25

‘It’s déjà vu all over again,’ says Ale as she buckles up.

Smile. ‘Aye.’ Seems like weeks since I last parked the car and walked into the office, rather than just a matter of hours ago. So much has happened. At least, in my head it has. ‘Where are we headed?’

Alessandra pulls her notebook out of her bag. Flips it open and reads an address on the south side of the city. I scan my mental map and work out the direction I need to be driving in. If police work ever gets too much for me, I can always get a job driving one of the city’s taxis.

I fire the engine. Put the gear into reverse but stop as I hear a knock on the car window. I turn and spot an eager face.

‘What the…’

I roll the window down.

‘Gordon Murphy from the Glasgow Telegraph,’ the man says. My vision is filled with his lean face, white teeth and short-cropped hair. He’s wearing a waterproof jacket over a blue shirt and tie, with a proper knot and everything. His voice is followed into the car by a strong whiff of garlic.

‘Well, Gordie, if you don’t move the fuck out of my way, I’m going to do you for possession of a dangerous weapon,’ I say.

‘What? My Dictaphone?’

‘Naw, your breath, mate. Chicken with forty cloves of garlic for your tea last night?’

He has the decency to step back. ‘Sorry, DI McBain. My missus gets a wee bit heavy-handed with the garlic.’

‘Jeez, what’s happening to the journos in this city?’ I ask. ‘And what’s wrong with pie and chips?’

‘Mind if we have a quick word?’

‘Sprint,’ I say.

‘Just wanted to ask you about the arrest of grieving father, Kevin Banks?’ He’s already talking in tomorrow’s headlines.

‘No comment.’

‘Care to comment on the heartlessness of a country where a parent gets arrested after justifiably acting out after hearing about his daughter’s murder?’

‘No comment,’ I say. ‘Now kindly move the fuck out of the way while I go and do my job.’

‘Social media is alive this afternoon. People are furious with the police about this poor man’s arrest. The hashtag #fuckthepolis is actually trending. Care to comment on that?’

‘No comment.’ I slam the car into reverse, lift my foot off the clutch, none too carefully, narrowly avoid hitting the journalist with my wing mirror as I move out of my spot. Brilliant. Just brilliant. The powers that be make the decisions and we, their servants, are blamed for everything. As usual.

Ale has her phone out and her thumbs are a blur. Sharp intake of breath. ‘Right enough. People are going mental on Twitter.’

‘Bunch of fannies.’

‘The word “fanny” is on the same word embargo as “cunt”.’ Ale looks at me out of the corner of her eyes.

‘Am I allowed to use male genitalia?’

‘Whatever floats your boat, Nancy.’

‘What’s the plural for penis?’

‘Pee-nye? Penises?’ Ale says. We share a grin. She grows sombre.

‘We’re good?’ she asks.

‘As good as it gets, Alessandra Rossi.’ I answer one question and ignore the subtext. ‘That was a clever wee gambit you played there,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Getting me quickly out of the way of Peters.’

‘Well, you two have history. He won’t waste time in trying to piss you off, so I’m thinking, let’s get McBain the hell out of Dodge.’ She looks at me. ‘It’s best for you to fly under the radar for a few days.’

‘I always said you’d go places, DC Rossi.’

‘Yeah.’ Sigh. ‘South side of Glasgow here we come.’

* * *

Helen Davis is sitting in a large cushioned chair staring out of her window when she sees a car pull up and two formally dressed people, a man and a woman, get out. Hope they’re not trying to sell me something, she thinks when they walk towards her path. She discounts that when she notices that neither are carrying anything that might be promotional material. And the studied expression on each of their faces.

Then she recognises them and feels a twist in her stomach. These were the cops who visited Simon in the hospital. She pushes herself up from the chair, and with hand over her heart waits for them to reach the door and knock.

‘Will somebody get that?’ she aims a shout at the room above her head, not expecting an answer. Simon will be on his laptop, trying to save the world one person at a time, and Matt will have his headset on and be playing some daft game. A pause. Neither boy responds, so with heavy, grudging footsteps and a weary, ‘For God’s sake,’ she walks to the door.

As she reaches out to twist open the lock, she notices a piece of paper on the floor. She bends down to pick it up, opens it and with a souring in her mouth recognises the print and the shape of the word on the page. It’s a page of A4 and has one large word in bold black ink in the middle.

Murderer.

‘Bastards,’ she says, and opens the door.

