Walker covered the mouthpiece with his palm. ‘What does Dunn want?’ he asked. ‘A lawyer?’

  ‘No, another breakfast,’ said North. ‘Guv, the press office have been on. It’s getting about that we’re holding someone and they’re being inundated with calls. Do you want to put out a blurb – “helping police with inquiries” kind of thing?’

  Walker nodded then, still listening to Mallory, he raised his eyebrows as Satchell walked in. The sergeant slid a few paper-clipped pages of A4 on to the desk.

  ‘Here’s as much as we could get from records – three vagrancy charges, unemployed, on housing benefit. Phone cut off, single, no family.’

  ‘Social services?’

  ‘I’m still waiting on them. They’ve gone all “patient confidentiality” on us. It could be weeks.’

  Walker clicked his fingers three times in rapid succession. ‘Get the family liaison officer – Meg Whatsit? See if she can dig around for us.’

  Suddenly he realised that Mallory’s tirade had stopped. A rasping voice could be heard.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Walker?’

  Walker addressed himself to the phone again. ‘Look, thank you, Dr Mallory. I’ll be waiting to hear from you. OK?’

  Walker didn’t just hang up, he mashed the receiver on to its slot. Then he rubbed his palms into his face. To be always waiting – waiting for other people to finish their work, for the law to grind, for something to turn up – that was the worst of the policeman’s lot as far as Walker was concerned. He dropped his hands and looked hopefully at Dave Satchell, a man who could always be relied on to keep things turning over.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky with one of the lolly sticks or the wrappers,’ said the sergeant. ‘If she was in Dunn’s flat and ate the ice cream there, maybe we can prove it with DNA.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Walker sighed. ‘My kid virtually licks the design off. Shit, this is going to cost a fortune! We got ten wrappers, six sticks and half my budget’s already gone to that lunatic Mallory and his bloody shoe casts. Did you know he’s had four plaster casts done – that’s a couple of hundred quid each off my budget!’

  He looked at Satchell, squinting. They’d brought Dunn in last night for theft. Now, having rearrested him this morning they’d got until exactly ten-oh-five tomorrow morning to hang a charge on him.

  ‘So. How do we stand re Mr Dunn? The bastard sober?’

  Satchell laughed. ‘He’s had ten hours kip and two breakfasts. He’s hungover, certainly, but . . .’

  Walker got up and adjusted the knot of his tie. Then he held out his fist.

  ‘OK – you ready? Prepare, engage . . .’

  ‘Account, closure . . .’ replied Satchell, knocking Walker’s fist with his own. They were reciting the mnemonic formula for the interview of suspects, something learned by all trainee detectives.

  ‘And – evaluation!’ capped Walker, pulling on his jacket and jamming the still unlit cigarette at a jaunty angle into his mouth. ‘Let’s go!’

  *

  PACE is the acronym for the Police and Criminal Evidence Act which, since 1982, has regulated all the police’s dealings with suspects. Designed as much to shield the police from charges of unfair treatment as to protect the public from oppressive police questioning, it has a bad name among serving officers for being cumbersome, bureaucratic and over-restrictive. Under the code of practice, Michael Dunn could be held for up to twenty-four hours without being charged. He could have a solicitor if he wanted and the benefit of a single phone call. If he needed medical assistance because of illness or injuries, a local GP on the register of police surgeons would be sent for. The arbiter in all these matters is not the arresting officer but the station custody officer, in this case Sergeant Johns, who is God when it comes to the welfare of the suspect.

  Dunn’s questioning must be audiotaped in duplicate; in more modern stations it would also be videotaped. A copy of the tape should be given him on request. He must also be given a break regularly every three-quarters of an hour and a hot drink every two hours.

  When Johns delivered him to the interview room, Dunn looked appalling. The whites of his eyes were streaked with blood. His hair hung in rats’ tails, his nose was snotty, his hands, face and neck were caked with dirt. Having removed his clothes for forensic testing they had dressed him in a white paper jumpsuit which rattled to the rhythm of his violent shaking. He shuffled through the door, his feet in police-issue plimsolls, two sizes too large and minus the laces. He hardly looked fit for questioning but Johns had seen colossal hangovers before. There was no call, he had judged, for the surgeon.

