‘No no, someone else was convicted of the murder. It’s the description of the victim that’s the possible connection to Foxley. Arlene Wicks, originally from Liverpool, worked out of a small massage parlor in World’s End, Chelsea. It was shut down a few years ago but . . . ’ He passed Jane a fax print-out dated seven years previously. Jane looked at the rather blurred and faded black and white mug shot. It had the word ‘DECEASED’ stamped across it. The description read: Born in Bootle, Liverpool, aged 22, 5 foot, 1 inch, 215 pounds, arrested for soliciting three times.’

Jane looked up as Arnold shrugged. ‘His ex-wife lied for him. They got the guy that killed the poor girl, but if it’s the right incident then it shows that all that time ago Foxley was using the same type of whore.’

Jane passed back the fax sheet to Arnold, noticing that he had some sticking plaster around his very heavy gold wedding band. He caught her looking and gave her a smile.

‘Lost weight and I’m scared to death of it dropping off. If I lose it, Bronwyn would never forgive me. And I have to wear a belt on my trousers to hold them up now. Think I’ve lost about twenty-five pounds. All the years I’ve been on diets, but it was the hospital food that did it. I couldn’t eat the stuff!’

‘It suits you.’ Jane smiled.

She watched as he added Arlene Wicks’s details to the blackboard, then turned to Spencer.

‘Those betting slips you found in Foxley’s office – might be worth checking out the betting shops he frequented. We are also waiting on the lists of in- and outgoing calls Foxley made from his office and the basement flat.’

‘On it, guv,’ Spencer said, tight-lipped.

A little over an hour later they reconvened in the boardroom. A large TV screen had been wheeled in with a video recorder attached. They all drew their chairs up to one end of the room and the blinds were drawn. The tech support officer explained that they had worked flat-out to splice the tapes, but only some of the footage had sound, and a lot of the imagery was blurred.

Jane sat beside Spencer. There had been no time yet to discuss his visit to Mandy Pilkington’s. ‘That must have been a fascinating morning,’ she whispered.

‘You’re telling me!’ he replied with a grin. ‘There are some sick pervs out there all right. That giant baby’s cot and big plastic baby bottles and pacifiers – she said she gets a lot of clients that want to be dressed up in nappies. Or those rubber suits . . . Jesus, I don’t know how they get into them.’

Tyler clapped his hands. ‘OK, attention, everyone. Thanks to Tim here we’ve got it up and rolling now. So let’s have a look at him.’