‘Cancel my eleven-thirty,’ I say to Anna as I head towards the exit. ‘Tell them I’ve an emergency and I can see them tonight or reschedule for another day.’

I’m in my car with the ziplock bag on the passenger’s seat, speeding towards the police station, before I’ve even considered the consequences. It’s a breach of protocol if I’m wrong. But if I’m right, Joe is going to prison. Either way, I’ll never have to see him again.

Chapter Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

‘MRS SCOTT,’ SIMMS says, lines appearing on his forehead as he raises his dark eyebrows. He inhales. ‘How can I help you?’

At first the officer at the front desk was reluctant to get him. She wanted to know precisely why I wanted to see Simms, and what exactly I intended to do with the sheets of paper in the plastic bag. I could have called, I suppose, but I needed to give him the evidence. Eventually she called Simms to the front desk from the depths of the office.

‘This,’ I say, holding it out to him.

He frowns, reaching between the glass barriers for the paper. I hold it away. ‘Wait,’ I say.

‘What is this? You’re conducting surveys?’

‘No. It’s got his prints on it. The arsonist.’

Simms turns his head, looking at the other officer at the front desk. Then he closes his eyes for a moment as if trying to clear a headache. ‘The alleged arsonist. How would you get his fingerprints?’

‘Look, can you just run them? That’s all I want. If they match then I can confirm who it is.’

‘I can’t do anything until you do some explaining.’

‘Explain right here?’

‘Come on through to an interview room if you like.’

Interview room. I imagine a camera in the corner and microphones. ‘Can we go outside instead?’

Again, that sideways glance at the other officer. ‘Sure, there’s a food court across the road.’ He disappears for a moment, a buzzer sounds, and the door beside the front desk opens and Simms comes through.

He leads me outside into the sun.

‘I’ve only got five minutes,’ he says.

We cross the road into a shopping centre food court. Simms orders a cappuccino with two sugars. ‘In a takeaway cup, please.’ Then we sit at a table.

‘Before you say anything. Someone called in an anonymous tip and we had a suspect,’ he says, giving me a knowing look, making it clear he is talking about Joe. ‘But he has an alibi.’

His wife. Of course she’s going to say that, isn’t she? She sleeps while he is awake all night. She probably thought he was in bed with her when he was out.

‘So you’re not pursuing him?’

‘Not until I have something a little more concrete than a late-night anonymous phone call.’