When she reads the expressions of surprise on the faces of the man and woman in front of her, she offers a weak smile of apology. ‘Not you,’ she says, and waves the paper at them. ‘You’re the cops who came to the hospital to speak to Simon, eh?’

‘Yes, we are, Mrs Davis,’ the heavy guy says, and reintroduces himself and his female colleague.

‘So, why…?’ she asks. She crosses her arms, and despite a stab of worry, can’t help the stray thought that questions why someone as attractive as this girl would want to work in the police force.

‘Can we come in for a moment, please?’ the man asks. She can’t work out if he said McBean or McBain. ‘Best not to give the neighbours anything to talk about.’ Settles on McBain.

‘Sure. Right enough,’ she says, and hands him the piece of paper she’s holding. ‘It’s not like they don’t already have enough to go on.’ She turns and without another word enters her living room. She can hear the paper unfold as the cop opens it and senses them follow her into the living room.

She reaches her chair, turns to face them and bends into her seat, the cushion accepting the shape of her body like an old friend. Crossing her arms and her legs she gives a nod at the paper in the male cop’s hand.

‘We get that at least once a day.’ She rubs her eyes and then pulls her hair back behind her ear. ‘Arseholes. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’ She looks from one to the other. ‘My boy did not kill Aileen. He couldn’t harm a fly.’ She feels the emotion swooping in on her. Doesn’t have the time to fight it, and her face crumples and her chest heaves. She wipes away a tear while gathering her resolve.

‘Simon’s up in his room. Him and his brother are on the Xbox,’ she says, not sure why it was suddenly important that she presents her boys as a united front. Simon hates the Xbox. Thinks it’s juvenile.

‘It’s actually Matt we want to speak to, Mrs Davis.’

‘Oh.’ She leans forward on her chair. Hands clasped as if in prayer, elbows resting on her knees. ‘What … I mean … why…’

‘Just for routine questions, Mrs Davis. We’d like him to come down to the station with us.’ McBain says.

She stands up, and it’s as if her whole body is quivering. ‘But…’

‘As we said, Mrs Davis,’ says DC Rossi while taking to her feet and holding a hand out as if she’s afraid Mrs Davis is going to fall. ‘We just want to clarify a few things. If you could…’

Just then the drum of footsteps and two young men appear at the door. Helen notices the look of recognition on Simon’s face and reads his apprehension. Her heart gives a lurch. She wants to rush over to him, swoop him up in her arms and hold him tight. The way she did when he fell as a toddler. It’s a mother’s job, isn’t it? To keep her children from harm? She takes a step back. Reminds herself that he’s a grown man now. Old enough to vote. Old enough to have sex and get married. Old enough to bear arms for his country. Old enough to kill, then? She sloughs off that thought like it’s a shit-stained coat. Not going there. Her Simon is innocent. And why do they want to speak to Matt?

She looks at her other son. Her other twin. Matt is a taller, stockier version of his brother. With darker hair and a less welcoming countenance. If he hadn’t popped out of her vagina, she herself would have doubted the fact that these boys were brothers. Let alone twins. He refused her breast and had resolutely been his own person ever since. A difficult boy to love, she admitted, and remembered the boys’ seventh birthday party and how Matt had walked up to another boy and slapped him in the face in front of all the other parents. She couldn’t even recall the reason, but would never forget the horrified look on the other parents’ faces. Or the look of satisfaction on Matt’s. Simon couldn’t hurt a soul, she asserted inwardly, but she had always worried about quite what Matt was capable of. She quashed the thought with a guilty blush.

Realising that she’d been lost in her own thoughts for the last few moments, she checked the two cops and both her sons to see if anyone noticed. Nope. Everyone was studying Matt.

‘Matt, we haven’t met,’ McBain says, and introduces himself and Ale. ‘We’d like you to come down to the station to help us with our enquiries.’

‘But…’ Simon takes a step forward. ‘Why would you…’

‘Matt. If you would just come with us?’ McBain holds a hand out as if to guide Matt to the door.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ says Helen Davis. ‘As if the neighbours haven’t got enough to talk about.’

Matt snorts. ‘I’m going fucking nowhere.’

Without realising what she’s doing, Helen takes a few steps forward and slaps Matt across the face. Then she hides the offending palm, tucking it under her left oxter. ‘You’re going,’ she says. ‘No bloody arguments.’

