‘Charlie Lane was just a delivery man and gardener. He wasn’t in charge of your business. And we’ve more proof. The handwriting. Our experts looked at the note and they looked at the directions Fergus gave us to Vincent Carney’s house that day. They match, even though he tried to disguise his handwriting. It doesn’t fool the experts, Fergus.’

The inspector was stretching the truth about the handwriting analysis. Lying, for want of a better word. He’d no idea where those written directions had gone. He’d probably left them in Charlie Lane’s car when it was clear the man didn’t need them to find Carney’s house. But it wouldn’t be hard to get another sample of Fergus’ penmanship.

For a while Tom had toyed with the idea that Fiona’s father had sent the note. Fergus had referred that day in the garden centre to how he was in charge but his father was still overseeing the orders. But that hadn’t meant he’d been writing the orders out – just ensuring they were correct. Ultimately, Fergus’ insistence that day that the serial killer had Fiona and that she was already dead had given it away. Her parents, Richard included, passionately believed Fiona was still alive. You could see it in them. But there had been something in Fergus’ eyes. He knew she was dead and it wasn’t just that his hope was gone. It was because he had killed her.

‘No,’ Richard shook his head. Fergus remained remarkably calm and quiet. ‘This is utterly ludicrous. What possible reason could Fergus have for killing his sister? He’s been out on the searches with us! I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Inspector. The next conversation you have with us will be in the presence of our solicitor.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t leave without taking Fergus with me. And as for why he did it, I assume it’s because she refused to listen to you, is that right, Fergus? When you asked her who was hitting her and she wouldn’t tell you? You were sick of her, weren’t you? Running around the village, screwing every bloke that moved. Probably your mates, too. You said it yourself, it was a nightmare having such a slut for a sister.’

‘Stop it!’ Caroline cried. ‘Don’t speak about her like that. She was not a slut!’

‘Oh, come on!’ Fergus snorted. ‘Open your eyes, woman. On this – and only this – the inspector is correct. Your darling daughter would spread her legs for anybody who bought her a fucking vodka. She was a whore.’

The slap rang out sharp and clear. Richard Holland had lashed out at his son before any of them could react.

‘Don’t you ever speak like that about your sister,’ he roared. ‘She’s worth ten of you.’