‘Get on to Sergeant Polk,’ he said wearily. ‘I want forensics down at Dunn’s flat – yes, again! The whole team. I want the floors up. I want every piece of bedbug shit turned over. I want something that’ll stick to Dunn like superglue and I want it today or, at the latest, tomorrow. We’ve got till ten a.m. or this investigation has gone to buggery.’

  CHAPTER 11

  SUNDAY 8 SEPTEMBER. 5 P.M.

  ‘HEY, BARRIDGE! What’s this? Mine was ham and cheese.’

  Barridge swivelled back to the superintendent’s desk, where he’d just deposited a coffee and a bagged sandwich. ‘Sorry, sir. I—’

  Walker held up the paper bag. ‘This is cheese and pickle.’

  Barridge looked at the cardboard tray he carried. He picked up another sandwich and gave it to the detective superintendent. ‘Sorry, sir. Sorry. Got mixed up.’

  Walker softened. He’d seen the look of panic on the constable’s face. ‘Look. It’s no big deal, OK? Just I don’t like pickle.’

  He tossed the unwanted package back to Barridge and opened the second bag. Barridge hovered, waiting to be sent on his way.

  ‘You all right, son?’ Walker asked in a low voice as he extracted the replacement sandwich. ‘I know it was you that found her. Living with you, is it?’

  Barridge tried to stand as upright as possible. ‘I’m all right, sir.’

  ‘If ever you want to talk about it, you can go to occupational health. That’s what they’re there for. I’ve been there, son.’

  Barridge, who didn’t think Detective Superintendent Walker had ever in his life so much as breathed the same air as an occupational health therapist, said, ‘Really, I’m—’

  ‘Don’t bottle it up. Which reminds me – Cranham!’

  ‘Yes, guv?’

  The exhibits officer came over and helped himself to a sandwich pack from Barridge’s tray.

  ‘I want those empty bottles collected from Dunn’s place and sent over to Mallory.’

  Cranham nodded as he tore open the sandwich. ‘I’ll sort it, guv. I’m on my way over now.’

  ‘Take PC Barridge with you. Dunn had a bit of a problem with recycling so you’ll need some extra muscle.’

  *

  An hour later, with Belinda Sinclair beside him, the suspect was back in the interview room facing Walker and Satchell across a table on which there were two brands of cigarette, a lighter, full ashtray, disposable cups. On the wall was a water cooler. The recording machine whirred.

  The police were like fishermen moving up and down a river-bank, casting for a rise, but so far the fish stayed locked to the bottom. After more than an hour of questioning, there had been no bites – nothing to enable Walker to charge Dunn.

  ‘This doll . . .’ Walker held up the nude plastic doll in its polythene evidence bag. ‘Julie had this with her when she left home. She was subsequently found dead. Now, I am asking you again Mr Dunn: why was this doll found in your flat?’

  Belinda turned her eyes on Dunn. Be careful. But Dunn seemed hardly to be attending.

  ‘My flat? I don’t know, do I? I mean, it used to be quite nice when I moved in, like. But me pals wrecked it, and the kids . . .’

  He was shivering in rhythm with the throbbing of his head. The white paper suit that he again wore rustled slightly in the hollow room. All sensation, but especially the perception of sound and light, seemed swollen and bruised to him. He reached for the white cup of water and gulped. It felt good except there was no sting of alcohol in his throat.

  ‘You haven’t answered the question, Michael.’

  Trying to stub his cigarette out against the inside of the cup, Dunn was burning a hole in the styrofoam. ‘I found it.’

  ‘When did you find it?’

  Still intent on extinguishing his butt, Dunn produced a tentative, truncated shrug. ‘About a year ago.’

  Walker leaned forward. ‘Where did you find it?’

  Dunn had by now poked the cigarette all the way through the cup. He peered at the protruding tip in surprise. An acrid smell permeated the room.

  ‘Will you please answer the question?’

  ‘On the building site – that building site on the estate.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Dunn?’

  Dunn glanced sideways at his brief, who smiled encouragingly. ‘Yes.’

