‘You’re very connected to this, Ian,’ Thistle adds.

McLean is breathing faster. ‘Oh God. I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

Thistle and I look at each other. McLean definitely looks nervous. But is that because he’s guilty, or because he’s not?

‘We’re not saying anything at this point.’ Thistle slides a business card across the table. ‘But do me a solid—call us if you’re planning on leaving the state.’

•

‘Thoughts?’ I ask as we head for the car.

‘I don’t think I’d send him a wink,’ Thistle says.

‘No. But is he hiding anything?’

‘Not enough, in my view. Like Shannon.’

I climb into the passenger side. ‘How’s that?’

‘Talking about attractive users, and his own desirability score. It reminded me of how Shannon admitted to hitting on those freshmen. How he made that girl fetch you a coffee. I hate this fucking “be yourself” culture. If you’re an asshole, you should at least have the decency to hide it.’

I never thought of my dishonesty as a character strength. It’s a shame I can’t tell her about it. ‘But do you think he might be our guy?’

Thistle starts the car. ‘No. You saw him—he was shitting his pants. If we’re right, our perp has killed seventeen people, including Biggs. He would have done a better job at acting calm.’

‘Maybe the anxiety was the act.’

‘You think?’

‘I think it’s worth going to his house,’ I say.

‘We don’t have a warrant.’

‘We don’t need one. I just want to see if his story stacks up. What he said about the woman he saw out the window.’

McLean and Ruthven’s apartment building isn’t far away. It turns out to be two-storey, brick, with narrow windows that wouldn’t let in much light. Bird-crap trailing down the sides. Not the kind of place with a doorman, though all the ground floor stairwell doors are locked.

I know from the file that we want number eleven. I push the buzzer.

‘You expecting an answer?’ Thistle asks.

‘Shh.’ A buzzing is faintly audible from one of the apartments above our heads. I point. ‘Sounds like it’s coming from up there, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Push it again.’

I do. The buzz is coming from the top-level apartment on the right.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Thistle admits.

I walk back to the car and turn to look up at the window. A dark square of glass, turned into a parallelogram by the angle. A bottle of detergent balanced on the frame, probably above the kitchen sink. If there was a woman, and she did park here, McLean might have seen her face as he washed the dishes. Maybe.

‘With a court order, we can find out who the woman was,’ Thistle says.