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Fancourt's intruder, they picked him up. The lab put a rush on the DNA,
and let's just say we weren't exactly surprised to get the result we got.'
    `You knew where you wanted the evidence to take you, and lo and
behold ... '
    `Simon, I'm not in the mood for one man's struggle against the system today, I'm really not. This isn't a Greek tragedy, it's Spilling fucking nick, okay? Shut the fuck up and listen!' Charlie paused, to
compose herself. `Beer protested his innocence, predictably. Made up
some shite alibi which didn't really stand up. Claimed he was in his
flat, watching telly with his mate, who appeared to be marginally less
trustworthy than Beer himself. He didn't have a brief, so he got the
duty solicitor. We kept at him for a while, trying to trip him up. He didn't know we had a trump card up our sleeve, of course.'
    `And you didn't tell him,' Simon guessed aloud.
    `Phase disclosure, all above board,' said Charlie smugly. `We did our best to twirl him and it didn't work. Once we were sure we weren't
going to get anything out of him, we pulled the DNA match out of the
hat. His solicitor went mental.'

    `What did Beer say?'
    `He still denied it. It didn't do him any good, though. We had the
evidence we needed. Anyway, his brief must have talked some sense
into him. After a few weeks as Her Majesty's guest at Earlmount, Beer
suddenly changed his story. He confessed. Not to murder, to aggravated assault. He turned Queen's, shopped a couple of prominent
local low-lifes, promised to go into rehab and counselling, and got himself a lighter sentence. Fucking disgrace, when you think about it.
Twat'll probably be out before we know it.'
    `Where is he now? Not still at Earlmount?'
    Charlie pursed her lips and glared at Simon. After a few seconds she
said, grudgingly, `Brimley.' A category A/B prison, about ten miles from
Culver Ridge in the direction of the very unlovely town of Combingham. An iron grey sprawling concrete offence, it stood neglected
among drab fields that looked, whenever Simon drove past them, as
if they had been shorn by a particularly savage piece of machinery and
doused with noxious chemicals.
    `Did Beer know the details of how Cryer was killed?' he asked.
`When he confessed, I mean.'
    `Only a hazy version. He claimed he'd been off his head on drugs
and barely remembered anything. That was how he got the charge
dropped to aggravated assault.'
    `He didn't tell you robbery was the motive?'
    `What else could it have been?' Charlie frowned. A question,
thought Simon; an important question, yet she presented it as an
answer. `Beer didn't know Cryer. They didn't exactly mix in the same
circles. He'd obviously been hanging round The Elms in the weeks
before, looking for opportunities to break in. It's a fairly obvious target, let's face it-biggest house in the area. He was probably having
another scout round the place when he saw Cryer walking towards him with a Gucci handbag dangling from her shoulder. He ran off with
the bag, he was a drug addict-yes, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that
robbery was the motive.'

    Just occasionally, the expression on Charlie's face when she said certain words reminded Simon of the class difference between them.
There was a way of saying `drug addict' as if you'd never met one, as
if the flawed and the weak belonged in a different universe. That was
how Charlie said it. And she'd met hundreds. `Did he give you the murder weapon? Or the bag?'
    `He couldn't remember what he'd done with either, and we never
found them. It happens, Simon,' she added, defensively. `Doesn't mean
the scrote's innocent.' All male offenders were scrotes. Women were
splits. The police's secret language was a second uniform. It made
everyone feel safe.
    `A kitchen knife, you said?' That sounded wrong. `Wouldn't Beer's
type be more likely to have a shooter?'
    `He might be more likely to, but he didn't,' Charlie said calmly. `He
had a kitchen knife. Focus on the known,