He eased himself down behind his desk at 9.30 a.m. There was not much going on in CID, but even so it was noticeably quiet. The support staff at the back were casting not-so-furtive glances in his direction, and he got the impression that they weren’t the only ones, although he kept his eyes fixed on the pile of documents in front of him, willing himself towards some kind of lucidity.

The previous hour had not been pleasant. He’d woken up, fully clothed, sprawled on the sofa in the living room. An empty mug and a bottle of Courvoisier were within easy reach on the floor. The bottle, although somewhat depleted, was not empty. Small mercies.

He’d never been one to suffer headaches or particularly severe hangovers, so he got himself up without much trouble and made his way upstairs for a shower. He was weak and shaky, but none the worse for wear. With each step, though, the events of the previous night began to take shape in his mind.

By the time he felt the blast of scalding hot water on his naked body, the full horror of what he’d done hit him. After calling the data clerk last night, he’d retired to the sofa to wait. The brandy must have gone with him. The next thing he remembered was his phone ringing. By that stage he was drunk, half-asleep, and only passably articulate. Yet he’d managed to say the name Christine Saunders. He’d said it various times, confused, rambling, repeating himself. Anything they could get on Christine Saunders.

The data clerks had done their job well. On his desk now sat an impressive pile of printed material, organized into half a dozen thin bundles, each held together with a rubber band. All the individuals he was interested in, including Chris. He was dying for a coffee, but after all the work he’d caused, he thought he better make a start.

Before anything else, though, he logged onto his terminal and updated his movements for the last twenty-four hours: places he’d been, people he’d spoken to, every detail. The investigation hub was expanding by the minute. Even the log of entries was now too long to read in full. He scrolled down to the most recent additions. And there it was. Turner. They were already at his house.

He texted Rita. Got a moment?

As he waited for her reply, he read the entry. A full search of Turner’s home and his office premises had been ordered and approved. Turner himself was to be brought in for questioning. An 8 a.m. start.

His phone rang.

‘Rita. You have a main suspect!’

‘Yup. He’s here now. Waiting for his lawyer.’

‘Mmm. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? Already phoning for back-up?’

‘Lawyers always do.’

‘And you really have him down for double murder?’