“That bloody . . . Jesus. Dermot was asleep when I got in. He was watching TV, sure, but he’d also eaten a massive bloody pizza, and he was drinking beer. When I got in, he was asleep on the couch. I thought about waking him, but I was in bad form after the argument and not in the mood for him. So I just went to bed. The next day was Saturday. I have soccer on Saturday mornings. I was up and gone before he left his room.”

“Okay.” Aifric nodded encouragingly. It was probably bullshit, but it sounded convincing. Robert would make a good witness. “That’s good to know. Can you think of anyone who might have seen you walking home? Arriving back to the flats? Did you get a taxi? Stop for food? Or call a friend, maybe?”

Robert shook his head in frustration. “No. I was in a mood. I just went home. Went to bed. That’s it.”

“All right.” Aifric turned a page. The worst was still to come. “There is another statement on the file,” she said. “From Laura’s best friend, Evelyn Ross.” She was watching his expression, waiting for any kind of tell, but Robert just looked blank.

“You know, Evelyn was in the pub that night, the night of the fight. She stayed on with Laura after you left. According to Evelyn, Laura had been trying to leave you for some time, but she was afraid of you, afraid that you might . . . hurt her.” Aifric leaned forward, getting in his face a little. She wanted to see how he would react, what sort of witness he would make. “Evelyn said that Laura finally gathered the courage to leave you that night. That that was what the whole thing was about. And that she heard you say, just before you left, that you would rather see Laura dead than with another man.”

Robert stared at her for the longest moment. She expected bluster, denials, maybe even tears. What she didn’t expect was what she got: laughter. A big, boisterous shout of a laugh that burst out of him and was gone as quickly as it had come. He took two quick breaths, shaking his head.

“Who the fuck is Evelyn Ross, and why is she lying about me?”

Chapter Six

Carrie

Carrie hadn’t planned on bringing anyone home that night. If she’d thought about it for more than a split second, she never would have made the invitation. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed, exactly—their little flat was gorgeous, in its own way. Part of a converted Georgian house, it had high ceilings and an open fireplace, and it overlooked a park. It was also, however, a studio—the sole bed was installed on a tiny mezzanine floor accessed by a spiral staircase—and she shared the place with her sister. The fireplace was necessary because the central heating didn’t work, and the plumbing was loud and unpredictable. Oh, and the park the flat overlooked was a very popular hangout for local heroin addicts. Despite all its shortcomings, the flat was her own little space, and she loved it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to expose it. But she’d been drunk on the beer and the high of a hard-fought win, and the words were out before she’d thought it through.