  ‘Sit down, please, Mr Dunn,’ said Walker, turning to the double tape recorder near his elbow and speaking into the mike. ‘This interview is being tape recorded and may be given in evidence. I am Detective Superintendent Walker attached to Southampton Street police station, and the other officer present is’ – he cocked his head towards Satchell, who was sitting alongside him – ‘Detective Sergeant Satchell, Southampton Street.’

  Walker went on, ‘We are in interview room one at Southampton Street Police Station, and I am interviewing . . .’ He looked at Dunn, who had sat down and placed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter on the table in front of him. He selected a cigarette and lit up. ‘Say your name now, Mr Dunn.’

  The suspect seemed far away. He roused himself and spoke in a croaking voice. ‘Michael Dunn.’

  ‘There is no other person present,’ continued Walker. ‘The time is ten forty-four a.m. and the date is the eighth of September. At the end of this interview I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes. Now . . .’

  Walker relaxed, pressing himself back against the chair and looking closely at Dunn. ‘Let me remind you that you are still under caution, and that you are entitled to free legal advice.’

  ‘I don’t want any,’ said Dunn.

  ‘Could you state your name and address and date of birth?’

  ‘Er, Michael . . . do you want my middle name as well? It’s Michael . . . Frederick Dunn and I live at—’

  Dunn screwed up his face. He seemed to be trying to visualise the information, like a witness recalling a car number plate.

  ‘Twelve, Howarth Parade . . . and I was born, er, sixteenth March in nineteen . . . sixty-nine.’

  ‘Good. Do you understand why you have been arrested?’

  But Dunn had lapsed once more into a state of torpor.

  ‘Will you say yes or no, please?’

  Dunn roused himself, aware of a sharper tone in Walker’s voice. ‘Yes, yes. I understand. It’s OK. Ask me anything you like.’

  ‘Where were you last Thursday lunchtime?’

  ‘Well, I would if I could. I don’t remember . . . Thursday?’

  ‘Thursday,’ said Walker.

  ‘Well, now, let’s see . . . I get my giro Thursday. I go down and collect it personal because it’s always getting nicked.’

  ‘So you do remember Thursday. Good.’

  ‘Yes, like I said. I cashed my giro.’

  ‘Where did you cash it?’

  ‘Post office up by the newsagent.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And which newsagent would that be?’

  ‘One near the estate, near where I live.’ He suddenly began to giggle. ‘He got a bit nasty with me, the newsagent. Well, he had reasons.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  He was fully laughing now, hunching over, his head going down to the table. ‘I stuffed most of the papers I was supposed to deliver in the bins. Especially on Thursday. Couldn’t be bothered.’

  Dunn’s mirth had subsided to a snigger.

  ‘What did you do then – last Thursday?’

  ‘Got me money, went round to the off-licence.’

  ‘Which off-licence is that, Mr Dunn?’

  ‘One near the newsagent. Near where I live. Then I went to the park. I go there.’

  ‘And what do you do there?’

  ‘I drink, with me pals. I’d have been there Thursday.’

  Dunn had taken off one of the shoes they’d given him and was feeling around inside.

  ‘Can you name any of these pals?’

  ‘Yeah, er, there’s Midge, Terry Smith and, um, some other bloke . . .’

  ‘Do you know what time you met up with your mates?’

  Dunn sat without answering for a moment, looking without curiosity at the shoe.

  Walker repeated the question. ‘When on Thursday? You got your giro and then . . .?’

  Dunn roused himself. ‘After the off-licence opened, must’ve been.’

  ‘And what time does the off-licence open?’

  Dunn raised his head and said, with mock patience, ‘After eleven o’clock.’

  ‘So, tell me what you do before you go to the off-licence.’

  Dunn shrugged. ‘I get up and I wait – for the off-licence to open.’

  ‘And then, do you stay with these pals all afternoon on Thursdays?’

  ‘Yeah, unless we get moved on. Or the kids start hassling us.’

  Walker’s eyebrows arched. ‘Kids?’

  ‘Yeah, off the estate.’

