‘Graham Hart,’ the lawyer supplied.

  ‘Ledger has been cautioned,’ continued Boyd, ‘and, Mr Ledger, you understand the caution?’

  Richard Ledger nodded.

  ‘Aloud, please, for the tape,’ Boyd told him.

  Hart nodded at his client.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Ledger replied.

  ‘Right then.’ Boyd opened the folder on the table in front of him. ‘I’m going to begin with the forensic evidence that makes you our prime suspect, Mr Ledger. Just so that we’re not wasting each other’s time.’

  He pulled a printed photograph out of its plastic sleeve and slid it across the table for Ledger and his lawyer to see. ‘This is a picture of a Nesso paper coffee cup, recovered from within Unit Thirty-Seven at Best Price Storage.’

  He pulled out another sheet of paper and slid that across too. ‘And this is a DNA chromograph of a sample taken from that same coffee cup.’ He took out a third piece of paper. ‘And this is the chromograph of your DNA, Richard. For the record, the two chromographs match.’

  ‘Also, for the record, my client willingly submitted to a DNA swab,’ said Hart.

  ‘Indeed he did.’ Boyd settled back in his seat. ‘So, can you provide us with an explanation as to why your DNA might have found its way into this storage unit?’

  Ledger glanced at his lawyer, then back at Boyd. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you ever visited Best Price Storage, near Little Fritton?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘No,’ Ledger replied. His lawyer gently nudged him. ‘No comment.’

  ‘All right.’ Boyd gathered the sheets of paper and tucked them back into their folder. ‘Do you recognise the following names, Mr Ledger? Robin Whitehead. Mark Meadows. Andrew Westfield.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Well, let me help you out. Those three people are friends of yours that go all the way back to your time at Harsham Grammar School. They are your old school buddies. Do you recognise their names now?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Boyd pulled a few sheets of paper out of the folder. ‘For the record, I’m showing Mr Ledger and his lawyer printouts of several texted exchanges between Mr Ledger and Robin Whitehead.’ He slid them across the table and sat back, giving both men a chance to read the back-and-forth on the pages.

  ‘Mr Ledger,’ he said, ‘we obtained these conversations from Robin’s iPad. It’s quite clear from these that you’ve been in touch with not only Robin Whitehead but Mark Meadows and Andrew Westfield too. Spanning a number of years, in fact. And since you left school the four of you were in the habit of meeting, every year, on the twenty-first of August, according to these texts.’

  ‘No comment,’ Ledger repeated.

  ‘Can we have a copy of this?’ asked Hart.

  ‘You can take those copies, if you like,’ Boyd told him.

  Hart nodded, then resumed scanning them more closely.

  ‘So the four of you met once a year, Richard, to discuss something. The four of you shared a secret, didn’t you? And it seems, looking at that exchange between you and Robin Whitehead, that you shared a concern that your mutual friend, Andrew Westfield, was in danger of letting it slip.’ Boyd raised a brow.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘He was an alcoholic, wasn’t he? He was after money. He’d approached Mark Meadows for money a number of times, and… it seems that he was thinking to coming to you – presumably threatening to use this secret as some sort of leverage. How did that make you feel?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘But then… this Andy Westfield went missing in 2011 and Meadows a few months later. Do you know what happened to them?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘In a previous interview, yesterday in fact… we revealed to you that Robin Whitehead was dead. That his body has been recovered. Now, I distinctly recall your reaction. You were surprised. I might even say… shocked.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ledger. ‘I was. I am.’

  Got him talking… at last.

  ‘Were you aware he was a missing person?’ Boyd asked.

  Ledger opened his mouth. It looked as though he was about to say ‘yes’, but then he stopped himself. ‘As I told you… I’d offered him a job. He didn’t bother to turn up for it. And that’s it.’

  ‘You didn’t make any attempt to contact him?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Because I was pissed off he didn’t turn up. Because, as I mentioned yesterday, I don’t have the time to deal with time-wasters.’

  ‘Right. Okay.’ Boyd decided now was probably as good a time as any. He opened his folder again, pulled out a stack of evidence photographs taken from the storage unit and spread them out across the table for Ledger to see.

