The custody sergeant brought Rupe a weak cup of tea. His mother would have called it gnats’ piss. He warmed his hands on the paper cup and glanced around the waiting room. How the fuck had he ended up here?

“Has my lawyer arrived yet?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I’ll let you know when they get here.”

“And then what happens?”

The copper must have taken pity on Rupe, because he stopped on his way to the door. “The detectives in charge of the case will ask their questions.”

“And then I’ll be free to go?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, his tone noncommittal.

He closed the door behind him. Rupe took out his phone. The All Blacks had won. He silently cursed and then dropped his phone on the table. He began pacing around the room. Christ, please let Cash get a decent lawyer here pronto. He’d seen the looks on the coppers’ faces as he’d insisted on legal representation even though they’d made it clear he wasn’t under arrest. Rupe was a lot of things—stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d given his statement, but as it seemed that wasn’t enough, he didn’t want to take any chances by talking to seasoned detectives without a smart, experienced criminal lawyer by his side.

His sympathy for Nessa began to ebb away as his own self-preservation came to the fore. He should have stayed in the Caribbean. He sat back down and closed his eyes, imagining the gentle rocking of the boat, the blue-green waters all around, and smoked salmon and champagne on a never-ending conveyor belt.

Where the hell was his bloody lawyer?

* * *

Jayne paid the cab driver and stepped onto the pavement. Her hair had come loose on the journey over, probably because she kept fiddling with it. She didn’t experience nerves at work, but this wasn’t exactly her day job. She had also tried Peter’s phone several times on the way to the station, but to no avail.

She stuck her bag between her knees and fixed her hair by shoving a couple of extra bobby pins into her chignon. That should do it. With a quick glance at her reflection in a nearby window, she lifted her bag onto her shoulder and entered the police station.

The desk sergeant was reading the paper, slouching to the side as he flicked through the pages. He didn’t look up as she entered. She was half tempted to ding the bell. Instead, she cleared her throat, and he reluctantly raised his head.

“Can I help you?” he said in a bored tone.

Jayne held back an irritated sigh and pushed her business card across the desk. “I’m here to see my client, Rupert Fox-Whittingham.”

The sergeant gave it a cursory glance. “Wait over there,” he said, pointing to a row of plastic chairs upon which Jayne had no intention of sitting. He picked up the phone as she paced. Five minutes later, the door to the main body of the station opened, and a detective in his late thirties with a goatee beard, wispy greying hair, and piercing blue eyes walked through.

“Miss Seymour.” He thrust out his hand. “Detective Fisher. Would you like to come with me?”

Jayne followed the detective through a wide metal door. It closed behind them with a clang followed by a loud buzzer, denoting that a person was only getting out with approval. She was led to a small, windowless room that had a steel table in the centre and two chairs, both of which looked as comfortable to sit on as a cactus.

“I’ll go and get Mr Fox-Whittingham from the waiting area. How long do you think you’ll need?” Detective Fisher asked.

Something about the detective’s attitude set Jayne’s teeth on edge. Maybe it was the air of superiority he projected, or maybe it was his cocky smirk.

She fixed him with a hard stare. “Are you new to the position, Detective Fisher?”

Fisher stiffened his spine at her barely veiled insult. “No.”

“Then you’ll know I will take as long as necessary and no longer.”

Fisher muttered something about cold bitches before he spun on his heel and slammed the door. It was an attitude Jayne was used to, and his comments harmlessly bounced off her like jelly beans thrown at a suit of armour. She eyed the chairs with antipathy before perching on the end of the one facing the door. She liked to get an early first look at any new client, and even though this was a criminal case rather than a civil one, her approach would be the same. Body language could provide a lot of clues about an individual.

She glanced at her watch. Almost ten o’clock. Exhaustion swamped her. It was so much more than tiredness, which could be fixed by a good night’s sleep. Her fatigue was bone deep. She pinched the bridge of her nose as her eyes briefly closed. She loved her job, but the twenty-four, seven expectations of her clients on top of her own divorce were beginning to take their toll. Her caseload was already horrendous, and yet there she was, taking on another case, albeit only temporarily.

The door handle rattled, and Jayne straightened and sat back, wincing as the metal chair caused a shooting pain through her coccyx. Would it kill the police to provide a bit of cushioning?

As Rupert Fox-Whittingham was led inside, Jayne cast her gaze over him, assessing, judging, and weighing him to see what type of person he was. Her summation: straight as they came.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said, effectively dismissing Fisher, who scowled at her before turning his back and leaving the room.

“Mr Fox-Whittingham, I’m Jayne Seymour, your lawyer. Please, take a seat.”

Her client lowered himself into the chair opposite, his legs spread wide, hands resting in his lap. And then he slowly grinned—a rather unusual reaction, considering his predicament.

“Well, if you’re my reward, I’ll happily spend every day of the week being questioned by the police.”