  ‘Any specific kids? How old?’

  ‘Some about eight, some about sixteen. I don’t know. All kinds.’

  ‘Do you like kids?’

  ‘Yeah. But not when they mess me about.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh, nick things off me. Break into me flat.’

  Walker was interested now and he wanted Dunn to know it. He leaned nearer.

  ‘So kids go into your flat?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Girls as well as boys?’

  ‘Yes, they’re worse than the lads.’

  ‘Oh? But the little ones aren’t, are they?’

  ‘No. They’re OK.’

  Walker shifted on his chair so he was closer still to Dunn.

  ‘Do you like little girls?’

  He let the question hang for one, two, three seconds and then, just as Dunn was about to say something, Walker went on.

  ‘Did you ever play peekaboo with them? You know, hide your face behind your fingers. Did you do that last Thursday afternoon? In the playground on the estate.’

  The room was hot, the air fouled with sweat and smoke, the walls crawling with condensation. Dunn was still holding his shoe, looking at it. Walker couldn’t tell if he was thinking about the question or his mind had wandered off again.

  Then Dunn said, ‘No, no. I was with me mates.’

  ‘Why have you got kids’ toys in your flat?’

  ‘For the kids . . . Well, I mean, some of them, are theirs.’

  ‘Which toys specifically belong to the children?’

  Pulling a sullen face, Dunn shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I’ve got and what I haven’t got, do I?’

  ‘Any kids play in your flat last Thursday?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘You were with your pals, right? In the park?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll . . . what’s the word? Vouch for me, yeah.’

  ‘What do you mean, vouch for you?’

  ‘Well, you want to know where I was Thursday. They’ll tell you.’

  Walker sighed and looked at Satchell, then pulled out a cigarette, broke off the filter and lit up.

  ‘OK. What do you do when it’s not Thursday? Other days?’

  ‘You mean, when I got no money?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Stay in me flat, play videos . . . Well, I did play videos, till my video got nicked.’

  ‘Oh? How long ago was that?’

  Dunn shook his head and examined his fingernails. Each had a sickle-shaped deposit of black dirt beneath.

  ‘I don’t know. Months.’

  ‘And did you play videos for the kids?’

  ‘Yeah. I like cartoons. So do they.’

  ‘What about videos like The Terminator?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘And Child’s Play?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s brilliant.’

  ‘And how do those videos – videos like those – affect you?’

  Dunn frowned. He was puzzled.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘How do they make you feel?’

  Dunn frowned, staring up at the corner of the room. ‘Feel? Oh, well. Sometimes I get angry.’

  ‘And what do you do about that?’

  ‘Drink.’

  ‘In front of the kids? Are you watching these videos with kids?’

  Dunn smiled, a droopy movement of the lips. ‘Yeah, I did sometimes.’

  ‘Were you watching videos on Thursday?’

  Dunn straightened his drooping spine. ‘No!’ he flashed, angrily. ‘You’re not listening to me. I said I got no video now.’

  ‘OK. But when you used to watch videos, did you ever watch them with a little girl called Julie Harris?’

  Dunn had lapsed back into his former torpid state. He appeared not to hear.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  Dunn was fiddling with his Bic lighter, looking at it with interest.

  ‘What about her brother, Jason?’ persisted Walker.

  ‘They were just kids to me, off the estate,’ Dunn mumbled. ‘I don’t know their names.’

  Beside Walker’s chair on the floor was an exhibits bag, a canvas holdall. Now he reached into it and drew out the doll, sealed in a clear evidence bag, taken from Dunn’s flat.

  ‘I am now showing the interviewee exhibit number RC3.’

  He held it up and turned it. The artificial flesh showed through the transparent plastic like real skin. ‘Do you recognise this, Michael?’

  It was the first time Walker had called him by his first name. Dunn raised his head sharply, then looked away.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a doll.’

  ‘I know that. But this particular doll, Michael, we got from your flat.’

  Dunn gave that momentary glance again before returning to his examination of his feet. ‘It’s got an arm missing.’

  Walker sighed and spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘I am investigating the murder of Julie Ann Harris. A little girl. If you fail – or refuse – to account for this doll’s having been found in your flat, a proper inference may be drawn in court.’

