“It’s American, paint-on nails; your own grow underneath.” She held out a hand for Tennison to inspect. “See, they look real, don’t they? But that part’s false.”

Havers, trying to look interested, stifled a yawn. Amson was half-asleep.

“Aah, I see!” Tennison nodded, then asked nonchalantly, “Did you do Miss Pauline Gilling’s nails?”

Without a flicker, Moyra replied, “Look, love, I do so many, I don’t know all their names.”

“Surely you’d remember Pauline Gilling? George was sent down for attacking her . . .” She pushed a photograph across the table.

Moyra refused to look at the photo and snapped, “No, no! An’ she lied, she came on to George! She’d been in the pub, she lied . . .”

“What about Della Mornay? Did you do her nails?” She put another photograph on the table.

“No!”

“Take a look, Moyra. Della Mornay.”

“I don’t know her!”

“No? You stated that George returned home on the night of the thirteenth of January this year at ten-thirty . . .”

Under pressure again, Moyra fought back. “Yes! Look, I know my rights, this isn’t on! I’ve been here for hours, I’ve answered your questions, now I want a lawyer.”

“George’s car, the brown Rover, where is it? We know he has a lock-up, Moyra, and we’ll find it, it’s just a question of time. I’ll need to talk to you again.” She stood up. “OK, you can go, thank you.”

“Is that it? I can go home?”

Tennison nodded and walked to the door, leaving Moyra nonplussed.

It was light before Moyra got home. George made her a cup of coffee and brought it to her in the lounge.

“Bastards are going to get me for fiddling the dole and tax evasion. They know I’ve been working.”

“They kept you all night just for that?”

“There were a few other things.”

“What? What did she want to know? Ask about me, did she?”

Moyra stood up and started unbuttoning her blouse. “What do you think?”

She walked out of the room and, after a moment’s hesitation, Marlow followed her to the bedroom. She tossed her blouse aside and unzipped her skirt, leaving it where it fell. He picked them up and folded them while she went into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the bath taps.

“What are you following me around for?”

“I just want to know what went on!”

She turned to him, snapping. “They wanted to know about the bloody florist! Kept asking me about her. I’ve stood by you, George, but so help me if I find you’ve been lying to me I’ll . . .”

She turned and walked out. “Put some Badedas in for me . . .”

He picked up the big yellow bottle and squirted some of the contents into the water, then stood in the doorway, watching her cream her face.