  ‘These are the dismembered and desiccated bodies of Robin Whitehead, Mark Meadows and Andy Westfield,’ Boyd said. ‘They were discovered in that storage unit I mentioned earlier.’

  He let that hang in the air as he studied Ledger’s face intently, his eyes darting from one image to the next. His gaze settled on the image that showed the three heads nestling together on a blue tarp. He looked horrified.

  ‘Oh… my… God…’ he whispered.

  You can’t fake a reaction like that. Not unless you were a world class actor, thought Boyd. Though he just might be.

  ‘All three were murdered,’ Boyd said. ‘They were hit from behind by a heavy weapon with a blunt edge. Then they were beheaded, dismembered and stored in crates filled with road grit.’

  ‘Good God!’ exploded Hart. ‘I don’t approve of this. Ambushing my client like this, and without warning I might add, with these awful –’

  ‘Richard,’ Boyd cut in, ‘did you do this? Did you kill your friends?’

  Ledger’s mouth opened and closed silently.

  ‘Did you kill them, Richard? Was there something the four of you knew. Some secret… some pact that they were in danger of revealing? Were they threatening to blackmail you?’

  ‘I… I… didn’t…’ Ledger whispered.

  His lawyer leant closer to him. ‘No comment,’ he prompted.

  ‘Let him answer,’ snapped Boyd irritably.

  ‘My client needs a break,’ Hart replied. ‘And I insist we have one. Right now.’

  Boyd ignored him. ‘They were murdered. Dismembered… and before they were packed away in salt, one of these…’ He pulled another photograph out of the folder and set it down in front of Ledger. It was a photo that Okeke had taken while Dr Palmer was walking them through her autopsy and it showed a pine cone, resting on the cold metal of the examination table.

  ‘One of these was inserted into the rectum of each of your friends.’

  Ledger lurched back in his seat. The disgust and horror on his face had turned to terror. ‘Oh God. Oh God!’

  ‘Right! That’s it! This stops right now!’ snapped Hart. ‘I’ll be taking this further; you can be certain of that.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Interview suspended at three forty-nine p.m.’

  ‘I don’t think he did it,’ said Boyd.

  ‘Why?’ Minter looked at him. ‘Because he nearly shat himself over the pine cone?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Partly. That… was a genuine reaction. I don’t think I’ve witnessed a response like that in an interview room. Ever.’

  They had the mini conference room to themselves. Three mugs of steaming coffee sat on the small round table in front of them, so far ignored.

  Minter nodded. ‘It did seem very real.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ asked Okeke. ‘Do you think someone else did it?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘It’s feels that way to me. I think whoever rented that unit, whoever’s face is on the driving licence is a fifth person here.’

  ‘Who is Alan Smithee?’ Minter murmured to himself.

  ‘We’ll let him have his half-hour rest break, then we’ll go back in and focus on his reaction.’ Boyd turned his mug round and round on the table absently. ‘He’s absolutely terrified of someone.’

  Okeke sucked air through her teeth. ‘Hold on. His reaction, just now… you’re saying that trumps the forensic evidence on the cup?’

  ‘Yes.’ Boyd couldn’t recall an interview he’d done, ever, with a reaction as sudden, as unrehearsed, as genuine and visceral as Ledger’s had been. ‘I am. It was the pine cone,’ he said. ‘That’s what he responded to.’

  ‘It’s highly significant then,’ said Minter.

  ‘I’d say so. It definitely means something to him. We’re going back in there with a conciliatory tone. We’re his friends now. His best mates. We’re there to help him. We need to find out who the fuck he is so bloody scared of and what the pine cone means.’

  ‘And the coffee cup,’ prompted Okeke again. ‘We need to ask him about that.’

  ‘I’m beginning to suspect that was put in there deliberately,’ said Boyd.

  ‘To frame him,’ Minter added.

  ‘Well, it certainly could have done,’ replied Boyd. ‘But the point here is that… if our killer, Mr Smithee, managed to find and place a coffee cup with Ledger’s DNA on it in the lock-up, it means…’

  ‘He’s been stalking him?’ said Minter.

