Her eyes light up as I enter the room, like she’s spotted an old friend she hasn’t seen in a while. She smiles with that air of confidence I found so very attractive when we first met. Now, however, it comes across a little cocksure and irritating. I set up the tape recorder, go through the protocol guff with her, name, date of birth, tell her to speak clearly for the recorder, words I’ve said hundreds of times before, yet this time I seem to trip over them. A duty solicitor sits a little way back from the table, a small, rat-faced diminutive man who looks like he has a moustache made of dog shit under his nose. Some jumped-up, privileged Tory boy with a suit that looks almost as cheap as his integrity. I half expect him to say ‘no comment’ when I ask him if we can get him anything to drink. He looks like he says the phrase in his sleep. I say my name and the solicitor’s for the benefit of the tape and ask her to confirm her own.

She speaks into the recorder: ‘Florence Williams’.

The solicitor casts me a shifty glance.

‘But that’s not your real name, is it Rebecca? Your birth name is Rebecca Jane Harper, that’s correct isn’t it?’

She looks at me intently. ‘Yes, but call me Florence.’

‘Can you confirm for the tape that your name is Rebecca Jane Harper and that your date of birth is 21 June 1987?’

‘I’ve never liked the name Rebecca, never felt it suited me.’

‘Is that why you use aliases? Danni-Jo, Florence…?’

‘Florence was my grandmother’s name.’

‘You told me your parents named you after the place you were conceived.’

The solicitor glances at me.

I continue, ‘Do you know the difference between the truth and a lie, Rebecca?’

She looks at me, a half smile on her face. She’s sitting forward in the seat now, swaying slightly as if she’s a little drunk.

‘I could ask you the same question, Daniel. Tell me, how’s life in the world of architecture?’ She giggles. Now I’m convinced she’s drunk. I try and remember how much retsina she drank at the restaurant, probably not even a glass.

‘Do you know why you’re here, Rebecca?’

She nods. ‘To finish the story.’

‘And what story is that?’

She doesn’t answer.

‘The story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears?’

Silence.

‘Where is George, Rebecca?’ I keep my voice level but firm. I need to play this very carefully.

‘Who?’

She’s still wearing the plum dress, but she’s not as perfectly groomed as she was a few hours ago. The wig looks as if it could do with a brush. Her bare legs are crossed and she’s sitting at the table as though we’re still in the restaurant, discussing our respective working weeks over olives and taramasalata.

‘The baby, Rebecca, the little boy you had in your charge, the one you told me about tonight: George. Where is he? Has he come to any harm?’

More silence.

‘Tell me where he is. Where is Baby Bear?’

She lifts her head up when I say this. Her solicitor whispers something in her ear and I feel like reaching across the table and strangling him with his shitty tie.

‘You used the name Goldilocks when you were searching for prospective men online to murder. Why did you choose that name? Were you acting out a fantasy fairy tale Rebecca, the story of the three bears?’ I think of Nigel Baxter then, his body in the bath in that beautiful hotel room and I try to imagine the rage and hatred and anger that must’ve been inside her and driven her to do what she did.

‘You were working as an escort weren’t you Rebecca? Meeting rich older men, sugar daddys who afforded you a lavish lifestyle in return for sex. But that’s not the only reason you went looking for that particular type of man was it? Nigel Baxter was Daddy Bear wasn’t he? Did Nigel represent your father? Was Nigel the father who abused you? Is that why you poisoned him and then slit his wrists.’

She visibly shrinks at the mention of her father. I slide the crime-scene photographs across the table and they naturally fan out like a pack of cards.

‘You did this, didn’t you, Rebecca? You drugged Mr Baxter in suite 106 of La Reymond Hotel on April 12 of this year while he was in the bath, while you were both in the bath, drinking champagne, and then you slit open his wrists and watched him bleed to death, didn’t you?’

She tilts her head to one side. Her eyes lower to look at the ghoulish images of Baxter’s bloated and bloody corpse, close-ups of his injuries, his open, congealing wounds and his large fleshy form slumped over the tub.

