She looked from Latimer to Hobbes, seeking confirmation.

‘That’s all right, love, we believe you.’

‘Well, I hope so. I’m not making things up, you know.’

‘So, you talked to him quite a bit, I imagine.’

‘Oh, yeah, like once a week.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Theatre and stuff, like I said. Poetry, art. It was the first time I had someone proper to talk to, you know what I mean?’

Latimer nodded. ‘What about his family, his children?’

‘Sure, yeah, now and then he’d talk about stuff like that.’

‘Did he mention his son, Nicholas?’

‘This is the bloke … the guy who was killed in the park, right? Yeah, he was mentioned, in passing.’

‘Did you ever see Nicholas around here?’

‘No.’

‘You never saw any visitors?’

‘Now and then, maybe. But not often.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. What do you want, that I should be asking for names and addresses, or taking photos of them?’ Joan was getting fidgety. She slid further down in her seat, her legs splayed. The chair creaked loudly.

‘Why did he give you the dress? Was there any special reason?’

The girl didn’t answer. She was gazing into space.

‘Joan? Is there a story attached to the dress, anything that Leonard mentioned?’

‘Oh, yeah, sure. He went on about that a fair bit.’

‘And what did he say?’

Now she stared at Latimer intently, then at Hobbes. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is this important, like? The dress? It’s nothing to do with his son being killed, is it?’

At this point Hobbes stepped in. ‘It has everything to do with him being killed.’

Joan went quiet. She held his stare, then faltered, blinking. ‘But that can’t be right … Why would it be right?’

Hobbes knew he was lying, a little bit, or, more, allowing his convictions to become truth, a kind of truth in the moment of being said. ‘I believe it to be true,’ he added.

‘Look, I’m happy to come here, really, I’m happy to chat, but I don’t know what you want from me.’

Hobbes stood close to her. He bent down slightly.

Latimer said, ‘Hobbes, leave it. Let her be.’

The girl sneered. ‘Yeah … Hobbes. Leave it, like the lady says.’

The inspector raised his hands.

Latimer said to him, ‘Let’s allow her to talk.’

Hobbes gave a nod.

Latimer turned back to Joan Travis. This time she spoke in a monotone, knowing she had to shock the girl. ‘Nicholas Graves was killed without mercy, his head beaten repeatedly with a rock, until his skull caved in. I saw the body, as close as I am to you this moment.’

Joan stared at the detective sergeant.

‘Somebody is to blame for this terrible crime. We will catch them. Believe me when I say that. And you, Joan, you will help us. Because …’

Joan carried on with Latimer’s thought: ‘Because he was Leonard’s son?’

‘That’s right, love. So, what do you know? What are you holding back?’ Without either of them realizing it, Latimer had leaned over and taken hold of Joan’s hand. Her next words came out softly: ‘Don’t worry, Joan. I’m here for you.’