  Dunn raised his eyes and looked at the doll. Walker turned the evidence bag through ninety degrees in front of his eyes which, though not as blank as they had been, remained dull and unresponsive. Perhaps he was considering what to say. Perhaps his sluggish, abused brain was genuinely striving to remember.

  ‘I found it,’ he said at last.

  ‘You found this doll?’

  ‘Yes. Up by the derelict houses. I want to go to the toilet.’

  Walker’s face was intense now. He searched Dunn’s face for the lie, for the flicker of fear, that would tell him Michael Dunn was a murderer.

  ‘When did you find it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you find the doll?’

  ‘Thursday. I found it on Thursday. Look, can I—’

  ‘When on Thursday did you find this doll? It’s very important that we know, Michael.’

  Dunn opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. The brain was working better now. He looked at Satchell, who thought he saw a moment, just a moment, of shrewd calculation. It was the look of an animal about to back out of a trap. Then Dunn turned to Walker again. His face creased into a smile. He leaned towards them and put a hand to the side of his mouth.

  ‘I lied,’ he confided in a whisper. ‘I had it for ages.’ He erased the smile and straightened up. ‘I have to go to the toilet now.’

  Walker leaned towards the tape machine. ‘Interview suspended at eleven fifteen a.m. to allow Michael Dunn to use the toilet.’

  *

  Outside the interview room, Walker and Satchell were intercepted by Pat North.

  ‘Mallory called. Says the tests on Julie’s stomach contents are going to take much longer than anticipated. Ditto Dunn’s clothes.’

  Walker groaned and shut his eyes. He stayed like that for a moment, then snapped back into action.

  ‘Get him a bloody solicitor,’ he told North. ‘In the meantime, we check out his so-called alibi.’

  ‘What do you reckon, guv?’ asked Satchell. ‘Is it Dunn?’

  Walker scowled. He looked as if he might spit. ‘Yeah. We just don’t have enough to charge him.’

  North returned to the Incident Room to check the house-to-house reports from Ashcroft Close and the other owner-occupied houses which had been trawled earlier. Barridge’s report was long and painfully detailed.

  *

  There have been a lot of thefts [she read] including washing, pegs, lines, plants and pots. Residents have repeatedly complained to the Council, who have promised to raise the height of the garden fences, but so far there has been no action. A Neighbourhood Watch scheme has not proved effective in stemming the level of crime and residents are critical of the police . . .

  Christ – he’d written a dissertation. She skimmed through the visit reports until one caught her attention.

  Number 17 Ashcroft Close: corner house. Owner occupier, Miss A. Taylor, reports that her washing line has recently been stolen. Post to which line was attached had also been recently painted.

  *

  Sergeant Satchell came hurrying in. ‘We’ve got a Belinda Sinclair, in reception. Duty solicitor for Michael Dunn.’

  North frowned, trying to place the name. ‘Sinclair?’

  ‘Sergeant Johns says she’s only been on the scheme a few months – correction, three weeks. She’s fresh as a daisy!’

  North held Barridge’s report before his eyes. ‘I’ll take her through to him. Check this, it’s Barridge’s door-to-door report.’ She laid the report against his chest in such a way as to give him no choice but to take it or let it fall. ‘Seventeen Ashcroft Close. Get a scene of crime officer on to the post, will you?’

  Satchell looked nonplussed. ‘What post?’

  ‘Miss Taylor’s clothes line post – Ashcroft Close.’

  ‘And? What’s it all in aid of?’

  North had begun to move. She stopped and turned. ‘The rope around the victim’s neck had traces of paint. It’s all in the MG dockets, Sarge, if you would only make time to read them!’

  *

  Belinda Sinclair was young and she was a rookie, which Walker knew before he met her. He’d provisionally marked her down as a pushover, but two things changed his mind when he saw her. Firstly, she looked him smack in the eye and the look had ambition written right through it like a stick of rock. Secondly, she was beautiful. If Ms Sinclair really knew how to handle herself, the beauty would be an asset every bit as useful as a doctorate in law or a father on the bench.