Winters got out of his car and looked for 97 Armitage Gardens, the address Marlene had given him when she called him.

93. 95. 97 Armitage Gardens.

Winters tapped the double-glazed front door as Marlene had politely asked him to. The hall light came on instantly and a woman’s form hurried to the door.

‘Is that the police? DC Winters?’

‘Yes.’

The front door opened without hesitation.

Her face was clean, without any trace of lipstick, and her black hair was snatched back in a bunch.

Winters showed Marlene his warrant card.

‘Come in,’ she said, in a voice made up of multiple whispers.

She closed the front door and said, ‘Follow me.’

Barefoot, she was dressed in a red check shirt with grey jeans, and she looked nothing like she’d sounded on the phone. As he passed the closed door of the front room, Winters heard a movie playing on the television set, and it sounded like a romantic comedy.

As Winters sat at her kitchen table and she closed the door, he noticed a baby monitor plugged into the wall. She sat down and faced him, anxiety pouring from her.

‘What’s the matter?’

Listening to the quietness in her voice, he wondered how many other people were in the house and why she’d invited him to her home as opposed to meeting him in a neutral space, an option he’d given her up front.

‘Who’s in the house apart from you?’

‘My two small children and my mother.’

‘This is a sensitive matter. Where are they?’

‘My mother’s in the front room watching TV and my children are in bed. Can you please tell me why you’re here?’

‘It’s in relation to your work as an escort, Marlene. We have a man in custody at the moment in relation to a very serious offence…’

‘My mother has no idea of what I do,’ she interrupted. ‘She thinks I work in a pub in town.’

‘Marlene, I’m not here to upset your apple cart. I just need to know if you could confirm or deny his alibi.’

‘There’s probably going to be a huge problem here. I’d say most of my male clients are married, and so are many of my female clients. They don’t give me their real names. I certainly don’t give them mine. I’m not Marlene Black. My real name’s Susan Hurst. Who do you have in custody?’

‘Edgar McKee.’

‘Edgar? Edgar McKee? Are you serious?’

‘Yes, I’m serious, Susan.’

‘What on earth’s he done?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Edgar’s a regular. He’s kinky but he’s gentle. And he told me from the word go that he wasn’t going to hide anything from me. When he told me his name, he showed me his driving licence. I didn’t tell him my real name. This was his choice. That was mine. I’ve spent time with him this week.’