The moment he hung up, he saw DI Mulholland and steered her into a meeting room.

‘All right, Claire. The press release has already gone out that we’re holding an unnamed thirty-three-year-old man in connection with the murder.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I want your gut feeling about whether we should go ahead and charge him.’

Claire nodded. ‘I assumed we would,’ she said. ‘When I spoke to the CPS this morning, and mentioned the DNA, they said they didn’t need any more details, they were more than happy to go ahead. We can get him in front of the magistrates first thing tomorrow and ask for him to be remanded into custody. Waddington’s only alibi is his girlfriend, but the statement Hodges got from her seems a little noncommittal. With the forensic connection, it’s clear the lawyers think we have enough evidence.’

‘What about his home?’

‘There is some circumstantial stuff: the weightlifting equipment, the bikes, his proximity to the crime scene. We found plenty of trainers and bike shoes, all Nike, and more upmarket than the Adidas print we have linked to the scene. But there is no smoking gun.’

The DCI shook his head. ‘Something about this just doesn’t feel right. The way Waddington reacted to the allegation seemed to me entirely natural. Underneath the anger was a wounded innocence. Part of me keeps saying: I don’t think he was lying.’

‘Then we should let him go.’

He blew a sigh. ‘I’m under huge pressure from Rigby. The talking heads on TV, people like Norman Champion, and all those sneering Met officers who are friends with the crime reporters on the nationals, are briefing the press that this is a shambolic investigation. Yesterday the Daily Express ran a headline saying: “What a Pickle”, with a picture of a spilled jar of brinjal chutney, and a headline inside saying: “Curry Up and Find the Killer”.’

‘Well, I can guess why Rigby wants a quick result. The annual police chiefs’ conference is next week, and she wants something to brag about in front of the sneering men.’

‘Yes, it could be that.’ He could see she was trying to cheer him up.

‘Hey, did you see this?’ she asked, plucking a cutting from her jacket pocket. ‘It’s from Tuesday’s edition of The Sun, and headlined “The Hero of the Hour”.’

Gillard sighed and looked at the half-page photograph of Mrs Roy’s dog Bertie looking, with Churchillian steadiness, into a camera lens held at dog height.

While the police are floundering in their attempt to bring to justice the killer of our Empress of Spice, brave Bertie the boxer did not hesitate to defend her to the last. While the attacker laid about his mistress with a hammer, the doughty animal became her personal bodyguard, and despite being bludgeoned by the same deadly weapon that killed Mrs Roy, Bertie fought back, snapping and biting at the assailant and then guarding the body until the eventual arrival of the police. What about a Victoria Cross for our brave Bertie?