‘They were arguing, she was trying to walk away from him and he grabbed her arms and shook her.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks back. I asked him what that was about and he denied it happened until we told him about the footage. At that stage he broke down and swore that he had nothing to do with her murder. He said they’d had sex just the once. He’d wanted to see her again, but she refused and he was “upset”.’

‘Did you ask him about the note?’

‘He denied any knowledge while taking a beamer.’

‘Taking a what?’

‘His face beamed red . . . Belfast slang, ma’am . . . anyway, I’m going to go at him again shortly. By the way, I released Frank Kelly. We’re keeping an eye on him, though . . . and Hicks brought in the pranksters. Three middle-class and over-privileged white boys who share a house in Islington. Hicks is charming them now in the way that only Hicks can do. I’m about to join him.’

‘Let me know how that goes.’

‘Will do. How’s your grandad?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘You should be too.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Goodnight, ma’am.’

‘Goodnight, Harry.’

Chapter 38

38

AFTER A LONG HOT SHOWER Thomas Butler finishes drying himself and stands in front of the bathroom mirror brushing back his wavy damp hair with his fingers. On the cabinet beside the sink is a neat row of tubs and tubes containing hair wax, body moisturiser, face moisturiser, deodorant, toothpaste, mouthwash.

His phone pings.

Hey, tiger. Not long now.

I know. Can’t wait to meet you. AT LAST!

Haha. Me too. Listen, I’ve sent an Uber to your address to pick you up. It’s a silver Toyota Prius driven by someone called Dimitri.

Aww . . . thank you . . . you didn’t need to do that.

I want to make sure you get here. ;-)

I’ll be there. Don’t you worry.

He’ll be there in ten minutes.

I’m almost ready.

Later. X

Bye. XXX

His date’s name is Jack and they have been communicating for a few weeks now, exchanging horny pictures and talking about all sorts of stuff, not just sex stuff. He is smart, hot as hell. Thomas is beyond excited.

He quickly moisturises his body and face, brushes his teeth and gargles with an acidic purple mouthwash that stings his gums. Dipping his fingers into the wax, he massages it through his thick brown hair and styles it like a young Hugh Grant in that movie, whatever it was called. He hurries out of the bathroom and down to his bedroom, where he changes into freshly pressed chinos and a fitted white polo shirt.

From the dresser he lifts his bottle of Dior Homme Sport and sprays his neck with the glorious lemon-and-woody scent. He grabs his wallet, phone, keys and coat and heads down the hallway.

He stops at Spence’s room. The door is open. Spence looks up from his desk.