Porter looked up from his screen. Three strong cups of coffee and a croissant that tasted marginally better than cardboard had done nothing to kick-start his creativity. This morning had left him feeling sluggish, present day priorities in a tug of war with bittersweet memories; Porter stuck in the middle, unable to focus. He stared back at Styles for a few seconds before realising his partner was waiting for a response.

‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’

‘I said she had a good poker face.’

‘Eh? Who? What are you on about?’

‘Mrs Locke. She had a good poker face.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? Spare me the build-up.’

‘She lied to us. About her trips to see Natasha.’

That got Porter’s attention, and he sat forward, leaning both elbows on his desk. ‘What do you mean, she lied? What have you got?’

‘According to this’ – he pointed at his screen – ‘in the six months following Nathan Barclay’s death, Mrs Locke did leave the country twice, but I’m fairly sure she didn’t go anywhere near Poland.’

‘How do you know that? Where was she? Can we prove it?’

‘One question at a time,’ said Styles, holding his hands up to fend off any more. ‘I know because I checked. She was in New York and Paris. Yes, we can prove it.’

‘Checked, how?’ Porter was intrigued, but sceptical. As much as he abhorred the concept of terrorism, it had made tracking international travel much easier, both inside the European Union and beyond. They were talking about three decades ago, though, a time when kids could visit the pilot in the cockpit and you could carry a bottle of water through customs without security jumping all over you. He was pretty sure passenger manifests wouldn’t stretch back that far.

Styles tapped a finger against his nose and winked. ‘Friends in low places. Mrs Locke booked flights using a Visa card both times. I know a man who can dredge up all sorts from my days back in financial, even from thirty years ago.’

‘She could have paid cash,’ Porter ventured.

‘She could have, but you don’t believe that any more than I do.’

Porter sat for a moment, mind racing before he spoke. ‘Give me specifics.’

Styles flipped open his notebook and recited the dates he had scribbled down for each trip. As well as the dates, there were a number of transactions at each destination consistent with a fortnight in New York and a three-day stay in Paris.

‘There’s no doubt she was there. Question is, why lie? Also, did she lie to her hubby, or does he know where she really was?’

The silence hung between them as they stared across the desk at each other, the hint of a smile creeping on both faces confirming the shared thought.