“Says who?”

“Megan’s best friend. Some girl called Hannah.”

“Would she be a character witness?”

Pete laughs. “She wants to nail him to a cross. I had to tell her I was with the prosecution to get her to talk to me at all.”

“Shame. Anything else?”

“Chris was an escort.”

I stop drinking with my mug halfway to my lips. “He was a what?”

“An escort. Well, that’s a bit of a euphemism. More like a high-class call boy.”

“Did Megan know?”

“I highly doubt it. He gave it up a while back, before they met. But, from what I’ve found out about Megan, I doubt she would have taken finding out about his seedy past too well.”

“You think that was her motive?”

“I’m not saying it was her motive. I’m just saying that—narratively at least—it isn’t too much of a stretch to say that she found out he had lied to her, perhaps even given her something nasty. There may be at least one person on that jury who would think that was a good reason for her to pin him for murder.”

“It’s weak.”

“It’s the best I could find.” Pete stands up and straightens his jumper over the small gut he appears to be developing.

“Let’s get breakfast,” I say, clapping him on the back. “To celebrate.”

A look of confusion crosses his face.

“You found nothing to make the jury think he’s a murderer. I don’t have to prove Megan is framing him. I just have to cast doubt that he killed Megan. And if you can’t find anything, then no one can.”

Pete smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “Does that mean you’re paying for breakfast?”

“That depends.” I can tell he’s been holding out on me, that he has another ace up his sleeve.

“I found his Cloud server. From when he was escorting. He kept a lot of videos.” He pulls out a small USB stick from his pocket and slides it along my kitchen counter, his eyes fixed on mine.

“Who?” I am almost salivating.

Pete breaks into a wide-mouthed smile. “No one who will help you get Chris off. But you might be able to get into that club you’ve always talked about. I don’t think Mrs. Chalmers would want that video to see the light of day.”

I place my hand over the USB stick. Mrs. Chalmers runs a very exclusive club just off Covent Garden, a place you need a certain pedigree to even cross the threshold of, let alone to enjoy a Gibson and appreciate the charms of the entertainment. Last year, she declined my application. I don’t think she will this year.

Jeremy Crumpton always wins. Eventually.

“There is a lot of evidence that doesn’t go in your favor.” I can hear myself clipping the words, the lid on my anger barely staying sealed. I have finally received the initial findings from the prosecution. It is bad.

Chris sits back in his chair and picks up the cup of coffee I brought him. I want to wrench the cup from his fingers and throw the contents in his face.