‘Hey, come on, I was only kidding.’

She clutches the camera to her chest. Her skin is crawling, buzzing. She looks around. Matt is still sitting on the plastic chair near the fire, watching them with stoned interest. Nicole is standing a few metres away, her own chest rising and falling, fists clenched. Ren stands in front of her, opening his beer. A long lock of hair falls into his eyes and accentuates his goofiness.

‘Just ask next time,’ Alex mutters, trying not to cry as she storms into the house.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

OLI DUCKS AND WEAVES THROUGH THE PARADE OF BUSINESSMEN on King Street. One catches her eye, unashamedly looking her up and down before walking with exaggerated nonchalance into a strip club. Two boxy bouncers flank the door with glassy-eyed stares.

As she nears the Lion & Ox, she feels sick with nerves. A man like Bowman rarely enjoys being the interviewee. On her way she briefly considered reinviting Cooper to join her, just to really drive home the peace-offering, but Bowman doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate surprises. Plus, there’s a chance he’ll provide more insight into what Isabelle was like, and that’s not something Oli’s willing to share.

She pushes the heavy door open, and it closes behind her with a thud. Her pupils swell. The walls, bar, tables and chairs are all made from wood, and the clientele are, without exception, over sixty. Beer has soaked and sweated its way into both the carpet and the wooden panels, giving the whole place a stale, musky smell. A giant stag head protrudes from the only section of the back wall that isn’t covered in framed photos of vintage cars. The dead beast stares at its own reflection in the long mirror hanging opposite.

Bowman doesn’t appear to be here yet. Oli commandeers a small table in the corner away from the communal benches, faces the door, arranges her satchel on the floor and makes sure there’s no way Isabelle’s diaries can fall out. When the door swings open, she jerks to attention. Just a pair of elderly men, one with a patch over his left eye. She’s about to venture to the bar for a beer when the door opens again.

Bowman heads straight to her table without scanning the room. He nods and holds out his hand. ‘Ms Groves.’

‘Chief Inspector.’

They shake, her fingers like jelly in his firm grip. He sits down, flicking his hand at a barman who plucks a glass from the drying rack and starts pouring a beer.

‘You having a drink?’ Bowman asks her gruffly, shrugging off his coat.

‘Just a beer, please.’

He nods. ‘Henno will sort you out in a minute.’