‘No. Why should I?’

‘Rory? Are you all right, darling?’ Angelina was standing at the door with the coffee. ‘You look very pale. The inspector isn’t upsetting you, is she?’

‘No, Mum, but I think I’m a bit tired. Is it all right if I go and lie down?’

Angelina set the coffee tray down on the table and put her arms round her son.

‘Of course it is.’ She glanced at Jazz. ‘He’s exhausted. Can you come back later when he’s feeling better?’

‘Of course.’ Jazz smiled. ‘Oh, just one more thing Rory: on the Friday that Charlie died, were you given some painkillers for a headache?’

Rory stopped and turned in the doorway. ‘I can’t remember. Perhaps. I get a lot of headaches, you see.’

‘Well, in the medicine logbook, it says you were issued with some tablets on that day. What would they have been and who usually gave them to you?’

‘I don’t know what they were. Just painkillers.’ Rory shrugged.

‘Did Mr Daneman give them to you?’

Rory nodded. ‘Yes. Can I go now, Mum?’ He rested his head against her shoulder.

‘Of course you can, darling.’ Angelina turned to Jazz. ‘That’s enough now. He’s exhausted. Rory, pop upstairs and Mummy will come up when she’s seen the inspector out.’

Rory nodded and silently left the room.

‘I’ll be on my way. I’m sorry to tire Rory, but the sooner we can collate the facts, the better,’ Jazz stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Millar.’

She followed Angelina to the front door. Angelina paused for a second before steeling herself to ask: ‘I don’t really want to know, but how . . . did David say he killed this boy?’

‘He substituted Charlie’s epilepsy drugs for a couple of aspirin tablets he apparently had in his pocket for hangovers. You may have known Charlie was allergic to them. Obviously David did.’

‘What?’ Angelina looked confused. ‘David had aspirin in his pocket?’

‘That’s what he told me, yes.’

She shook her head. ‘But that’s impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘David would never go anywhere near aspirin, Inspector, let alone have them in his pocket! No.’ Angelina shook her head vehemently. ‘That just doesn’t make sense.’

‘Why not, Mrs Millar?’ asked Jazz quietly.

‘Simply because David is fatally allergic to aspirin, too.’

Chapter Eighteen

Jazz headed back to Foltesham police station. Miles was in the interview room, listening to the tape of David Millar’s interview.

‘Any joy with the boy?’ he asked.

Jazz sat down heavily. She shook her head. ‘No, not really. Angelina is protecting her cub like a tiger mother, as she should, but . . .’ Jazz looked up at Miles. ‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘Mrs Millar has just told me her ex-husband is fatally allergic to aspirin.’

‘Really?’ Miles raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’ve just listened to the tape, and I’ve never heard a more unconvincing confession than Millar’s. It’s almost as if he’s trying anything to make it hang together.’

‘Well, his entire modus operandi for that night has just gone down the plug.’ Jazz sighed. ‘Either, the crime was one hundred per cent premeditated – Mrs Millar stated categorically that her ex wouldn’t touch aspirin – or Millar is lying through his backside to protect someone.’