‘How’s it going?’ Suzanne asked.

‘He’s still saying “no comment” to everything, on the grounds that he may incriminate himself. But I’m going to crack him. Don’t worry. We’ve got almost a whole day before we need to charge him. I’ve already caught him out lying, a ton of times. He looks up and to the right when I ask him anything tricky, which, as we all know, is a clear indicator that he’s fabricating instead of remembering.’

Winkler sounded so smug that Patrick couldn’t help snorting. ‘You’re kidding! You’d be laughed out of court if you use that as evidence!’

‘I want Patrick to join the interview,’ Suzanne said.

‘No way!’

Patrick was tempted to say ‘Yes way’, but resisted, even though the horror on Winkler’s face had brightened his mood considerably.

‘Patrick has interviewed Mr Hammond before and I believe he was very communicative then.’

‘Highly,’ said Patrick.

‘Yeah, well, Lennon gets on well with people who hurt kids.’

Suzanne stepped between them before Patrick could punch Winkler in the face. ‘Adrian. That is uncalled for. Patrick is going to lead this interview from now on—’

‘Lead?’ Winkler’s voice rose an octave.

‘—and if you make one more comment like that you’ll be looking at a transfer to traffic before the week is out. Do you understand?’

Winkler glared like a toddler who’d been told to share his precious sweets with his sibling. ‘This was my arrest, though, don’t forget that. I don’t want him getting all the credit.’

Suzanne hissed at him. ‘For fuck’s sake, we are a team. Do you understand that? I’ve a good mind to pull you out of this interview now and send Carmella in with Patrick instead.’

‘Good idea,’ said Patrick. ‘Where is Carmella?’

‘In interview room three, taking a statement from Hammond’s housekeeper, Miss Wattana.’

Winkler had gone purple. ‘You . . . You can’t—’

Suzanne pointed a manicured finger at him. ‘I won’t do that. Yet. But I want a word with you after this interview. Just get Hammond to talk. Both of you.’

She turned and marched away, leaving both Patrick and Winkler looking after her. Patrick opened his mouth to say something conciliatory to Winkler, to try to make peace before they went into the interview room. If they didn’t put up a united front, this interview was doomed. But before he could speak, Winkler pushed open the door and went inside, giving Patrick no choice but to follow him.

Winkler threw himself down into the chair farthest from the wall, leaving Patrick to sit down in the ‘driving’ seat, beside the tape recorder.

‘Bringing in the good cop now, are we?’ Hammond said, smirking as Winkler glared at him. ‘Detective Lennon, have you met my lawyer, Cassandra Oliver?’

The red-headed woman reached across the table and shook Patrick’s hand. Her grip was cold, but she was an attractive woman in her late forties, with green eyes and pale skin. Her name was familiar and Patrick had the feeling she’d been involved in several celebrity trials. No doubt she was ludicrously expensive.

He switched on the recorder and told the machine the time and date and who was present. Hammond watched him expectantly.

‘Mr Hammond, as you know, you are being questioned regarding the unlawful killings of Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters. Can you tell me where you were between the hours of 7 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Thursday, fifth of February, and Saturday, seventh of February?’

‘Your “bad cop” colleague has already asked me these questions,’ Hammond snapped.

‘But I believe you didn’t give him an answer.’

Hammond sat back in his chair.

‘Mr Hammond, can you answer my question?’

‘What question was that?’

Patrick sighed and was about to go through the process of repeating his words when the PR man said, ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, I don’t have an alibi for either of those dates, nor when the policewoman was murdered. They happen to be the only three evenings this month when I wasn’t either working, at a social engagement or at the gym.’

‘What a coincidence,’ muttered Winkler, so quietly that the tape machine wouldn’t pick it up. Raising his voice, he said to Patrick, ‘He’s got no alibi for Nancy Marr’s murder either.’

Patrick nodded. They didn’t know exactly when Mrs Marr had been killed, but he assumed Winkler had ascertained that Mervyn had not been out of the country or otherwise engaged for the entire period they were looking at.

‘So where were you on the dates I mentioned?’ Patrick asked, still using his politest tone.

‘I was at home. On my own. I am allowed to relax occasionally, you know.’

‘What were you doing?’

Hammond looked directly at Winkler. ‘I was playing with my train set, as your colleague would no doubt put it.’

Patrick blinked. ‘Train set?’

Mervyn popped a nut into his mouth and chewed. ‘It’s my hobby. I collect and build model railways. I have an incredibly busy life, and it’s how I relax. Unfortunately, it’s something I do on my own. So no, nobody can corroborate my “story”.’ He waggled his fingers.

‘What about your housekeeper? Did she see you?’

‘She doesn’t work during the evenings unless we have a function. I’m not a slave-driver.’

‘You have a bodyguard, don’t you? Kerry, er . . .’

‘Mangan. Yes. But he doesn’t work when I’m at home on my own. I don’t expect thugs to come into my home and attack me or my property.’ He looked pointedly at Winkler and Patrick thought, Oh God, what did Winkler do now?

Cassandra Oliver spoke up. ‘I think we’ve established that my client does not have an alibi for the times you’re interested in. That doesn’t mean he murdered anyone. And these allegations that Detective Winkler mentioned before you joined the interview, Detective Lennon, are pure malicious hearsay, lies from a former tabloid journalist with a grudge against my client.’

‘What about the underwear?’ Winkler said, unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘How do you explain that?’

He reached beneath the table and produced an evidence bag containing the pink knickers that had been found on Mervyn’s property. It was the first time Patrick had laid eyes on them, and seeing them now, slightly crumpled inside the transparent bag, caused a wave of sadness to hit him. He would never forget the way Sally Sharp’s face had folded in on itself as she’d told him what Rose had been wearing the night she was killed.

He took a deep breath. ‘Mr Hammond, this item of clothing was found inside a bin bag at your house. Do you deny that?’

Hammond shrugged, a gesture that Patrick reported verbally to the tape recorder.

‘How do you explain its presence on your property?’

Hammond leaned forwards. ‘I can’t explain it. There was a party at my house last night. Dozens of guests, waiting staff, cleaners in this morning. This underwear must belong to one of them.’

‘Are you aware that Rose Sharp was believed to have been wearing an item of underwear matching these the night she was murdered?’

‘Only because your colleague told me.’

The lawyer spoke up again. ‘Primark knickers. There must be hundreds, thousands of young women walking around London right now wearing the exact same pair. Have these been DNA tested already?’

Patrick looked at Winkler, who said, ‘Not yet.’ Patrick suppressed a sigh. Evidence like this would normally be sent straight to the lab for testing, but he guessed Winkler had decided the impact of presenting them in the interview took precedence.

Cassandra Oliver raised her palms. ‘Then you don’t even know if they were Rose Sharp’s. This is ridiculous. You should release my client right—’

Winkler cut her off. ‘When we do test them, which we will immediately after this interview, I am sure they will match Rose Sharp’s DNA. We received information—’