Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost five o’clock. She’d been working since six thirty this morning. The long hours were taking their toll. She was tired and hungry. The pressure to find the killer before anyone else died was building as each day passed. Tomorrow morning, she had another meeting with Sharon that she was nowhere near prepared for. Sharon would be looking for results and progress. All Rachel would be able to offer was a big pile of nothing.

‘Sam,’ she called across the room. ‘Any update on when we’re getting Adam and Clodagh in for their next interviews?’

‘I’ve left messages for both of them,’ Sam said. ‘So far, neither of them have called me back.’

‘And you haven’t bothered to chase them?’

Sam shook his head and Rachel had a sudden, shocking, urge to punch his handsome, smug face.

‘Well try again,’ she said. ‘And keep trying until you get through to them. Jesus, Sam. This is important.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking crestfallen.

Good, Rachel thought meanly. A bit of humility wouldn’t do him any harm.

‘Come on,’ she said to Ade. ‘Let’s go and get something to drink. I need to move.’

She marched along the corridor to the vending machine.

‘How can you drink that stuff?’ Ade asked, as Rachel selected a black coffee. ‘It tastes like pee.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Rachel said. ‘Never having tasted pee, myself.’

‘I haven’t tasted it either,’ Ade said. ‘Obviously. But I imagine it tastes pretty much like that.’

Rachel took a sip of the drink and admitted to herself that Ade had a point.

‘You still think Clodagh and Adam were seeing each other before the crash?’ Ade asked.

‘It would explain why Clodagh’s been holding out on us,’ Rachel said. ‘Except something about it doesn’t feel right. I mean, do we really believe that Vivienne was having an affair with Nick Gilbert and, at the same time, her sister was sleeping with her husband?’ She threw her cup into the bin. ‘Remind me never to drink that stuff again, would you?’

Just then, Sam Latimer came through the double doors at the far end of the corridor and hurried towards them.

‘Rachel we’ve got something,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘A phone call’s come through. Someone responding to the media appeal. A guy called,’ Sam paused to check his phone, ‘Jamie Fitzgerald. He’s a barman at a pub called the Founders Arms.’

The name was familiar, although Rachel wasn’t able to place it until Sam told her where it was.

‘It’s in London,’ he said, ‘right by Tara Coleman’s apartment block.’

‘Of course.’ Rachel looked at Ade. ‘We grabbed a coffee there after the first time we went to see Tara.’

‘Jamie Fitzgerald saw the police appeal on TV yesterday evening,’ Sam said. ‘He says he remembers serving Adam Murray the day of the murder.’