‘Can’t we just get the Met to arrest him and have him transferred down here?’ Fleet said. ‘Even if he’s not tied up in Ben’s murder, he’s got to be guilty of something. Just look at the man’s history. Setting aside all of which, no one his age gets to be as influential as he is without breaking a few rungs on their scrabble for the top.’

‘He’s the same age as you, isn’t he?’ said Nicky.

‘Exactly,’ Fleet replied.

‘Well, if you prefer, I’ll go by myself.’ Nicky fluttered her eyelids wistfully, and gazed towards the sky. ‘Callum Richardson. Just the two of us alone in a room.’

Fleet was only ninety per cent certain that she was joking. ‘Callum Richardson, Detective Sergeant? Really? I wouldn’t have put him down as your type.’

‘It’s true that he’s a bit too pretty for me. And I don’t think I’d make much of an It girl. But there are about ten billion other reasons I’d be willing to try to make it work between us.’

Fleet smiled, in spite of himself. ‘He renounced his inheritance, remember? And launching your own political party can’t be cheap. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already down to his last few million.’

‘That should still keep us going for a while.’ Nicky ran her hands down her hips. ‘Maybe I should dig out my blues. Do you think he’d be partial to a girl in uniform?’

‘Maybe we can ask him when we see him. When is he deigning to fit us in?’

‘Friday,’ Nicky replied.

‘Friday?’ It was currently Monday morning. And although someone like Callum Richardson might not appreciate the urgency of the situation, given that Ben had already been waiting for twenty-two years, the reality was that every minute counted. From the moment that crypt had been opened, the clock had started ticking. Evidence was degrading, suspects had been forewarned – and, perhaps, forearmed. On top of which, there was the pressure that was already starting to come down from the powers that be, as Randy’s phone call with the police and crime commissioner attested.

Unless, of course, the delay was a deliberate ploy on Richardson’s part. Maybe he felt he needed four days’ grace.

‘Apparently he’s travelling at the moment,’ said Nicky. ‘Filming somewhere on location, and after that he’s picking up some gong. But he’s managed to find a slot for us when he gets back. At zero-nine-fifty.’

‘Zero-nine-fifty?’

‘That’s ten to ten. In the morning. I googled it.’

Fleet was almost afraid to ask how long Richardson had set aside for them. Not that he intended to pay the slightest bit of attention to the man’s schedule once he and Nicky had got their feet inside the door.