  Now he was applying the tip of the cigarette tentatively to the white paper of his overall.

  ‘Do you like ice cream?’ asked Walker. ‘No.’

  ‘But you have a lot of ice cream wrappers in your flat. Where do they come from?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lots of people, like, come and go.’ Suddenly he was shouting and waggling his head. ‘Ice cream van – Ding-dong, ding-dong . . .’

  By now he’d burned a series of holes in his sleeve so that the pale, goose-pimply skin could be seen. Walker shook out a Marlboro and snapped off the filter.

  ‘Did you see Julie Harris last Thursday afternoon?’

  ‘No. I was with my friends, see? Like I told you.’

  ‘Yes – you have stated that you were with—’ Walker put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and lifted up his notes. ‘Terry Smith, another man you were unable to name, and a woman named Midge.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  Walker lit the little bush of tobacco that stuck out of the end of his cigarette. ‘Well, I’m afraid, Michael, that Midge Parker-Brown was not with you last Thursday. We have established that. We know where she was, and it was nowhere near you.’

  He studied Dunn intently. He was an angler again, scrutinising the broken surface of the river. ‘What do you have to say about that?’

  Dunn was now mashing his cigarette into his arm, to stub it out once and for all. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Mistaken? Can I just go back over that, Michael. You say you were mistaken. About what exactly?’

  Dunn looked up from his sleeve, which had begun to smoulder. ‘What? Sorry, what was the question?’

  Walker opened his mouth to repeat the question but he was forestalled. A pale blue flame had appeared on the suspect’s sleeve, rimming one of the worn holes he’d made with his cigarette. Then, abruptly, the fire took hold, turning yellow as it licked at the folds of the suspect’s sleeve. Dunn was on fire. He leapt up, screeching and pawing at the flame, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. In the same instant Satchell reached for his own water cup, leaned across and threw it over Dunn. With a truncated fizzle, the fire died.

  For a few beats, no one spoke. Satchell couldn’t, he was trying to control himself – Belinda Sinclair’s face could have put a fire out. Most of the water had gone over her anyway. She ran a hand through her hair and cleared her throat.

  ‘Superintendent Walker, I am suggesting a bathroom break.’ She smiled thinly at the interrogators. ‘If my client doesn’t require one, I most certainly do.’

  ‘Right,’ snapped Walker. Then, for the tape: ‘Interview suspended at seven-oh-two p.m., to allow Miss Sinclair to take a leak.’

  *

  At the forensic laboratory, a junior scientific officer rubbed his eyes under his plastic protective spectacles. Sometimes he got called in on Sunday, but not usually for a long shift. Police couldn’t afford it. Today, it seemed, was different and he could have done without it. Saturday’s rugger match, the party in the evening at Notting Hill and his night with that girl from Streatham – what was her name? – had taken its toll and he was shattered. Still, Sunday overtime was something else on this job.

  He reached a latex-gloved hand, holding a pair of laboratory tongs, into the black dustbin bag which stood beside his test bench, drawing out a crushed and soggy cereal packet. He carefully prised it open to see if anything had been pushed inside. Sometimes at parties he described himself for effect as a garbologist. Other people’s rubbish might be one of the least pleasant, but it was potentially the most revealing, of the stuff that came in for lab examination.

  He dined out on the story of when he’d found a set of false eyelashes in the bin of an international opening batsman and DNA testing proved that the cricketer had worn them himself. It actually had nothing to do with the case, but he had never been able to watch the guy play in a Test Match since then without wondering if he wore them on the field.

  The cereal packet was empty. He placed it with a pile of discarded packaging and recorded it on his inventory, then tonged out a lump of cheese with a rich crop of furry grey mould growing all over it. Seven to eight weeks’ worth, he estimated. He made a note of it and fished again.

  The tongs connected with something which at first slipped from their jaws. He took a firmer grip and pulled again. The thing was mixed up with other refuse and he had to tug it free. When it came loose he could see what it was – a tangle of red and blue washing line. One end had a loop. The other looked cut.