‘Mum!’ says Simon. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He turns to Matt and puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Matt shrugs it off, as easily as he had shrugged off the slap. Or was that the way she wanted to see it, thought Helen?

She turns to face the cops who are both trying to hide their surprise.

‘Got to keep them under control. Been difficult without a father,’ she mumbles and then holds her lips tight, afraid what else might spill out, utterly ashamed of her reaction. Then she stifles that thought with a compensating one that demands to know why Matt is always showing her up.

‘If you could try and get some proof as to who is leaving those notes, Mrs Davis, we’ll arrest them for harassment,’ says DC Rossi, and Helen is grateful that she is trying to erase some of the tension.

‘What notes is she talking about, mum?’ asks Simon, his face bright with concern.

‘It’s nothing, sweetheart.’ She shakes her head. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

* * *

It’s only when we pull in at the station that I realise since the moment we first met Matt Davis, and for the forty-five minutes or so it has taken to negotiate Glasgow traffic, he hasn’t said a word.

We get the nod that Harkness and Drain have just collected Karen Gardner and, traffic allowing, they should be back in just over an hour. We make ourselves nice and comfortable in room three.

Matt sits where we direct him, hands clasped on his lap and legs stretched out before him. He’s a cool customer. Let’s see how we can unsettle him a little.

I go through the usual protocols and then say, ‘State your full name please?’

‘Matthew Stephen Davis.’ His voice is a deep bass. I’m thinking that whenever he goes into pubs, he must get asked for proof of age, and then that voice will swing it for him.

‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Was your dad a snooker fan?’

‘No idea, mate. He didn’t live long enough for me to ask him.’ He’s stating a fact, not looking for sympathy.

‘Date of birth?’

He tells us.

‘I didn’t realise you and Simon were twins,’ says Ale.

‘There you go. Every day’s a school day.’

‘Who’s the oldest?’ she asks.

‘He is. By fifteen minutes.’

I give Matt another look over. The resemblance is not as strong as I’ve noticed with other identical twins. As Ale had said, it was across the eyes and the forehead. But where Simon’s features are fine, Matt’s are heavier, more masculine. He crosses his arms and his biceps swell, stretching the fabric of his shirt. He catches me noticing and smirks.

‘Rugby?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘Wrong shaped ball, if you ask me,’ I say.

He makes a face as if to say, whatever, your opinion doesn’t even register, mate. He clearly wants to project an attitude of someone who isn’t that bothered about being here. His languid pose is an attempt to show us that he has nothing to worry about, but that’s all it is, a pose. Even the most basic knowledge of body language tells you that crossed arms is a defensive position. His outstretched legs and crossed ankles also tell me he is apprehensive. The mind may have an agenda, but the body will often betray. Despite what he wants to tell us, he’s worried. We just have to find out the why and the what.

‘Tell me about Aileen Banks,’ I say.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What was she like? Your memories of her? Stuff like that,’ I answer. I want to get him talking about her in a personal sense, not in the abstract. The first thing we do to distance ourselves from guilt and grief or blame even, is to de-personalise. After all, they weren’t really human. If he had any form of relationship with her, I need to see that being played out on his face.

‘She was my brother’s burd. Came round the house loads.’

‘Did you like her?’ asks Ale.

‘She was nice enough,’ he shrugs. Going for non-committal.

‘They split up before she was killed,’ I say. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘Shit happens, mate. Who really knows what goes on in a relationship apart from the couple themselves?’

‘Sounds like you have experience of that yourself,’ says Ale. ‘A handsome boy like you must have girls queuing up for a date.’

He exhales through pursed lips. ‘As if. Not interested. More bother than they’re worth.’ Then he closes his mouth tight, like he has reminded himself to only answer the question and not provide any additional information.

‘What do you remember about the break-up?’ I ask.

‘Tears and snot, mate,’ he says. ‘Simon was gutted, but he’s too proud to go begging and left her to it.’

‘Why do you think they broke up?’

‘Ran its natural course, didn’t it. They were together right through secondary school. Uni life gives a different perspective, eh? The big bad. Much more to experience.’ His hands are on his lap now. A little more relaxed. It’s like he’s confident that we will know all this and is therefore more happy to give details. Suggests he and Simon ran over his conversation with us.

‘That day in the hospital. When we came to see Simon. Why did you run off?’ asks Ale.

‘Dunno what you mean?’ he answers and scratches at the side of his forehead.

‘Your mother said you were with her. I’m thinking you saw us and legged it. I want to know why.’

