Say again.’ Sarah’s biro stalled mid-hover over an almost full page of notes: name, age, address, alibis that would have to be checked, yada yada, then: wham. Had she heard him right? A quick glance to her left suggested Harries was experiencing a credibility gap too – he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. Sarah leaned back, laid down the pen, studied Neil Lomas even more closely, certainly more than he reciprocated. The criminology lecturer lounged in the chair opposite, skinny ankle lodged across bony knee, eau de pong wafted from a scuffed Hush Puppy. Part-bemused, she watched as he plucked a sandy hair from his brown cord jacket, held it to the light then dropped it on her carpet. In your own time, sunshine. Considering the guy had turned up early, he was certainly wasting it now. Shame the interview rooms downstairs were full; more formal surroundings often provided a kick up a cocky bum. ‘Which part can’t you grasp, DI Quinn?’ Finally meeting her gaze, Lomas flashed an emaciated smile at her and what looked like a wink at Harries.