I show her a picture of the teddy bear left at the scene. ‘You had this made especially for Mr Baxter, for Daddy Bear. That’s right isn’t it, Rebecca?’ I lean forward across the table towards her. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? You had sex with Mr Baxter and then fed him chocolates laced with enough arsenic to shut down his organs as he sipped champagne with you in the bath. Then you took a razor to his wrists and sliced them open.’

Her eyelids appear a little heavy as she looks up at me.

‘You’re wearing the earrings he gave to you now, aren’t you, the Tiffany diamond studs?’

She’s expressionless.

‘Then you methodically cleaned up in a bid to erase any DNA – and you did a good job, I have to say – before disguising yourself and making an exit.’

She gently touches the prints on the table, running her fingers along the outline of the deceased nostalgically, like she’s looking through old holiday snaps.

‘Karen Walker, Kizzy, your neighbour. The woman who lived opposite you in your Mayfair apartment. Tell me about Kizzy, Rebecca. You liked her didn’t you? She liked you too. You were friends…’

One of her legs is swinging manically over the other as she watches me silently.

‘You poisoned Kizzy’s cat didn’t you? After she had entrusted you with a key to her apartment. And then you invited Kizzy for dinner, cooked her pasta, a special recipe that included large amounts of sleeping pills, that’s right isn’t it? Then when she returned to her apartment to sleep, you let yourself in and slit open her wrists, just like you did Nigel Baxter’s. Then you staged the scene to look like a suicide once again.’

Rebecca is looking at me but I see nothing behind her eyes, it’s as if she’s disappeared somewhere within herself.

‘Karen, Kizzy… she was Mummy Bear wasn’t she? You told a police officer that she’d been like a mother to you. Why, if that was the case, would you want to hurt her?’

Nothing.

‘And George. Is he your next victim? A tiny, defenseless baby… Why would you want to harm a baby, Rebecca? The woman I met – she would never do that – the woman I met was beautiful and kind, she had a good heart, she’s a good woman… Tell me Rebecca – please tell me where he is.’

Complimenting her seems to have evoked a reaction and she turns away from me, lowers her head. I know there’s something there, a human part of her that’s still alive, barely breathing but still alive, that wouldn’t hurt a child. And I need to get to it, quickly. Time is running out.

I change tactic. ‘Why did you come, to the restaurant? You knew who I was, didn’t you? You knew I was a policeman. When did you find out? If you knew that I would arrest you, why did you come? Why didn’t you run? You want this to be over don’t you; I know you do. I do too, Rebecca and it can be over if you talk to me, tell me where George is…’

The rat-faced solicitor looks confused. ‘Excuse me Detective, sorry, but do you two know each other?’ He’s pointing at us simultaneously as though he’s interrupting a private conversation. ‘Hang on… Detective Riley, if you are familiar with my client on a personal level then this is highly unorthodox and I must insist that another officer conduct the interview immediately. You have arrested my client on the suspicion of two counts of murder in the first degree and I—’

She turns to the solicitor. ‘I want you to leave,’ she says sternly, ‘I want to talk to Daniel alone.’

I suspect that Woods is watching all of this and is probably on the verge of a heart attack. I’m expecting him to knock on the door any minute and terminate the interview, but I have to get a confession from her, I have to find out where George is.

‘Ms Harper, I would strongly advise you not to do this,’ the solicitor addresses her gravely. ‘It is in your best interest to have a solicitor present, given the nature of the accusations against you I must insist that you—’

‘I want you to leave,’ she says again.

‘Ms Harper, look… Detective,’ he turns to me, ‘it is clear that my client is not in any fit mental state to make any rational decisions—’

‘Just get out!’ she screams and he visibly flinches, takes a step back from her in shock.

‘As you wish, Ms Harper,’ he mutters, gathering his briefcase and papers hastily, ‘it’s your funeral.’