‘That’s not what happened,’ he answers. ‘I just remembered, like.’ A weak smile. ‘I dropped mum off at the hospital, and then I remembered I had a class.’

‘So why were you hiding at the hospital reception when we came out?’

‘What?’

‘I saw you at the reception area,’ says Ale. ‘You were waiting for us to leave before you went back in. Why did you want to avoid us?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He sits up, slides his feet under the chair, crosses his arms.

‘And we checked your class timetable for that day.’ I gamble and go for the lie. ‘You had a free afternoon.’

‘Yeah, it was an assignment I had to finish. I was late. Had to get it done for the next morning.’

‘So why say you had a class?’ Ale asks.

‘What is this?’ he asks. ‘Am I being arrested or something?’

‘No, Matt. You avoided us that day and when someone does that it suggests they are hiding something. We want to know what you are hiding.’

‘I’m hiding nothing, mate.’ The skin on his neck is mottled. He gives it a scratch. ‘And I wasn’t hiding from you. Don’t know what you are talking about.’ As he continues speaking his voice gets louder.

‘Then we saw you in The Horseshoe with Karen Gardner. You legged it as soon as you spotted us,’ says Ale.

‘It was the guys you were with,’ he answers. ‘Foreman and Cook.’ He sits forward, chin jutting out. ‘They’ve been saying shit on Facebook about Simon.’ He slumps back in his seat. Crosses his arms. ‘Karen dragged me out of there before I…’ realising he was about to suggest a violent act, he paused, ‘…made an arse of myself.’

‘Wise move, son,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t be the brightest thing to do with two police officers as witness.’

‘Aye … well.’

‘You and Simon, did you ever double date?’

‘Do what?’ He’s not wondering what the words mean, but why the question is being asked.

‘It’s when you and a pal each take out a girl,’ answers Ale.

‘I wasn’t … ‘ Exhales. ‘Now and again. Simon and Aileen have been, like, forever. I’ve not met any that’ve stuck. Women are nuts.’

Ale smiles. ‘None taken.’ Her expression a request for more information.

Matt is unrepentant. ‘One lassie. I’d been seeing her for three weeks. Three weeks, yeah? Told her I was thinking of getting a tattoo. She was like, nope, not happening. Said she could deal with a couple but that was my lot. ’ He purses his lips and blows. ‘Three weeks and that makes her my boss? No chance. I was like, take a walk, hen.’

‘What about Karen Gardner?’ I ask.

‘What about her?’

‘Double date?’

A shrug. ‘We went out in a foursome kinda thing a couple of times. Simon and me don’t socialise much really. He always had…’ he pauses before he says Aileen’s name, ‘ …and I had my own pals and the guys down at the rugby club. Anyway, Karen’s a good laugh like. A mate. Don’t see her like that.’

‘Does she see you the same way?’ asks Ale.

‘Aye,’ says Matt, his expression as adamant his tone. He’s leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands soft, resting on his thighs. He’s in safe territory, and from his perspective, dealing with everything that we’re throwing at him. Time to mix it up a little.

‘What about Aileen?’ I ask.

‘What about her?’ He presses his hands on to the sides of his chair, switches his weight and is now fully upright in his chair.

‘She was a bit of a babe,’ I say. ‘Ever rub one out while thinking about her naked in your brother’s bed just through the wall?’

He looks from me to Ale and presumably sees nothing but the same frank curiosity on her face.

‘Jeezuz. You people are sick,’ he says. ‘She’s not long dead and you’re…’ He shakes his head, and I’m thinking this is interesting. He’s defending her honour. A wee spot of chivalry, and he cares more than he is letting on.

Is it really just on behalf of his twin brother? Or is there something more at play here?

‘Ever listen to them going at it and wish it was you?’ I ask.

‘You’re sick.’ He shakes his head. And scratches at the skin on his neck.

Realising that at this stage we’re not going to get much more out of him, we escort Matt out of the secure area and in to the public part of the station. Explain that we’re going to arrange a lift for him back to the house.

‘Don’t worry about it, mate.’ He sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll find my own way home.’

Just then Harkness walks in the front door with Karen Gardner.

Matt and Karen lock eyes. Say nothing. Matt walks past her and out of the door.

‘Interesting,’ mumbles Alessandra. Then. ‘Hi Karen. Thanks for popping in.’

‘Sure. No worries,’ she replies just above a whisper.

