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Lear shook his head in disgust. ‘This is absolutely unacceptable.’

‘Hate the game, not the player, Mr Lear,’ Poe said.

Bradshaw opened her laptop. ‘I scanned and magnified all seven photographs. The software needed to separate the colours, which would enable us to examine the blue channel in isolation, hasn’t arrived yet so the yellow dot tracking just look like flecks of dust. But, when I do this,’ – she typed a series of commands and superimposed the seven images – ‘you can see that the pattern on all seven documents is identical.’

‘What are you saying?’ Lear said.

‘You know what we’re saying, Mr Lear,’ Poe said. ‘The documents used to wrap the mug, the ones found in the church and the food hall, and the one found in your client’s bin, all came from the same printer. Robert tried to disguise this by changing drums for each murder but yellow dot tracking is embedded into the printer’s software – it cannot be cheated.’

Lear made some notes.

‘I would like to confer with my client, please.’

Poe stood. Bradshaw did too.

‘Take your time. You have a lot to discuss.’

Cowell was sweating and shaking when they resumed. He looked subdued, his solicitor looked grim. Poe thought Cowell probably wanted to talk but Lear had overruled him. Poe didn’t blame him; he was just doing his job. Even when caught red-handed – and with the kite, photoreceptor drum flaws and yellow dot tracking, Poe reckoned Cowell almost had been – remaining silent and letting the solicitor talk was invariably the best legal strategy.

‘When did these murders occur, Sergeant Poe?’ Lear asked, pen poised over his notebook.

‘We only have a rough timescale with the fingers in the Secret Santa mug,’ Poe replied, ‘but we know that the fingers were left in the food hall on Boxing Day as Robert was caught on CCTV, and we’re fairly sure when the fingers were left in the church in Barrow.’

Lear looked up from his scribbling. ‘Fairly sure?’

‘We think Robert mingled with the Midnight Mass congregation on Christmas Eve, found somewhere to hide when it finished then let himself out when the caretaker came in on Christmas Day morning to—’

‘After Midnight Mass?’ Cowell said. He shook his head violently. ‘No, that’s not fair. That’s not fair at all!’ He began breathing through his nose, fast and loud like an angry bull.

‘What’s wrong, Robert?’ Lear said.

‘Bitch! Bitch! FUCKING BITCH!’

Before Poe could stop him, Cowell had leant back and then smashed his face onto the table. He raised his head, his nose spurting blood, and, with even more force than before, did it again. Poe heard the crunch of bone. When he raised his head this time, his nose was mushy and his eyes were unfocused.

He reared back for the third time, readying himself for one final act of self-harm.

Poe launched himself across the table and bear-hugged him.

Chapter 41

‘So he still hasn’t been charged?’ Nightingale said.

‘We didn’t get that far,’ Poe said. ‘He wigged out as soon as I mentioned Midnight Mass.’

Nightingale had missed the latter parts of the interview and wanted to hear what had happened first-hand. Cowell was still in hospital. He’d been patched up and psychiatrically assessed.

‘I’ve just heard from his solicitor,’ Poe continued. ‘He’s being discharged in an hour. You want me to continue?’

‘Please,’ Nightingale said. ‘Keep pushing him. I want this boxed off today so we can start building an airtight case against him. His sister too, if she’s involved. There has to be a reason she told him to keep quiet. She might be calm and collected now but she wasn’t when she was arrested, I can assure you.’

‘Can you send me a link to her most recent interviews?’

‘I will. I don’t know how useful they’ll be, though; she’s still barely saying a word. Even her solicitor is getting pissed off.’

‘Cheers. I’ll take a look anyway.’

‘How’s DI Flynn?’