

‘Someone called Crime Stoppers anonymously. You’re not going to believe this, but they mentioned Hammond, said they were at a party at his house last night and saw some teenage girls’ clothes in one of the bedrooms. Including a pair of pink knickers with the word “LUCKY” printed on them.’

Winkler stopped dead. ‘What?’

‘I know. Rose Sharp’s underwear.’

Winkler’s heart was thumping like a full-size train thundering along the tracks. ‘Did this caller give any more details? Leave a name?’

‘No, like I said, it was anonymous.’

‘And who else knows about this call? Lennon?’

‘Not yet, no. The referral just came over – I picked it up and called you right away.’

Winkler raised his eyes to the heavens and mouthed ‘thank you’. ‘OK. Great. Keep it that way for the moment. I’ll call you back.’

He ended the call and jogged back towards the house, watching several Asian women emerge carrying bin bags that they dropped beside the white van he’d noticed earlier.

He broke into a sprint, glancing over his shoulder to see if Hammond had emerged from the barn yet. He must still be on his call to ‘his Excellency’, whoever that was.

As he reached the house, the Thai housekeeper emerged through the front door to join the three other women, an expression of alarm crossing her face when she saw Winkler running towards her.

‘I need everyone to stop,’ he said. ‘Listen to me.’

Four pairs of eyes stared at him.

‘Did any of you find any clothes, women’s clothes, when you were cleaning up?’

The women all started talking at once. He held up a hand. ‘Please. One at a time.’

One of the women, another East Asian, about twenty-one, Winkler guessed, said in a whisper, ‘I find knicker.’

Winkler thought he was going to have a heart attack. It was lucky he was so fit.

‘Where? Show me.’

The four women all started rummaging through the bin bags, untying them and sticking their gloved hands inside. Winkler looked over his shoulder. Hammond still hadn’t appeared.

‘Come on, come on,’ he urged.

‘I can’t find,’ the young Asian woman said.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

He pushed her aside and grabbed the bin bag she had been rummaging through, tipping it out onto the path. Beer bottles, screwed-up napkins, food waste, cigarette ends, a couple of used condoms. But nothing pink. He did the same with the next bag, and the next, the women gawping at the horrific mess that spilled onto the edge of the lawn, all their hard work undone.

‘Where the fuck are they?’ Winkler snapped.

There was one bin bag left. He untied it and tipped its contents onto the pile of trash.

And there they were.

‘Gloves,’ he demanded. ‘Now.’

The housekeeper peeled off her transparent gloves and handed them to him. He slipped them on and crouched down, imagining himself being carried around the station, aloft on the shoulders of his colleagues, everyone chanting his name.