Insch dug a bag of carrot sticks from his pocket and stuffed one into his mouth, crunching and frowning at the same time. ‘The Hardgate Hobo? What about him? ’

‘She killed him. She lured him away with a bottle of booze, drove him out to the middle of nowhere, and burned him. All for your bloody film!’

‘Don’t be an idiot. The gentleman she allegedly assaulted has dropped the charges. Now let her get back to work.’

Back to work. . .?

Logan jabbed a finger in Insch’s chest. ‘You knew!’

‘I have no idea what—’

‘Don’t, OK? Just. . .’ He marched away half a dozen paces, then back again. ‘Roy Forman died, screaming in agony.’

The only sound was the rain, making drum-rolls on Insch’s umbrella. ‘Morgan Mitchell – didn’t – kill – anyone.’

‘She was there the night he was abducted. She says she was with Nichole Fyfe, but what do you want to bet Nichole was so stoned you could’ve paraded half the circus up and down in front of her and she wouldn’t have noticed? ’

Insch’s face was growing darker, the muscles along his jaw rippling. ‘And I’m telling you—’

‘All that bollocks about “You can’t just turn up and drone out your lines, you’ve got to inhabit the part. You’ve got to live it.” She killed Roy Forman just so she’d know what it felt like.’

He clenched his eyes shut, two trembling fingers pressed against the folds of skin at his neck – taking his pulse. A thick vein throbbed on his forehead. ‘Morgan wouldn’t—’

‘You said it yourself.’ Logan poked him in the chest. ‘She’s a method-acting nutjob. She thinks this performance is going to catapult her to superstar—’

‘NO!’ Spittle flew from Insch’s mouth, accompanied by little flecks of chewed carrot. ‘MORGAN MITCHELL DIDN’T KILL ANYONE!’

Logan took a step back. ‘She did it, and she thinks we can’t touch her.’

‘She. . .’ Air hissed in and out of his nose, like a broken bellows. ‘I’ve sunk everything I’ve got into this bloody film. We can’t afford to go back and reshoot every single scene Mrs Shepherd—’

‘What the hell happened to you? ’ Logan turned on his heel and marched back towards the station. ‘You used to be a police officer.’

‘Look, Inspector McRae, if you’re just going to sit there and scowl at my client, I don’t see any point in continuing this interview.’ Anthony Chung’s lawyer gathered together his paperwork.

‘Maybe if your client said something other than “no comment”, Mr Blake, we’d actually get somewhere.’

Sitting on the other side of the table, Anthony Chung just smiled at him.

Fine.

‘Constable Buchan: do the honours.’

‘Interview suspended at ten fifty-two.’ She reached forward and switched the audio and video off.

Blake stood, but his client stayed where he was.