  Boyd nodded. ‘Our killer’s been watching Richard Ledger… and I expect Ledger’s worked out that he could be next.’

  Minter let the recording beep finish. ‘Interview resumed at four twenty-five p.m. Present in the room are: DS Steven Minter, DCI William Boyd, interviewee Richard Ledger and his lawyer, Mr Hart.’ He pushed a paper cup of fresh coffee across the table towards Ledger. ‘It’s from the downstairs vending machine, I’m afraid. It’s not the best.’

  Ledger took the cup and nodded a muted thanks.

  ‘Now then, Richard… how are you feeling? Are you okay to continue?’ Minter asked.

  Ledger didn’t respond. His swagger had gone. He looked hollowed out and haunted.

  ‘Look, Richard, I think we all know that we need to track down the sick bastard who did this to your friends, okay? We’re all on the same page here.’

  Ledger managed a nod.

  ‘So then…’ Minter continued. ‘No more photographs, for starters.’ He pushed the folder to one side. ‘We can see that you’re afraid of someone. So, we’ll begin with that, shall we? Can you think of anyone who would want all three of your friends dead? Someone who’d want to make us think that you killed them?’

  Ledger shook his head.

  ‘For the recorder, mate,’ Minter said.

  ‘No.’ Ledger shook his head again.

  ‘Can I throw a name at you?’ Minter asked. ‘It’s someone that we’re interested in.’

  Ledger looked up. Was that a look of hope on his face? Boyd wondered.

  ‘Does the name Alan Smithee mean anything to you?’ Minter asked.

  Ledger frowned for a moment. ‘No… I…’ He stopped. A faint flicker of recognition crossed his face. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.

  ‘Richard?’ prompted Minter.

  ‘There was… shit. There was… someone…’ His eyes darted around the room as he tried to dig up some vague memory. ‘Someone I interviewed.’

  ‘By the name of Alan Smithee?’ Minter pressed.

  Ledger nodded uncertainly. Then again, more forcefully this time. ‘Yes. Smithee. Alan Smithee.’

  ‘And when was that?’ Minter asked.

  ‘A couple of years ago, I think. Yes. That’s… that’s – shit – that was about the same time Robin was meant to start!’

  ‘All right.’ Minter nodded. ‘Would you have any record of that interview? An application form? A CV?’

  Ledger shook his head. ‘He… He didn’t get the job. I… He wasn’t right. I would have just binned his CV.’

  ‘How did he manage to get an interview with you?’ Boyd cut in.

  ‘I get cold-callers all the time,’ Ledger said. ‘Not just agencies looking to place people but walk-ins. The City of London’s a small place, okay? The building we’re in… there’s several other boutique financial companies like mine above and below. I get their sales people coming down, during a lunch break, discreetly you understand? Checking out whether there’s a chance to jump floors for a better offer.’

  ‘And you agreed to interview him?’ Minter said.

  ‘Yeah. It was just… a quick chat...’

  43

  ‘Come on in… Alan, isn’t it?’

  The man nodded as he stepped into Richard Ledger’s office. He looked around. It was all glass walls, chrome and black ash. The enduring design scheme of the eternal Wall Street man-child. Richard Ledger was clearly another Gordon Gekko fanboy.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Richard said, setting his coffee and his chicken wrap down on the desk. ‘I’ll have a quick scan of your CV first, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ Alan replied, looking out of the window at the spectacular view of Canary Wharf.

  He turned his gaze onto Richard Ledger, busy speed-reading the bogus CV that Alan had put together and sipping his coffee as he did so.

  You don’t recognise me, do you?

  Of course he didn’t. It had all happened so long ago. Everyone changes with age, he thought. Apart from the eyes. They never change.

  Don’t you even sense my rage, Richard? Clearly he didn’t. Richard was clacking his tongue absently as he read the CV. Mr Big Man. Weighing up the lies on the page and deciding whether or not Alan Smithee was worth his time.

