Kilgannon and Wells were both tall men, the former broad and bulky and the latter as thin and sturdy as a rake. They were in their late fifties and dressed awkwardly in suits, carrying themselves the way men do when they are used to being in work clothes but pressed into service for a funeral or an appearance in court.

Constance glided quietly into the station in their wake, a small, bird-like man with the bite of a velociraptor. He had been taking chunks out of cops and police lawyers for years and was feared just as much as the powerful men he frequently represented. Connie was a little man who had grown very wealthy on the fat of others’ transgressions.

He and his clients sat on one side of the table while Addison and Narey sat on the other. It was an informal interview, nothing under caution or recorded, an act of assistance on the part of Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells, as Constance informed them. It was clear who would be doing most of the talking.

‘My clients are here to assist in any way they can but I have let it be known that they are as mystified as I am as to how you think they might be able to help you. You say that a deceased person once took lodging at a property owned by my clients and, even if that is indeed the case, their connection to your investigation is tenuous at best, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘If that is indeed the case then your clients have nothing to worry about, Mr Constance,’ Addison replied. ‘However it would be very helpful if they could outline for us the working practices at the Rosewood Hotel, the number of employees positioned there and their identities. I would also like to ask them for a detailed list of people staying there in the past six months.’

Kilgannon and Wells looked back across the table, their expressions unchanged and their mouths firmly shut. There was a coldness about both of them that would have kept fish fingers frozen for a month.

Constance spread his arms wide, his face a picture of innocent confusion. ‘Working practices at the hotel? As at any other hotel, DCI Addison. Guests are registered, accommodation is provided and payment received. What other practices could you possibly mean?’

Addison was about to tell him just what he meant when the lawyer cut him off by opening a folder in front of him and picking up a number of sheets of A4 paper in a clear plastic pocket. He placed them on the desk in front of the two officers.

‘Everything you require is in there, Detective Chief Inspector. It lists five employees. Their names, addresses, National Insurance numbers, employment history and contact details are enclosed within. We would insist that you inform us of any plans to interview any of them as I am their legal counsel and would be present at any such meeting.’

‘Only five? For a building that size?’

‘It is a well-run, well-organized company run by two outstanding businessmen. Five employees are sufficient.’

Narey’s temperature rose a couple of degrees. ‘Well run? You are telling us that place is well run?’

Neither Kilgannon nor Wells blinked but Constance looked at her over the top of his small round glasses. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector, I believe that is what I just said. Do you have any reason to cast aspersions on the running of my clients’ business and do any such aspersions have any basis in the law or any relevance to the case you are pursuing? Indeed do they have any relevance whatsoever to the basis on which Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells graciously agreed to be here today?’

‘Let’s move on.’ Addison knew he had to be quick before Narey bit back and he just managed it. ‘But you should maybe get off your high horse, Mr Constance, and remember you’re not playing to a jury. You’re clients’ business isn’t on trial here. Not yet. But we do want to know if they can help us with why Euan Hepburn was staying in the Rosewood Hotel.’

Kilgannon and Wells, sitting like two fish stuck into suits and overcoats, narrowed their eyes slightly at that and there was a hint of a bored glare towards Addison. Still they didn’t speak.

‘Detective Chief Inspector . . .’ Constance laboured the title as if he were talking to a child. ‘My clients cannot possibly be expected to guess why one person chose to stay in their hotel. Presumably, and this is my supposition rather than theirs, he wished for a roof over his head. My clients provide a place of warmth and safety for individuals who do not have the luxury of booking themselves into the Ritz-Carlton. They provide a service.’

Narey’s kettle began to boil over. ‘Bollocks.’

‘DI Narey . . .’ Addison and Constance chimed warnings in different tones. She ignored both.

She lost it. ‘The Rosewood Hotel is a shithole and we all know it. Your clients are raking in money at the expense of the health and mental well-being of people who are out of their faces on drink and drugs. They don’t give a monkey’s about the people who stay there as long as they continue to screw them and the taxpayer out of housing benefit. Your clients are morally bankrupt and I’m not sure you’re much better for representing them.’

Constance seemed to relish the outburst. ‘DCI Addison, are you going to allow the newly promoted DI to continue to speak in such intemperate and undoubtedly slanderous terms? I suggest you might do well to protect her from herself by disabusing her of the notion that she can throw about such remarks without consequence.’

Addison barely concealed a smirk. ‘I’d say that DI Narey is perfectly capable of looking after herself without any protection from me. And I’ve not heard her yet say anything that isn’t true. If this was a court of law, which it isn’t, I think our lawyers would be calling Veritas.’

Connie smiled sweetly. ‘I do love it when a policeman starts quoting law at me. It invariably means they don’t know what they are talking about. Now, shall we proceed with some civility or should we call this conversation to a close? Your choice, officers.’

Narey could see the amusement in Addison’s eyes as he turned to her. He loved a fight and it was tickling him that he was the one having to rein her in. ‘What do you think, DI Narey?’

‘I am all in favour of civility. Let’s go with that. Euan Hepburn was a freelance journalist. We believe he was in the Rosewood Hotel to expose the practices that take place there and the callous treatment of the poor bastards - my apologies, residents - who have to stay there. Are your clients aware of any particular failings within the Rosewood that Mr Hepburn may have been interested in?’

Kilgannon and Wells bristled and Constance feigned being indignant.

‘Yet more intemperate language, DI Narey? At least you had the good grace to apologize for it on this occasion. I do not believe my clients are aware of any such failings. Nor were they previously aware of Mr Hepburn’s rather dubious behaviour, if indeed it was as you describe it.’

‘Why don’t we let them tell us? After all, they must be better placed than you to say what they were and weren’t aware of.’

‘Well that is a very helpful suggestion, DCI Addison, and I thank you for making it, but I am here to represent my clients. They are both wary of being tricked into saying something they don’t mean. No offence whatsoever is intended when I say that they are aware of police officers employing underhand methods to extract unwitting statements and they do not wish to be duped in such a way.’

Addison sighed heavily and shifted slightly to face away from the lawyer. ‘Mr Kilgannon, Mr Wells, do you know of anything in your hotel that may have aroused the interest of a journalist?’

Neither man twitched. They stared at Addison as if he were something stuck to their shoe.

‘Anything at all, gentlemen?’ Narey had had enough. ‘Drug taking on the premises, perhaps? Hygiene breaches?’

Brian Wells was beginning to look uncomfortable but Kilgannon wasn’t fazed in the slightest. Annoyed maybe but not remotely bothered. She charged on.