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There wasn’t a hint of a tear in his eyes. Not a touch of emotion. It was like he was reciting a prepared script. Mooney wouldn’t put it past him to have got one of his PR people to draft his words for this interview. Stop, he warned himself, he was being unduly cynical.

‘When did you realise things weren’t right? That there was something wrong?’

‘This morning. I woke up on the couch and she wasn’t hovering over me. Usually she’d wake me with a cup of coffee.’

‘Did youusuallydrink yourself into oblivion and end up sleeping on the couch?’

‘You are twisting my words, Sergeant. There wasn’t a sound in the house. Just the tick of the stupid clock on the mantel. I dragged myself up the stairs to have a shower. I thought she must have slept in or maybe she’d left for work. I know she’s really busy with the wedding season and all that.’

‘So now you are upstairs.’ Mooney tried to visualise Wilson in a state of intoxication, but it was impossible. The man was always so prim and proper. ‘Where did you go first?’

Denis closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Into the bedroom. She wasn’t in bed. The sheets were rumpled and I figured she was up and gone to work even though it was so early.’

Mooney noted that Wilson seemed to have a problem calling his wife by her name. ‘How did that make you feel?’

Denis dropped his head, looking down at his perfectly manicured fingernails. ‘I thought she was mad at me for getting drunk. I decided to have my shower and then I’d phone her to tell her I was sorry.’

Wilson didn’t strike Mooney as a man who would lower himself to apologise to anyone, least of all his wife. ‘Go on.’

‘I grabbed a towel from the cupboard and had my shower. In the en suite.’

‘Okay.’ Mooney thought it was convenient for him to have showered. No evidence to be gathered from his body or skin. Not that he was a suspect, according to those in authority on the case. And just because Mooney didn’t like him didn’t make him a killer either. He needed to get the facts and move on. ‘When did you go to the main bathroom?’

‘I showered, shaved and dressed. The main bathroom door was ajar. I hadn’t noticed it on my way up. We hardly ever use that bathroom. Not since we had the en suite installed. Used up a spare bedroom for that. She was a bit put out about it at the time. Not that it matters now.’

‘Right, so you noticed the door open. Why did that strike you as odd?’

‘We keep all the doors shut to conserve the heat in the house. Not that we have the oil on in this weather, but it’s a habit. I went to shut the door and something caught my eye. That’s when I saw her there. In the bath. God, I will never get the image out of my mind. It was horrific. How could someone do that to another human being?’

‘A psychopath or sociopath, perhaps?’ Mooney thought that Wilson was displaying characteristics of both. Or maybe he just wanted that to be the case, such was his distaste for the man.

‘It was awful. I never want to see anything like that again. I will be traumatised for life.’

Selfish bastard, Mooney thought. ‘Did you move or touch anything in the bathroom?’

‘What? No. I went in and checked if she was breathing, but I knew, I knew she was gone.’

‘How did you check? Did you touch her?’

‘Of course I did. I held my fingers to her throat, but there was no pulse. No one could survive the burns she’d got.’

‘We didn’t find the source of the boiling water in the bathroom. How do you think she was scalded?’

‘Isn’t that your job to figure out?’

Tears were now lodged in Wilson’s eyes. Maybe Mooney should reassess his assumptions about the man.

‘Can you remember anything else that might help us?’

‘Not at this time.’ A single tear rolled down his face. His PR team would be happy, Mooney thought, though he might have a heart after all.

‘There doesn’t appear to have been any evidence of a break-in. Do you lock the doors at night?’

‘I told you I passed out drunk. Maybe she forgot to lock up.’

It was on the tip of Mooney’s tongue to tell the man that his wife’s name was Ann. He thought of what she had spoken to him about in her kitchen last night. She was to come in this morning to tell him about Imelda Conroy. And Imelda had Ann’s phone. Who was to say she hadn’t the keys to Ann’s house too?

Shit.