Fry nodded. It was just what Dermot Walsh had said: poetic justice. But there hadn’t really been anything poetic in the crushed skull, in the fatally injured man trying desperately to run from his attackers, even as his blood drained away into the ground and his brain swelled against the shattered bone.

‘And your brother went with you on this meeting, didn’t he?’

Naomi pushed herself up on to her feet, her fingers tense and trembling on the edge of the table.

‘No. You can’t fix any of this on Rick.’

‘Please sit down, Miss Widdowson.’

‘I need to make you understand that it had nothing to do with Rick.’

‘He does have a record. Several previous offences of violence.’

Naomi slowly sank into the chair again, as if deflated. ‘What does that have to do with it? You’re all the same, once a person gets into trouble. Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proved guilty?’

‘And you still say you didn’t intend to kill Patrick Rawson?’ asked Fry.

‘No. It was an accident.’

Her tone carried a hint of regret. And it was probably that which finally convinced Fry she was telling the truth.

RICK WIDDOWSON HAD recovered from the humiliation of his arrest very quickly. He walked into Interview Room Two with a strut, swinging his shoulders, his head tilted to spread a smirk around the room.

‘Have you been informed of your rights?’ asked Fry. ‘Offered facilities and refreshments while you’ve been waiting?’

‘Good cop, bad cop – never goes out of fashion, does it?’ he said.

‘This is good cop, good cop. You haven’t even seen the bad one yet.’

‘You don’t have anything on me,’ said Widdowson, sitting confidently at the table opposite Fry. ‘If you did, there’d be a solicitor here, and the tape recorders running.’

That was the trouble with regular customers – they knew too much. Rick was right, of course. She had no evidence to implicate him in the death of Patrick Rawson. Not yet.

‘So why did you try to escape when we visited your home?’ said Fry.

He smiled. ‘I was going for help. I thought we had burglars.’

Fry sighed. ‘You know your sister is in trouble. Wouldn’t you like to help her?’

‘’Course I would. Only too keen to help.’

If that was so, his loyalty might only be one way, thought Fry.

‘You can start by telling me where you were on Tuesday morning.’

‘I don’t have anything to say.’

‘You might as well go, then.’

Widdowson made a move to get up, then froze. Fry could see the calculation going through his mind, and she guessed what he was thinking.

‘Yes, you’re free to leave at any time, Mr Widdowson. You can get up and walk out. But that would be a strange thing to do if, as you claim, you want to help your sister. “Only too keen to help” – wasn’t that your phrase? And I believe you, of course.’