Cornwall, the homeland of the Cornish people and recognised as one of the Celtic nations: Chris Phillips had done a little basic research on the journey. A population of close to 550,000, of whom 95.7 per cent were white British: not much chance, he thought, of bumping into one of the brothers. Living in London as long as he had, thirty-one of his thirty-five years, it was possible to go for days, sometimes, without being reminded of the colour of his skin.
The police station was a long, low, grey building, unattractive and unprepossessing, and when Phillips went to present himself at the front desk he discovered it was permanently closed.
He was about to dial the number he’d been given, when Cordon appeared. ‘Cost-cutting exercise. Either that or toilet paper. Close call.’ Cordon held out a hand. ‘Welcome to Penzance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Frank’s here already.’
‘Frank?’
‘He’s ex-job, I thought you knew.’
‘Mates, though?’
‘Share a jar or two, time to time.’
‘Conflict of interest then, surely?’
Cordon shrugged. ‘Friendly interview, background, strictly voluntary, that’s what I thought. No way I’m going to interfere. But if it makes you uncomfortable …’
Phillips was already shaking his head. ‘Let’s not keep Frank waiting.’
He followed Cordon up the stairs and along a blank corridor on the upper floor; the room was little different from interview rooms he was well used to, the same fading paintwork on the walls, the same lingering smell of sweat and disinfectant.
Elder was already seated, comfortable enough in familiar surroundings – jeans, roll-neck sweater – rising half out of his seat to offer Phillips his hand.
‘Thanks for agreeing to come in,’ Phillips said. ‘I’ll take up as little of your day as possible.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘And just to be clear, you’re here under your own volition and are free to leave at any time.’
‘Understood.’
‘So …’ Phillips flipped open his notebook. ‘Anthony Winter … I understand there was an argument between the two of you at a gallery opening? The Hecklington and Wearing gallery in Shoreditch. An altercation.’
The hint of a smile crossed Elder’s face. ‘Altercation would be about right.’
‘Can you describe the circumstances?’
‘Easy enough. I lost my temper. Punched him. Twice, hard. Hard as I could. Security grabbed hold of me and stopped me doing any more damage than I already had. Deposited me on the pavement outside.’
Phillips nodded, leaning back in his chair, taking his time. ‘You lost your temper, that’s what you said.’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’d provoked you in some way?’
‘Not directly.’
‘What then?’
‘It was the paintings. His. Winter’s. There on display.’
‘What about them?’ Phillips already knew the answer, or thought he did; Alice had forwarded the images to his laptop on the way down.
‘My daughter, Katherine, he’d used her as a model.’
‘A life model.’
‘I suppose …’
‘She posed naked, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t approve?’
‘It wasn’t as simple as that.’
‘Perhaps you could explain?’
Elder saw the paintings again in his mind’s eye. ‘You have daughters, Detective Sergeant?’
Phillips shook his head.
‘Any children at all?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘If you did, you might not have to ask.’
Phillips nodded. ‘I apologise. I don’t mean to be intrusive. I just want to understand.’
‘Is that important?’
‘I think so.’
Elder looked across at Cordon, who looked away.
‘Your daughter …’ Phillips began.
‘Katherine.’
‘Yes, Katherine. It was the manner in which she was portrayed that you objected to?’
‘Yes.’
‘You thought – and this is only my assumption here – but you thought she’d been – how can I put it? – sexualised? Unnecessarily sexualised?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that made you feel awkward? As a parent especially?’
‘Yes.’
‘Embarrassed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Angry?’
‘God, yes, how many more times …?’
‘I’m just trying to establish …’
‘Establish!’ Elder slammed the flat of both hands down hard. ‘I should’ve thought you’ve got it nailed to the bloody cross!’
‘Frank,’ Cordon said quietly, ‘there’s no need …’
But Elder was already on his feet. ‘I’d have thought there was a fucking need.’
‘Frank, come on. Sit back down.’
Elder waited a few moments until his breathing was under control.
Phillips let the silence settle, keeping his voice even, neutral. ‘Forty-eight hours or so after he was the victim of an angry attack propelled by your own admitted loss of temper, Anthony Winter was the victim of a more sustained and brutal attack which resulted in his death.’
‘And what? Two and two makes fucking four?’
‘Frank …’ Cordon raised a hand in warning.
‘Last Thursday evening,’ Phillips continued, ‘after, as you said, security ejected you from the premises, what did you do?’
‘Do? Made my way to Paddington, caught the sleeper train home.’
‘Since which time …?’
‘Since which time I’ve been down here within a twelve-, fifteen-mile radius of Penzance.’
‘And there are people, if necessary, who could attest to that?’
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘So, to be clear, at no time between then and Sunday evening did you return to London?’
‘Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you ever listen?’
‘I’m listening, Mr Elder, believe me. And what I’m hearing is a man whose temper is on a very short string, a very short string indeed.’
‘Well, good for you, sunshine. And now you can hear this into the bargain. Before I answer another one of your questions you’re going to have to place me under arrest and caution me, because without that you’re not going to get one more goddam thing.’
‘Frank …’
Cordon moved to intercept him, but Elder swept past and out through the door, slamming it closed behind him.
Sunshine, Phillips was thinking. I’ll keep that in store.