Reclining onto the hard rubber mattress rolled out on a concrete bench inside the cell, Alan debated which of Gus’s cohorts was responsible for Ruby’s murder. Deep down he knew it wouldn’t have been Gus himself because he never got his hands dirty when others were willing to do it for him. Alan wasn’t sure if Gus even availed himself of the services Ruby and her friends provided – he suspected he simply profited from them. Gus’s profession, the day job that occupied his hours outside of being a governor, was accountancy, and Alan always got the impression that money trumped everything for him, even sex.

Poor Ruby, though. Alan had only spoken to her the once, when she’d arrived early at the Pavilion one night just as he was opening up. She seemed like a sweet kid, friendly and polite, if out of it, like she was on something. She’d mistaken him for her first punter and when he explained who he was, she said she could squeeze him in if he wanted, for mates’ rates, on account of him knowing Gus. Her proposition horrified him and he said no. He hadn’t slept with anyone since Gayle.

Really, whoever was behind Ruby’s murder could be any man out of hundreds. Gus had boasted to him once about the number of clients his girls had, of the men queuing up to pay to sleep with them. From all walks of life they came, even community stalwarts who ran in the same circles as Gus, whose faces were familiar to readers of the Echo . . .

Alan sat up suddenly, remembering.

What was it Gus had said after he’d spoken to Gayle? Getting his ducks in a row. A councillor, business leaders, a police officer . . . and the star player of the local football team. Alan never went to matches but he knew the striker’s name: Marky Gates. Playing for a top-table second-division side meant the player’s involvement in a prostitution ring would make headlines.

He’d have to be clever about it, though.

He got up and banged on the door until the duty officer came to see what the fuss was about.

‘I want my phone call now,’ said Alan.

‘Are you calling your solicitor?’

‘No, a friend. I want to let them know I’m here.’

As Alan trailed the officer along the corridor, past identical cell doors, he remembered what Doug had said to him in The Wheatsheaf about making sure he had some insurance in place for when the shit hit the fan.

Well, the fan was spinning. This was his insurance.

He huddled over the phone so the duty officer couldn’t hear.

‘Gus, it’s me, Alan.’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘I’m at the police station. They want to question me about the body at the school.’

‘Shit.’

‘The thing is, I’ve heard them mention Marky Gates. I think they know about him.’