‘The last time I saw Francesca Christie she was chained up in the basement of Norma Maguire’s house. If she’s not there now, Norma must’ve moved her somewhere else because she was spooked. I haven’t spoken to her since I’ve been in custody, so I don’t fucking know.’

‘When did you last speak to her?’

‘Half an hour before I came in to Trinity Road police station.’

‘Did you tell her you were coming here?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I was going to wash my hands of her, let her take the full rap for what she did. I was going to get away with my part. Wren was my way out of the shit. Along with the absolute lack of evidence pointing in my direction on the phone and laptop. All the evidence pointed her way. I was going to get away with it and drop Norma in the shit.’

‘What was the content of your last conversation with Norma?’

‘It was brief, very brief. I asked her why the money hadn’t been paid into my bank account. She told me she wasn’t happy with the quality of my work. Then she hung up on me.’

Clay took an envelope from her pocket and pulled a set of old photographs from it.

‘Who is Norma to you?’ asked Clay.

‘She’s fuck all to me.’

Clay turned the top photograph round.

‘We found these from a search of Norma’s office. They were behind framed portraits of her staff teams down the years. In the picture you’re looking at, Norma’s five years old or thereabouts. Who’s the little boy in the picture with her?’

‘No more pictures.’

‘Who’s the little boy in this picture?’ She laid down a photograph of a little boy with red curly hair, on his own in a large garden. ‘That looks like the back of Norma Maguire’s house,’ said Clay.

She placed a photograph of the same little boy, slightly older and with his hair cut short, smiling up at his mother.

‘That’s Catriona West,’ said Clay. ‘I recognise her from her publicity shots and stills from TV and films. Her stage name was Cecily Levin.’

She spread the photographs out. A boy’s journey from a toddler to a young child.

‘All of a sudden, when the boy turns five, the pictures stop. I want to know two things from you, Edgar. What was your part in these killings? And what happened when you were five?’

He pushed the pictures together and said, ‘Take them away from me.’

Deeply buried pain surfaced in his eyes.

‘If you want us to cut some slack with you, Edgar, you need to start talking now. Do you still want a reduced sentence? Or have you changed your mind in the last minute or so?’

He sat up and drew a huge breath.