James frowned. ‘That’s not entirely true, is it, Mr Nash? You see, we found your suicide note. The one you didn’t finish. In it you wrote that you feared it was only a matter of time before we found out that you had lied to us and that you couldn’t risk going to prison.’

Nash stared at James, his eyes wide, the breath wheezing out of him. He started to speak but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

‘It’s time you came clean,’ James said. ‘We know you lied when you told us that you had never been inside the cellar at Oaktree Farm. It was your own father who replaced the inner door with the wall. Plus, we found a receipt for work you carried out to the doors and shelves. And your fingerprints are in the concealed space behind the wall from where you’ve been spying on the family, or I should say, spying on Charlotte.’

Nash wet his lips with his tongue and said, ‘Are you arresting me?’

‘Not unless you give us a reason to. This is an informal interview. You’re not being accused of any offence. We just want to establish some facts. In the unfinished note to your parents, you swore that you did not murder Charlotte, but you wanted them to know that you knew how and why she was killed. That must mean you were behind the wall on Christmas Eve and bore witness to what happened. You also wrote, and I quote, “it’s such a horrible story and it starts with what really happened at Oaktree Farm twenty-four years ago”. Now, when your parents arrive later, we’ll be showing them the note, and they’ll likely be just as curious as we are to know what else you were going to tell them.’

‘Did you finish the note on another sheet of paper?’ Abbott asked him.

Nash shook his head again. ‘I stopped writing because I suddenly wasn’t sure I could go through with it. So, I binned the note and went for a drive to clear my head. When I came back you were there and I knew that you wouldn’t believe anything I told you. When I arrived at that T-junction and saw the wall, I suddenly found the guts to do what had to be done. Only I fucked up.’

‘And we’re glad you did, Mr Nash,’ James said. ‘We’ve got lots of questions relating to the violent deaths of the Bateman family. And we won’t stop asking them until you’ve provided the answers.’

Nash shifted his gaze towards the ceiling and was lost in silent thought for about half a minute. Then he turned back to James and said, ‘I did not kill anyone, Inspector. But yes, I was there that evening and I do know what happened.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO