‘But I didn’t even see Caine at the hotel.’

‘They don’t believe you,’ said my lawyer.

DCI Stoner was angry when we returned.

I had not seen him angry before. They didn’t turn on the tape, and they didn’t tell me to sit down. DCI Stoner glared furiously at DI Ure.

She shrugged and then he laughed, as if you win some and you lose some.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ Detective Chief Inspector Stoner told me.

Kevin touched my arm, his face splitting into a grin, and then I moved quickly, suddenly understanding that I was free to go home, and anxious to get out of there before they changed their minds.

And as they were checking me out of police custody – signing their forms to say that I had been given my wallet, my watch and my shoelaces – a homeless man was being checked in.

Alfred Oakley, the papers would later reveal.

A British soldier.

A veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan.

A veteran stoically enduring the fussy bureaucracy of entering police custody. Noting arrival at station, time of arrest and offence under investigation. Being told his rights before being photographed and fingerprinted. Before the screaming claustrophobia of the cell door slamming locked behind you.

Alfred Oakley caught my eye and held it for a long moment.

He may have smiled.

Because there he was – a homeless British soldier with James Caine’s Rolex Submariner still hanging on his wrist.

22

Tara

Christian came home.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours after he had been spirited away, there was the diesel rumble of a black cab in the street and when I went to the window I saw him being hugged by Spike. Then Spike got back into the cab and it pulled away, Spike’s concerned face at the window staring back at Christian, who just stood outside our home, looking lost.

No, it was more than lost. My husband looked totally unlike himself, as if he had been robbed of something by the night and day in police custody. And by me.

‘He’s back!’ my mother shrieked, with her genius for stating the bloody obvious, and then she was running to get the front door while my father stayed with me in the living room. My dad glanced at me and then looked away. He knew this was not going to be easy.

We had known Christian was coming home because Kevin Steel had called my father an hour ago and told him the police had someone else for the murder of James Caine.

‘Got him bang to rights!’ my father had said with grim satisfaction.

But there was no joy in Christian. There was not even a sign of relief. My mother led him into the living room, chattering mindlessly as Christian stared at his home as if seeing it for the first time. He seemed shattered by his experience. His eyes met mine and then slid away. I went to him and hugged him. He did not pull away but he did not hug me back. The dog got a better response. Buddy padded up to him, tail wagging, big dopey grin, and one listless hand reached out to gently scratch the dog’s head.