  He flipped back the pages on his clipboard to the case report, just to make sure: ‘A piece of plastic-coated line ligated around the neck, resembling a clothes line. Colour, red and blue.’

  He left the desk and went looking for Arnold Mallory.

  *

  ‘I don’t know about any rope!’

  They’d been just about to resume questioning the suspect when North had clattered down the stairs. She virtually ran at Walker and Satchell, who’d been about to follow Dunn and his brief into the interview room.

  ‘Guv, hold it a second! Lab’s found something . . .’

  When she told him, his face tightened and he grabbed her shoulders, planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Yes!’

  Back in the interview room, he told Dunn what he had found, then listened as the man tried pathetically to deny all knowledge.

  ‘I don’t know how it got in my bin! I don’t!’ he bleated.

  Walker interrupted him, placing both palms flat on the tabletop and leaning forward to make sure he was clearly understood.

  ‘Michael Frederick Dunn,’ he said, ‘I am now charging you with the murder of Julie Ann Harris . . .’

  CHAPTER 12

  MONDAY 9 SEPTEMBER. 9.30 A.M.

  AT LEAST an hour of Walker’s insomnia that night had been occupied with the magistrate’s impending decision on bail. It would complicate things badly if Dunn was released. Walker still needed unfettered access to his flat – with the unused section of washing line found there, more evidence had to be forthcoming. Had to be. But if Dunn was out and about – living in the flat, because for sure he had nowhere else to go – that would badly screw up the forensic effort.

  It was deep within Walker’s nature to lie awake envying his wife’s snores and worrying about tomorrow, but in this case it was all unnecessary. Next morning, Belinda Sinclair put in a noticeably half-hearted submission, probably preferring to have her client in the Scrubs where she could always find him and he couldn’t drink. Knew what she was doing, that girl, Walker had to admit it. The magistrate duly ignored her trite remarks about her client’s good intentions and summarily denied bail. Sinclair didn’t even appear disappointed; Dunn didn’t look as if he knew the time of day.

  *

  A dark fog of bewilderment swirled through the accused’s head as he sat in the cells beneath the magistrates’ court. Fresh as spring in her expensively labelled clothes, Miss Sinclair sat opposite him, pushing a small sheaf of forms and a biro across the table.

  ‘Some more forms for you to put your signature to, Michael. This one’s the final legal aid document. That’s so that we can be paid for defending you.’

  Dunn stared gravely at the paper and picked up the pen. But he did nothing. Belinda got up and looked at the prison officer standing guard by the door.

  ‘I just need to show him where to sign – all right?’

  The screw nodded and she moved to Dunn’s shoulder. He could smell the mix of different perfumes as she leaned nearer – shampoo in her hair, a scented soap maybe and who knows what else? It stirred him out of his lethargy and he aimed the pen towards the dotted line, where her varnished fingernail gleamed.

  ‘Sign here – see?’

  Dunn looked up and down the document. ‘It’s a blank form.’

  ‘Yes – we’ll fill it out later. Just sign.’

  Dunn wrote his signature in a shaky, childish script.

  ‘And here and here and finally here.’

  Dunn kept signing until she was satisfied. She took the pen from his hand and moved back to her seat, opening a thick notepad. Dunn looked at her, squinting. He was not used to looking at beauty. It seemed to make his situation even more confusing.

  ‘OK, Michael. Let’s start with your parents’ name and address.’

  ‘I don’t have any – parents.’

  Belinda scribbled a note and said, ‘So, where were you brought up?’

  ‘Foster homes. I don’t know if I can remember them all.’

  She tapped the biro against her perfectly white teeth and began to speak, but Dunn cut in.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about them.’ He lit a cigarette. He was edgy, looking away into a corner of the room. ‘I don’t, er, remember a lot of things. They said it was me blanking it all out.’

  Belinda waited, staring at her client. She gave him a few seconds, then said, gently, ‘Blanking out what, Michael?’

  Dunn’s attention was still fixed in the room’s corner. He seemed not to hear her.

  ‘Blanking out what, Michael?’

