His phone rang, a WhatsApp call, intruding on his thoughts. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Rebecca. ‘Hey, gorgeous!’ he answered. ‘I was just thinking about you – how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow! I’ve told Marky I’m not available to drive for him for the next week – told him I need to wait home until she turns up. Know what I’m saying?’

She sounded strange as she replied. ‘I’ve been interviewed by the police. I think they’re suspicious.’

‘Of what?’

‘Hello? Eden has disappeared. They’ve seen us together up at the Dyke. What would you be suspicious of if you were a cop?’

‘Yeah, I know how it looks. But at the end of the day I haven’t harmed her and nor have you – unless you’re not telling me something?’

‘So now you think I’ve killed her? Thanks a million!’

‘Of course I don’t, my gorgeous.’ After a brief moment he added, ‘I love you.’

There was a silence.

‘Do you love me?’ he queried.

‘I don’t think we should be talking like this over the phone. If they’ve got us under surveillance, they might have bugged our mobiles.’

‘I don’t think so. And anyhow, WhatsApp is encrypted. They won’t be able to listen in.’

‘Really? So how did they find us at the Dyke?’

‘Other phone records? Are they watching us? I dunno. But I googled the authority the police need to bug anyone – there has to be a life at risk.’

‘And they don’t think Eden’s life is at risk?’

‘No, they think she’s dead – that was the gist of my interviews with them after they arrested me. They think I murdered her, as I told you.’

‘Even so, I think we should be careful over the phone.’

‘I bloody love you,’ he blurted. ‘I want you.’

There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘Did you not hear what I said?’

‘Yeah, sorry.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said tersely, ending the call.

96

Monday 9 September

The offices of the law firm Cardwell Scott were in a red-brick building occupying a corner site diagonally opposite the piazza in front of the modern glass edifice of Brighton Library.

Roy Grace and Glenn Branson walked in through the front entrance and up to the curved reception desk, behind which sat a woman with elegant, dark hair. She gave them a polite smile.

They showed their badges. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ Grace led. ‘We would like to speak to Jill Riddle.’

She glanced at her computer screen, then looked up at them. ‘Do you have an appointment, officers?’

‘No,’ Grace said. ‘But we need to speak to her urgently on a potential murder investigation we believe Ms Riddle may be able to help us with.’

‘Take a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll see if she’s free.’ She indicated to a sofa in front of a table with a spread of newspapers and local magazines, then lifted her handset.