“Afraid not,” Annie said. “Your car was definitely traveling in the other direction. It appeared on CCTV footage in the area we’re interested in at the relevant time in the early hours of Tuesday morning. That’s the big roundabout at the southern end of Market Street in Eastvale. Do you know it?”

“I know it.”

“Why didn’t you stick to the A1 and M1?”

“I prefer to take the country roads. They’re more interesting. Quieter. Contemplative.”

“Even at night, when you can’t really see anything?”

“There’s not as much traffic. The motorways are still busy at night. Everyone drives too fast. It’s more peaceful than speeding along in three or four lanes with some bugger always on your tail and people overtaking without signaling. Not to mention the drunks driving home late from clubbing.”

“I know what you mean. But can you see our problem? If you weren’t driving the van to Southampton when you said you were, what were you doing at the Eastvale roundabout that night? You must have brought the van back Monday, maybe also overnight, or even during the day Monday or Tuesday. Don’t you remember?”

“Not for the life of me. It must have been another delivery. Tuesday night. I go all over the country.”

“Where did you go that time? Exeter? Birmingham? Shrewsbury? When do you sleep?”

“I can’t remember. I do seem to be getting a bit muddled. Maybe it’s lack of sleep.”

DC Wilson looked at Annie for the OK, then said, “We’d really like you to help us out a bit here, Mr. Nuttall. It’s a muddle we need to get sorted. You must have records, surely? For tax purposes, at least. Receipts from petrol stations and so on.”

Nuttall gave Wilson a sharp glance. “I keep my taxes in order, young lad, don’t you be fretting about that.”

“Where were you going in the van at two o’clock on Tuesday night?” Annie asked. “It’s not meant to be a difficult question.”

“Let me see . . .” Nuttall examined a large desk diary, running his finger down the page. “Bristol. That’s it. It must have been Bristol.”

“May I?” Annie gestured for the diary. Reluctantly, Nuttall turned it around to face her. “That was the previous week, Mr. Nuttall,” she said. “The fourteenth of July. It’s the twenty-first I’m talking about. More accurately, the early hours of the twenty-second.”

Nuttall said nothing, just picked at imaginary threads on his overalls.

“Mr. Nuttall,” Annie went on, “something’s not right here, is it? We need to know what it is. What you’re not telling us. If you haven’t done anything wrong, then you’ve nothing to worry about. Were you driving your car in the vicinity of Bradham Lane on the night of Tuesday, the twenty-first of July, around two in the morning?”