Rupe sat in the police cell with his head in his hands, overwhelmed by incredulity. Murder? He couldn’t murder someone. Sooner or later, the police would realise their mistake and let him go.

His arse was numb from sitting on the thin mattress. He stood and paced around the cell, not that proper pacing was possible, given the size of the cage. In the corner, a white toilet with a steel rim emitted a faint stench of faeces mingled with bleach. On top of the mattress was a flat pillow covered in stains and a thin, scratchy blanket that would no doubt make him break out in hives.

He couldn’t stay there.

As his breathing began to escalate, he forced himself to calm down. Panicking would get him nowhere. He needed to think, to stay focused, to do whatever it took to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.

The letterbox-sized slit in the heavy metal door opened, and the custody sergeant peeked through before the steel bolts holding the door in place slid back. A jolt of hope shot through Rupe. Maybe they were letting him out after realising they’d fingered the wrong guy.

Instead, the sergeant stepped through the door, holding a plastic tray aloft. “Breakfast,” he said, placing the tray on the floor.

Rupe almost laughed. It was like primary school. The food had been placed in individual compartments with overcooked scrambled eggs in one, a slice of bacon in another, and black pudding—disgusting at the best of times—in another. They’d even added a small piece of pineapple coated in congealed yoghurt.

“And a drink.” He pointed to a Ribena carton with a red straw sticking out of the top.

The sergeant began to back out of the room, and Rupe had a sudden urge to beg him to stay, but he kept his lips sealed as the heavy steel door was slammed shut.

He stared at the food tray before kicking it aside. He did drink the Ribena, though. And then he sat on the bed and waited.

A couple of hours later, the door to his cell opened once more. The custody sergeant entered, holding a pair of handcuffs.

“Time for court,” he said, indicating for Rupe to hold his wrists out. Rupe did as he was asked, his incredulity rising with each step of this godforsaken process. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.

“Where’s my lawyer?”

“She’ll meet you at court.” With his hand on the small of Rupe’s back, he ushered him through the door. Outside the police station, Rupe was placed in a prison van—the type with tiny windows that made it impossible to see through, although he, like most people, had seen news footage of photographers desperately scrambling to get a partial shot of the latest newsworthy criminal.

Crap. He’d be newsworthy. The owner of one of the biggest privately owned gaming companies in the world, best buds with a former world number-one tennis player, a father who was an ex-copper. As soon as the press got wind of this, he was fucked.

He wasn’t alone in the van. Sitting opposite was a guy in his early twenties who had every inch of his visible skin tattooed, including his face. As he made eye contact with Rupe, he sneered and then made a noise in his throat before landing a large globule of spit on Rupe’s shoe. He caught sight of Rupe’s face, and he threw back his head and laughed.

Dear God, Jayne. Do your life’s best work, and get me the fuck out of here.

A short while later, the van stopped, and the back doors opened. Rupe was led into the courthouse and taken to the cells below ground. After five minutes, Jayne turned up and gave him a reassuring smile as she was let into the cell.

“How are you doing?”

“Terrible. I will get bail, won’t I?”

Jayne grimaced. “I’m not sure. I’ve spoken to Darren, and we’ve gone through the details of the application, but given the seriousness of the offence, there’s no guarantee. It depends on the magistrate we get allocated.”

Rupe clutched her arm. “Jayne, you have to get me bail. I can’t stay in here.”

His breathing escalated so quickly that his head began to spin, and he put out an arm to steady himself.

“Hey, stay calm for me, okay?” Jayne’s soothing voice broke through his panic. “You’re not exactly a flight risk. I’m going to do my best. Are you sure you don’t want Darren to represent you?”

Rupe violently shook his head. His hopes plummeted. He was going to prison.

It was another three hours before he was taken from the cells and placed into the square box in the courtroom, an officer close by in case he decided to make a run for it. Rupe focused on the back of Jayne’s head as the magistrate called the court to order and the charges were read out.

He could barely take in the words. His head was full of cotton wool as he desperately tried to follow what was going on. Nessa’s husband was sitting in the public gallery. Rupe had never seen such loathing on a man’s face. He could hardly blame him. Even though their marriage had been for show, according to Nessa, the man must have had some feelings for her. Remorse swept over Rupe. He’d never considered the husband during his trysts with Ness. To him, like his whole fucking life, it had been a bit of a laugh, some fun to liven up his occasional visits to London. What a dickhead he was.

“Rupert Fox-Whittingham. You have been charged with the murder of Mrs Vanessa Reynolds. What is your plea?”

“Not guilty,” Rupe replied in a voice that was not his own.

Jayne stood. “Your Honour, I’d like to make an application for bail.”

The prosecution lawyer leaped to his feet. “Your Honour, I vehemently oppose. Let’s not forget, this is a murder charge.”

The magistrate peered over the top of her glasses at the prosecution lawyer. “Thank you for telling me how to do my job, Mr Turner.”

As Turner blushed, the magistrate pointed to Jayne. “Well, Ms Seymour. Let’s hear it.”

Rupe’s head began to swim, and Jayne’s voice drifted away as she pleaded his case for bail. Christ, prison was a real possibility. Prison. Him. He’d always stayed on the right side of the law. Some of his business dealings pushed the boundaries, but that was what business was about. That was what separated the winners from the losers.

He forced himself to focus on Jayne’s appeal on his behalf.

“Your Honour, I will end my application with this. My client is a successful businessman with a clean record. He has various business concerns in the UK, which I submit to the court makes him an unlikely flight risk. In addition, we volunteer to surrender his passport until such time as the trial concludes.”

Rupe held his breath, silently willing the magistrate to see things his way. She leaned back in her chair and removed her glasses. After a quick sweep of her hand across her eyes, she replaced them and fixed her gaze on Jayne.

“Given the circumstances and Mr Fox-Whittingham’s clean record, bail is granted. Your client will sign in at his local police station every day at four p.m., Ms Seymour. Is that clear?”

“Your Honour, I object,” Turner said.

“Duly noted, Mr Turner. Bail stands.”

As Rupe’s shoulders sagged with relief, he vaguely heard Jayne reply, “Thank you, Your Honour.”

He was free.

And now he had to find out what had really happened to Nessa, because as far as the police were concerned, they’d found their culprit.