  You have no idea what I’m going to do to you. The thought made him smile as he studied Ledger’s face. He looked up from the page and met his gaze. ‘What’re you smiling at?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing – I’m just flattered that you’re giving me your time, Mr Ledger,’ he replied.

  Ledger shrugged. ‘It’s a pretty decent CV,’ he said, taking another swig of his coffee.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He couldn’t take his eyes off Ledger’s and the moment passed into something too uncomfortable for Ledger, who looked back down at the pages in his hand. ‘Well, you’ve got enough experience, clearly,’ he said.

  Oh, I have. A lifetime of it. Thanks to you and your friends.

  The compulsion to come to Ledger’s place of work, to meet him, to evaluate him first, had become an overwhelming urge. It was perhaps a touch reckless. Truth be told. But, after so many years, he wanted to get an updated impression of the man. A genuine, uncontaminated impression of him. Not like the others, the whimpering wretches pleading for forgiveness as they struggled to free their hands. Oh, they’d discovered plenty of long-overdue contrition while staring at the sharp end of the bloodied knife.

  I want to know who you are now, Richard. Are you the same person as you were back then?

  There had been a small chance that Richard would have recognised him. But it had been a calculated risk. He’d looked very different at seventeen. He’d been lean and gangly, his hair long, dyed and backcombed like the Cure’s Robert Smith. His face had been permanently clogged up with gothic make-up. Thirty years had turned him into a pudgy middle-aged man. His mane of thick dark hair was reduced now to a closely cropped stubble of silver with a pronounced widow’s peak, inching its way to meet the spreading bald patch at the back of his head.

  Nature and time – a ruthless couple.

  ‘So, Alan,’ Ledger said finally, picking up his chicken wrap and taking a bite out of it. ‘My sales team are all a lot younger, to be honest. How would you feel working with people ten, fifteen years younger than you are?’

  ‘Fine,’ Alan said.

  ‘You got family? Kids?’ Richard asked.

  ‘No. I’m single,’ Alan replied.

  ‘Well, that’s good. We’re a work-hard, play-hard bunch here. We work long hours. Very long. We’re all here to make as much money as we can. so we make every office hour count…’

  Ledger began to give his spiel. It sounded like something rehearsed, which of course it was. He would have uttered it a million times before, and Alan simply nodded along with the corporate-mission bollocks while he silently contemplated the man’s fate.

  You’re going to get… special treatment… Richard, my friend.

  The others had been a vaguely unsatisfying experience, all told. Of course there’d been some gratifying pleasure watching them squirm and struggle. Watching them choke on the leaves and twigs that he’d rammed into their mouths before gaffer-taping them shut. The conversation with all three of them had been limited, reduced to head nods and headshakes. They had all been very, very sorry for what they’d done, obviously. Oh yes. All three understood completely – by their vigorous nodding – that what they’d done was vile, brutal and cruel. They understood that it had ruined his life. They were less in agreement however, that, the balance of justice needed to – finally – be settled.

  He’d been too impatient, he reflected. Too hasty to end their lives to really get what he needed out of the experience. Answers to questions like… Why? Why did you do it? Why me? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU LITTLE BASTARDS THINKING?

  As grown men, they must have thought back to that day. Thought about what had driven them. They must have contemplated the evil they’d demonstrated… Perhaps even confronted it? Atoned for it?

  But gagged and screaming, their mouths clogged with forest floor, there hadn’t been the opportunity for a nuanced conversation, a shared victim–perpetrator therapy session.

  So his knife had settled the matter.

  However, this time, with Richard, maybe there was room for a more meaningful encounter. A chance to find out whether or not his conscience had troubled him through the years. To see if any part of him had tried to make amends.

  He’d come to meet Ledger firmly intending to kill him. Not today, obviously; today was all about sizing him up. But… as Ledger spoke at length about the pile of money he was making, about his reputation being his brand, another possibility began to form in Alan’s head. How satisfying it would be to take it all away from him? To destroy his life, rather than simply take it?

  He became dimly aware that Ledger’s spiel had come to an end and that he’d asked him a question.