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the time like he was accused of something that nobody had yet decided to mention and very self-conscious that the two men would be looking for holes in his story. Then he realised that he was so uptight in trying to tell the story exactly the way he had to Constable Scott that it might be considered too similar, as if he had rehearsed it and could now repeat it like a script. That just made him more uptight.
    He finished talking, DC Samuel having nodded his way through it with minimal interruption, and settled back into the seat trying to still his racing mind. Had he seemed suspicious? Had he missed something that the two policeman would later discuss when he wasn’t there? Had he said more to DC Samuel than he had told when giving his statement? Did they suspect him?
    The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. And how much did he really know about what had gone on in that kitchen? Could someone at the party have been responsible after all and was Campbell about to take a fall for them because he was too naïve and too stupid and too eager to drink and drink to be able to get out of this mess?
    Unlocking the door to the flat he noticed how dry his mouth was now and how much his head hurt. He began to mentally inventory his bathroom cabinet, trying to remember what painkillers he had there and to think about how much he needed a cold glass of water. He thought about offering tea to the policemen but then wondered if that would look as if he was trying to suck up to them. But how would it look if he didn’t? As if he’d rather they weren’t there at all and that they’d hurry up and go. Which was true of course but-
    Campbell froze.
    Across his hallway lay a navy blue fleece sweater and a jacket, the lining torn.
    His three foot tall yukka plant lay lengthways on the carpet beyond that, soil scattered around the broken pot it had once stood in, almost as if the fired clay had simply burst. The long thin leaves splayed out on the carpet, pointing like fingers to the living room at the far end of the hall.
    It was there that most of his possessions were tossed and scattered about the floor.
    A cold, cold breeze nipped at Campbell through the broken window at the far end of his home. He stepped slowly inside.

 
9
 
 
    Monday . 10.30am .
     
     
    Keith Slater was a heftily built man who stood six foot two in his socks and had a neck like a normal man’s thigh. He was quiet and thoughtful a lot of the time, an extremely cold and efficient professional others and was exceptionally gentle with his own children of which there were four.
    Aside from his imposing physique he had a soft face, pale blue eyes and sandy hair which was kept short, but not so short that it didn’t need the attention of a comb each morning. He had a small tidy beard, was well groomed and never, ever wore anything other than jeans, except to funerals or court.
    He had been married for nearly twenty years to a loving wife who made every effort to steer their children away from the same path their father had taken. Something that he himself actively approved of.
    He was solid, dependable, loyal and occasionally very considerate. Which was why George Gresham liked him so much and why he was Gresham ’s number two. He was also a vicious, merciless individual when called upon and was responsible for a number of unsolved murders in parts of east London .
    Another reason Gresham liked him.
    The two of them strolled together through a small park near Gresham ’s home sipping take-away coffee from a local café. Neither man was smiling.
    ‘Nothing. Fuck all. We never had too much time of course. That time of the morning, we had to get in and out quick, ’ Slater told his boss.
    Gresham nodded. ‘Fair enough. Not the ideal time to go kicking someone’s door in really. Long as none of the neighbours clocked anything.’
    ‘Nah. Its all fucking bankers and their secretary girlfriends in Fulham boss and all wedged safely onto a tube or an