Michelle knocked at the scratched red door of number 15. The man who opened it seemed surprised to see her. It was Des Wayman, no doubt about it. The pug nose gave him away, and the piggy eyes. He was wearing grubby jeans, with his shirt hanging out.

“Who are you? I thought it was a mate of mine,” he said with a leer. “I’m off out. But seeing as you’re here, how about coming with us for a drink?”

Michelle showed her warrant card and DC Collins followed suit. The man’s expression became wary.

“Mr. Wayman?” Michelle said.

“And what if it is?”

“We’d like a word, sir. Mind if we come in?”

“Like I said, I’m just on my way out. Can’t we talk down the pub?” He licked his lips and nodded toward the pub at the bottom of the street, the Lord Nelson. Then he looked at Collins. “And you can leave your chaperon behind.”

“It’d be better here, sir,” Michelle insisted. When Wayman made no move, she walked past him into the house. He stood and looked at her for a moment, then followed her into his living room, DC Collins right behind him.

The place was a tip, to put it mildly. Empty beer cans littered the floor, along with overflowing ashtrays. The heavy curtains were closed, allowing just enough light to illuminate the mess. The medley of smells was hard to define. Accumulated dust, stale beer and smoke, with overtones of used socks and sweat. But there was more: something vaguely sexual that turned Michelle’s stomach. She flung the curtains open and opened the window. The latter took a bit of doing, as it hadn’t been open in a long time and had jammed. DC Collins lent a hand, and the two of them finally got it open. The still, humid air outside didn’t help much, and the room looked even worse in full light.

“What are you doing?” Wayman protested. “I value my privacy. I don’t want the whole fucking estate looking through my window.”

“We value our health, Mr. Wayman,” Michelle said. “It’s already at risk just by being here, but a little fresh air might help.”

“Sarky bitch,” said Wayman, sitting down on a worn and stained sofa. “Get to the point, then, love.” He picked up a can of beer from the table and ripped the tab. Foam spilled over the top, and he licked it off before it fell to the floor.

Michelle looked around and saw no surface she felt comfortable sitting on, so she stood. By the window. “First off, don’t call me ‘love,’” she said, “and second, you’re in a bit of trouble, Des.”

“What’s new? You lot are always trying to set me up.”

“This isn’t a setup,” said Michelle, aware of DC Collins paying careful attention to her. She hadn’t explained much to him in the car; all she had said was not to take notes. He hadn’t a clue what this was all about, or how it linked to the Graham Marshall case. “It’s cut and dried.”