It was instinct, a house of cards put together on the spur of the moment, but as soon as the words were out, Gini knew she was on the right track: Chantal’s face went white. There was just one small convulsive movement of the hand, hastily covered up. She flicked the butt into the brimming ashtray in front of her and lit the last of her cigarettes.

“Fuck you. I’m getting sick of this. I’ll say this one last time. I don’t know Star. Never did. I don’t recognize your description—nothing. So get the fuck off my back.”

“Let me show you their photographs.”

Gini reached into her bag. She took out the pictures of Mina and Anneke and handed them to Rowland, who silently passed them across. Chantal jerked her head away.

“Look at them, Chantal,” Gini said in a quiet voice. “I think you never met either of them—but you knew about them, didn’t you? You knew about them and you wondered what they looked like. Didn’t you? Wondered what made Star interested in them, when he had you?” She paused. “Look at them and you’ll see. Two different girls—yet in one respect they’re alike. They both look younger than their age. They both look like children… Is that when it started to go wrong for you, Chantal? When you started to look too much like a woman? Was that it?”

She stopped. Rowland had quietly laid his hand on her arm in warning. Chantal bent her head to the pictures. She was now chalk white, and beginning to shake.

“How old were you when you looked that innocent, Chantal? Eight? Nine? Ten?”

“You fucking cunt.” Chantal scraped back her chair and rose unsteadily to her feet. “Listen”—she swung around to the impassive policewoman—“get her out of here. Get me out. You can’t fucking keep me here. I have rights…” She was trembling violently.

Rowland said quietly, “Gini—she needs a fix.”

“I know that. I could see that when we walked in. Chantal, show me your arms. Show me what else he did to you…”

Gini rose as she said this. Neither Rowland nor the policewoman moved. There was a silence; then, to Rowland’s astonishment, Chantal allowed her hands to be taken and the thin sleeves of her pullover to be gently eased back. The needle tracks ran the length of both arms, like barbed wire, from elbow to wrist.

Without speaking, Gini drew the sleeves down again. Chantal’s hands flexed and she began to bite her lip. She was beginning to sweat, and the trembling in her limbs had increased. Gini looked at Rowland, and one look was enough of a hint.

He came around the table and said in a low voice: “If we get you home—will that help?”

Chantal shot a quick look at the policewoman, who was careful to appear deaf; she gave a nod.

Rowland put his arm around her and began to draw her toward the door. “Let us take you back. The police are finished with you. We’ll get a cab. That will be quicker, okay?”