‘What’s going on?’ asked Chandler.

‘Nothing that concerns you,’ replied Mitch.

‘Where are they off to?’

Chandler’s phone started to ring again.

‘Just concentrate on keeping the locals calm,’ said Mitch, then asked, ‘Has Mrs Juniper rung in yet?’

Mrs Juniper was the local busybody, Kid Maloney’s ex-wife who married him in a fit of rebellion and divorced him when her senses returned. If it made a smell she had her nose in it. Or at least she used to.

‘She’s been dead four years,’ said Chandler.

What should have been a moment of reflection or discomfort merely brought an unaffected shrug to Mitch’s shoulders and his unhurried return to the office.

Nick passed Chandler, on his way back to the front desk.

‘Where are they off to, Nick?’

The young constable shook his head and kept going. The speed of his escape made Chandler believe he was holding something back. Mitch was slowly unravelling the close-knit station he had built.

Chandler called after him. ‘Nick?’

‘I dunno, Sarge, honest. They whispered it to each other. I didn’t hear.’

Mitch appeared at Chandler’s shoulder. ‘I want to interview Mr Barwell.’

‘What’s stopping you?’

‘You have the keys, Sergeant.’

Chandler rose from his seat, shorter in height than Mitch but more intimidating physically; false padding wasn’t needed for his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll come in with you.’

Mitch shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want any contamination from previous questioning. A fresh sheet of paper.’

‘But I’ll be able to tell if he’s changed his story.’

‘So will I,’ said Mitch, pointing to his temple, ‘I know it off by heart.’

‘An extra pair of ears never hurt.’

Mitch paused, his lower jaw and chin jutting out, an involuntary and ungainly reflex he’d had since he was a boy. ‘Okay, Sergeant, but I lead. You keep your mouth shut.’

‘You lead,’ said Chandler, biting his tongue. Anything was better than answering phones.

Chandler entered the cells, Mitch close behind. He opened the slat, the squeak echoing around the corridor. Heath’s face thrust at the space like a dog seeking food, nothing but his mouth on view. His bark was full of questions.

‘What’s happening out there? Who are all these people?’

‘Mr Barwell, please step back from the door,’ ordered Mitch, calm but commanding, any trace of his boyhood accent gone. Chandler wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he had gone to a voice coach to refine it, given the money and dedication he put into his clothing and manufactured style.

‘Who’s he?’ Heath asked Chandler, indicating Mitch. ‘My lawyer?’

‘He’s an inspector. He’s come to interview you. Now please step back.’

As Chandler prepared to open the cell door Mitch eased his jacket back and rested his hand on his firearm. Chandler wondered if he had ever used it and quickly decided he probably had.