Randy stopped walking, and turned to show Fleet his self-satisfied smile. ‘So I suppose the only remaining question is, which prominent public personality attended Beaconsfield at the same time Ben did, and was close enough to the boy to be a person of interest? Someone who is now around the age of forty, and whose potential involvement is worrisome enough that the commissioner himself deemed a lowly sawbones such as me worthy of six and a half minutes of his time?’

Fleet had been watching Randy’s performance with his arms crossed. Randy, facing him, spread his.

‘A name, Rob. That’s all I’m asking for. We all know I’ll be reading it on the front pages of tomorrow morning’s newspapers anyway.’

Fleet could see Randy wasn’t going to budge. It was always like this with him: a quid pro quo transaction rather than a straightforward interaction. In theory, the pathologist’s role was to assist the police. To provide an impartial, professional opinion on matters beyond a copper’s expertise that might help them uncover the truth about what had happened to a given victim. But there were different levels of cooperation, Fleet knew. A pathologist could be an ally – a key witness – or a thorn in the prosecution’s side from the beginning, as Randy knew all too well. And actually, the man was right about one thing. The name he was fishing for would be all over the newspapers come the morning. It was probably already trending on social media.

‘One name,’ Fleet said. ‘One name, and then we talk exclusively about Ben. No more holding back, Randy. I mean it.’

Randy’s eyes sparkled with expectation.

‘Callum Richardson,’ said Fleet.

‘Callum Richardson?’ Randy repeated. ‘The Callum Richardson? The …’ Randy paused. ‘How are you supposed to refer to him these days? The TV star? The socialite? The politician?’