Archer notices a twitch in Kelly’s eyes. He doesn’t respond.

‘Mr Kelly. Who is Lauren?’

‘She’s a friend.’

‘What kind of friend?’

He shakes his head and rubs his dry, puffy eyes with his sleeves.

‘Is she your lover?’

Kelly snorts. ‘We’re seeing each other.’

‘What did Elaine say to Lauren?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Did your argument with Elaine lead to violence, Mr Kelly?’

He doesn’t respond.

Archer points at the bruising around Elaine Kelly’s eye. ‘Did you punch Elaine in the eye and the ribs? Your wife had considerable bruising that she sustained just before she was murdered, Mr Kelly.’

He folds his arms; his face contorts in what seems like the first sign of emotion he has exhibited.

‘Would you like some water, Mr Kelly?’

He nods and Quinn pours him a cupful.

‘Just tell us where you have been?’ asks Archer.

Kelly takes a moment to answer. ‘At Merrow Street.’

‘Is that in Walworth?’ asks Quinn.

‘Yes.’

‘What address please?’

‘Fifty-nine.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Staying with Lauren.’

‘What’s Lauren’s second name?’

‘Turner.’

‘And she can confirm your whereabouts?’

‘Yes.’

Archer gathers the photos and places them back in the folder.

‘Thank you, Mr Kelly. That will be all for now,’ says Quinn.

‘Can I go?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What do you mean, you’re afraid not. I’ve told you everything!’

Archer switches off the recording.

‘We need to confirm your story. In the meantime, please enjoy the facilities,’ says Quinn.

‘Are you having a fucking laugh?’

‘We’ll talk later, Mr Kelly.’

As they leave the interview room and walk to the stairs, Archer can hear him calling after her and Quinn in a rage. Considering Kelly is a suspect in this case, a violent abuser and a cheat, Archer feels satisfied that he’ll at least spend another few hours in a cell. It is nowhere near enough for someone like him, but she will need to find some proof to keep him in for longer. For now, she has little to go on.

*

Lauren Turner is a piece of work. She can’t be more than nineteen years old, a curvy girl dressed in leggings and an oversized Pineapple sweatshirt. Her dyed black hair has been hauled back into a ponytail and her lips are tight with anger.

‘Where the fuck is Frank?’

‘He’s being held for questioning,’ replies Archer coolly.

‘Questions ’bout what?’

‘I can’t say. If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you some questions.’

‘When’s he coming home?’

‘That depends.’

The sound of a baby crying interrupts their exchange.

‘Depends on what exactly?’ Lauren seems oblivious to the child’s crying, which has morphed to an uncomfortable high-pitched howl.

They have not moved from the doorway and Archer is irked by the girl’s attitude.

‘Maybe we could sit down and talk for a moment.’