Patrick spat his lime and soda across the table.

‘Or possibly “Love Cats” . . .’

Attempting to recover from this awful news – for Patrick, it was akin to being told his mother had started a new career as a stripper – he said, ‘I have to warn you, Hattie, that if what you tell us leads to a prosecution, you might be required to testify in court.’

She blanched. ‘Oh God. Really? Can’t you blame an anonymous source?’

‘I’m not a journalist.’

Another big gulp of wine. ‘Maybe I should have gone to the press instead. Then you would have found out that way.’

‘Found out what? Listen, Hattie, I will respect your need for privacy as far as I can, but if you know anything, you have to tell us.’

Hattie shuddered, but then said, ‘OK, OK. I understand. Oh God . . . I’ve got teenage nieces, and when I imagine them . . .’ She trailed off.

‘Do you want another drink?’

‘I shouldn’t. Oh, yes please. White wine.’

He returned from the bar and she immediately raised the glass and swallowed half its contents. Then he waited.

‘OK, so, the thing is . . .’ Her voice dropped so he had to lean forwards. ‘There have been rumours about Shawn Barrett for a long time. Since the band went on their first world tour.’ She paused. ‘Actually, that was only two years ago, but it feels like a lifetime, like they’ve been around forever. OnTarget are so huge. You know, without the cash they’ve generated over the last couple of years, GSM would be in deep shit. The company will do anything to protect them. There was an exposé last year when Blake and Zubin were caught smoking a joint on the tour bus, but no-one really cares about that sort of stuff anymore, do they?’

‘Well, it is illegal.’

‘Yes, but the media can barely be bothered to act outraged by a bit of ganja these days. It’s hardly in Ian Watkins territory, is it?’

Ian Watkins had been the singer with the rock band Lostprophets, who had been convicted of sexually assaulting a one-year-old baby, a case that had made Patrick wish, in his most furious moments, that he could spend an hour alone in a cell with Watkins.

‘And you’re saying that the rumours about Shawn are in Watkins territory?’

‘Well, not that bad. But . . . OK, you know pop bands get a lot of groupies, obviously. With rock bands – grown-up bands – it’s quite straightforward. Women throw themselves at them and, in most cases, the bands act like Augustus Gloop let loose in Willy Wonka’s factory. I’m sure there’s a lot of weird, blurred-lines stuff that goes on, but on the whole it’s consenting adults. With a boy band like OnTarget, though, where most of the fans are very young, underage, we have to build a protective wall around them.’

‘When you say “we”, you mean the record company?’

‘Yes. The record company and their management. It would be an absolute disaster – some fourteen-year-old girl, who probably looks seventeen, going to the press revealing she had sex with one of OnTarget. Nightmare. We basically have to ensure that any girl who goes near the band is ID’d and isn’t a nutter. Anyway, it’s not such a big issue now as most of the band have girlfriends and are good boys. Carl is engaged to Alexa Woolf from The Shenanigans, and Blake is going out with wotsername from the Harry Potter films. Zubin is in between girlfriends. Shawn, though, has never had one, which has led to loads of rumours that he’s gay, especially as he’s the best-looking and most popular member, the one that everyone assumes will eventually go solo.’

‘But he’s not gay?’

‘Uh-uh.’ Her voice dropped another notch. ‘He’s definitely not gay. What I’ve heard is that he likes young girls. Fourteen, fifteen. I mean, he’s only twenty himself, but that five-, six-year gap is massive. And that’s not the worst of it.’

Patrick looked up from his notebook, where he’d been scribbling notes. ‘What is the worst of it, Hattie?’

A man walked past the table and Hattie jumped, but it was just a guy on his way to the Gents.

‘The rumour is that he . . . hurt a girl while they were on tour in Ireland.’

‘What do you mean, hurt?’

Her voice was so quiet now that he had to lean right across the table, and she did the same. To observers, they must have looked like a couple having an affair, whispering secrets and plans. ‘The rumour is that he’s into bondage and . . . role-play. He likes to tie girls up and whack them with a riding crop.’

‘Hm. Influenced by Fifty Shades of Grey?’

‘Probably. Listen, this came from a guy who was looking after Shawn on tour. Shawn would ask him to take him to local sex shops where he would buy handcuffs and rope and, you know, kinky underwear. The guy thought it was a bit weird, but this is the music industry – everyone sees extreme behaviour all the time. Anyway, apparently, they were at the hotel in Dublin after a gig there and it was mayhem, as it always is – the place surrounded by fans and press – and the guy who was looking after Shawn let this girl go up to Shawn’s room. Two hours later she’s in the hotel corridor, sobbing, and Shawn’s minder manages to get her into an empty room where she tells him that Shawn tied her to the bed and then he laid into her with a crop. He gagged her so she couldn’t scream . . . She was in a dreadful state, apparently, and then she drops the bombshell – she’s only fourteen.’

‘I thought they were meant to ID all the girls?’

‘Yes. They are, but this guy fucked up. The girl had fake ID, he said she looked about nineteen, was determined to get into a room with her idol.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Anyway, the minder called GSM and they managed to persuade her not to tell anyone. They paid her off. That’s how I know about it – I saw my boss’s emails.’

Patrick stared at her. ‘So he committed at the very least statutory rape . . .’

‘Hang on, no. He didn’t have sex with her. This girl apparently said afterwards that although Shawn was excited through the whole thing, he didn’t actually, you know . . .’

‘Penetrate her?’

She nodded, a hint of pink blossoming on her cheeks.

‘How can you be sure this girl in Ireland won’t talk?’ Patrick asked.

‘She was paid extremely well and . . . Mervyn Hammond got involved. I believe he made certain threats, explained to her, in a very nice way, of course, how the media works, how her life would be over if this ever came out. And I think he made promises too, that he would help her if she ever got into one of the talent industries. Do some positive PR for her. Vile man.’

From what he’d seen of Hammond, Patrick had to agree with her assessment.

‘This could be extremely helpful,’ he said, glancing down at his notebook, which he angled so Hattie couldn’t see it. The key words he’d written down, which tallied with Rose’s and Jessica’s murders, were underage, crop, hotel room and, underlined, no sex.

Suddenly, they had a prime suspect. A prime suspect who just happened to be one of the most famous men, not just in Britain but in the whole world.

‘I need to talk to this girl,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I need her name, Hattie.’

‘Oh God, it’s all going to come out that I’ve talked to you.’ She put her hands over her face. ‘I didn’t mean to say so much.’

Patrick looked wryly at the empty wine glasses on the table.

‘You can’t talk to the girl, Detective. It’s impossible.’

‘Nothing’s impossible, Hattie,’ he said.

Chapter 20

Day 6 – Patrick

On the way back to the incident room, Patrick had a moment of brain-panic – the realisation that there were so many layers of thought going through his head that they all swirled together like tutti-frutti ice cream, and separating them out into a cogent to-do list seemed as impossible as restoring the ice cream back to its original ingredients. He parked in the staff car park and pulled out his Moleskine and a pen, balancing the notepad on the steering wheel so he could try to get it all down before he forgot: