The sarcasm drained out of Chris. He dropped his hands to his knees and shook his head.

Just as he thought they’d exhausted every last detail, there was something else. Ford reached for an iPad and showed him their trump card: a photograph of a crumpled, dirty banknote. Chris recognized the doodle in the corner and his breath truncated.

“Why did Freya still have three hundred pounds’ worth of the money that was meant for her driving lessons?” Ford asked. “Why was it in her pocket?”

“I have no idea.”

“Shouldn’t she have been giving it to you?”

“Yes . . . She did.”

“So she had been paying for her lessons?”

“Of course.” There was itchy sweat in his eyes. “Maybe this was for future ones.”

A thick silence followed. Chris bit the insides of his cheeks.

At last Ford put down the iPad. She placed her hands at either side of it, palms on the table, as if she was wanting him to draw around her fingers.

“I think you’re hiding something, Mr. Watson.”

Chris tried to stare her out, but fear was filtering through him. “I want a solicitor.”

“Fine.” A smile played on Ford’s lips, as though this was what she’d wanted him to say. As though it was an admission of guilt.

It was Vicky’s face that came most strongly into his mind now, rather than Freya’s. Vicky pulling him up to dance at a party full of raucous student nurses sometime in the distant past. Vicky staring into their bedroom mirror yesterday, painting her mouth with scarlet Chanel lipstick, and today, holding on to the hall table as she’d watched the police lead him away.

—

The duty solicitor, Ms. Beaumont, arrived within half an hour. She had unmoving black hair and a brisk, efficient manner. When Chris faced the two detectives with her at his side, it felt like a fresh start, of sorts. Having someone next to him equaled things up.

“It seems my client has been asked some irrelevant questions about his personal life,” Ms. Beaumont said. “There will be no more of that.” She sounded like she was reprimanding two naughty children. “And please inform my client whether he is under arrest.”

The detectives exchanged a glance. Ms. Beaumont’s head was cocked expectantly, her hair like a black metal helmet. But as Ford opened her mouth to respond, the door to the interview room creaked and a tall man with pouched eyes appeared. “DI Ford, a quick word?”

“We’re just wrapping up here,” Ford said, sending a wash of relief through Chris’s body. “Can it wait?”

The man looked at Chris, then back to Ford, a subtle signal in his gaze. “Not really.”