Wayman folded his arms. “So tell me what I’m supposed to have done.”

“Last night at approximately ten fifty-five, you and another man assaulted a man outside a riverside flat.”

“I did no such thing,” said Wayman.

“Des,” Michelle said, leaning forward. “He saw you. He picked you out of the villains’ album.”

That seemed to stop him for a moment. He frowned, and she could almost see the wheels spinning, cogs turning in his addled brain, looking for a way out, an explanation. “He must be mistaken,” he said. “His word against mine.”

Michelle laughed. “Is that the best you can do?”

“His word against mine.”

“Where were you?”

“Matter of fact, I was having a bevy or two in the Pig and Whistle.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Lots of people. It was very busy.”

“That’s not far away from where the attack took place,” said Michelle. “What time did you leave?”

“Dunno. After closing time.”

“Sure you didn’t sneak out a few minutes early and then go back for last orders?”

“And waste good drinking time? Why would I do that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Not me, miss.”

“Show me your hands, Des.”

Wayman stretched his hands out, palms up.

“Turn them over.”

Wayman did as she asked.

“Where’d you get that skinned knuckle?”

“I don’t know,” said Wayman. “Must have brushed it against the wall or something.”

“And that ring you’ve got,” Michelle went on. “Sharp, I’ll bet. Sharp enough to cut someone. I bet there’ll still be traces of blood on the metal,” she said. “Enough to identify as your victim’s.”

Wayman lit a cigarette and fell silent. Even with the window open the air soon became thick with smoke. “Right,” said Michelle, “I’m sick of pissing about. DC Collins, let’s take Mr. Wayman down the station and organize an identity parade. That should settle things once and for all.”

Collins moved forward.

“Just a minute,” said Wayman. “I’m not going to no station. I’ve got an appointment. People are expecting me.”

“In your local. I know. But if you want to enjoy a nice pint this lunchtime, or any lunchtime for the next little while, you’d better tell us what we want to know.”

“But I’ve already told you. I didn’t do anything.”

“And I’ve told you. You were identified. Stop lying, Des. Do yourself a favor. Think about that nice, thirst-quenching pint sitting there on the bar at the Lord Nelson, just waiting for you.” Michelle paused to let the image sink in. She could do with a pint, herself, even though she rarely drank beer. The air was fast becoming unbreathable, and she didn’t know if she could stand it much longer. She had one last card to play before she would have to take Wayman in. “Trouble is, Des,” she said, “the man you attacked, the man who recognized you…”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“He’s a copper. He’s one of us.”

“Come off it. You’re trying it on. Trying to set me up.”