‘She was. In another life, you might have loved her. The night is a blur.’ He looked at the floor and then at me. ‘Did you ever take opium— I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?’

His sister crossed the room and slapped his face. ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I’m so sick of carrying you. I am so sick of covering up for you. Just shut up when I tell you to shut up!’ Then she hit him again.

He ducked away, cowering, taking a step back. Wren stepped between them, and it was enough to restrain the sister.

‘Who was in that room?’ I said. ‘You said seven, right?’

‘Six,’ he said. ‘Seven . . .’

‘Seven? Concentrate. You, Hugo Buck, Adam Jones, Salman Khan, Guy Philips, Ben King, Ned King. Were they all there? Who else was there? What happened to the girl?’

‘We were going to let her go,’ he said. ‘That was the plan.’

‘You bastards,’ Wren said, to herself.

‘We were going to let her go but she hurt someone. Very badly. It got out of hand. All of it.’

‘She hurt someone,’ I said, and I remembered the morning in the Iain West Forensic Suite, and I recalled what Elsa Olsen had placed in the palm of my hand. ‘She hurt someone’s eye, didn’t she?’

He looked at me with wonder. ‘Yes, she hurt someone’s eye. Really hurt it, I mean . . .’

‘She hurt Hugo Buck, didn’t she?’

He looked confused. ‘Hugo? Was it Hugo? I don’t think—’

‘Yes, Hugo Buck. He had a glass eye.’

James Sutcliffe covered his face with his hands. ‘I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. It was another lifetime.’

‘Do you know how I know, James?’ I said. ‘I held it in my hand. I held the glass eye in my hand when they were cutting Hugo up on the slab.’

Wren said, ‘Do you want back-up? I think we should get back-up now. Wolfe?’

‘We can handle this,’ I said. ‘What happened to the girl, James? And what was her name?’

He hung his head. He shook his head. There were no words.

‘I think we are going to have to take you in, James,’ I said. ‘You’re part of a murder investigation.’

His sister said, ‘You’ll kill him!’

But he looked at me, his eyes clear, strangely calm now that he knew for certain it would soon all be over.

‘All right,’ he said, his voice steady. ‘I suppose I’m ready to go.’

He glanced towards the window. Outside the evening was cold and foggy, the street shrouded in the misty lights of winter. It looked like one of his paintings.

‘It’s a lovely day today,’ he said, walking over to the window.

And then he broke into a kind of run, the shambling run of the badly out-of-shape man.

I called out to Wren.

But it was too late.