‘Your man Gannon’s there, all right. Nasty piece of work - ugly, too. Living with a woman called Beatrice Dench. Frankly, it’s a wonder that one woman could fancy him, never mind two.’ Well, that was that. He spent most of the rest of the day trying to get some sense out of the bishop’s son who had assaulted the girl in the nightclub. He was terrified, contrite, and hysterically over-cooperative. After two hours, during which he’d confessed everything he’d ever done, from scrumping apples to nocturnal fumblings in the dorm, Stratton was beginning to despair of ever getting a straight story when Ballard put his head round the door. ‘If I could have a word, sir?’ Stratton followed him outside. ‘What is it?’ ‘The guv’nor, sir. Theirs, I mean. Wants a word, sir.’ ‘Right.’ DCI Machin was looking uncomfortable again. ‘This young chap you’ve got . . . Cockcroft. He can go.’ ‘Go?’ echoed Stratton, adding a belated ‘Sir?’ ‘We’re not taking this any further.
