‘Like, as you say, a large proportion of teenage girls around the world.’

Patrick wished he could tell them about the perfume sprayed into the girls’ wounds, along with the fact that they now knew, thanks to Martin’s continued investigations, that both girls had been using apps or the Internet on their phones shortly before their deaths. Martin had worked out that both girls spent 82 per cent of their time online engaged in ‘OnTarget-related activities’. If they had met their murderer on the Internet, the chances were they had encountered him – or he had found them – somewhere in the OnTarget universe.

But all he could say was, ‘There are other details that I’m unable to reveal at this time that make us believe the two girls’ interest in OnTarget was almost definitely a factor in their deaths.’

Mouths dropped open around the desk and Graham Burns shook his head with what could have been sadness or frustration.

Patrick addressed Mervyn Hammond. ‘I’m concerned about this Sun article. If there’s any way at all you can use your influence to prevent it from being published, we would greatly appreciate it. The last thing we want is to engender a sense of panic among OnTarget fans and their parents. We’ll release a statement to the press when the time’s right, but for the moment, the less the public knows, the better. It brings out all the copycats and attention-seeking weirdos.’

Tris looked pained. ‘Believe me, that’s the last thing we want too. It’s what we’ve been discussing for the last hour. It’s hardly good for the band’s reputation, is it?’

Mervyn still appeared very put out. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about the article. The editor thinks this OnT story is juicier than anything else I can offer at the moment.’

‘Who would be in charge of monitoring the OnTarget forums and the social media activity?’ Patrick glanced at Carmella’s notes. ‘I assume that would be you, Mr Burns?’

Graham Burns leaned forwards earnestly, brushing his foppishly floppy hair behind one ear. ‘That’s in my remit, yes. The official forum is hosted on a site that we own, though we use a specialist agency to monitor and track all the social activity and online mentions, of which there are many. And I mean many. Somebody tweets about OnTarget every second. Add to that all of the stuff going on across Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr, et cetera, and the noise is . . . intense. We’re talking about a community of many millions globally. Last time a new video was released, the servers almost melted and it was viewed on YouTube 600 million—’

Patrick held up a hand, fearing he was about to be buried beneath a landslide of stats.

‘Let’s talk about the official forum first. Is there a private messaging system within it?’

‘Yes, of course. But we can’t access PMs.’

‘You must be able to.’

Burns pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid not. Privacy is a big thing among teenage girls.’

‘Except when they’re sharing semi-naked photos on Instagram,’ Mervyn said, guffawing. Patrick noticed Lauren Greene shifting uneasily from one chunky buttock to the other.

‘I could check if the two girls ever communicated privately on the forum,’ Graham said. ‘I just won’t be able to access the content of the messages.’

‘That would be useful, thanks.’

Burns left the room, smiling obsequiously at Mervyn Hammond on his way out. He looked like a right lick-arse, thought Patrick.

‘So, OnTarget are pretty . . . massive, then?’

Reggie, the band’s manager, cleared his throat and recited a long and boring list of statistics about sales figures and chart-topped territories. He had a strange way of emphasising random words.

Carmella was scribbling frantically and looked relieved when Reggie ended with, ‘Tour of the US and Canada planned for summer. You could say massive, yeah.’

Mervyn Hammond had said nothing since confirming that he couldn’t do anything about the Sun article. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can do to help us with the newspaper, Mr Hammond?’ Patrick asked him.

He shrugged and re-crossed his legs, showing a flash of red silk sock. ‘Sorry, Detective. Don’t the police have any powers?’

‘If only, Mr Hammond. If only.’

Mervyn smiled his oily smile. ‘They might be interested in a profile of the cop who’s out to catch the killer. Could be useful . . .’

He slid an embossed card across to Patrick who stood up, ignoring the card and turning away from the PR man. He had finally encountered someone he liked even less than Winkler.

Patrick and Carmella left the room, both glad to escape the curt silence. Hattie was typing furiously at a desk on the other side of the room, looking up at her screen and pausing, as if something there had grabbed her attention. Her fingers fluttered over the keyboard.

Patrick wandered over to her desk. ‘Where can we find Graham Burns?’

Hattie jumped like Patrick had sneaked up behind her and popped a balloon in her ear.

‘Shit. Sorry . . . Graham? Oh, he’s right behind you.’

Patrick turned to see the social media manager coming towards him across the lobby.

‘Any joy?’ Patrick asked. ‘Did Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters ever message each other?’

‘Yes.’ Graham had that excited air people get when they think they are helping the police solve a tricky puzzle. ‘They exchanged several messages last year.’

‘But you really can’t access those messages? That’s incredibly frustrating, Mr Burns.’

Graham looked over his shoulder and said quietly, ‘Well, it’s possible that, if I dig deep, I could find something . . . It goes against policy, but . . .’

‘That would be extremely helpful.’

‘No problem, Detective.’

Yep, he really was an arse-kisser, Patrick thought.

Patrick handed him a business card. ‘Here’s my number. If I’m not around, you can talk to any member of my team. I’ll need your contact details too.’

Graham delved in the back pocket of his cords and pulled out an antique engraved cardholder that looked as if it was made of ivory. He flipped it open and gave Patrick a card from it. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do to help.’

As they left the building Patrick heard footsteps tapping hurriedly up behind them. It was Hattie Parsons, the PA, her beads bouncing against her flat chest as she broke into a run to catch them up. She was looking behind her as though she was being chased by a pack of wolves.

‘I can’t let Kerry see me talk to you.’

Patrick and Carmella exchanged glances. ‘Kerry? Mervyn Hammond’s security guy?’

Hattie nodded and Carmella smiled reassuringly at her. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s far too engrossed in Candy Crush. What is it?’

Hattie actually wrung her hands together. ‘I shouldn’t tell you. It’s probably nothing.’

‘Go on,’ said Patrick.

‘I could lose my job . . .’

‘You won’t,’ said Carmella soothingly. ‘Not if you’re just helping us with our investigation. That would be unfair dismissal.’

Tears sprang into the woman’s eyes. ‘Mervyn would definitely have me fired. So would Reggie. If the press got hold of it . . .’

They waited expectantly. Eventually Hattie leaned forwards and spoke so quietly that they had to strain to hear her over the noise of the Knightsbridge traffic.

‘It’s Shawn Barrett. Nobody knows outside of Gideon, but . . .’

She hesitated again.

‘Please tell us, Miss Parsons.’

The words came out in a panicked blurt. ‘There are things about Shawn that nobody knows. Put it this way: if I had a teenage daughter, I wouldn’t let her within a million miles of him.’

‘And why’s that?’

She looked over her shoulder, then handed him a business card. ‘Call me later,’ she said, and turned and ran back to the office.