  Three dull blows on the door echoed around the cell. The prison officer turned and looked through the spyhole.

  ‘That’s the transportation. Sorry, Miss Sinclair, we can’t wait any longer.’

  With a sigh, Belinda closed her notebook. Dunn looked at her. He was quite good-looking really, under all that crud. But he also looked touchingly lost and alone.

  ‘Where are they taking me?’ he asked, looking at her now. He had the eyes of an abandoned puppy.

  ‘You’ll go to Wormwood Scrubs, Michael.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘The magistrate has denied your bail. You’ll stay there until the trial.’

  ‘What d’you mean? What am I going to do? What’s it going to be like?’

  Sinclair might be a rookie, but she knew something about what it was going to be like. It was going to be hell in a box. Persecution without end, bawled at day and night, cut up in the showers, your food spat into. Nobody had a worse time inside than a man who might have killed a child – except for a man who actually had.

  She stood up and said as softly as she could, ‘You’ll have to be very, very patient, Michael. Do what they say, and don’t cause trouble. Will you do that?’

  The prison officer swung the door open and moved to stand behind the prisoner. He hooked his hand under Dunn’s arm and drew him to his feet.

  *

  Going through the day like a robot, Anita had spent a lot of time waiting for the television news. There had been a bulletin on BBC1 at eleven and, still in her dressing gown, she watched it with close attention. The case wasn’t even mentioned and she felt bitterly disappointed. Was this what it all amounted to? Her little girl’s life worth a couple of days’ media attention, and then nothing?

  After the news was over, she didn’t move, just flicked the picture over to ITV, a morning chat show. She knew there was another news in an hour so she sat on, watching the image on the screen whisk from face to face. She couldn’t have told you what they were saying.

  Peter was sitting with a pile of music CDs on his knee, sorting through them. He wanted to play something loud and violent. He certainly didn’t want to watch a bunch of lottery winners and minor TV stars talking about their philosophy of life.

  ‘There wasn’t anything about her on the news,’ said Anita.

  Peter grunted.

  She went on, ‘Maybe there will be on the later one.’

  Peter tossed a CD down and picked up another one. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Go on. You just sit there and wait for it. Whole place needs hoovering, but don’t worry. You sit there. Nothing else to do, is there?’

  Anita closed her eyes and rocked forward slightly across her folded arms. ‘Oh, stop it, Pete. Just stop it.’

  But Peter was just starting. ‘There’s no reason for your mother to stay either. I’m sick and tired of her bunking up in here.’

  He put on a mimicking falsetto. ‘Thomas this, Thomas that. You ask me, she fancies Thomas herself. And hasn’t he been a pain in the arse? I’m glad he’s gone back.’

  ‘Maybe I need Mum.’

  ‘And what about me? You don’t need me?’

  Anita looked at him. She seemed drugged, out of it. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Feels like it.’

  He crashed the heap of CDs on to the coffee table, picked up another from the floor and began impatiently dealing them down on to the table like a pack of cards. When he spoke again, she heard the sing-song of self-pity in his voice.

  ‘I touch you and you, like, cringe away. Sleep as far from me in bed as you can. Don’t cook any more. You bloody do nothing but sit in front of the TV, waiting for the news!’

  She slid back against the chair, her body going limp. ‘I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘So am I.’

  When Helen came in seconds later she found the two sitting in silence. She carried a tray which she placed on a low table. There were two mugs of tea on it.

  ‘Here you are, love.’

  She handed Anita a tea then took the other one and subsided with a sigh into the vacant armchair. Peter looked at her murderously. Then, with a sweep of his arm, he knocked the CDs off the table, clattering them across the carpet. One or two hit the wall and bounced back. He jumped up, glared at the two women for a moment and slammed out of the room. A few seconds later they heard the flat’s front door cannon against its frame.

  Helen took an audible sip of tea, staring fixedly at the wall. ‘Good riddance,’ she observed.

  Anita switched off the television and touched her mother on the arm. ‘Mum. Maybe, you know, it’s a small flat and I do appreciate you being here. I don’t know what I’d have done without you, really. But . . .’