The twelve-year-olds were whispering and giggling now and, irritated and embarrassed, Chloe left the line, stalking down towards the store. She could see Mervyn Hammond up ahead, talking to a woman with auburn hair. The woman turned and Chloe realised she was that cop, the one who’d stood next to the detective at the vigil when he made his appeal for information. And just beyond the female cop, Chloe saw Jade and Kai, right at the front of the queue.

Her knees wobbled and all of a sudden the wintry sun seemed too bright. She staggered away, almost colliding with a security guy, and sat down on the kerb, sucking in deep breaths. It all came rushing back to her, the reason why she didn’t talk to Jade anymore; what had happened to that girl; the things that she hadn’t told the police about . . .

She forced herself to her feet, praying that Jade and Kai hadn’t seen her, and walked briskly away. She needed to be far away. To be anywhere but here.

Chapter 23

Day 7 – Patrick

Patrick cracked his knuckles and checked his reflection in the mirror, making sure he didn’t have anything caught in his teeth and that his hair wasn’t sticking up. He knew that Mervyn Hammond was the kind of person who placed high importance on image and Patrick needed Hammond to take him seriously, even if the PR man had a faintly ridiculous air about him – an older man with dyed black hair and a smooth Botoxed face, a permatan and bling on his wrist in the form of a diamond-studded Rolex. As Carmella had pointed out, Hammond probably wore control pants to keep his stomach sucked in. But despite all these ludicrous foibles, Hammond had power, friends in the press and other high places, and the means to afford teams of expensive lawyers. Patrick needed to tread carefully with him.

He cracked his knuckles again, gave his reflection a final once-over, and left the Gents. Careful or not, he was looking forward to this.

Mervyn Hammond was waiting in interview room one, Carmella sitting opposite him. Hammond had brought his own large coffee from Starbucks, along with a bag of mixed nuts, which sat open on the table. When Patrick had spoken to Hammond on the phone he had explained that the PR man was not under suspicion of the murder of Rose or Jessica, but that information had come to light that they needed to ask him about. Patrick had expected Hammond to protest, to come in flanked by an entourage of lawyers, but he had been surprisingly willing and had come alone, driving his own limited-edition F-type Jag Coupé, at which several cops had gone into the car park to gawp. Maybe, Patrick thought, Hammond found this kind of thing exciting, interesting.

‘I’m diabetic,’ Hammond explained, catching Patrick eyeing the bag of nuts. ‘I need to snack regularly or my blood sugar goes . . .’ He pointed his thumb downwards like a Roman emperor ordering an execution. ‘That is all right, I assume, Detective Lennon?’ He chuckled. ‘I met your namesake a few times, you know. Up himself, he was. Paul was always the talented one . . . though they both shared the same dodgy taste in women.’

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Patrick said, referring to the nuts. He took the seat opposite Hammond, who was wearing a suit that was slightly too tight, his fake tan glowing orange in the badly lit interview room where the body odour of the youth who’d been questioned here last still lingered. ‘I should point out that you are here voluntarily, that you are not under caution and that you can leave at any time.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to be locked up. Unless it was a women’s prison.’ He winked at Carmella. ‘Enjoy the book signing, Detective?’

Patrick was eager to get started. ‘Thank you for coming to talk to us, Mr Hammond.’

‘Call me Mervyn.’

‘Mr Hammond, we want to ask you some questions about one of your clients. Like I said on the phone, some information has come to light that is connected to a case we’re working on, and we are hoping to get some information from you to help clear it up.’

‘It’s not Bruce, is it? I warned him about those small boys.’ He guffawed and said, ‘I’m only kidding. It’s obviously about OnTarget and the murders of those two teenagers. It’s all over the papers this morning. Both massive OnT fans; the boys sending their condolences to the families; planning a minute’s silence at tonight’s gig. That was my idea, by the way. Though the boys really do care, you know. They love their fans.’

Patrick studied Hammond’s face, trying to work out if he was taking the piss. Before he could ask the next question, Hammond scooped up the bag of snacks and leaned across the table towards Carmella.

‘Nut?’

‘No thank you,’ she said coolly.

His eyes flicked up and down her upper body. ‘Yeah, you don’t look like the type of woman who likes nuts.’ He turned his attention to Patrick. ‘Ever thought about a TV career, Detective? I reckon you’d do well with those rugged, alternative looks. Plus you’ve got a good backstory – wife trying to kill your nipper. You could probably get a book deal. The cop who arrested his own wife. The Mirror would serialise that, no question.’

Patrick blinked, then took a deep breath. Of course, it would be easy for Hammond to find that out – it had been in the papers at the time, although the detail about Patrick arresting Gill himself had been omitted. He was disconcerted by the fact that Hammond had made the effort to research him, though. But he couldn’t let that show.

‘Mr Hammond, the allegations we’ve heard concern Shawn Barrett.’

Hammond’s eyebrows rose, his forehead remaining immaculately smooth. ‘Allegations? A minute ago, you said “information”.’ He popped a brazil nut into his mouth, displaying his brilliant white teeth.

Patrick cursed himself, but it didn’t really matter. The allegations were going to come up anyway.

‘Information has come to light that, while on tour in Ireland, Shawn Barrett assaulted a girl at his hotel. According to our source, he tied this girl up and beat her.’

Hammond stayed immobile and silent for a moment. Patrick could almost hear his brain ticking. According to Wikipedia (You’re not the only one who can do research, mate, Patrick thought) Mervyn Hammond had an IQ of 160. Not that Patrick placed much faith in IQ scores. Some of the people he knew with high IQ scores had common sense scores of zero.

‘Who’s this source?’ Hammond asked, his voice flat.

‘We can’t reveal that.’

Hammond barked a laugh. ‘Ever thought about working in PR, Detective? Or journalism? This is the first I’ve ever heard about such an allegation, and I can tell you that Shawn Barrett is a sweet, normal lad who has no interest in S&M or tying little girls up.’

‘Who said she was a little girl?’ Carmella asked.

‘Huh?’

‘We didn’t mention anything about her being underage.’

Hammond snorted. ‘Well, you said girl instead of woman. You police are trained to be politically correct now, aren’t you? You probably have to say person of a female persuasion in public, don’t you? I was simply extrapolating from the vocab you used.’

Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘We want the name and contact details of this young woman – and yes, she was underage.’

‘Did he have sex with her?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you talk about her being underage. I assume you mean the age of consent, though I don’t even know what it is in Ireland.’

Patrick had checked – it was seventeen.

‘Listen, Detective, Shawn Barrett and the other members of OnTarget have persons of a female persuasion literally jumping on them and begging them to fuck them, if you’ll excuse my Anglo-Saxon. Maybe one or two of these chicks asked Shawn to tie them up after showing him a dodgy birth certificate. I know for a fact that Shawn is not a psychopathic rapist who gets his kicks from attacking his fans. He’s a normal red-blooded bloke who is taking advantage of the goodies being served up to him on a plate.’