‘Sorry, ma’am.’ He reached them, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees. ‘I tried … to get ahead … cut him off. It was … further than I thought.’

‘Good thinking.’ She tried not to let exasperation taint her response as she began marching their captive away. ‘But next time, old-fashioned catching up will do.’

40

‘Name?’

‘No comment.’

‘What were you doing outside the building on Cavendish Square?’

‘No comment.’

‘You were seen in the area on a previous occasion.’ Pause. ‘We can obtain the CCTV footage, trace your route, find out who you are and where you came from. It’ll take longer, but the outcome will be the same, and it looks much better if you just tell me. So why don’t you save us all the hassle?’ Hawkins sat back, more and more disconcerted at her interviewee’s enduring refusal to talk.

The man she’d arrested just off Oxford Street an hour ago didn’t reply straight away, perturbed eyes jumping between her and Chris, both of whom sat opposite him in their cramped but surprisingly modern surroundings.

From the outside, West End Central Police Station looked every one of its seventy years, a stained, square-edged grey eyesore at the end of Savile Row, chosen for this conversation because it was five minutes’ drive from where she’d made the arrest. Yet inside the building was a different story, Met funds perhaps having been channelled by the commissioners who bought their suits from the shops a stone’s throw from its door.

It was Hawkins’ first visit here, and she’d been slightly taken aback by the smell of real wood and leather as they’d marched their captive to the equally upmarket interview room, with its modern paint job and fingerprint entry. Their appointed officer, as the stocky Indian sergeant now standing out in the corridor had introduced himself, organized the surprisingly good coffee Hawkins had just finished, and politely explained that he was on call to provide assistance throughout their stay.

She’d resisted asking to see the spa facilities.

At last the watcher replied. ‘No comment.’

‘Really?’ Hawkins rubbed the back of her neck, now hoping that a little outward exasperation might impress on her opponent the tedium of his strategy.

No such luck.

They stared at each other across the table.

The watcher, still nameless, appeared to be in his early forties, a compact, wiry man with stubble trimmed into a neat goatee, and an olive tint to his skin that suggested Mediterranean lineage. Cropped black hair grew evenly across his scalp, culminating in a well-defined peak above his eyes. There was a pleasing symmetry to his face.

The two words he’d repeated since being detained were delivered in English perfect enough to be his first language, backed up by British labelling on his clothes. It seemed their problem wasn’t one of comprehension.

So why wouldn’t he talk?