* * *

In the interview room, Ale takes the lead. Goes through the legal stuff.

‘Before we start,’ she says. ‘Can we get you a wee cup of tea or something?’

‘No,’ answers Karen. Then, as if she has remembered her manners, ‘Thanks.’ And offers a weak smile. In contrast to Matt, she’s sitting upright, spine pressing into the back of the chair, knees together, hands clasped on the table top. She looks like she has just discovered she has brittle bone disease and is scared to move.

‘I know we’ve spoken before, Karen,’ says Ale. ‘But that was an informal chat. This is nothing to worry about, but we just need to get that all on record. OK?’

‘OK,’ Karen squeaks. And I’m struggling to place this girl with the one in the red car who flashed her boobs to the old man next door to the Banks house.

We ask Karen to outline the events of the night Aileen died. For the record. She complies. Spelling it all out, exactly the same as when we first talked to her. And it’s almost too perfect. People get it this exact when they have rehearsed. Ask someone for details of an event, particularly when they appear to be under stress, and something in the story will change. Sure, if they are being truthful the facts will repeat, but something in the telling will change.

I scan my memory. Yup. As far as I can make out it was word-for-word.

‘How did you and Aileen meet?’ I ask.

‘At the supermarket.’

‘Hit it off straight away?’

A nod. Her eyes shine a little bit more.

‘What drew you together?’

‘Dunno,’ she answers. ‘My parents are divorced. Hers were having problems. I’d just broken up with a boyfriend.’ A long pause as she stares at the table top, sifting and sorting through memory. A smile laden with affection. ‘We both loved Twilight.’ A tear escapes and she wipes it away.

‘You two were great friends, eh?’ asks Ale.

Karen nods. A sob escapes. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Still not quite used to…’

‘No need to apologise, Karen. We understand. You’ve lost someone you care about.’ Ale reaches forward and pats her hand. Realising this isn’t entirely professional, she withdraws and sits back in her chair. ‘I’m sure Aileen would be proud of you. The way you’re dealing with this.’

‘Yeah?’ asks Karen, as if desperate for approval from the grown-ups.

‘Yeah,’ answers Ale, her tone like a hug.

Karen sniffs. Wipes away another tear. Settles into her chair a little more.

‘Tell us a little bit more about that night. Before you two split up. Was there anyone around, anyone who caught your attention apart from the usual people you would expect to bump into when you were out?’

Karen shakes her head. Stares at the tabletop. Thinks some more. ‘No.’

‘Sure?’

A nod.

‘Please think carefully, Karen,’ I say. ‘There may be something in your head. A clue that could help us catch this person.’

‘It was just the usual crowd. With a few randoms. But nobody who sticks out.’

‘Did you see Simon that night?’

‘No,’ she answers. ‘Although he did text Aileen. Just to say hi. But she ignored it.’

‘Why?’

‘She said he was being a dick.’

‘I never met the girl, but I don’t think she knew what she wanted,’ observed Ale.

Karen loosened her hands a little. ‘You’re right. One minute she was like, let’s find some guys to party with. Next she was missing Simon and texting him.’

‘How do you think that would have been for Simon?’ I ask.

‘Must’ve driven him nuts. I told her she was being a crazy bitch. She had to cut things off with him, like, completely, you know? Or they’d never move on.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ says Ale. ‘What do you think would’ve happened eventually with Simon and Aileen?’

‘They would’ve got back together,’ she answers with certainty and a slight note of regret.’

‘Why do you say that?’ I ask.

‘Jeez, they were made for each other. Totally. You just had to spend five minutes in their company to see.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘A wee bit jealous, if I’m honest.’ She tucks some hair behind her right ear. ‘I’d give anything to have someone like that. And she just throws it away.’

‘Tell us about Simon.’

A note of suspicion forms on her face. ‘Are you asking me if I think he did it?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just looking for the best friend’s perspective. Is he a nice guy? Did he treat her badly? Did he ever hit Aileen or verbally abuse her?’

‘You don’t really know what goes on in someone else’s relationship do you?’ she says, thinking aloud. ‘I always thought Simon was too nice, really. And a bit boring. No one’s that nice, eh?’ She’s a little more animated as she says this. As if she’s enjoying the chance to have a bit of a gossip. ‘Or that safe.’

‘What do you mean by too nice?’ Ale asks.

