‘I met the guy from The Cure. He gave me a signed disc . . . Hang on.’

Barrett got up and crossed the room to a shelving unit, fishing out what Patrick knew to be one of the rarest Cure picture discs, an item Patrick had coveted for over twenty years. And it was signed! Barrett looked at it and then shoved it back between the other records on the shelf. ‘I need to get a turntable so I can listen to it.’

It was only when Patrick saw how Rickard was grinning at him that he was able to gather himself and remember what he was there for. He cleared his throat.

‘Shawn, do you know why I’m here?’

Barrett plonked himself down on the sofa again. He seemed more alert now, though he wouldn’t meet Patrick’s eye.

‘Yeah, Mervyn told us. But that girl . . . I thought she was over sixteen. Actually, I thought she was nineteen. That’s what she told me. And she was well up for everything we did.’

‘And what exactly did you do?’ Patrick wanted to see Shawn’s face as he said it, to see if there was anything vicious or gleeful in his expression.

Shawn opened his mouth to speak, but his manager spoke up first. ‘Shawn hasn’t actually admitted to doing anything at all with this girl you’re referring to.’

‘It sounded to me like he just did.’

Rickard shook his head. ‘It doesn’t even come under your jurisdiction. And we know why you really want to talk to Shawn. We know about this nutty idea you have.’

Patrick looked over to the young boy-band singer. He was staring at his phone again, probably flicking through his Twitter messages. As cool as any suspect Patrick had ever seen. He was either completely innocent, a brilliant actor . . . or a bona fide psychopath. Patrick certainly didn’t trust Mervyn Hammond and his psychometric testing. Patrick’s heartbeat increased. If Shawn was a psychopath, if he was a killer, this was going to be the news story of the year. It would overshadow every other story about celebrity crime. Bigger than Jimmy Savile or even Oscar Pistorius. If Shawn Barrett did it, a million teenage hearts would be broken.

‘Shawn, I need to ask you about your whereabouts on a couple of dates. First, the evening of Wednesday, fourth of February, and, second, Saturday, seventh of February, all day and evening.’

Shawn looked blank. He turned his head towards his manager, who produced a sheet of paper.

‘We knew you would ask that. On the fourth, which was two nights before OnT played Twickenham, Shawn was here, at home.’

‘On your own?’ Patrick asked, addressing the singer.

‘Yeah.’

‘Just chilling, I assume?’

Shawn cocked his head. ‘I guess. I was probably playing Minecraft. That’s how I relax when I’m not working.’

He really was only a kid, Patrick thought. ‘What about Saturday the seventh?’

Again, Rickard flapped his piece of paper. ‘Shawn was in the studio all afternoon until eight.’

‘Yeah, we were recording a track for a charity album, that’s right. For this place called St Mary’s Children’s Home.’

‘Lots of witnesses to that,’ Rickard said. ‘Then the band went for dinner, until about ten. Even more witnesses.’

‘And then I came home on my own.’

Patrick thought about it. Daniel Hamlet had been unable to give an exact time of death for Jess, but he had estimated it had been sometime during Saturday night. Which meant Shawn didn’t have an alibi for either murder.

‘Did anyone see you come home that night?’

‘Our driver dropped me off. And . . .’

‘What is it?’

Shawn flicked an anxious look towards his manager. ‘I’m not supposed . . . If this gets out . . .’

Rickard walked over to the couch and leant so Shawn could whisper in his ear. Patrick clenched his fists.

‘We can trust you to be discreet, can’t we?’ Rickard said.

‘This is a murder investigation. I agreed to come here, but if you want to head to the station now . . .’

‘All right, keep your hair on. Tell him, Shawn.’

The pop star looked both sheepish and proud. ‘Well, when I got home I sent a few messages to this girl I’ve been sort of seeing on Snapchat.’

‘Messages?’

He smiled wickedly, the first sign of being a red-blooded male Patrick had witnessed in the flesh. ‘Yeah. You know what Snapchat is?’

‘Of course.’ Wendy had explained it to him the day before. ‘The photos vanish almost immediately, don’t they?’

‘That’s right. Anyway, we exchanged a few pics and then . . . she came over.’

‘You mean it was like a booty call?’

Shawn looked at him blankly.

‘She came over for sex?’

The lupine grin returned. ‘Yeah. And she stayed all night.’

Patrick felt a terrible weariness come over him. Barrett had an alibi. And Patrick had no Plan B. ‘We’ll need to talk to her, get her to confirm this.’

Now Shawn looked worried. ‘Her boyfriend would go mental if he knew we were seeing each other.’ He named the well-known member of a girl band who was living with a Premiership footballer.

‘Lana Vincent,’ Patrick repeated. ‘We can talk to her discreetly. If she confirms what you’re saying, then . . .’

‘I’m off the hook.’

Patrick nodded reluctantly. This girl-band member was bound to confirm the alibi. Shawn wasn’t the killer. Carmella’s trip to Dublin had been a waste of time and they were no closer to knowing who had killed Rose and Jess. He wanted to punch the wall. But while he was here, he might as well see if he could get any useful information out of his former prime suspect.

‘Shawn,’ he said. ‘Did you ever meet Rose Sharp or Jess McMasters? Did you talk with them online? Ever Snapchat them?’

‘No! Listen, Detective, I honestly never met those girls. I swear. I love my fans. I wouldn’t hurt any of them.’

‘Except for Roisin McGreevy in Dublin?’

‘But she wanted me to do it. She liked it.’ Suddenly, he looked sheepish. ‘I just got carried away, that’s all . . . I didn’t mean to hurt her. I love women. I love my mum. If she found out about me and that girl . . . If she heard what you accused me of. Well, first of all she’d give me a good clout. And then she’d come after you.’

‘He’s not wrong,’ said Rickard. ‘Mrs Barrett is very . . . formidable.’

Patrick thought back to the exchange of messages Graham Burns had shown him. ‘This incident with Roisin. It wasn’t a one-off, was it? I have information about another young woman you took back to your hotel room after a concert at Wembley.’

Rickard jumped in. ‘Again, Detective – Shawn is a red-blooded male. All pop stars get women throwing themselves at them. It would be more unusual if he was celibate.’

Patrick clenched his jaw. Rickard was right. This was getting him nowhere. He decided to change tack.

‘If you love your fans so much, you obviously want us to catch the person who murdered them.’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone suspicious hanging around? Anyone who seems to show an unhealthy interest in young women?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Surely you don’t think it’s someone associated with the band?’ Rickard said. ‘Do you want to know what I reckon?’

Patrick really didn’t, but let Rickard continue.

‘Well, I think we’re dealing with a Charles Manson type. Manson thought he heard messages in The Beatles’ songs, that whole “Helter Skelter” thing. I bet it’s something like that.’

Frustrated by this wasted trip, by the dead end he was staring at now it looked like Shawn Barrett was no longer a suspect, Patrick snapped, ‘How could anyone, crazy or not, hear messages in an OnTarget song? The lyrics are nothing but one cliché about love after another.’

Rickard shrugged. ‘Well, maybe that’s what it’s about. Love.’

Chapter 29

Day 9 – Winkler