A smartly dressed Asian man moved away from the kitchen door at the back of the room and picked up the phone that sat behind the bar. Porter and Styles brought up the rear as the convoy of officers herded their suspects out into the street, looking left and right as they pushed them down into the waiting cars. It looked an impossible task to squeeze Bolton through the door frame and into the back seat, but they managed. Porter glanced back through the window. Beneath the reflection of the street, he could still make out the manager, more animated now that his call had clearly connected. His free hand gestured towards where Porter stood.

Porter wondered who was on the other end of the phone. He doubted it was Locke. The manager wouldn’t be quite so animated and demonstrative with the man himself. Whoever it was, he had no doubt that the message would filter through to Locke quickly enough.

Let’s see how he reacts now that we’ve got his big Dobermann locked up.

Bolton sat opposite Porter, looking as calm and unhurried as a man waiting for his main course at a restaurant. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the inside of a police interrogation room and it showed. His relaxed posture oozed apathy. Next to him sat Charles Jasper, who had arrived at the station minutes after them. The lawyer, or an associate of his, had clearly been the target of the call that the restaurant manager had made, and Jasper had ushered Porter and Styles out of the room for twenty minutes while he conferred with his client. With Jasper as his shield, Bolton had yet to utter a word since arriving at the station.

Styles pushed a button to start the recording, and nodded at Porter, who walked them though the standard opening, his eyes never leaving Bolton, who stared back blankly.

‘So, Jimmy, let’s dive in head first. You were in the Taylor Fisheries building down by the river earlier today. What brought you to that neck of the woods?’

‘Business, and Mr Bolton will do just fine.’

‘What kind of business, Jimmy?’ said Porter, sticking with the informal version of his name in the hope of needling him.

Bolton shook his head softly at the weak attempt to antagonise. ‘Manners cost nothing, Detective. My business there is property. I own the building and wanted Mr Carter to gut the place for me so I could develop it.’

‘So you agree that you were there with Owen Carter and Daniel Stenner at approximately 5.30 p.m.?’

‘Mr Stenner drove me and Mr Carter there, yes.’

‘How do you know Mr Carter?’

‘He’s an employee at Atlas. I run security for Locke & Winwood. Atlas is part of Locke & Winwood. It’s my job to know who we employ.’