He heard the relief in Robertson’s voice. ‘No, sorry. There’s no one like that on my staff.’ 262

‘What about past employees? Anyone who might hold a grudge against Miss Fielding?’ A police car drew up outside and the landlord glared at Penrose as two men in uniform joined him by the reception desk, adding very little to the festive atmosphere, or to the hotel’s reputation for a warm welcome.

‘Not that I can think of,’ Robertson was saying. ‘The only person who looks anything like …’ He tailed off, and when he spoke again, his tone was anything but dismissive. ‘Christ, he was in the office with us – of course he was. But why would he …’

‘Who was in the office?’ Penrose demanded impatiently.

‘Jack Naylor. But he’s just the cleaner, for God’s sake, he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with—’

Penrose put the phone down without waiting to hear what Jack Naylor could or couldn’t do. ‘I’ll need your dining room,’ he said to the landlord, and signalled to the two policemen to follow him. ‘Jack Naylor?’ he called across the bar. Naylor realised his mistake as soon as he turned round, but the response had been instinctive and it was too late now to go back on it. He looked up, and it was the expression rather than the face itself that Penrose found so familiar. The muddle of fear, grief and curiosity was the same now in the man as it had been in the eyes of the boy staring back at him from the coal bunker, eighteen years ago to the day – and he looked so vulnerable that, for the briefest of seconds, Penrose was there again in that snow-covered yard, chilled to the core and feeling the raw, helpless despair that he had back then. In spite of the circumstances, his overwhelming emotion was sadness. ‘You are Jack Naylor?’ he said quietly, and the man nodded. ‘Then, Mr Naylor, I’m arresting you on suspicion 263of the murder of Alexandra Fielding, Richard Hartley and Emily Soper.’

Naylor stood up, and Penrose was relieved that he made no attempt to argue. ‘Where do you want to do this?’ he asked.

‘Please come with me.’

Everything had happened so suddenly that it took the other people round the table a moment to catch up, and Penrose and Naylor were on their way out of the bar by the time Johnny Soper launched himself across the room. ‘You bastard! What did you do to my mother? I’ll fucking kill you.’

The policemen pulled him away while Naylor just stood there taking the blows, then watched as Trannack tried to calm Soper down. Penrose waited to see if his prisoner would deny responsibility for the third charge against him, which seemed so different from the others, but he didn’t. ‘It’s terrible to feel that kind of rage,’ he said instead. ‘It eats you up inside, and then you’re lost.’

Penrose heard the emotion in his voice, and realised that this was the first time in his career that he had wanted to be wrong. They went through to the restaurant, leaving one of the policemen in the bar to keep an eye on things there. The room had been emptied but not cleared, and still smelt strongly of roast turkey and alcohol, and Penrose tried in vain to remember a more inappropriate setting for an interview. He chose a table that couldn’t be seen from reception, and swept the spent crackers and discarded novelties onto the floor. ‘Sit down, Mr Naylor.’