Chandler escorted Gabriel back to the station and fed him and his lawyer a story that they had to process his release and that with so few officers available it might take a while. Though Gabriel seemed somewhat mistrustful, he didn’t rail against it. He was confident in his innocence.

Mitch stormed in fifteen minutes later with a new vigour, ready to confront Heath with the evidence of his guilt.

‘Get Mr Barwell strapped into the interview chair,’ he said, striding into the office. ‘And have that lawyer of his there too.’

Chandler nodded for Tanya and Jim to do it before turning to Gabriel.

‘We’ll get you out of here, before we bring him in,’ said Chandler.

‘It’s okay, I can face him,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ll have to in court.’

‘That may be,’ said Chandler, ‘but, as you say, he’s already tried to murder you once, so why put yourself through any more stress?’

‘I go back to the cells?’

‘It’s all we’ve got, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there no other alternative, Sergeant?’ asked his lawyer.

‘He’s disappeared once already. We don’t want it happening again,’ said Chandler, addressing the lawyer but staring at Gabriel.

‘I’m not happy about this,’ said the lawyer. ‘My client stays here . . . for now. But only until I find him suitable accommodation elsewhere.’

Good luck with that, thought Chandler.

Chandler waited for Gabriel to resist, but there was only a reluctant nod. Then he walked towards the cells, as obedient as an innocent man as he was as a prisoner.

‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ Chandler called after him, but got the distinct impression that his captive was in no rush, exhausted after everything that he had been through.

He was still thinking about this as he entered the recording room. At Mitch’s insistence Luka was at the control desk this time and on the other side of the glass the man himself had already begun the cross-examination, an evidence bag waved in front of Heath’s face containing the missing piece of his shirt.

‘Where did you find that?’ Heath asked. Chandler noted the guilt in his voice.

‘At one of the graves, Mr Barwell.’

‘Okay,’ said Heath. ‘I lost it somewhere. Maybe when I fell.’

‘I don’t think you understand, Mr Barwell. It was wrapped around the handle of a pickaxe.’

Heath looked confused, a little flustered. ‘A pickaxe? How did it get there?’

‘You tell us.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Heath, panic seeping from him, perhaps realizing where this line of questioning was headed. He glanced at his lawyer, a jowly man in his mid-forties, perched on the seat beside him. ‘I didn’t put it there. I didn’t have a pickaxe.’

‘It does explain your hands, doesn’t it?’ said Mitch, maintaining his calm.

‘What do you mean?’ said Heath, staring at his hands.