‘Who had keys, apart from you?’
‘My mother, cleaner, fiancée. Personally, I don’t suspect any of them, but by all means check them out.’
‘Did any of them report their keys missing at any time? Did you lose yours for any period?’
‘Afraid not. I do keep a spare set in the house, but I don’t remember them ever going missing. Not that I would check them every day.’
‘This intruder, if he or she exists, also accessed your computer. Presumably it’s password protected?’
He pulls a face. ‘It is, but I was never that careful about logging out when I went to work in the morning. I’d quite often come home to find it still on. Once in the house, accessing the computer would have been easy.’
‘OK, I admit it’s possible. But who would go to such lengths to frame you for murder?’
She’s struck a chord. ‘Exactly. It has to be about me. If the killer simply wanted a scapegoat, he wouldn’t choose me. He’d pick someone much less able to fight back. Someone not too bright, maybe educationally subnormal. Someone with a troubled background.’
She lets her face betray just a hint of scepticism. ‘Someone wanted to hurt you, specifically?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘Thousands. Do you see the stuff posted about me on Twitter?’
‘I mean before. Patients who felt let down? Medical secretaries or nurses you’ve had fired?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve never had a malpractice lawsuit filed. Never had to formally reprimand a junior colleague. People usually cooperate pretty well with me.’
‘Does the name Sirocco Silverwood mean anything to you?’
His brow lifts. ‘Is she a character in a young adult novel?’
‘She’s real. She claims you and she have a bond.’
His face says he’s unimpressed. ‘A lot of women write to me, quite a few of them seem to think we’re in some sort of relationship. I don’t keep their letters, I’m afraid.’ He stops, still thinking. ‘Actually, I think Mum might have mentioned someone of that name. Is she a member of that support group?’
‘She is. Have you met her?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Tell me about Fat Club.’
His head is suddenly very still. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘A woman scorned has a long memory. Rumour has it you’ve done some unspeakable things in your time.’
His eyes have a way of turning dull when he’s angry. ‘Luring a woman to a cave and slitting her throat is unspeakable. Letting her bleed out in the pitch-dark on a cold, stone floor is unspeakable. I’ve heard those rumours too, and let me tell you, having consensual sex with a fellow student is pretty much OK in my book. Whatever her dress size happens to be.’
His assurance annoys her. She didn’t want to find him desperate, pathetic even, but his calm feels wrong too. ‘You made video recordings. Without the girls’ knowledge.’ She waits for him to deny it. The porn business was only ever rumoured. His stare remains impassive.
‘You and your mates pretended to like those girls, you probably plied them with cheap wine to make the job a bit easier. You thought this was funny. You passed the tapes around your mates, so that you could all gawp at women’s bodies and laugh at how hideously ugly they were.’
Wolfe slaps one hand down on the table. Not loud, but sharply enough to draw a few extra glances. Some of their neighbours have given up all pretence of having a conversation of their own.
‘Point of order, Maggie,’ he says. ‘Don’t suggest I got women drunk in order to have sex with them. Students drink. They drink and they have sex and rape doesn’t come into it. And, you know what, even if these sad old rumours were true – and I’m not saying they are – it’s a big leap from behaving like a twat at medical school to murdering four women.’
Maggie waits. It’s good that he’s angry. When people get angry they let things slip.
‘Ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Start to wrap it up, please.’
Wolfe seems to droop a little. ‘I guess it’s make-your-mind-up-time, Lawyer Rose. Can you and I do business together?’
Maggie holds up her hands. It is a gesture of hopelessness. ‘You’ve given me nothing. Someone broke into your house and stole your car. Not impossible in itself but impossible to prove. Someone was trying to frame you for the murders but you have no idea who . . .’
He leans forward. ‘Has it occurred to you yet that Detective Sergeant Weston’s conversation with the attendant at that particular station was a remarkable stroke of luck?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Wouldn’t you think, Maggie, that a man with murder on his mind, a man with a woman tied up and terrified in the boot of his car, would check his tyre pressure before he left his house?’