Edgar McKee sat down, his face bright red, his breathing heavy.

‘She’s a fucking whore, do you believe her?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Clay looked at Riley, addressing the answer directly to her colleague.

‘Me too,’ responded Riley.

‘What are you bitches smirking at?’

‘I’m not smirking,’ said Clay. ‘Are you, Gina?’

‘Nooo…’

‘She went on to explain that she stuck things up your anus, phallic objects, and that you used to perform oral sex on her because, I guess, there was no point in her performing it on you because your penis was flaccid.’

Edgar McKee looked at his solicitor. ‘Say something. Do something.’

‘DCI Clay, what are you establishing with this?’

‘Two things.’

She pulled up the pictures McKee had taken of himself on her iPhone.

‘There were a lot of selfies on your phone, Mr McKee, that support Susan Hurst’s version of events.’

She showed him the images he’d made, penetrating himself with a rolling pin.

‘There’s a lot of naked selfies but there isn’t a single image in which your penis is erect. You clearly enjoy having items inserted inside your body. So, you’re a liar. You lied to Wren. We know that. Sandra O’Day, Annie Boyd and Amanda Winton. There was no sign of sexual trauma on any of them. That’s because you’re not capable. Your impotence ties you in even more closely with what happened to these poor women. You must hate women. You must hate men who push prams, men who can build relationships with women and perform adequately in the bedroom. But women? You must hate them with a vengeance. Talk about salt in the wound.’

‘Do you hate women?’ chipped in Riley.

Rage was printed deep inside his eyes and his head rocked from side to side as if his brain was about to start dribbling out from both ears.

‘Are you impotent, Mr McKee?’

Clay tapped the screen of her iPhone.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted.

‘DC Winters gave me her number. You think her name’s Candy.’

‘Who?’

‘Erica. I’m calling her.’

‘Stop! Stop it now!’

‘It’s ringing out. I’m going for a second opinion. It’s gone to answer machine. Hello, Erica. My name’s DCI Eve Clay. You personally have nothing to worry about. I want to ask you…’

‘Hello?’ A woman spoke.

‘Is that Erica?’ asked Clay, staring at McKee, twisting on his seat.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Edgar McKee.’

‘Susan tipped me off. I was expecting a call from you. Edgar McKee’s a limp dick. A perv who can’t perform. Do you want the details?’

‘Lying cunt!’ screamed McKee.

‘Fuck off, McKee,’ retaliated Erica. ‘I’ve got a nickname for you. Tic Tac Dick.’

‘Thanks for that, Erica.’

‘I’m coming for you next!’ shouted McKee.

She disconnected and Clay looked across the table at McKee, Harris and Watson either side of him.