‘Well,’ she draws the word out as if it was made of two syllables. As if trying to build up her energy to convince herself as well as us. ‘I mean, he was a volunteer on the Samaritan phone line. Apparently he did quite a lot of online … what do you call it … counselling. On a couple of other sites an’ all. He’s only in his early twenties for God’s sake. Get a life mate,’ she sniffs.

‘What about Matt?’ Ale asks. ‘Ever fancy a wee slice of that? He’s a handsome guy. Got those rugby-player thighs.’

‘If you like that kind of thing.’ Her tone is defensive.

‘Oh come on,’ laughs Ale. ‘He’s fit.’ They’re girls together.

Karen allows herself a smile. ‘And he bloody knows it.’

‘Did you guys ever…?’

Karen tosses her head. ‘He wishes. We had a snog once when we were drunk.’ She holds a hand up and slices her long fingernails back and forward across her throat. ‘Electricity was zero, mate. Was like kissing a fridge.’

‘Whose idea was it?’ I ask.

‘His. Totally. Said we needed to get it out of the way or we’d be,’ she holds both hands up and does the air-quote thing, ‘“haunted by the possibility of it for the rest of our lives”.’

‘What a shit chat-up line,’ says Ale.

‘Yeah, and it worked.’ Karen offers a smile. ‘He got the kiss.’

‘And nothing else?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘Disappointed?’ Ale asks.

‘Not bothered really. Would be nice hanging off his arm, but it wasn’t to be.’

‘Is Simon more your type? The silent, nice and safe one?’

‘As if,’ she sneers. ‘Apart from the boring fart thing, he was my mate’s ex. Out of bounds. Totally.’

‘Disappointed?’ I ask. ‘The nice guys are the ones you go back to, no?’

‘Not even going there,’ she answers. ‘A friend’s ex?’ She shakes her head. ‘Too much grief. Besides, they weren’t really over. Not really. The only person who couldn’t see that was Aileen.’ She tails off. Stares into space. Finds a knot of grief and rubs at it. Tears spark in her eyes before shining a trail down the pale of her cheek. She sniffs. Palms her face dry. It is a gesture that is awkward and serves to remind me how young she is.

I push aside any thought of her youth. I can’t let that influence how we deal with her.

‘Karen,’ I say, and pause. Wait for her to look up from the table and meet my gaze. ‘What are you not telling us?’ I don’t realise how harsh my tone is until I catch a warning glance from Alessandra. Fuck it. This girl needs to know how serious we are. ‘We need to get to the truth here. Your best friend in the world is dead. No more nights out, nights in, girlie chats over fucking Twilight, Facebook or The Only Way is Essex … this is as real as it gets. And in your head is a vital clue that will help us…’

‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she interrupts, as if desperate to shut me up. She’s hugging herself now.

‘I don’t believe you.’ I allow my frustration to seep in and slam my hand down on the table top. She jumps. ‘You’re holding something back. I can smell it. What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Liar.’

‘I’m not lying.’

‘Pants on fucking fire.’

‘Ray,’ says Ale quietly. I throw her a warning scowl. Time she got real as well. Yeah, there might be times when I go over the score, but this time I’m on the money. I’m certain of it, and Karen just needs a wee fright to make her tell us what she knows.

Karen is even whiter now. Her eyes dart about the small room as if she’s looking for a safe place to land. Somewhere far away from my accusing glare.

‘You’re hiding something.’ I point at her, my finger like a dagger, invading her space. ‘And you need to tell us now.’

She shakes her head. Shuts her eyes tight.

‘Karen,’ I say.

She crosses her arms.

‘Karen.’

Crosses her legs.

‘What are you holding back?’

She puts a hand over her mouth. A word escapes. ‘Matt…’

‘What about Matt?’

‘He…’

There’s a knock on the door. It opens slightly and a head sticks in. It’s Daryl Drain.

‘Boss.’

‘We’re in the middle of something here, DC Drain,’ I say, and notice the release of tension in the room, like dirty dishwater escaping down a plug-hole.

‘Sorry. I wouldn’t interrupt but this is…’ I can tell from his expression that whatever is eating his gusset, it’s extremely important. I stand up.

‘Excuse me, Karen. I’ll just be a moment.’ I leave the room, inwardly cursing. She was on the verge of telling me something, and I doubt we’ll ever get back to that moment.

In the corridor I turn to Daryl. ‘Right. This better be fucking good.’

‘It’s Kevin Banks, boss. Just took a dive under a truck.’