‘Anyway, you now have my full attention. What is it you want?’

‘I came to tell you that Dean Foreman has arrived and so has his lawyer. DS Stevens is sorting out the interview room.’

‘I’ll go along then. While I’m there can you liaise with Penrith on what response there’s been to the press conference? I’m hoping it’ll generate more than a few calls.’

‘I’m on it, guv.’

‘Thanks. Oh, and I’ve got some info on William Nash. According to my wife he works as a handyman in Kirkby Abbey, doing all kinds of odd jobs. Pass it on to whoever is checking him out. We need an address, and you and I will go and see him later this afternoon.’

DS Stevens was waiting outside the interview room when James got there.

‘Dean Foreman and his lawyer are inside,’ he said. ‘The brief’s name is Peter Haig and I haven’t come across him before.’

‘Anything else I should know?’ James asked.

‘Foreman was at home with his wife and not at his wholesale food warehouse. As soon as I told him I wanted to talk about the text he sent to Robert Bateman he clammed up and wouldn’t say anything without a lawyer.’

‘What do you make of the guy?’

‘He’s big and arrogant, and when I asked him if he’d heard about what had happened at Oaktree Farm, all he did was nod. It was as though he didn’t think it was a big deal.’

‘Sounds like a right charmer,’ James said.

The two men were sitting next to each other when James entered the cramped and windowless interview room and he could tell straight away who was who.

The lawyer was a smart gent wearing a sober grey suit and an earnest expression. He had neat, short hair that was parted with surgical precision.

His client couldn’t have been more different. Dean Foreman was a burly guy with a broken nose that pressed up against the rest of his face.

James introduced himself as he and Stevens sat opposite them across the table. He opened a folder and extracted several documents from it.

‘I’d like to start by thanking you for coming in today,’ he said. ‘I know it’s very short notice and I appreciate your cooperation.’

‘Do us a favour and dispense with the bullshit, Detective,’ Foreman replied, his voice clipped. ‘Just get the hell on with it.’

Foreman then bared his teeth in what passed for a smile, and crossed his arms.

James took an instant dislike to the man. His demeanour reeked of malevolence and he came across as a nasty piece of work.

James knew from the note he’d been given that Foreman was forty-seven and married. He had rust-coloured hair that was receding at the front and long at the back, and his jawline was rough with stubble.