And there simply wasn’t any.

Claire Mulholland sat down opposite him, carrying an orange juice and a panini. Gillard had texted her as she was on her way back after a final trip to the Ashtead Common crime scene, which was now being released back into public use.

‘How likely do you think it is that you mixed up the gloves?’ she asked.

Gillard shook his head in exasperation. ‘It certainly could have been me. You know how it is. I was thinking about something else. I’m usually very careful, particularly on those rare occasions when we have two CSI jobs in a row.’ He sighed and took another bite of his Danish pastry. ‘Is there anything else we can hang the Jason Waddington connection on?’

She shook her head. ‘Circumstantial only. He lives nearby, he’s a cyclist, and he lifts weights. It’s not enough.’

‘Okay, I’m going to speak to the CPS this afternoon. It’ll be embarrassing, but I’m sure they won’t have any objection. But first I’m going upstairs to speak to the big boss.’

Claire widened her eyes in sympathy. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘How on earth did they get cross-contaminated?’ Rigby said as she paced her office, leaving Gillard standing facing her desk. ‘What is CSI playing at?’ she asked.

‘It’s probably not CSI, ma’am.’ She was behind him now, prowling. ‘The DNA was found on one of my gloves, which may have been discarded into the wrong bag.’ She felt so close to him the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, but he dared not turn round to look at her. He sensed her by his left shoulder, her breathing audible.

‘Craig,’ she whispered. ‘You are one of the most experienced officers in the force. This shouldn’t be possible, should it?’

‘No ma’am.’

‘It’s particularly unfortunate that this error was not realised until after the suspect was charged, so as well as making a grave investigatory error we now have a PR disaster too. The press will want to know why we charged someone and then realised we were wrong.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders from behind. ‘Would you like me to make you available for interview to explain to them?’

‘No ma’am.’

‘No ma’am, indeed,’ she said, walking in front of him and pulling herself up to sit on her desk, looking directly at him. The intensity of her blue stare was almost unbearable. After holding it for a few seconds he blinked and looked down. The chief constable’s long legs were crossed, one knee over the other. She was wearing thick ribbed black tights. He spotted a small ladder in them just by her ankle, just above her black patent leather kitten heels.

‘I’m very sorry, ma’am.’

‘I need results, Craig. You are disappointing me, and I do not like to be disappointed by my officers.’ She sighed, slipped off the desk and walked to the window, looking out at Mount Browne, mistress of all she surveyed. ‘Who have you told about this?’