Cold Revenge (Willis/Carter #6)(49)

‘Did you have a good journey, Detective Sergeant Willis?’ he asked, after she had introduced herself. His voice had a feminine lilt along with a Southern Irish accent. ‘I hope the roads weren’t too busy? If I’d known I was to have a visitor I would have prepared you something nice to eat. You must be peckish?’

‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’ Willis met his eyes briefly then looked around the walls. ‘You’ve been busy in prison,’ she said.

‘Yes, as you see, I have used my time wisely.’ He swivelled around in his chair to face the certificates on the wall. He had photos of Irish countryside all over his cell, along with a weekly calendar crammed with tiny writing.

Her notes said that he was someone who the psychologists had assessed as having a high IQ with psychopathic tendencies that included narcissism and lack of empathy. He hadn’t the capacity to relate to others. It was all about his own ego, his own gratification, even when he tried to package it to look differently. He had prospered in prison, he had worked the system, in prison and out. He could turn his hand to most things in life and charm his way through. Now he had decided to become an expert in fine dining. Even the warden used him for private functions. He was paid a proper wage for his work in The Slammer restaurant.

Douglas continued smiling as he sat back in his chair and tilted his head a little to the left. He waited for Willis to get sorted as she placed her recorder on the desk beside her. She sat on the one chair in the tiny cell: he sat on his bed. Douglas had the luxury of a cell on his own. Willis was thinking next time they would be meeting in an interview room.

‘I bet you enjoy Mexican.’ Douglas smiled. ‘I’d put you down as a fajitas type.’

Willis didn’t answer. He was right in a way, but any fast food was her favourite.

‘What can I do for you?’ Douglas asked politely, a fixed sweet smile on his round face.

‘You’re a busy man?’ Willis indicated the writing neatly crammed into the calendar space for December.

‘The winter menu starts in less than a month. I should be in there preparing right now. We are trialling recipes, a new take on an old favourite – oxtail soup. It’s all about the stock: it takes several processes to make a fantastic broth. It’s not just about boiling bones.’ He ended with a question in his eyes.

‘Have you always loved cooking?’ she asked, still looking at the walls of his cell. He had made a home there. She wondered how he would cope on the outside.

‘I can see you are not a foodie. This little cell is not going to be home for much longer. I am looking forward to getting out,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘I most definitely am a food lover. I’ve always been interested in the provenance of the ingredients we use, where they come from, how they come from the earth, their life cycle. We take so much for granted but the farmer has to plough, to fertilise, to sow his fields, to nurture, to rear and to slaughter. Ultimately, I am interested in how to do justice to the produce. You must come to the restaurant, as my guest. I’m sure I can create a meal that will appeal to you. I do a wonderful buttermilk fried chicken where I stretch the skin and deep-fry it; you won’t be disappointed, it’s just as good as Kentucky Fried Chicken.’ He smiled at her. ‘Did you come to talk about my cooking skills? As I said, I need to get back to work. I don’t mean to be rude, and whilst I am enjoying your company . . . are you here to tell me about Millie? I saw it on the news.’

‘I came to tell you that Nicola Stone and Millie Stephens have been murdered.’

He nodded, frowned as he thought about that fact, and his eyes went to the wall as he considered it.

‘Well, thank you for coming, was there anything else?’

Willis sat facing him, staring him out. Douglas smiled as he blinked.

‘My dear, you’d make a good poker player. Nothing moves in that face, does it?’

Willis didn’t react. She took out a file from her backpack and set it on her knees.

Douglas was still smiling although his mouth had begun to twitch.

Willis showed him the photo.

‘The killer wrote this on the wall in Nicola’s flat; it was in the bedroom, above her body.’

‘How interesting,’ he said sarcastically. ‘It means nothing to me.’

‘We presume this refers to fifteen-year-old Heather Phillips.’

‘Not guilty, remember?’

‘Not proven, insufficient evidence. But someone doesn’t want it forgotten. We don’t believe this was a random attack on two of your disciples. In the case of Nicola Stone, they took time to track her down. They knew who she was and they killed her because of it.’

‘How do you know it was because of it? It could have been a “five minutes of fame” man? And – if I am allowed to ask – how was it allowed to happen? Who fucked up? I understood she was under police protection.’

‘It is under internal investigation.’

He sighed irritably. His mask of congeniality was slipping. Willis had been inside the cell with him now for longer than he’d anticipated. He was becoming agitated. Tucker had prepared her for it; she’d been waiting for it. He couldn’t keep smiling for ever. The shock tactic had been a good one. His fa?ade had slipped quickly. He looked flustered, unsettled.

‘Someone is trying to hurt you, maybe,’ said Willis.