‘This kitchen’s a mess,’ Georgie shouted from down the hallway. Priest joined her and was inclined to agree. There were dirty dishes piled high in the sink; half-empty tins of tuna on the side. The tap was running slightly. Priest flicked the handle and the water trickled momentarily before stopping.

‘If he’s done a runner then he did a good job of making it look as though he intends to come back,’ Georgie said.

Priest clicked his tongue. She was right. Everything looked just a little wrong. The plates were piled in a way that was too perfectly aligned, the towel in the bathroom had been placed in just the right position so he had rubbed the door against it, the clothes were too many to suggest abandonment but too few to amount to a convincing collection.

‘This has been staged for us,’ he said slowly.

‘By whom?’

‘No idea – maybe Simeon himself. Did you see the chair in the living room?’

‘Yes. The grooves in the carpet were far too big to be un-noticeable.’

‘I agree. It’s been moved but in a way that was intended to make it obvious that it had been moved.’

‘Spooky.’

‘I’ve seen something like this before,’ Priest muttered. ‘You used to see these kinds of set-ups at scenes of domestic violence. We’d get called out but by the time we got there the wife already had a broken nose from tripping on the stairs or whatever lame excuse she could come up with and the husband had gone about making the house look like he hadn’t kicked seven bells out of her. It was the same atmosphere. Everything was too still, too serene to be real. Like a film set.’

‘Why would someone do that here?’

‘I don’t know. There are so many questions, but right now only one that matters: where the fuck is Simeon Ali?’

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Vincent Okoro had experienced his fair share of advocacy meltdowns. Even the best counsel was prone to them. It comes from thinking about the situation too much. Like walking along a tightrope and then becoming suddenly very conscious of the drop, which usually precedes falling.

Mrs Justice Peters was glaring at him down her absurdly curved nose and Okoro had the sudden feeling that he was back in his old headmistress’s office explaining why, yet again, his homework was late.

‘I asked a simple question, Mr Okoro,’ she said coldly. ‘Mr Hagworth raises the point that your main witness’s statement contains various allegations that are rightly to be regarded by this court as hearsay. I am asking whether a hearsay notice was served and, if so, whether I might peruse a copy?’